SERGEANT OF PATROL [starting from a doze]
The moustachies a dry retreat? Not they, my dear. A Spanish garrison is in the castle that commands the bridge at Alba.
MRS. DALBIAC
A peasant told us, if we understood rightly, that he saw the Spanish withdraw, and the enemy place a garrison there themselves.
[The sergeant hastily calls up two troopers, who mount and ride off with the intelligence.]
SERGEANT
You"ve done us a good turn, it is true, darlin". Not that Lord Wellington will believe it when he gets the news.... Why, if my eyes don"t deceive me, ma"am, that"s Colonel Dalbiac"s lady!
MRS. DALBIAC
Yes, sergeant. I am over here with him, as you have heard, no doubt, and lodging in Salamanca. We lost our way, and got caught in the storm, and want shelter awhile.
SERGEANT
Certainly, ma"am. I"ll give you an escort back as soon as the division has crossed and the weather clears.
MRS. PRESCOTT [anxiously]
Have you heard, sergeant, if there"s to be a battle to-morrow?
SERGEANT
Yes, ma"am. Everything shows it.
MRS. DAlBIAC [to MRS. PRESCOTT]
Our news would have pa.s.sed us in. We have wasted six pesetas.
MRS. PRESCOTT [mournfully]
I don"t mind that so much as that I have brought the children from Ireland. This coming battle frightens me!
SPIRIT OF THE YEARS
This is her prescient pang of widowhood.
Ere Salamanca clang to-morrow"s close She"ll find her consort stiff among the slain!
[The infantry regiments now reach the ford. The storm increases in strength, the stream flows more furiously; yet the columns of foot enter it and begin crossing. The lightning is continuous; the faint lantern in the ford-house is paled by the sheets of fire without, which flap round the bayonets of the crossing men and reflect upon the foaming torrent.]
CHORUS OF THE PITIES [aerial music]
The skies fling flame on this ancient land!
And drenched and drowned is the burnt blown sand That spreads its mantle of yellow-grey Round old Salmantica to-day; While marching men come, band on band, Who read not as a reprimand To mortal moils that, as "twere planned In mockery of their mimic fray, The skies fling flame.
Since sad Coruna"s desperate stand Horrors unsummed, with heavy hand, Have smitten such as these! But they Still headily pursue their way, Though flood and foe confront them, and The skies fling flame.
[The whole of the English division gets across by degrees, and their invisible tramp is heard ascending the opposite heights as the lightnings dwindle and the spectacle disappears.]
SCENE III
THE FIELD OF SALAMANCA
[The battlefield--an undulating and sandy expanse--is lying under the sultry sun of a July afternoon. In the immediate left foreground rises boldly a detached dome-like hill known as the Lesser Arapeile, now held by English troops. Further back, and more to the right, rises another and larger hill of the kind--the Greater Arapeile; this is crowned with French artillery in loud action, and the French marshal, MARMONT, Duke of RAGUSA, stands there. Further to the right, in the same plane, stretch the divisions of the French army. Still further to the right, in the distance, on the Ciudad Rodrigo highway, a cloud of dust denotes the English baggage-train seeking security in that direction. The city of Salamanca itself, and the river Tormes on which it stands, are behind the back of the spectator.
On the summit of the lesser hill, close at hand, WELLINGTON, gla.s.s at eye, watches the French division under THOMIERE, which has become separated from the centre of the French army. Round and near him are aides and other officers, in animated conjecture on MARMONT"S intent, which appears to be a move on the Ciudad Rodrigo road aforesaid, under the impression that the English are about to retreat that way.
The English commander descends from where he was standing to a nook under a wall, where a meal is roughly laid out. Some of his staff are already eating there. WELLINGTON takes a few mouthfuls without sitting down, walks back again, and looks through his gla.s.s at the battle as before. b.a.l.l.s from the French artillery fall around.
Enter his aide-de-camp, FITZROY SOMERSET.]
FITZROY SOMERSET [hurriedly]
The French make movements of grave consequence-- Extending to the left in ma.s.s, my lord.
WELLINGTON
I have just perceived as much; but not the cause.
[He regards longer.]
Marmont"s good genius is deserting him!
[Shutting up his gla.s.s with a snap, WELLINGTON calls several aides and despatches them down the hill. He goes back behind the wall and takes some more mouthfuls.]
By G.o.d, Fitzroy, if we shan"t do it now!
[to SOMERSET].
Mon cher Alava, Marmont est perdu!
[to his SPANISH ATTACHE].
FITZROY SOMERSET