"Jack'll be up there waiting," he thought as he glanced ahead. "He'll soon send these fellows back once they get within shot. Pah! That was a near one; the bullet struck my boot. Beg pardon, not my boot, but that fellow's at the cabaret. Glad there's no horsemen in front of me. So much the better; it's going to be a fine gallop."
A fine gallop it proved, too. His mount was blown before the chase was over, while had it lasted a little longer he would certainly have been taken. But of a sudden heavy musketry fire broke out from a point a little to one side. Dark figures, clad in the well-known rough uniform of Tom's guerrillas, appeared on the hillside. And then a shrill whistle sounded. It was perhaps a minute later that Tom threw himself from his horse and stood amongst his comrades. And how Jack roared with laughter, how the men grinned their delight, how Andrews, who had but just reached the party spluttered and attempted to behave as became a disciplined soldier!
"Introduce me, do," gurgled Jack, seizing Alfonso by the arm and doubling up with merriment. "Miss what's-her-name, eh?"
"Clifford, at your service," grinned Tom, "and don't you forget it!"
"Of all the boys!" spluttered Andrews, his face red with his efforts. "I knew he had backbone, but this here's something different."
"Allow me," said Jack in his most gallant manner, offering an arm. "Excuse me if I appear a little forward."
"Rats!" was Tom's somewhat abrupt answer. "Let the boys fall in. We'll march at once; I've had a spree, I can tell you."
It was with grins of delight and many an exclamation that his comrades listened to the tale, a narrative soon passed on by Alfonso to their following. Meanwhile Tom tore his borrowed clothing from him, donned his handsome uniform, and made ready for more active movement.
"We've done a good part of our work," he said. "Now for that fellow in Oporto. Let's ride back to the camp, leaving some of our men to watch the roads near it. I'll hand my notes in to the chief of the staff, and then look into the last part of this matter. Wonder who the rogue is who's such a friend of Francisco, and sends news to the men that are enemies of his country."
They might all wonder, and the reader need not feel surprised if he learns that this rascal was too clever for those who sought him. The hovel to which the man whom Tom's guerrillas had captured led them—and who had promised information in return for his life—was empty. There was no particle of evidence to prove where the rascal had flown; but careful search discovered a note hidden in a crevice of the ceiling, and when that was opened the information contained proved to be of little value.
"Come to Badajoz," it said. "There ask for Juan de Milares, in the street of St. Paulo. There is still work to be done and money to be earned for the doing."
"Same handwriting without a doubt," declared Jack emphatically. "The bird's flown, and Badajoz is out of the question."
As a general rule one would have agreed with him; for, like Ciudad Rodrigo, that fortress was garrisoned by the French. But circumstances alter cases, and Tom soon recognized this to be a fact, since there was further information awaiting him in Oporto. A visit to the house of Septimus John Clifford & Son discovered something approaching a tragedy. For Juan de Esteros had disappeared that very evening, and with him no less a person than Septimus John Clifford himself.
"But where?" demanded Tom, filled with apprehension.
"Alas, there is nothing to tell us!" answered the chief clerk, as faithful a fellow as the worthy Huggins. "They left without a word to anyone, without so much as a sound. They dined together and sat on the veranda reading. Later they retired to their rooms; after that we know nothing."
"But," exclaimed Tom, aghast at the mystery, "surely there's——"
"There is merely this," came the answer, while a slip of paper was thrust into his hands. "We found it resting on the table, weighted so that it could not blow away. Read, señor."
Tom scanned the lines for some few moments, while his smooth forehead wrinkled deeply. "Thus is the house of Septimus John Clifford & Son punished," he read, the Spanish letters being scrawled across the paper. Yes scrawled. In a moment he recognized that writing. It was put upon the paper by the selfsame man who had sent information to the commandant at Ciudad Rodrigo, the traitor who was eager and willing to supply news which would help the enemies of his country.
"Well? What next?" asked Jack when the fact had been explained to him.
"To Badajoz, that's all," came the short answer. "This villain's got hold of my father and uncle for some reason or other. It's plainly my duty to look into the matter; so I'll pay Badajoz a visit, just as I went to Ciudad Rodrigo. Wonder who this chap is and what game he's up to? But duty first, Jack; we'll make back to the camp and see what's expected of us."
If Tom had hoped to pursue a private matter just then he was to be disappointed. For barely was Christmas past, and the new year entered upon, when Wellington threw the whole force he commanded against Ciudad Rodrigo. Pressing the siege with intense energy—for there was always the fear that the French would concentrate on him from all parts and raise the siege before it was successfully over—he launched his attacking parties after remarkably short delay. The fighting which resulted was of the severest description, and the greatest gallantry and resolution was shown by either side. But British pluck won. The defences were captured, and within a few hours of the assault the place which Tom had visited was garrisoned by British instead of by French soldiers. Then Wellington turned toward Badajoz, outside which Tom and his men had for two weeks past thrown out a circle of their men, thus cutting all communications.
"It'll be a hard nut to crack," observed the merry Jack, casting his eye up at the defences; "but I suppose we'll do it."
"We must," declared Tom with emphasis. "Anyway, I've got to get inside the place and unravel this mystery. There's father and Don Juan to find and release, and then there's that rascal who took them."
But would Tom, or indeed any of our men, ever get within this terribly grim fortress? It seemed unlikely enough, viewing the defences, and we may declare here and now that before our hero was to set foot within the place he was to take part in fighting of the very fiercest.
CHAPTER XIV
One of the Forlorn Hope
"A terribly hard nut to crack," observed Jack, for perhaps the twentieth time, as he and Tom sat their horses on a ridge above Badajoz, and looked down upon the fortress. "It'll be interesting to see how Wellington sets about the matter. Suppose there'll be a tremendous cannonade, and then an assault. Wish we were going to be in it."
"I mean to, whatever happens," came from our hero, who was staring down at the fortress, as if he wished to guess in which house his father and Don Juan were imprisoned. "As to how it'll be done, there's no saying; for I've never witnessed a siege before. But apparently the sappers and miners dig their way toward the fortress, erecting batteries as they go, till they are so close that our guns can batter down the walls. Then comes the grand assault. I can imagine that that is a terrific business. Well, let's ride round the place and see what's happening. There's very little else for us to do just now, and we can leave the men with Alfonso."
For two weeks past the combined command of Portuguese and Spanish guerrillas whom Tom had charge of had been operating about the magnificent fortress which Wellington had determined to capture. Throwing a circle completely about the place, they had cut the garrison off entirely from the outside world, and thus had enabled Wellington to concentrate his men without alarming the French. For here again, as in the case of Ciudad Rodrigo, it was all-important that the siege operations should not be disturbed by the arrival of a large French force, against whom our troops would have to act before taking the fortress. As in the case of Ciudad Rodrigo, had information leaked out the enemy could easily have concentrated a force in the neighbourhood, sufficient to delay and make impossible all siege operations. But, thanks to secrecy in his preparations, thanks, too, in no small measure to the work of such corps as Tom commanded, the intentions of Wellington were quite unknown, till, of a sudden, in the March following his capture of Ciudad Rodrigo, he turned his divisions in the direction of Badajoz, a fortress sometimes known as "the gate of Spain," and, crossing the River Guadiana on the 16th, caused the place to be invested by the three divisions commanded by Beresford and Picton. The remainder of his troops, some 60,000 in all, counting Spanish and Portuguese allies, covered the siege operations.
Looking down from the point of vantage to which they had ridden, Tom and his chum could obtain a bird's-eye view of the ancient fortress of Badajoz, and could easily trace its outline. But the arrival of a staff officer helped them wonderfully to understand what was occurring before their eyes. Cantering up the hill at this moment, and looking the smart fellow he was, this officer drew rein close to the two young fellows, acknowledging their salutes with one as brisk, and with a smile.
"Taking the air?" he asked. "We shall have plenty of it before we've done with the Frenchies. Ah! that's Clifford, I believe."
Tom saluted again and flushed.
"The officer the French refuse to fight, eh?"
Our hero was compelled to agree, with heightened colour, whereat the officer laughed loudly.
"And his adjutant along with him, too," he remarked, looking the unabashed Jack up and down, and reflecting that he seemed to be a very smart and jovial fellow. "You chaps know how you're spoken of, perhaps, eh?" he asked with another smile, causing both the lads to shake their heads.
"Then I'll tell you. Never is one seen but the other is at his heels. So throughout the army you're known as the 'twins.' Good name, isn't it?"
Once more they heard his hearty laughter, which they shared with him; for this was news to our two heroes. Not that they could help admitting that there was reason for the name they had earned, since Jack Barwood had become Tom's veritable shadow. They seemed to haunt the same piece of ground always, and even when with their command the jovial Jack was ever at the side of his superior. There was a whisper also amongst the men, fostered not a little by voluble sayings of Andrews and his brother rifleman, that these two young officers, occupying such posts of responsibility, were nevertheless not above a little skylarking. Indeed, if Tom and Jack had proved that they were eager and ready to lead their men into action, they had also more than once shown a disposition to lead them into mischief.
"Well, now, let's have a look at the place," said the officer, producing a short spyglass. "You can see for yourselves how the fortress is placed. It stands on an eminence at the junction of the Rivers Guadiana and Rivillas, the former being crossed by a long bridge, which you can see for yourself. There's the castle, perched a hundred feet above the level of the rivers, and occupying almost the apex of the point of confluence. The town spreads behind it fan-wise, and is walled, presenting eight strong bastions, with curtains, counterscarps, glacis, and covered ways, without doubt, all helping to make the place extremely strong. There are five gates, though you can't see them all from this point. There, take a look; you can actually observe people moving in the streets."
The view was, in fact, an enchanting one; for Badajoz at that time was not an erection of a few years, but one of great antiquity. It had withstood sieges against the Moors and Goths, and had been taken and retaken many a time; and there it was fully prepared for another siege, garrisoned by some 5000 of the enemy, and packed to repletion with guns, ammunition, and food; in fact with all that makes defence possible.
"And how will the siege be conducted?" asked Tom, when he had taken a long look at the place. "Shall we endeavour to make a breach at one point or at many?"
"Many," came the short answer. "No doubt Wellington will launch his attacking parties in several directions. But first he must smash up that work you see on the far side of the river, known as Fort Picurina. Batteries will be placed elsewhere, and I believe the angle nearest us has been selected, as well as that farthest away, close to the Trinidad and St. Vincent bastions respectively. In a few hours the guns will be thundering in a manner which will open your eyes."
The bombardment that followed was, in fact, a revelation to our hero; for, though Wellington might easily have been better equipped for a siege, and have had a far superior battering train, the guns he possessed were nevertheless of service. Nor must it be forgotten that these same guns had been brought into position only after the very greatest labour and secrecy; for they had been sent round by sea from Lisbon, had then been transported up the River Setubal in small boats, to Alcacer do Sal, and thence by land across the Alemtejo to the River Guadiana.
Think of the labour involved in such an operation, of the secrecy necessary to keep the movement from the knowledge of the French. Think also of the small army of helpers, all taking part in this war, and yet working out of sound of gun shot, and far from the presence of the enemy. That, perhaps is a question which escapes the notice of many. The tale of some campaign brings to light narratives of gallant deeds, of fierce attacks, of strenuous fighting; it leaves too often to the imagination of one ignorant of the life of a soldier, and of the needs of a campaign, all the numerous services upon which success of an army in the field depends. For if there be no one to supervise the stores, and to dispatch them to the seat of war, how can troops operate in a country devoid almost of food, where ammunition cannot be obtained, and where boots, clothing, and a thousand other necessary trifles wear out, are lost, or destroyed with alarming rapidity? Think, then, of the host labouring out of sight of the enemy, but labouring nevertheless. Think also of the other numerous band marching with troops as non-combatants, and yet subject to as great dangers, the very same privations, and bearing on their shoulders equal, if not greater, responsibilities; for with the troops there must be men to see to the distribution of food, to gather stores, and apply for all that is necessary. There must be trained officers to look to the ailments of horses, and, above all, perhaps, there must be an army of surgeons to care for the wounded and the thousands more who go down under privation and exposure.
Riding round the bivouacs of the besieging army after their chat with the staff officer, Tom began to gather a better impression than he had ever had before of the numerous duties attached to soldiering.
In the background, well away from the investing regiments, were many horse lines, where rows of animals were picketed, their riders being encamped near at hand. Closer to the fortress lay the lines of regiments engaged in the actual work of the siege, and here many a camp fire blazed. Whole rows of camp kettles sat over the long trenches dug in the muddy ground, while the flames from wood fires swept beneath them and sent billows of odorous steam into the air. Butchers were at work slaughtering beasts bought for the feeding of the troops, while not far away a sentry stood guard over a spring which was the drinking supply for that portion of the army. But it was still nearer the fortress that the real interest lay; for there hundreds of men were delving, cutting trenches, and steadily advancing them toward the enemy. Indeed, that very day, they had need of every bit of cover; for guns opened from Badajoz, and clouds of grapeshot swept across the open.
"Hot work, ain't it?" grinned Jack, who with Tom was making a tour of inspection. "Put your head up, Tom, and take a squint at those Frenchies."
"And get it shot to pieces for my trouble. Thanks!" came the laughing answer. "George! Listen to that."
"My uncle!" came from the young adjutant. "A regular torrent. How long and how often do they pepper you like that?" he asked of the sapper ensign who had invited them to inspect the work.
"How often? Couldn't say," was the laconic answer, as if the thunderous discharge of the guns of the enemy, and the roar of clouds of grape sweeping overhead were an everyday occurrence, and hardly worth discussion. "Oh, pretty often, especially at night! But it'd be all right if it weren't for this awful weather. You see, a chap has to grovel when the guns open, and that's bad for uniforms."
He was something of a dandy, this immaculate ensign of sappers, and stepped daintily along the deep trenches already constructed by the British working parties. Tom watched him with admiration as he brushed some dirt from his laced sleeve with a silk handkerchief, and then wondered satirically for one brief moment if this young officer were merely a heap of affectation, useless for any real work, merely an ornament to the profession to which he belonged.
"Certainly not that," he told himself a few seconds later, after seeing more of the ensign. "He's a born dandy, perhaps, but he's a plucky beggar, and a fine example to his men."
That, in fact, was precisely what this ensign was, as was the case with many another officer in Wellington's army. Example is everything when men are engaged in strenuous operations; and if those in command show coolness, determination, sangfroid, and other virtues, their own particular men are wonderfully heartened. And here was this ensign coolly flicking dirt from his laced sleeve, while a foot overhead grapeshot swept past in a torrent. There he was, joking and laughing with the jovial Jack as if he had not so much as a serious thought in his head, and as if this were merely a game. But a minute later he was leading the way to an outwork, strolling negligently across a portion necessarily exposed to the bullets of the enemy, and showing not so much as a sign of haste.
"Come along," he sang out to our hero. "It's a little warm crossing, but it's generally all right. We had three caught by the enemy's bullets yesterday, but that's because they would stop to star gaze. Ah, very neat shooting, eh? I declare, the beggar has cut one of my epaulettes off with his shot!"
It was true enough. Tom had heard a shot fired from the fortress, for the trench they had just left was within long range of an outwork manned by the enemy. He had instantly seen the left epaulette of the ensign rise in the air, spin round merrily, and then fall to the ground. And the young officer only showed annoyance at such an injury being done to his uniform! As for the men stationed in the trench behind, and those in the earthwork for which they were making, they watched the little scene with grins of amusement and delight.
"Dicky Silvester, ensign. That's him," growled one of the sappers hoarsely to his neighbours. "Joined us a year ago, or less, and looks and acts as if he were a born soldier, and didn't care a fig for bullets or anything else. Who are the other orficers? Ain't they cool 'uns too? My hat, Dicky ain't the only one as don't give a hang for bullets!"
The cool behaviour of the three even raised a cheer before they had entered the earthwork, calling a sharp order from the ensign.
"What's this?" he demanded, dropping slowly out of shot of the enemy, a manœuvre which Tom and Jack followed. "Laughing and cheering when there's work to be done! Here——"
Another patch of dirt on his uniform distracted his attention and cut short the speech. As for the men, they dashed their picks again into the ground and went on with their delving. Then whispers passed amongst them.
"Blessed ef I don't think as the toff of an orficer in staff uniform ain't Mr. Tom Clifford, him as held up them Portuguese in a church, commanding the Frenchies who'd taken him as prisoner," said one. "Ain't that the one?"
"And went right into Ciudad Rodrigo t' other day," agreed his comrade, "and come galloping out dressed as a gal. He's the boy. Law! He looks at Badajoz as if he was hungry to get inside, and had more almost to do with this siege than we have."
Tom might indeed have been accused of that, for those wretchedly wet days in March, 1812, found him frequently in the trenches, watching as parallels were dug, eagerly measuring the advance of the busy army of sappers digging their way closer to the fortress. Or he would lie behind one of the batteries by day and by night, and would listen to the thunder of the guns, and would watch for the tell-tale spout of dust which shot into the air as the huge iron ball struck the bastion. Then would come the clatter of falling masonry, followed perhaps by a cheer from the gunners. More often the shot would be answered by a terrific hail of grape, which pattered overhead, swept the entire face of the batteries—and but for the fascines erected to give cover every one of the gunners would have been killed—then whizzed across the open, splashing into the many pools of water which had been left by the heavy and almost continuous rain. It seemed, indeed, slow work this siege operation; slow and perhaps not too sure.
"For even when the breaches are practicable there are the defenders to be dealt with," thought Tom. "There will be mines to blow us up, obstructions of every sort, and grape and shot showered down upon us. But take the place we will; I mean to be one of the very first inside the fortress."
Any doubts Tom may have had as to the determination of Lord Wellington were soon set at rest; for, the weather still continuing atrocious, and the trenches being flooded and almost uninhabitable, an assault of the Picurina was ordered, and the fort carried with brilliant dash by 500 men of the 3rd Division. The storm of shot and shell poured into the fort after we had gained possession of it was such that one wondered how the new garrison could live, for Phillipon, the commander of the French, did his utmost to drive us out. But our men stuck grimly to the task, and again plying their busy spades, soon had advanced to a point where batteries could be erected. And then began a trial of skill and endurance between the gunners of France and those of England. By day and by night the neighbourhood echoed to the roar. A pall of smoke hung over fortress and encampment, while in the depths of night guns flashed redly, and spluttering portfires hovered here and there as the gunners stood to their pieces. At length the work was done; the breaches were declared practicable, though to view them and the grim lines hovering in rear, prepared to defend every inch of the steeply-sloping rubbish, would have caused any but brave men to shiver. But Wellington's men were as determined as he; they had set their hearts on gaining the fortress. The call for a forlorn hope, as ever, produced a swarm of volunteers. That night of 6 April, a night the anniversary of which is ever kept with loving memory by those who now serve in the regiments then present at Badajoz, found 18,000 bold fellows craving for the signal which should launch them to the attack, craving for the signal which, alas! would launch many and many a gallant officer and lad into eternity. Let us, too, remember those heroes with honour, recollecting that by their gallantry and dash they helped in the work in progress, and that every fortress won in this Peninsula campaign was yet another step forward, a step that would add to the difficulties of Bonaparte, and which, with those which followed, ultimately brought about his downfall. Let us honour them as gallant souls who cast off the yoke then weighing upon the peoples of Europe.
"You'll go with the stormers?" asked Jack of Tom, almost beneath his breath, as the two stood side by side in the trenches.
"I've obtained permission, and go I shall," came the determined answer. "Now recollect, Jack, what I've said. If Badajoz is taken, the rascal who has captured my people will do his best to get out of the place. See that our men are lively when the first streak of dawn comes, and let them arrest any civilian."
"Good luck! Take care," gasped Jack, loath to part with his old friend. "I'll watch outside and see that all is done as you've directed; but do take care. Recollect, the regiment can't do without you."
He was sent off with a merry laugh from Tom, and straightway clambered up a rise from which he could view the proceedings. A strange silence hung about the fortress. Within and without the trenches, packed in the batteries, and in many another part lay the stormers, waiting, waiting for that signal. Picton's division on the right crouched over their scaling ladders, ready to rush to the walls of the castle. On the left, Sir James Leith's division waited to make a false attack on the Pardeleras, an outside work. But the Bastion de San Vincente was the real point of attack, and Walker's brigade, part of this division, was destined to assault it. The Light Division was to dash for the Santa Maria quarter, while the 4th was to hurl itself against the breach in the Trinidad quarter. The St. Roque bastion, in between these two latter, was to be stormed by Major Wilson, who was in command of the guards of the trenches. Finally, the Portuguese were to see what could be done with the Tête de Pont, the outwork on the far bank of the River Guadiana, commanding the head of the bridge.
A dull hum above the trenches told of excitement. Flickering lights and a subdued murmur above the fortress showed that the defenders were prepared. Silently men gathered before the 4th and the Light Division, men provided with ladders and axes, with but few rounds of ammunition, and freed of their knapsacks. Each carried a sack filled with hay, which, it was hoped, would give some cover. And before those two parties waiting in front of the two divisions, and each counting 500 men, there fell in yet again two parties of heroes, the forlorn hopes, the officers and men who were sworn to enter the fortress, to show the way in, or to die in the attempt, noble souls who worked not for gold as a reward, but only for the honour and glory of their country.
Ah! a blaze of light from a carcass hurled from the wall showed one of those advance parties. Shouts echoed from the fortress, then there came the splash of flame from guns, the spurting tongues of fire belched from muskets, and the thunder of the explosions. Cheers and hurrahs broke from our men. What matter if the alarm had been sounded half an hour before Wellington was to give the fatal signal? They were ready—the boys of the Light Brigade, the heroes of the 4th Division—the stormers all along the walls were ready. A mad babel broke the former silence or semi-silence, portfires flashed in all directions, while fireballs were hurled into the ditches, lighting the way of the stormers. Pandemonium was let loose at Badajoz that night. A cloudy, star-strewn sky looked down upon horrors which one hopes may never be repeated. For on the side of the French was shown great bravery and demoniacal cunning. Every artifice of the besieged was employed, while on the side of the British soldiers a mad, a frantic courage was displayed. What if mines did burst and blow hundreds to pieces? Their comrades dashed down into the ditch without hesitation, and cast themselves into the selfsame breach where the tragedy had been perpetrated. What if the enemy did cast bags of gunpowder into the confused ranks of the stormers? It was all the more inducement to them to dash onward.
To describe all that occurred would be beyond us. Let us follow our hero, though, and see what happened in his direction. Tom was one of the forlorn hope. Shouldering his hay pack, and gripping his sword, he dashed at the breach before him when the alarm was given. The stunning discharge of a cannon to his front almost swept him from his feet, and cleared a lane through the comrades before him. A fireball danced down the steep slope of the breach and blazed brightly, showing the faces and figures of the enemy plainly, the muskets they were levelling, and an appalling chevaux de frise erected at the top of the breach. Composed of naked sabre blades secured to logs of wood, this obstacle awaited the stormers before they could come to hand grips with the enemy. But that was not all. Tom stumbled over a boulder, floundered on to his face, and was then lifted boldly and flung aside by a mighty concussion.
"A mine," he thought. "Am I alive or not? What's happened to the others?"
He might well ask that. The poor fellows were swept out of existence almost to a man; but behind them were the noble five hundred, and in rear again the gallant Light Division. Before them was the breach; that terrible breach, with its defenders, its guns, its awful obstacle, and the hundred-and-one means there for the destruction of the stormers. Time and again did men dash at it. Gallant souls, driven crazy by the hazard they endured, and filled with fearful determination, clambered to that chevaux de frise and were there slaughtered. Officers stood in full sight of the enemy calling to their men, leading them upward. And yet none could enter.
Elsewhere the fighting had been equally strenuous. After many and many an attempt the castle was at length won, and later Walker's brigade tore its gallant way over the San Vincente Bastion, victorious in spite of mines and guns fired at point-blank range. It was from that quarter, in fact, that success at length came; for the Light and the 4th Divisions had as yet failed to burst their way through the breaches before them. But an advance from the direction of San Vincente took the defenders in the rear, and just as our men had retired at the orders of Wellington, preparatory to a fresh attack, those breaches were taken. Men burst in now from all directions; the enemy fled for the most part to Fort Christoval, over the river, and Badajoz was ours. Cheers and counter cheers were heard in all quarters. The wounded sat up as best they could and joined in the jubilation, and then pandemonium again broke out in every street of the city; for the victorious troops straightway got out of hand. They poured in a torrent through the streets of Badajoz, rifling the houses, and, breaking into the cabarets, helped themselves to the wines of Spain. That early morning, in fact, discovered a terrible situation in the fortress; for of order there was none. Drunken soldiers staggered over the pavements committing violence everywhere, while as many more were pillaging or doing actual violence to the unfortunate inhabitants. And all that while Tom Clifford lay on the slope of the breach which with many another gallant soul he had endeavoured to storm. Regiments passed over him. The surgeons and their bearers came and went in search of the wounded, and passed him always. For Tom lay stark and still. With his face half-buried in the torn tunic of a soldier who had died while doing his duty, and his limbs curled up as if he were asleep, he lay without a movement, appearing not even to breathe, lifeless to those who cast a casual glance at him.
"Dead!" groaned Jack and Andrews when at length they found him. "Killed by the mine which wiped out every man of 'the forlorn hope.' Poor Tom!"
"Breathing!" shouted Alfonso, who also accompanied him. "I tell you he is still alive."
That brought them all about him, and within a few minutes our hero was being carried from the breach. But was he living still? Was Badajoz to see the end of a promising career, and put a stop to his quest? Or would Tom Clifford appear upon the scenes again, and still have something to say to the rascal who had abducted both father and uncle?
CHAPTER XV
Round about Badajoz
There was a business-like air about the jovial Jack Barwood on the second morning after the fall of Badajoz, a seriousness about the smart young adjutant to which his friends were unaccustomed, a furrowing of his youthful brow, and an appearance of intentness and determination which would have aroused the friendly satire of old comrades. Dressed in the smart uniform of the gallant 60th Rifles, he marched briskly along one of the quieter streets, passing as he did so a half-company of infantry escorting a batch of semi-drunken soldiers, the gallant souls amongst Wellington's army who, now that the fighting was over, had lost all sense of discipline, and, aching no doubt for the many good things to which they had been strangers for so long, had burst their way into private dwellings and had behaved like scoundrels instead of brave soldiers.
Jack took the salute of a Portuguese guerrilla sentry marching sedately to and fro before a huge door, and that too of a Spaniard, one also of the band under Tom's command.
"Well?" he questioned in Portuguese, his accent none of the best. "Any news? Any more callers?"
"None, señor."
"And the news?"
"Good, señor; he lives. He will get well and strong to command us."
There was a gleam of pleasure in the eyes of the two sentries as Jack spoke, while they watched him beat upon the door and enter.
"A fine officer; one of the English!" exclaimed the Spaniard, who seemed to be on the best of terms with the Portuguese guerrilla, a strange occurrence in those days. "If the worst were to come to the worst——"
"Yes," responded the other, in a patois both could understand, "yes, he would command. But it would not be the same; the Señor Tom is one man, the Señor Jack another."
Inside stood the faithful Andrews and Howeley, drawn stiffly to attention, saluting their officer. Jack's serious face brightened.
"Well?" he demanded again, as if he were short of words.
"Better, sir, beggin' pardon," came from Andrews, with his accustomed formula demanding pardon. "Surgeon's been and gone; says as Mr. Clifford's as hard as rocks, and if he wasn't he'd have been trampled and banged to pieces. Swears as he must have fust of all been blowed skyhigh, and then charged over by a thousand of the stormers. He's takin' notice of things, sir, is Mr. Clifford. Axing fer the regiment, and you. He'd have been out of bed if I hadn't prevented him—and, my word, he were a handful!"
"Ah!" ejaculated Jack, a grin rising on his solemn features. "A handful! Tom's that all the time. Wanted to get up, eh?"
"Yes, sir," grunted the rifleman, still stiffly at attention. "'Not you, sir,' I says; 'you're as weak as a kitten.' 'Rot!' he whispers, 'cos he can't speak no higher. 'I've got work, Andrews.' 'So has we all,' I answers. 'Orders is orders, sir.' 'Eh?' he asks, sharp-like, as you know, sir. 'Orders that you're to stay abed, sir,' I says, not half-liking things. 'Orders be hanged,' he tries to shout, struggling to get up, and then falling back on the pillow."
"Like him," smiled Jack. "Anyway he's safe now, eh?"
If it were a question of our hero's security from interference, then there was little doubt; for beside those two sentries parading outside the courtyard of the house in which he lay, there were a dozen more at different points, with Andrews and Howeley to supervise them. Nor were such precautions to be wondered at when the tale of the last few hours was told. Tom had not only passed through the dangers of a siege. True, he had escaped the ordeal at the breaches, and had been borne still breathing into the town. But there another danger had suddenly assailed him; for no sooner was he laid in bed, and Jack had departed, than the watchful Andrews had discovered a sneaking form clambering in by one of the windows. Had Andrews been Septimus John Clifford's head clerk he would then and there have made a discovery of vast importance, and one which we will at once hand on to the reader. For this sneaking intruder, bearing a stiletto in one hand, was none other than José de Esteros, Tom's cousin, now sunk to the lowest depths of infamy, and forestalled just in the nick of time in the endeavour to carry out further villainy. He had made good his escape, and, as a result, Tom's little command now watched over their damaged leader.
The best of food, the most careful attention on the part of the army surgeon, and the tenderest nursing at the hands of Andrews and others were already having their effect, and so, for a while, we may leave our hero, satisfied that he will bob up again in the future and encounter more adventures in this memorable campaign.
Let us then step outside the walls of Badajoz, walls conquered at huge sacrifice by the British, and after the most gallant fighting. For it will already have been gathered that this Peninsula campaign was full of incidents, all of which the space at our disposal prevents our mentioning. In the circumstances it will be readily understood that with troops operating here and there over a wide stretch of country there were numerous affairs, some mere skirmishes, some approaching a big engagement, which, while they each and every one undoubtedly helped on the end at which our leaders aimed, and are with equal certainty recorded in official histories, yet for the purposes of this narrative are of small account.
Beginning in 1808, as already recorded, this memorable campaign had at first seen a succession of commanders sent by the vacillating Ministry in England, and of these the great Wellington alone remained, having proved his right to lead our armies. Those momentous months since the opening of the campaign had witnessed, as the reader will remember, the dismissal of the French from Portugal and the advance of our armies into Spain. The tragedy of Sir John Moore's retreat over the border had followed; and we have seen Wellington forced backward in Portugal itself, till the enemy held the country right down to the formidable heights of Torres Vedras. And then had come the turn of the tide. The vast masses of men controlled by Napoleon had been sent to the rightabout, and here, in the eventful year 1812, we find Portugal once more swept clean of the enemy, and the important fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo and of Badajoz in the hands of the British. The tide had turned, we say, and, like the energetic and astute leader he was, the great Wellington at once proceeded to follow up these successes, and to push on into the heart of Spain, with the one object of forcing the enemy finally to quit the Peninsula.
But no narrative of the events which had already happened would be complete without mention of a force, subtle enough and slow to be seen at first, which was now steadily aiding the efforts of our soldiers. Despite the criminal neglect of our ambassador in Madrid, despite, too, the wicked opposition and folly of the Spanish Junta in particular, and in smaller measure of the Portuguese Junta, both of which bodies had persistently opposed each and every aim of the British, our armies had fought and won. Often enough the gallant, thin red line had been basely left by the fleeing troops of Portugal and Spain to face the onslaught of Napoleon's trained battalions. And yet that thin red line of gallant souls had conquered. Their persistence, their cheerful bravery in the face of enormous odds, and their bull-dog, strenuous fighting had told its tale on the masses of the enemy. Scepticism as to their worth as soldiers, a scepticism natural, perhaps, to troops highly trained, and till then victorious in all directions, had been changed to hearty respect, if not to actual fear. That feeling of respect engendering fear and caution alone was the subtle force now aiding our armies. Each man, whether officer or private, had the utmost confidence in his leaders and in his comrades; while the French, bearing the late prowess of the British in mind, wondered whether success were now as certain as they had imagined. Who knows? The persistent advance of our armies, the skill of our leaders, and the bull-dog courage of our men may well have had their effect upon the great Napoleon himself. Accustomed to see his arms successful in every venture, he found in the British a foe who knew no defeat, and who pressed him always. For the Portuguese this restless Emperor may have had some respect; for the Spanish he had only hatred, since their determination not to accept his brother as their king, and their incessant rioting and attacks upon his soldiers had caused him trouble and anxiety. Now there were the British to deal with. British opposition had wrested Portugal from the all-conquering Emperor of France. She was now thrusting her way into the heart of Andalusia. That meant further strenuous fighting, and if past records were to be repeated, it meant further British victories, in spite of the mass of Napoleon's armies. Who knows, then, we suggest, that this fear may have weighed with the restless Emperor of the French, with the ambitious and avaricious little corporal? To be balked in his wishes was with him ever, as with all such men, galling in the extreme. Here, in the Peninsula, our coming and our intervention had resulted in tremendous efforts on the part of Napoleon, efforts set aside by Wellington's armies. And now the tide had turned. What wonder if Napoleon, realizing that here he was on the verge of a defeat, turned his eyes to other conquests? Whatever the cause, Russia now attracted the attention of the Emperor. He had ridden posthaste for Paris. France, groaning already beneath the weight of taxation necessary to maintain such huge armies in the field, was being bled still further, both in money and men, to provide another army of conquest. Troops were already massing on the borders of Russia, and soon was to arrive that calamity which will always hold a prominent place in the histories of the world. For Napoleon was marching to defeat. The plains of Russia were to see his armies swept almost out of existence, while the crops now ripening at the beginning of summer, a summer which Wellington in Spain had determined to make the greatest use of, were to flare up before Napoleon's troops could lay their hungry hands on them. Moscow, the city of promise, the magnet drawing the ambitious and reckless Emperor to destruction, was to burn before his eyes, and thereafter snow and frost and desperate hunger were to fight his armies silently, while Cossacks in their thousands hung like a swarm of flies about the flanks, slaughtering the helpless.
But we are forestalling events. Napoleon had left the Peninsula for other and, as he imagined no doubt, easier conquests, leaving his generals in Spain the difficult task of driving out a British army which, with few exceptions, had proved itself absolutely invincible.
Portugal was entirely in the hands of the British. Spain was beckoning strongly. Wellington, gathering his faithful and war-worn troops about him, was about to plunge into the heart of Andalusia, and, quitting the siege of fortresses, was eager to try conclusions with the enemy in the open. But he was ever a careful man, and as a preliminary to invasion and attack upon the Duke of Ragusa he planned the destruction of the bridge erected at Almarez, spanning the Tagus, and protected by forts immensely strengthened by the French. Here were known to be collected huge stores of ammunition, while the bridge itself served as a means of communication between one French army and another. With the crossing destroyed, Wellington might hope to throw himself upon the enemy with good chance of success; for by keeping the various forces of the enemy apart he might reasonably expect to beat them in detail, victory against the vast masses of French when combined being out of the question. Thus Almarez and the bridge spanning the historic Tagus now attracted his attention, as well as the formidable forts erected to protect the same.
Let us describe in a few words the condition of the surrounding country. From Almarez itself to the city of Toledo the left bank of the River Tagus is hemmed in by a range of steep mountains. From Almarez again to the Portuguese frontier, roads in those days were almost non-existent, and the crossing in any case most difficult; while farther east the bridges at Arzobispo and Talavera were covered by the neighbouring high ground.
The River Tagus itself separated the armies of Soult and of Marmont, and, seeing that Soult's pontoon train had been captured in Badajoz, there was left no other means of communication between the armies than the bridge of boats at Almarez, which the critical eye of Wellington had already selected for destruction. But, as we have hinted, there were difficulties in the way; for in view of the importance of the place, and of the mass of stores of one sort or another concentrated there, the French had made every preparation to protect the bridge. A fort had been erected on the north bank, another at the opposite end of the bridge, while the heights immediately adjacent on the latter side had been connected by a chain of works which a casual inspection would have said defied assault. Yet Wellington considered that Sir Rowland Hill, in command of a force 6000 strong, would contrive to overcome all difficulties, and that gallant officer promptly marched from the camp which the British had now formed, for since the fall of Badajoz our forces had marched north to the Tagus, and had crossed the river. A small expeditionary arm was therefore within striking distance of the all-important crossing at Almarez. Secrecy, as in the case of the descents on Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, was essential in this adventure, and Sir Rowland, therefore, marched at night-time, secreting his whole force in the wood of Jarciejo during the day, this wood being in the immediate neighbourhood of the enemy. Then his men were divided into three columns, and in the early hours, while darkness yet hid the land, they set out upon an expedition destined to prove amongst the most brilliant of any recorded during this long campaign in the Peninsula. For the plans of generals, like those of other more humble individuals perhaps, are destined at times to be overthrown, and here was an example. That secrecy at which Sir Rowland Hill aimed was destroyed by a combination of circumstances, so that the garrisons of the forts about to be attacked became aware of his intentions. Yet the work was done, and done brilliantly, though only at a heavy sacrifice. The forts were taken, the bridge secured, while the losses of the enemy were very heavy. Then, expedition being an essential point, mines were laid, and the works, or a portion of them, destroyed. When Sir Rowland returned to Wellington's camp he was able to report the success of the expedition, while Wellington himself was now able seriously to consider the question of an attack upon the enemy in the open; for the first step toward that effort had been taken. Easy communication between the enemy was destroyed, and now had come the opportunity to seek out and beat in detail the armies of Napoleon.
Forward, then, was the order, and 21st July, 1812, found Wellington and his army north of the Tagus, close to Salamanca and to the Rivers Tormes and Huebra, having meanwhile cleared the intervening country and besieged the Salamanca forts. Marmont, with his French battalions, now lay before him; for they had crossed the river between Huerta and Tormes, and were endeavouring to secure the road to Ciudad Rodrigo. However, if Wellington, as a clever tactician, as he undoubtedly was, had as his object the division of the enemy's forces, with a view of beating them in detail, Marmont also was not unskilful. Remembering the comparative paucity of the British troops, and the fact that they had, as it were, burned their boats behind them, he hoped to throw his troops between our regiments and the fortress of Ciudad Rodrigo, then garrisoned by British, thus not only cutting communication between Wellington and the fortress, but also drawing a line of fire and steel between the British and Portugal, to which country they would naturally retreat in case of defeat or in the event of huge odds being concentrated against them.
Thus, having brought our gallant fellows face to face with an equally gallant enemy in the open, and having reviewed the movements of this difficult and complex campaign, we can leave the two rival armies in position for battle, and can once more seek out Tom Clifford, commander of the composite force of Portuguese and Spanish guerrillas, which, amidst a host of irregular British allies—some good, some indifferent, and some altogether useless and even dangerous—had already earned a name for energy and a patriotic spirit worthy of emulation amongst many chicken-hearted countrymen. Back, then, to Badajoz, let us retrace our steps, and, accepting the salutes of the Spanish and Portuguese sentries—smart fellows both—hammer on the door of the courtyard and enter, there to be greeted by the faithful Howeley and Andrews.
Some weeks had passed since Tom had joined the forlorn hope, and had been blown like a stone down the steep scarp of the breach effected by our gunners. He sat in an armchair, his feet on a stool, Jack Barwood discussing matters with him, and at the same time smoking a pipe which he had secured in the dwelling.
"Of course," Tom was saying in his business-like way, "orders are orders. But——"
"They're a beastly nuisance for all that. Granted," was Jack's interruption. "Well?"
"And, equally of course, must be obeyed. 'Pon my word, Jack, you seem to be as keen as I am on this quest. What's it to do with you, anyway?"
"Nothing; everything." Jack took a heavy pull at his pipe, choked suddenly, and then glared at the pipe as if it had done him a mischief.
"Awful country," he grumbled. "Decent food ungetable, decent beds unknown. Tobacco—ugh! it'd sicken a Billingsgate porter! But this business interests me. Why? you ask. Here's why. Fair play is a thing I like; foul play gets up my dander. Of course I know the whole story now. This cousin chap first took food and lodging from your father and pretended gratitude; then he managed to work things so as to have you impressed. There I owe him a grudge; for if he hadn't, where should I be, eh?"
"Eh?" repeated Tom, a little puzzled.
"That's just it," went on the ensign in an aggrieved tone of voice. "Who'd have had the command of those French troopers? Who'd have brought them through that mess? Who'd now be promoted to the command of a regiment of guerrillas?"
He might have been the most injured of individuals, to look at him. Jack rose to his feet and bashed the offending pipe heavily on a table. And then he grinned at Tom.
"My uncle!" he exclaimed; "you are a flat! Yes, even if you are my superior, I can call you that. Took everything I said as if it were meant seriously. Where should I have been, eh? Dead, Tom—dead as a bullock. Shot outside that Portuguese church, and cut to mincemeat by those rascals. But this business of yours interests me solely because you happen to be a pal of mine, and in my opinion very much injured. This José is a scoundrel. What's more, I believe him to be at the bottom of all these troubles. He's that spy, sir, I declare! He's the very same scoundrel who crept in here with the idea of doing you a mortal mischief. There, think it out, and don't wonder if I am a little interested in this curious and blackguardly mystery."
Could this really be the case? Was José de Esteros not only the rascal who had caused Tom's impressment, as we know, and Tom and his friends now knew, to be the case; but also, was he the treacherous ruffian who had been feeding the enemy with news of Wellington's movements, whose messenger our hero had displaced outside Ciudad Rodrigo? Could Tom's cousin be the selfsame villain who had abducted his father and uncle, and who later on had endeavoured to creep into this house in Badajoz and murder the gallant officer so nearly killed in the storming?
"Humbug!" Tom declared, nursing the arm which he had worn in a sling since receiving his injuries. "I grant that José was the cause of my impressment. There I owe him a grudge, Jack."
"Eh?" asked the adjutant, stoking his pipe with a finger and pulling at it vainly. "How?"
"Been troubled with a certain Jack Barwood ever since," came the serious answer. And then Tom went off into roars of laughter, while Jack pretended indignation.
"Granted that José was the cause of that portion," Tom continued. "We know he came to Oporto; there we lose sight of him. The spy comes on the scene. Granted here, again, that he it was who abducted my father and uncle, for the note left was in the same handwriting as that other we secured outside Ciudad Rodrigo; but that doesn't say that José was the spy, even if you argue that he has reasons for wishing to abduct my two relatives. Now, does it?"
"But the handwriting? It's like his; you forget that."
"I don't; I agree that, from what I can remember of it, there is a similarity. But I'm not by any means sure; besides, José couldn't be such a rascal."
Jack's reply was as emphatic as many others. "Stuff and nonsense!" he blurted out. "A man who tries to get rid of a cousin with whom he has lived all his life, as this fellow did, will take on any piece of rascality. Look at his actions on arrival at Oporto, and think of his cunning. My boy, this José's at the bottom of the whole matter, so keep your eye open."
How Tom was to keep his eye open his adjutant failed to explain, nor was there any further evidence to convict José of this added piece of rascality. Tom was still in ignorance of the personality of the spy whom he had traced to Oporto, and thence to Badajoz. He knew that the man was responsible for the abduction of Septimus and Don Juan de Esteros. But was José the spy? Was the spy the man who had crept into these quarters in Badajoz with the obvious intention of slaying Tom, and, if so, what was his object?
"It's José all the time," declared Jack, cocksure of the fact.
"Doubtful," repeated Tom, still refusing to believe his cousin capable of such villainy. "But leave it at that. The fellow's gone, and taken with him his two captives; the next thing to do is to follow."
"Wrong; the next move is to obey orders."
Jack had become a very useful adjutant by now, and showed his promptness by handing Tom the orders which lay upon the table. Our hero almost ground his teeth as he read them; for there, in black and white, were definite commands for the regiment to march for the Tagus, and there join hands with Wellington's army. Never, in fact, had orders been worse received. Hitherto Tom had been the first to welcome them; now they came between him and private business.
"But duty first," he told himself. "We'll march before the week's out, for those are the instructions. Meanwhile we've at least heard something. Read the report again," he said, signing to his friend.
Jack picked up a paper, and promptly obliged him. "Here we are," he said. "Alfonso reports that following orders he has continued to patrol the surroundings of the fortress. A covered carriage was driven out just before dusk last evening. It was stopped and found to be empty. The driver stated he was going to a country place to fetch in an invalid. Later, when the carriage was well beyond our circle, it stopped beside a convoy of carts going from the fortress. Sharp questioning of the man in charge brought the admission that men were hidden among the contents of the carts, two of whom were bound and gagged. They were placed in the carriage, which was instantly driven away down the road, and when our men arrived was out of hearing. Though they searched, it was in vain. The scoundrel had got away with his captives."
"And then?" asked Tom, listening without sign of emotion.
"Close enquiries here discovered the fact that a carriage had been hired to take a gentleman to Madrid. That's all."
That indeed was all the information that our hero or his friends had been able to come by. The strenuous efforts and the danger which Tom had incurred in endeavouring to make an early entry into Badajoz had resulted in nothing. The miscreant who gave information to the enemy had slipped out with his captives, and there were our heroes none the nearer to success. They were farther off, in fact, for there, on the table, were orders taking them north to the Tagus, while it seemed likely enough that Tom's father and uncle had been hurried east to Madrid, where search for them, if ever the opportunity came, would be long and difficult.
"Can't be helped. When orders allow, we'll make a rush for the city," said Tom. "Meanwhile, it's off to the Tagus!"
"To join the army again—hooray!" shouted Jack. "That means a big general engagement; it means fighting, my boy! Perhaps it'll give us both promotion."
Hard knocks, wounds, and exposure were more likely to be their portion. But what did these two young officers care? What would other officers of a similar age in these days care? Nothing. Rather they were elated at the prospect of taking a share in a pitched battle, and had not so much as a qualm when at length they reached the neighbourhood of Salamanca. As for their men, confident now of their ability to fight, proud of what they had already done, they marched to their allotted quarters in the camp with a tramp and a swing that commanded attention.
"General Lord Wellington's compliments," began a staff officer, galloping up just as Tom had inspected his men, and had called upon Jack to dismiss the parade. "Are you Lieutenant Clifford?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then have the goodness to ride over to headquarters at once; his lordship desires to see you."
"Hooray!" cried Jack, careless of decorum, hurrying up at the moment. "That'll mean business, my boy. The general's got a special job for our guerrillas."
And Wellington had. When Tom had been ushered into the tent which housed the leader of the British army he found that painstaking individual seated on a camp stool carefully measuring distances on a map stretched on a table before him. Tom stood stiffly at attention, and though the staff officer who ushered him twice called his name, there was no answer. Then suddenly a point of the compasses was struck into the map and an exclamation escaped the general.
"If he moves there, we have him," he cried. "Then all depends on the Spaniards. Ah!" He shut the map hurriedly, and looked at Tom as if he thought him to be a suspicious person. Then, recognizing him, he smiled.
"The officer the French will not fight," he said cheerfully. "The Englishman they did their best to destroy in the breaches at Badajoz. You are recovered, sir?"
"Perfectly," Tom hastened to assure him, fearful that a fancied weakness might cause the general to choose another officer for any special work he might have in prospect.
"And will accept a special risk?"
Tom drew himself up stiffly. With anyone else there would have been a note of injury in the answer; for had he shirked special risk in the past? Ciudad Rodrigo was a telling answer to such a question. And Wellington realized the fact as soon as he had spoken.
"I take it for granted that you are more than ready," he said. "Good! Then the mission I have is somewhat similar to that other. You saw me close this plan hurriedly? I did it unknowingly, impelled by the fear that you might be a stranger; for here is my story. Maps and plans jealously guarded by us have disappeared, my dispatch case has been broken open. My officers have information that there is a small gang of rascals who trade on our secrets. I want to bring that gang to book, if it exists. Now, Mr. Clifford, once more I make no suggestions, and give no orders. You will act as you think best. After to-morrow you are free to carry out whatever seems best to you. Remember, after to-morrow."
That was all. Tom found himself outside the tent, still saluting.
"A pretty job to unravel," he told himself. "And what's on to-morrow?"
Yes, what was to happen when the day broke once more across the smooth surface of the River Tormes?
There was to be war, real war, war in the open, the like of which Tom had never before witnessed.