The Bravest of the Brave — or, with Peterborough in Spain by G. A. Henty (warren buffett book recommendations TXT) 📗

After a hearty adieu from the Count of Cifuentes, he started soon after daybreak. After riding for some hours, just as he reached the top of a rise, up which he had walked his horse, one of the orderlies, who were riding a few paces behind him, rode up.

“I think, Captain Stilwell,” he said, “I hear the sound of firing. Brown thinks he hears it too.”

Jack reined in his horse.

“I hear nothing,” he said, after a pause of a minute.

“I don't hear it now, sir,” the man said. “I think it came down on a puff of wind.. If you wait a minute or two I think you will hear it.”

Jack waited another two minutes, and then was about to resume his journey, when suddenly a faint sound came upon the wind.

“You are right, Thompson,” he exclaimed, “that's firing, sure enough. It must be a convoy attacked by peasants.”

He touched his horse with the spur and galloped forward. Two miles further on, crossing the brow, they saw, half a mile ahead of them in the dip of the valley, a number of wagons huddled together. On either side of the road men were lying, and the spurts of smoke that rose from these, as well as from the wagons, proved that they were still stoutly defending themselves. A light smoke rose from every bush and rock on the hillsides around, showing how numerous were the assailants. Leaving the road, Jack galloped toward the hill. Presently several balls came singing round them.

“They think we are French, sir,” one of the troopers said. “I guess they don't know much about uniforms.”

Jack drew out a white handkerchief and waved it as he rode forward, shouting as he did, “English, English.” The fire ceased, and the little party soon reached the spot where the peasants were lying thickly in their ambushes.

“I am an English officer,” Jack said as he leaped from his horse. “Where is your leader?”

“There is one of them,” a peasant said, pointing to a priest, who, with a long musket in his hand, rose from behind a log.

“Reverend father,” Jack said, “I have come from the Earl of Peterborough with a mission to understand how matters go in Arragon, and to ascertain what force would be likely to join him in this province against the invader.”

“You see for yourself how things go,” the priest said. “I am glad to see an officer of the great Earl of Peterborough, whose exploits have excited the admiration of all Spain. To whom have I the honor of speaking?”

“I am Captain Stilwell, one of the earl's aides de camp; and you, father?”

“I am Ignacio Bravos, the humble padre of the village of San Aldephonso. And now, Captain Stilwell, if you will excuse me till we make an end of these accursed Frenchmen, afterward I will be at your service.”

For another two hour's the conflict continued. Jack saw that the fire of the defenders of the wagons was decreasing, and he was not surprised when a white handkerchief was raised on the top of a bayonet and waved in the air in token of desire to parley. A shout of exultation rose from the Spaniards. The priest showed himself on the hillside.

“Do you surrender?” he shouted.

“We surrender the wagons,” an officer called back, “on condition that we are allowed to march off with our arms without molestation.”

A shout of refusal rose from the peasants, and the firing was instantly renewed. Jack went and sat down by the side of the priest.

“Father,” he said, “it were best to give these men the terms they ask. War is not massacre.”

“Quite so, my son,” the priest replied coolly. “That is what you should have told Marshal Tesse. It is he who has chosen to make it massacre. Why, man, he has shot and hung hundreds in cold blood in and around Saragossa, has burned numerous villages in the neighborhood, and put man, woman, and child to the sword.”

“Then, if this be so, father, I should say, by all means hang Marshal Tesse when you catch him, but do not punish the innocent for the guilty. You must remember that these men have been taken away from their homes in France, and forced to fight in quarrels in which they have no concern. Like yourself, they are Catholics. Above all, remember how many scores of villages are at present at the mercy of the French. If the news comes to the marshal that you have refused quarter to his soldiers, he will have a fair excuse for taking vengeance on such of your countrymen as may be in his power.”

“There is something in that,” the priest said. “For myself I have no pity, not a scrap of it, for these Frenchmen, nor would you have, had you seen as much of their doings as I have, nor do I think that any retribution that we might deal out to the men could increase Tesse's hatred and ferocity toward us.”

“Still, it might serve as an excuse,” Jack urged. “Remember the eyes of Europe are upon this struggle, and that the report of wholesale slaughter of your enemies will not influence public opinion in your favor.”

“Public opinion goes for nothing,” the priest said shortly.

“Pardon me, father,” Jack replied. “The English and Dutch and the Duke of Savoy are all fighting in your favor, and we may even boast that had it not been for the Earl of Peterborough and the allies the chains of France would be riveted firmly round your necks. You will tell me, no doubt, that they are fighting for their own political ends, and from no true love for the Spanish people. That may be so, but you must remember that although governments begin wars it is the people who carry them on. Let the people of England and Holland hear, as they will hear, of the brutal ferocity of the French marshal on a defenseless people, and their sympathies will be strongly with you. They will urge their governments to action, and vote willingly the necessary sums for carrying on the war. Let them hear that with you too war is massacre, that you take no prisoners, and kill all that fall into your hands, and, believe me, the public will soon grow sick of the war carried on with such cruelty on both sides.”

“You are right, my son,” the priest said frankly. “Young as you are, you have seen more of the world than I, who, since I left the University of Salamanca, have never been ten miles from my native village. I will do what I can to put a stop to this matter. But I am not solely in command here. I lead my own village, but there are the men of a score of villages lying on these hills. But I will summon all the chiefs to a council now.”

The priest called half a dozen of the peasants to him, and dispatched them with orders to bring all the other leaders to take part in a council with an English officer who had arrived from the great Earl of Peterborough.

In half an hour some twenty men were