WAR STORIES.

Auckland Star, Volume XLVI, Issue 64, 16 March 1915, Page 8

WAR STORIES.

IN WINTER QUARTERS.

A STORY OF THE PENINSULA WAR.

(By TALBOT MXTNDY.)

Sergt.-Major Hanley—he is of the red I hair and blue eyes, and the reputation of ! being the ugliest man in the British Army—is the real hero of this story; for he did his duty, and lied like a good man and a soldier, and afterwards held his tongue. But, since service well rendered is the. best thing that there is in this world, Senorita Ysabella Catania should get some credit; she tried her best to serve her adopted country, and though i her methods were not to be commended, her motives were. And she at least | .showed courage and determination. ! She passed for a Spaniard in Spain; that was because her father happened | to have been Spanish, and she spoke the language perfectly. And that was how ! she was allowed to remain in the neigh- | bourhood of the British Army unques- ] tioned; for England and Spain were ' allies. She was a woman of good breeding, and to hare questioned her would have been an outrage. But her sympathies were altogether French; she had been born and brought up in Paris, and her tigress heart yearned for the city of her adoption. It was not surprising, though, that she should pretend to like the British, since she was thrown into such close contact with them; she would have been foolish had she done otherwise. What is surprising is that she should have lived for nearly a year in close proximity to an invading army, and have worked steadfastly and ceaselessly for the French army all that time without losing either her fair name or the right to it. But appearances were in her favour.

Hers was the head of a Galatea, cold- l 1 chiselled out of marble, but lit up by l smouldering life; she had ripe, red, lus- a cious lips that must have tempted many a soldierman, but she had, too, the mar- c vellous Spanish carriage that is one- r third insolence ani -two-thirds dignity, jl j Her well-poked head was garlanded by a : 1 wealth of raven hair, and her eyes were ! I deep and dark, of that indescribable com- ' 1 I biuation of colours that is known as ] 'black for the lack of a better name for ,it; they glowed always, but on occasion ' { they could blaze up. into fury such as. ] [even WeHesiey*s untamedjofficersj_{ could face.- — -ri. When winter came, and the two armies 1 lay and faced each other in an un- i covenanted but rigidly maintained truce.-1. she took up her residence in a little vil- ', lage two miles or more behind the com- , mander-in-ehiefs headquarters, -and in the daytime the village street was usually gay with uniforms, for there were not many women just then in that part of the Peninsula, to whom an officer could pay respect. ■ But at night the village was deserted ;' by all except herself and the maid who j lived with her. Not even a patrol visited the village alter dark. Its one road was j worn into yard-deep ruts by the wheels I" of guns and wagons, and by daylight the [< walls of the empty cottages echoed and i re-echoed to the thunder of supply I trains; but at night-time all was silence, ' and the only sign of life was a dim yellow light that struggled faintly through the lattices of a wooden shutter. It seemed , like a village of the dead. I One night, though, just as the winter . was breaking up, and the first cold- rains I of spring were making the countryside I impassable, a horseman approached the I -village; the eloppety-clop-clip-clop of his \ horse's feet could be heard plainly as it 3 rider urged it over the half-thawed road, and long before either horse or tidet , , could be made out through the murky | 'night the solitary candle was carried, \ nearer to the window, and the wooden , 'shutter opened outward about half an .- inch, as though somebody had loosened | the book that held it. 1 The tired horse splashed through a puddle and floundered over a mud-SUed j rut. and stopped, heaving and blowing, i below the window; its rider whistled, and | getting no answer, drew his sabre and hammered on the wall beneath the. win- 1 dow three times with the hilt of it. j The shutter was thrown back* then as i if at a preconcerted signal, and in the square window space were' framed the j head and shoulders of the senorita. She j shielded the candle flame with a hand j that showed strength, and artistry, and | capability, the flame shone through it, . jnaking "her fingers seem pink as the , dawn, as she.moved the candle forward and revealed, silhoutted in the darkness below her, the shako and clean-cut features and the high red collar of a British staff officer. "Guillermo?" she asked in a voice that seemed strangely harsh from such a radiant woman. '•Your lover!" he answered, seizing the hand that she had rested on the windowsill, and pressing it to his lips. Then he raised himself in his stirrups and threw one arm around her neck, and drew her face towards him.. But she freed herself impatiently, and drew out j a handkerchief to wipe her neck where bis arm bad been. j "You are cold and wet, Guillermo! , "Pardon, beloved!" he laughed a little , shamefacedly; "for a moment you made mc forget the weather. Remember. haven't "seen you for two wboie days." "I have thought of you all the time, Guillermo!" ' "You honour mc! But why Guillermo' I'm named -William. Loving a Spanish goddess doesn't make a Don of me!'' , "I hate your cold English names, and they are difficult to say. Guillermo is easy, and I like it." He raised his hand to his moustache to hide a slight twinge of annoyance, and shifted in his saddle before he answered: ■ , , ~,_ -Learn to say "William, beloved—it s ea*v enough; let mc teach you. '•'Yes I" could learn; and when 1 had learnt—what then? Dust, and tb c clatter of hoofs, and a good vi«W of the back of a gallant officer as he j rode away from mc! We women must always learn, Guillermo: men suffer us to learn, that we may learn to suffer; it is always so!" I " What suffering have I brought you. You know I love you; You must know | it? Dearest, it is I who suffer. Sweetheart. I have ridden fourteen miles on a night like this to s ee you. and you i tell mc I would ride away from ycu! 'is that fair? Do you think you aro ■ quite reasonable?" I " Is it reasonable." she answered, "that • I should be cpoped up here with none to I take b message for mc? What have I ! done to Sir Arthur Wellesley that he j j should refuse mc permission to send a message to Madrid? 'I may send it, he | is good enough to say, provided he may read it first. , That for your English j gallantry!" ' ' She snapped her fingers, tind shook candle-grease on to his clonic, and all but dropped the candle in her vehem- | ence. „, ..., • # --. - I "Hat **"

"But! But not one officer of all the 'gallant coxedmbs who flaunt their plumes ipast my window has gallantry enough Jto take the message for mc?" " But, dearest " "But! But!! But!!! I love you, I adore you, I worship you! But I wiU 'not carry a little message for you to the nearest French picket!"

"It would mean disgrace. Why, an officer caught carrying a message to

"Oh, these brave English! Thinking always of what would happen if they were found out!"

She was silent for a moment, drumjming her fingers on the window-ledge, i while the officer below her sat his horse and swore beneath his breath. j " I could love a really brave man,"' she ] said presently, a fi though she had just made the discovery. i He looked up again suddenly, and j stared straight into her eyes, that were blazing now as though her tigress sou. ; were nearer to th P surface. There are points, though, for admiration about a j tigress—beauty, and strength, and magnetism. They appeal to a soldier, especially in time of war. when men's primitive emotions are uppermost. | "D'you mean that you could love mc ! if—if—if I took it for you?" | For a moment she did not answer, ' drumming still with her finger-tips, and looking into his eves as though she would read his soul and vet tell him nothing. " This needs no bravery." she answered presently; "a child could do it; but the lines are watched so closely tMat not \ even a child could creep through unobserved. It needs an officer who has authority." •'•' And who will risk his commission— to say the least of.it." *• "Brave Englishman! A Spanish peasI ant would dare risk his life for a smile : from the girl he loved. And this ig nothi ing but a personal letter to my relations .I in Madrid. I have money there and i friends there, and I need both, for here .! I have neither. If that letter were '(taken, and Sir Arthur Wellesley himself (should read it. no harm could come of

it." " Then why not show it to him and ask him to initial it?" Her fingers clutched the sill in front of her, and her eyes flashed again. The rain that beat in through the window had matted her raven hair, and the wind had blown and tangled it: she looked like a fury—altogether beautiful, but nothing to "trifle with. She almost hissed her answer at him. I " Have Ino pride? Will I ask favours | of a man who lias shown mc none? Per- \ haps I should go and borrow money from him—-I. whose father would have scorned to sit at table with him!" " But in war-time." " Listen to what men do in war-time —men. I say! A retainer of my family has come from Madrid on foot; he started on horseback, but the French stole his horse, so he walked with a message for mc. He reached the French lines, and waited \ there at the risk of his life, and at last j he sent his message through by the hand of a huckster, who smuggled it to mc ' beneath some .vegetables. "He has waited there for his answer j for two long weeks, working as a iuelI cutter for the French, and tending the camp-fires of their furthest advanced i outpost in return for such food as they I choose to give him. He is waiting there ' now for some br-r-ave man to ride up to him and say the one word "epero" to him, and hand him my answer; then i this poor menial will walk all the way | back again to Madrid and deliver it to jmy friends who sent him. and in due .course I shall receive money and other | things I need." " But who could find him!" i "He waits each night in the shadow by the little clump of trees where the] French and English picket* are less than | ,a hundred yards apart—beyond where .'the Fiftieth Regiment is quartered. He J 'is waiting there now, poor fellow, ' J drenched in the rain, and starving. He jdoes not lore me —at least, not as you I Lsay you love mc; but he " I I There was a sound of footsteps near lat hand, and she stopped suddenly and j '.closed the shutter. " , ' "Halt!" ordered the officer. "Who I comes there?" I 1 The footsteps ceased. j " Friend!" said a voice from the dark-1 j ness. I J '" Advance, friend, and give an account lof yourself!" i j The officer sat his horse and waited. ' bis left hand on his scabbard and his /right hand ready to draw on the instant ■if necessary. A man. overeoated and ] muffled to the eyes, advanced slowly, j feeling his way carefully among trie iniudholes; when he Teached the horse's shoulder he halted and drew himself up to attention and saluted. " Who are you?" "Sergeant-Major" Hanler. sir, of the Fiftieth, returning from leave of absence to visit a friend in the hospital." "Have you a permit?" "Certainly, sir?" He groped inside his overcoat, and projduced a crumpled piece of paper. The (officer took it and held it up toward jthe light that still streamed through the [lattice of the shutter. I "H'm-m-m! That's his handwriting all right. Very well, sergeant-major; 'give mv compliments to mv father, will you? Did you leave him. well?" "The Colonel, sir?" He drew half a step nearer, and stared hard for a second. " Beg pardon, sir," he said, saluting again. " I didn't recognise you at first. Yes, sir. he was well when I left two days ago." Good! Remember mc to him. Goodnight, sergeant-major: you've a long trudge in front of you yet—you know the way?" "Yes, sir; thank you; good-night, i fiir "

! Apd -he saluted once more, -and vanished. j When the 'splashing and the squelching of his footsteps had died away into ! the distance, the shutter once more opened. | " Who was It?" asked the senorita. j " The sergeant-major of my father's j regiment." j '"Did he see mc, d'you think!" " I don't know. He has the most un- , canny pair of blue eyes in the army, ajid I believe he sees most things." " This must stop, Guillermo. Th e risk lis too great. I cannot be seen talking i ' through my window to officers at this hour of the night. Here, take this. Guillermo; take it and go! Quick, here jit is!" I She handed him a package done up tightly in oiled silk, and sewed at both j ends and scaled. There was no direction on it. | "It is the answer to my people. Re-member—-Spero' is the word, and the . ! iman is waiting by the little clump of i trees beyond where the Fiftieth Regijmenc is, between their pickets and the I French. He waits there each night." "But " "Come back when you have delivered it." 1 | "But " j "And if you still wish it you may • | bring a priest with you." ' "Stop a moment, Ysabella —one ' minute!" 1 But the shutter had closed again, and the candle was blown out, and the sound I of slippered feet retreating through a ! door at the far end of the room told "• i'liini that argument, at ieast, was-over. - He sat musing for a minute, lingering > the package and wondering what to do with it; then lie slipped it into a pocket - inside his tunic aud gathered up bis reins. "I'll take it," be muttered, "' if I > won't! And if I can find a priest I'll . fetch him here afterwards by the girdle 3 faster than he ever wenKto a wedding 1 in his life!" , Then he urged his weary horse into j a walk, and started off towards hcadt - j quarters. f (To bo concluded in to-morrow's issue.)