CHAPTER XVI
The Battle of Salamanca
The gentle tinkle of convent bells, the lowing of distant oxen, and the cheery whistling and singing of the men of Wellington's 1st Division awakened Tom on the morrow of his arrival in the neighbourhood of Salamanca. He shook off his blanket and rose, stretching himself, then inhaled the balmy summer air, and enjoyed the hazy view over the heights of the Arapiles, a precipitous part adjacent to the city, and split into two portions, known as the Sister Arapiles.
A thousand bivouac fires were smoking, a thousand and more busy cooks struggled to prepare the rations for the day, while soldiers came and went carrying ammunition, food, fodder, and water, or leading long, roped lines of horses up from the river.
What a bustle there was about the camp, what order and method, and what cheerfulness. A band was playing over by the headquarters tent, above which flew General Lord Wellington's flag. A battery of guns went trundling by, the men in their shirt sleeves, for they were merely taking up another position, and the business of the day had not begun.
And yonder were the enemy, some 42,000 strong, with 74 guns, with cavalry and every branch which goes to the completion of an army. Already these thousands were astir; the French bivouac fires had been stamped out, and the morning meal eaten. There came the blare of trumpets across the breeze, drowning the peaceful tinkle of the convent bells and the pleasant lowing of cattle. Drums rattled away in the far distance, while dust began to rise over road and plain, as the battalions of the enemy marched hither and thither to take up their posts for the coming conflict. For a battle was imminent. Wellington with much patience and forethought had prepared the way for it. He had cleared Portugal of the foreign invader. He had captured Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, but at what cost and suffering! That last manœuvre had wrecked the bridge at Almarez, and had destroyed the huge stores collected there by the enemy. But now he was face to face with one of their armies, Marmont's, the Duke of Ragusa, and was eager to try his strength with them, while they, to do them justice, were just as ready.
"Mr. Clifford, commanding the composite regiment of Portuguese and Spanish irregulars?"
The staff officer reined in his mount at Tom's feet and saluted.
"Here, sir."
"You will see that your men draw rations, and take their water bottles filled, also ammunition; then march for General Pack's brigade and report to him. They are over there; you can see the dark uniforms."
He galloped away without waiting for Tom to reply, and they saw him racing across to headquarters. Other aides-de-camp were cantering from that same place, and in a little while bugles and drums were sounding amidst the British lines, while men were falling in by regiments.
"Parade present and correct, sir," reported Jack, riding up as Tom clambered into his saddle.
"Keep them as they are then, Mr. Barwood," came Tom's most polite answer; for on duty there was no joking between these two young officers. "I'll say a few words to them first, before we move off. We've to join General Pack's Portuguese brigade, so our fellows will be fighting alongside their countrymen to-day."
"Yes, sir; and they'll show 'em the way."
"And cover themselves with credit. They look well," reflected Tom, as the two rode on to the ground in front of their little corps, and drew rein some few paces from them. "Smart; no doubt about it. Don't see a sign of funking."
"No, sir. Shall I call up the other officer and our non-coms?"
"Please, and quickly with it."
Alfonso halted before our hero, his face brimming over with enthusiasm. He saluted, and waited. Then came Andrews and Howeley, both old soldiers; for there was none of your short service then. The men of the British army, whether recruits or old stagers, filled their breeches and jackets, and gave good measure round calf and thigh and chest. The two riflemen were fine specimens of the 60th, and, being detached from their corps, seemed to hold themselves all the better, as if to let all and sundry see what a rifle regiment could do for its members.
"We join Pack's brigade," explained Tom. "They're posted about the centre and are likely to be in the thick of it. I want you all to remember that this corps must set an example. We must hold the men together. If others of the irregulars bolt before the enemy, we won't have the same said of our fellows. Now, men," he called out. "A word before we march. There's the enemy before you, yonder is General Pack's brigade of Portuguese. We go to join them; let every man remember how this corps has behaved in the past. Hold firmly together and keep your wits about you. Your courage I know you will hold, for that you have proved already. For the rest, keep your eyes on your officers, and recollect that when the press comes, if come it does, you are fighting for home and country."
A British regiment would have cheered the strangely youthful-looking staff officer. The mixed guerrillas from the hilltops of Spain and Portugal stared at him hard. There was a set expression on every bronzed face, a hard gripping of muskets, and a swinging of all eyes over to the enemy. And then came the word to march. They stepped out briskly. Heads erect, muskets at the trail, their commander leading them, the little corps advanced to take its part for the first time in a general action. Nor did its smartness pass unobserved.
"What corps is that?" demanded the great Wellington, ever observant, his eyes in all directions. "All dressed in blue, I think, and—yes, some wearing the red cockade of Spain. What corps, please?"
"Mr. Clifford's, sir; recruited on the borders, and composed of 300 Portuguese and as many Spanish hillmen. The only corps where the two nationalities have worked in friendship with one another. They were in that Ciudad Rodrigo affair, sir; also down at Badajoz."
The spyglass flew to the general's eye, and for a while he watched the corps striding along. Then he eyed the young commander.
"Good!" he exclaimed, thinking aloud. "They march like veterans. Their officer conducts himself like a tried general. There's no hurry about him, but slap-dash-up smartness. If they fight as they march we've something to boast of. And with such an officer my little mission is likely to receive attention."
He shut the glass with a bang and went cantering off towards the heights of the Sister Arapiles, a brilliant staff trailing out behind him. As for Tom, he held on his way without swerving. Now passing between halted regiments, now halting his own command to allow of the passage of a battery or more of guns, which went by at a trot, obliterating all about them in the clouds of dust tossed up by the wheels and the hoofs of the horses. Meanwhile the sun flashed in the distance from a forest of French bayonets, manœuvring for position, marching this way or that, while a little later a battery took post away on the shoulder of one of the sister heights, smoke billowed from unseen muzzles, while shot tore through the summer air, and came bounding and ricochetting towards them.
"Report, sir; General Wellington's orders," said Tom, halting his little corps to the front of Pack's brigade and reporting to that officer.
"Ah! Reinforcements or reserve!" came the answer, while the gallant general smiled a welcome. "Smart men yours, sir. Name, may I ask, please?"
"Clifford, sir, General Lord Wellington's staff, seconded for service with irregulars."
And then the smile on the general's face broadened. He gripped Tom's hand warmly. "Ah! The twins, I know," he cried gaily. "The officer the French refuse to fight, eh?"
Tom, with heightened colour, was forced to confess that it was so. Then he cast his eyes along the sitting lines of the Portuguese brigade, garbed in its blue, and wondered how these rough levies would conduct themselves. A moment later he was sitting erect to receive his orders.
"March your command to our left, and fall in rear, to act as a reserve with the companies already detailed for that service. Smart men, Mr. Clifford, a smart lot of fellows!"
There were thousands of others in Pack's brigade who repeated that opinion; for, seeing that Tom's men were standing while the remainder of the brigade were sitting, they were the observed of all observers.
"Halt! Dress on the right—smartly does it," came from Tom.
"Smartly does it!" Jack roared in the stentorian voice becoming to an adjutant, and—we must confess it—with an accent which brought a whimsical smile to General Pack's face.
"Lively with it, boys!" shouted Howeley and Andrews together, using a language half English, a little Portuguese, and the rest nothing in particular. "Lively does it! Dress up there on the left. 'Shun! Stand at ease! Back there that swab away on the left."
Rigidly erect, the toes of their English-made boots forming a line which would have drawn a note of approval even from the lips of a liverish martinet, Tom's men stood at attention, muskets at the shoulder, bayonets already fixed. And then, with a clatter, they sat down, having piled their weapons.
"Two hours since we left camp; perhaps we'd better give 'em some grub," suggested Jack, peeping into his own haversack. For whatever may have been the duties of this ensign, he was still just the overgrown boy, always hungry, always ready for a meal.
"Always growing, that's the reason," he had often explained. "Must have something at hand to build up an increasing framework."
How those two hours had changed the July morning! The sun swam redly overhead, approaching the vertical position; a few fine clouds flecked the sky; while the heights, the distant cork forest sheltering the French battalions, still looked peaceful enough. But there was the roar of guns in many directions. Away behind Pack's brigade, posted on an eminence, and sheltered by the straggling buildings of a farm, was a British battery, busily pumping shot over the heads of the sitting brigade at an enemy then invisible to Tom and his comrades. The answering shot likewise shrieked above the brigade, and more than once Jack pointed, while men scrambled to their feet and looked about them as if terrified.
"Don't look well for later on," he jerked out crisply. "But you never know. Anyway, the bulk of them are taking matters coolly."
No wonder the peace of the land about Salamanca was disturbed; for to match the masses of the enemy Wellington had collected some 40,000 men, including 3500 cavalry and 54 guns. These he had on this eventful day beneath his eye, cut up into divisions, and so placed that he could move his forces rapidly. His right rested on the foothills of the Sister Arapiles, as yet unoccupied by our men, but at that moment being scaled by the French legions. His left extended to the River Tormes, while he himself passed this way and that, eagerly watching the movements of the enemy. Marmont was even more busy than Wellington, and there is little doubt but that he hoped by this general action to smash the power of the commander who was now such a thorn in his side, and to cut him off from Portugal completely. His right manœuvred persistently for the road to Ciudad Rodrigo, while his left marched on the Arapiles, and now occupied one of the heights. For the rest, his centre was masked by a cork wood, through the gaps in which came the reflections from the flashing bayonets of his battalions.
A burst of firing echoed across the plain from the village of Arapiles, now occupied by our infantry. Flying figures were seen struggling down the heights and forming up at their base. Shot plunged over the heads of Pack's sitting brigade and smote those descending ranks. And then came the rattle of drums, the cheers of frantic men, a red flash as muskets were exploded, followed by the pitter-pat of independent firing. Crash! Bang! Those guns behind the farm pounded the advancing French, ploughing the ground about them. The cheers broke out even louder, and were drowned by a torrent of musketry which flashed round the post held by British infantry.
The same scene, diversified a little, was happening away on our left, where our battalions manœuvred against Marmont's, holding them back from that all-important road. Elsewhere, when not actively engaged, or making some countering move, troops sat down in their formation, men nibbled at their rations, while a squadron of horse slowly cantered across a dusty part, into which the enemy's cannon ball plumped in quick succession. Tom found himself actually feeling drowsy, Jack Barwood looked as if he could willingly drop off to sleep, while some of the regiment were stretched full length, their eyes tight closed, not even bothering to open them when there came a clatter near at hand and a ball trundled and roared past them.
Down below those heights, to which we have referred so often, sat Wellington, wearied with long watching and counter manœuvring, dismounted now, his spyglass in his pocket, and himself seated at a midday meal, which he needed as much perhaps as any of his soldiers. For the moment he could do no more. He was merely watching and waiting. Thus he and his staff snatched a hasty meal, wondering what the result of the day was to be for them. Then came electrifying news—Marmont was extending his left. He was pushing his divisions up into the Arapiles, leaving his centre denuded, while right and left wings of his army were steadily getting farther and farther from one another. It was the moment for which Wellington had been waiting; it was the moment of all others in which to strike. That critical stage in the coming contest had arrived where one leader, in this case Marmont, attempts too great a task; while his opponent, watching him like a cat, sees the error, realizes the opportunity, and sends his men headlong to make the most of it. There, in fact, as Wellington looked through his spyglass, were the divisions forming the French left separated from their centre; while, in addition to this attempted enveloping movement, Marmont was still manœuvring his right, so as to close the road to Ciudad Rodrigo. Here, in fact, if we look closely into the circumstances, was an example of divided force, that for which Wellington was ever seeking. His acuteness, and the strenuous fighting of his men, had separated Marmont from other French armies. Now Marmont's own dispositions had separated his left wing from its centre and right, and at this precise moment the opportunity had come to beat his army in detail.
Pakenham's 3rd Division was seated about our general. He had been lunching with its officers, Pakenham being his own brother-in-law. Instantly he gave this gallant leader orders, and at once the men of the 3rd Division were on their feet. Forward they charged against the left wing on the slope of the Sister Arapiles. Batteries thundered against them; muskets sent a stinging hail of bullets against the face of the charging division; while cavalry emerged from a fold in the ground and charged madly for the advancing British. But none could stay that gallant division. The men swept cavalry aside. They laughed at bullets and cannon shot. Leaving a thick trail of killed and wounded, they pressed the charge home, came to handgrips with the enemy, and then attacked them with the bayonet.
"Let them loose!" cried Pakenham; and at the command the Connaught Rangers, ever a fine fighting corps, was sent into the midst of the thick masses of Marmont's left wing.
"Magnificent but dreadful!" cried Tom, a witness from the plain of the whole scene. "Look; our fellows are crumpling the enemy's left wing up! Our colours are right alongside theirs, with the men fighting all round. It's a grand movement!"
"The Portuguese brigade will fall in!"
The command rang out over that portion of the ground where Tom and his men were stationed, and at once the men were on their feet.
"Dress up there on the right. Back in the centre. Nicely does it, men! Ready and correct, sir."
Jack Barwood, a grin of excitement on his face, rode up to Tom and reported the composite regiment to be ready.
"March!"
The brigade was in motion. Extending by battalions to left and right, its face was soon far wider than it had been. Pack led them direct to that Arapile height still held by Marmont, and known as Hermanito. Guns blazed and thundered at the Portuguese. Shot plunged through the ranks, sweeping men by half-dozens out of existence. Musket bullets began to sizzle and whip about the ears of the brigade, and fell even amongst the reserve marching some four hundred yards in rear. Tom's men began to fall by the way. Was there a sign of flinching?
"Good plucked 'uns, to the backbone," muttered Jack, at Tom's side now, his face eager and tense. "Our boys will do well, sir. What are the orders?"
An aide-de-camp had just galloped round, and had shouted instructions to our hero.
"We're to charge up behind the men and support any part where the enemy are pressing," he said shortly. "I'm going to move off to the side a little; as we are we get all the shots and balls which miss the brigade in advance, and that isn't business. To the left there are folds in the ground which will give us shelter. Look away up there at Pakenham's 3rd Division."
The struggle was still progressing there, though the enemy's guns had ceased to thunder. Our scarlet-clad men could be seen mustering here and there, and, though Tom could not himself know what was happening, that mustering told its own tale. For Marmont's left wing, so recklessly moved away from the support of its centre and right, was conquered. Three thousand of the enemy were already prisoners, with two much-coveted eagles and eleven cannon. The rest were scattered, some still contesting the ground, while the remainder had taken to their heels. Indeed, all eyes were now on Pack's brigade.
"Charge! Up the hill and at them!"
The command rang out in Portuguese, and at once the irregulars stormed the height, their muskets at the trail, their bayonets already fixed. Ah, they were close to the summit! Breathless with the climb, but eager for the conflict, they cheered as they gained the height. Then there came the roar and crackle of musketry. Twelve hundred French infantry emptied their muskets into the charging host and came at them with fixed bayonets—fresh men against men blown after a stiff climb. There was the crash and clank of crossing weapons, and, later, cries of terror. Dismayed by the enemy's charge, straggling as is the case with infantry after a stiff climb, the Portuguese in engagement with Marmont's men turned tail and fled down the hill, exposing the 4th Division on its flank to the attack of the enemy. Instantly French regiments poured up, guns crashed out, while a hail of musketry was sent against that division by the ranks of the French.
"Double!" commanded Tom, emerging with his men a few moments earlier from a convenient and merciful fold in the ground, and realizing instantly what had happened. "Double up there and cover the flank of the 4th Division. Now, halt!"
It took ten minutes perhaps to get into position, and all the while the enemy were advancing at a run to take the 4th Division in flank. But Tom's men were there before them, and, at his shrill whistles, at once broke up into squares of double companies, one Portuguese and one Spanish being now associated together in all manœuvres.
"Wait for the word to fire!" bellowed Tom, while Jack, and Alfonso, and Andrews, and Howeley repeated the order in stentorian tones. "Fire by squares! Be ready to charge!"
Pandemonium reigned about them. A mass of cavalry swung of a sudden round the shoulder of the hill, and, skirting the French battalions, launched itself against Tom's devoted squares. Crash! Bang! A blaze of flame swept in their faces. Horses reared and fell with their riders. A thousand desperate troopers galloped at the squares, slashing and cutting. Crash! Bang! The muskets flashed redly; the bullets tore through the scattered ranks of the cavalry.
"Load! Stand ready there. Ah! Reserves are coming up. That must be the 5th Division. Men of the composite regiment, stand firm and you will have saved the position here. Ready? Then forward."
The three squares advanced steadily against the advancing French. Men fell here and there, but their places were instantly filled. The faces of the squares, presenting in this case but a narrowed angle to the enemy, swirled with fire and flame. Smoke hid the men from all observers, while a thunderous discharge came from their weapons. Then there followed the clink of ramrods. Bullets were driven home on powder and wads, primings were renewed, while flints were drawn back. Then again was repeated the same thunder of muskets, the same red flaming flash, the same vomiting of sulphurous vapour. A minute later the 5th Division came panting up, and at once the enemy were pressed back. Steadily the advance was maintained, and presently the enemy were fleeing.
"Form line!" bellowed Tom, standing in his stirrups and waving his sword, all oblivious of the fact that a musket bullet had shattered the blade, leaving him with but six inches of steel clinging to the hilt. "Line up with the 4th Division. Forward!"
"Forward!" shrieked Jack in his terrible Portuguese.
"Now's the time, me boys!" shouted Andrews, ever encouraging the men.
On went the scarlet lines of British, with the thin blue line of Tom's irregulars wedged in between. Wellington himself came cantering up, for now had come the very crisis of the battle. The 6th Division doubled to the front with cheers of eagerness, while, away on the left of our line, troops until then hardly under fire went to the front.
Slowly at first, and then more swiftly, the enemy's regiments were crumpled up. Marmont had by now been severely wounded, while successive generals had been placed hors de combat. Muddled by counter orders, therefore, and no doubt scared by the dash of our battalions, the enemy retired all along the line, and was soon in retreat, protected by strong rearguards and followed persistently over miles of country by our men.
It would be impossible to detail every single combat which followed. Gallant regiments on the side of the French stood fast, holding their ground while their comrades retired to safety. But as night fell all were in retirement, and here again were the plans of Lord Wellington upset by the very people who should have done their utmost to support him. For Marmont's army of the north was beaten. Capture of the survivors of this day's memorable fight would mean a French disaster, and to bring that about Wellington had long ago sent his Spanish irregulars to guard the fords across the River Tormes. Can we wonder that that at Alba was deserted by the cowardly Spanish as the French came near? And thereby a decisive defeat was lessened. By the next day, in fact, the French were across the river.
But Salamanca was won. The northern frontier of Portugal was freed of the enemy, and now, when we advanced into Spain still farther, we had this to content us—there were none of the enemy in rear to cut our communications or to stampede our rearguards. They were to our front, and no Britisher fears an enemy whom he can see plainly.
But there were still rascals and traitors to be dealt with, as Tom was yet to learn. Not that he gave a thought to them. For on the evening of the battle, receiving an order from a galloping aide-de-camp, he halted his men and set them down for a breather. Then the sound of clattering hoofs came to his ears, and there rode out of the gathering gloom Lord Wellington himself, with a brilliant staff about him. He drew rein within ten feet of the corps, now dishevelled and lessened sadly in numbers, but erect as ever, and dressed with that precision for which they had become notorious.
"What corps?" asked Wellington, though he needed no information.
"Lieutenant Clifford's, sir. Composite corps; half-Portuguese and half-Spanish."
Tom's heart thudded as the general set his horse three paces forward.
"Ah," he heard him say, "I felt sure it was they! Mr. Clifford."
"Sir," answered Tom, lowering the hilt of his broken sword.
"Mr. Barwood and the other officers, commissioned and non-commissioned," cried the general softly, causing all those individuals to come to the front.
"Gentlemen," said Wellington, his tones not raised in the slightest, as if he were discussing a matter of little interest, and yet conveying by a subtle inflection of his voice that it was no ordinary matter, "from the plain below we saw Pack's Portuguese turn tail and bolt. We saw the 4th Division heavily assailed. And then this corps was thrust into the gap. It was a brilliantly-conceived movement, and it helped to save a situation which was critical. The forming of the corps into squares was beyond all criticism. Mr. Clifford, you will be good enough to give my personal commendations to your men, whose bravery is a pattern for all their fellows. Inform them that I hold them in great respect, and that since the respect of a commander is shown through his officers, who have done so well again, those officers' names will be sent to England in my dispatches. March your men back to their camp, please."
Did the men of Tom's corps cheer? They shouted themselves hoarse after our hero had spoken to them. They trudged across the field strewn with killed and wounded with merry songs, and turned into their blankets when all was over as proud as any in Spain or Portugal.
As for Tom, he was too fatigued to even think. Once his wounded were collected and his dead buried, a gruesome job for any commander, he dropped dead asleep in his blanket. He recked not of the work before him. His slumbering mind cared not a jot for the dangers of the task which his commander had given him. If there had been fifty spies to capture, if there had been fifty mysteries hanging about the persons of the rascal José and Tom's two relatives abducted from Oporto, that young fellow would still have slept. For he had fought his first big engagement. He had done strenuous work, and nature called aloud for repose for both body and brain before he took up other responsibilities. Till the morrow, then, we leave him till the rising sun awaked in his thoughts the memory of those urgent orders.
CHAPTER XVII
A Clue at Last
Those 40,000 victorious men of Wellington's great army now had their backs to the Portuguese frontier and were marching gaily on Madrid. Away in front a half-battalion of infantry watched for the French and found no trace of them. The guard in rear had an easy time of it, for attack was not to be feared from that quarter; while the cavalry patrols on either flank reported a country clear of all but peasants. As for the road itself, it was littered with carts of every description, not the motor lorries which to-day have achieved a triumph, making light of the task of hauling the stores and impedimenta of an army, but with mule carts in endless array, and four-wheeled and two-wheeled vehicles with their teams of mules and their gaudily-hatted drivers.
"Of all the aggravating, lazy beggars these are the worst I ever set eyes on," growled Jack Barwood, in command now of Tom's composite corps of Portuguese and Spanish; for that young fellow himself, together with Alfonso his cousin, had departed on special service. And didn't the great Jack give himself airs! Riding at the head of the corps he looked about him as does a conqueror. And these muleteers came in for his displeasure.
"Straggling all over the road as usual. How's one to pass here?" he demanded of Andrews, who was marching beside him, and pointing to a batch of vehicles wedged in a rocky part of the road where a detour was almost impossible.
"Move 'em, sir," came the answer, while the rifleman suppressed a grin of amusement. Jack was a favourite with them all, but he sometimes excited their ridicule. He was different from the steady and yet dashing Tom.
"Move 'em, sir, or interview one of these blackguards conducting the caravan. Look at the beggar nearest; stares at us as if we hadn't a right on the road, when we all know we're here to fight the Spaniards' own battles. Precious fine help they give us too! The only time they're out of the way is when fightin's wanted. Hi, you, you son of a gun, move along with you!"
The individual in question, a beetle-browed young fellow, whose head was closely swathed in a brilliantly-red handkerchief, and who dangled his sombrero from one hand, squatted on the shaft of the nearest waiting cart, puffing a cigarette and staring with insolent eyes at the commander of the irregulars.
"Cheek!" exclaimed Jack. "The beggar looks at us as if we were trespassers. Haul him up, Andrews; we'll give him trespassers."
Jack sought in the back of his mind for all the Spanish he knew and burst into an ungrammatical tirade when the muleteer was brought forward by Andrews.
"Hi, you!" said Jack haughtily; "hook it, double quick! You're keeping the duke's own corps of irregulars. Sheer out with your bothering carts or it'll be the worse for you."
That was the substance of his speech, a speech that brought a supercilious grin from the young man.
"Si, señor," he said, "but there is time; there is always time."
Jack gripped his meaning with difficulty, and then bubbled over with wrath. Had he commanded cavalry he would have been tempted to ride over the insolent fellow and his obstruction. As it was, he felt he could thrash the man with his whip. But such action was out of the question. Jack fumed and raged, while Andrews grinned secretly. As for the Spaniard, he returned to his cart, finished his cigarette, and then gave the order for the group of vehicles to move forward. But as soon as the corps of irregulars had passed he sent a messenger to call its commander.
"Well?" demanded Jack haughtily, riding back, and meeting the man alone and well away from all others. "What fool's errand have you called me for?"
"Gently does it, Jack. Gently! I'll be frightened," laughed the muleteer, in the purest English. "How are things going?"
The young leader of the composite corps nearly dropped from his horse, and then, bending low, stared at this stranger.
"I'm blistered!" he growled. "Am I standing on my head, or——"
"Don't get frightened," came the grinning answer. "It's Tom, right enough. I'm glad we've met, for it proves my disguise to be good. Not one of the men recognized me, and I gave 'em every chance; even Andrews was hoodwinked. How'll I do?"
Jack could still have been levelled flat with the proverbial feather, for his chum had been absent from the camp exactly a week, and Alfonso with him. It had been given out that they had ridden for Oporto, and they had, in fact, taken the road for that place. But some miles from the camp both had stripped off their uniforms and had donned the dress worn by muleteers, of whom thousands were employed with both British and French armies. Then they had been joined by a faithful servant of Alfonso, one who accompanied him on this campaign, who handed over to the two lads half a dozen native carts, together with their teams of mules.
"He'll stable our horses away on Father's estate," explained Alfonso. "We can stow our uniforms in two of the carts, and then, if we want to change back to ourselves at any time, we have the things near us. Now?"
"Back to the camp," said Tom, "There we pick up four of our fellows who were on the sick list till last week. They've been reported as fit only for light duty, and so, at my suggestion, are to be allowed to continue with the army as drivers. They're trusty fellows, and may be relied on not to give us away to friends or enemies. Back we go, Alfonso."
As bold as brass—for the handkerchief swathed round the brows and the wide sombrero hat were disfiguring and an excellent disguise—the two drove their teams into camp, and bivouacked close to Tom's own regiment. And here they were, on the road, obstructing that same corps, and causing the irate and lofty Jack to bubble over.
"Of all the blessed cheek!" he began to gasp, faintly recognizing Tom. "You gave me an awful start. To think of you being alongside us, giving me lip too. That beats everything. But——what's up?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper, leaning over from his saddle. "What's this disguise for? And why march with the British army?"
Tom waved him away. "Look out," he said hurriedly. "Those muleteers are looking this way. Pretend to row me; threaten me with your whip. I'll sneak away in the usual Spanish manner."
Cunning eyes were, indeed, fixed upon them at that moment. A man amongst a batch of drivers passing with his team just then recognized Jack as the leader of irregulars, one with whom, had that young officer been able to guess it, he had already had dealings. But the scene immediately following disarmed all suspicion. Jack raged at the man standing near him. His whip went up over his shoulder, and he slashed out fiercely, cleverly missing his friend. As for Tom, he scowled and muttered loudly, while his hand went to an imaginary stiletto.
"Draw your sword and skewer him if he shows fight," shouted a cavalry officer, also a witness of the scene, galloping up now. "Get back to your cart!" he commanded.
Tom slank away, while Jack explained the insolence of the man, getting advice born of long experience.
"They're the biggest set of thieving, murdering rascals I ever set eyes on," declared the officer, "and would knife one as soon as eat a dinner. I never allow 'em to answer. I'm fair and square and kind when things are right, but if there's disobedience, or treachery, or insolence in the air, I go for 'em red-headed, red-headed me boy, and knock the courage clean out of the rascals. I know; I've been on transport duty in this country in the early days of the campaign, and I've learned that firmness, and violence too, sometimes, are necessary."
There was a grin of amusement on Tom's face as he returned to the carts, while the seemingly sleepy eyes of his fellow muleteers twinkled. Whether our hero and his cousin had embarked upon a fool's chase or not it was impossible to say; but this was certain, occupying a false position as they did, where the piercing of their disguise by comrade or enemy would be equally disastrous to their scheme, they still had everything in their favour. Those men were oysters; not one knew anything. They had taken service with the chief muleteer, he with the bright handkerchief about his head, and that was all. His name? No—that they had not heard. His age? They shrugged their shoulders. What did age matter in a country where time was of no consequence? Then he loved the English? Another shrug. Perhaps; who could say? He had had a fierce altercation with one of their officers that very day.
"A lucky meeting it was, too," declared Tom to his cousin, when they were tucked in their cart that night, secure from eavesdroppers. "Every muleteer with our troops will hear the yarn before to-morrow's finished, and that's just what we want."
"Want?" ejaculated Alfonso, with a lift of the eyebrows.
"Yes, want."
"But—why?"
"Because we've thrashed this matter out, haven't we?"
Alfonso assented, shrugging in his blankets because the habit was too strong for him. "But," he said.
"I'll explain. There are spies about, stealing Wellington's papers and plans."
"Exactly."
"And strangers with the troops are few and far between, and get spotted precious quickly."
"Granted—then?"
"Then the spies are not strangers. They are to be found amongst men accustomed to be with the troops, non-combatants of course; for soldiers don't go in for such dirty business. So one looked round."
"And pitched on the only possible people—muleteers, the scum of the earth," declared Alfonso, with another shrug, which Tom found strangely disconcerting. Who ever heard of a fellow who must needs shrug his shoulders in bed and in the darkness?
"Drop that shrugging," he growled. "Upsets me. Well, there we are. We pitched on muleteers. To watch 'em properly we decided to join them ourselves."
"And here we are—not that I grumble," said Alfonso, beginning another shrug and arresting it as Tom kicked savagely. "But rations might be more plentiful. Still, as you say, here we are; and here we stay, I suppose."
"Till things turn up. I'm going to let it get about that we're discontented beggars. If there's a gang about, we may be invited to join. Who knows, through such a gang we might get hold of that fellow who captured your father and mine?"
"José, eh?" asked his cousin.
"Perhaps."
"In any case the rascal we were after in Oporto, whose spy we captured going to Ciudad Rodrigo. That's the puzzle. We agree that it was he who abducted our parents. But is he also José, and if so, or the reverse, is he associated with the ruffians who have been robbing the dispatch box of his lordship, the leader of this army?"
There the puzzle was laid out in all its bareness and meagreness. There were links missing in the chain of flimsy evidence; but this was certain, both lads had lost a father while José was in the country.
"Heigho! We'll leave the matter and get to roost," sighed Tom, for driving a team of fractious mules is no light task. "Things are going well, that's all. Something'll turn up presently."
He was a cheery, optimistic young fellow, and soon dropped asleep; for worry was of no use to our hero. The following day found him just as cheerfully helping the British army in his new and humbler way to advance to conquest. For Madrid was the goal; those three victories had, in fact, opened up the heart of Andalusia. Ciudad Rodrigo and its capture against strenuous difficulties had shown the French that we were out for business, and the fall of Badajoz had set a laurel about the brows of the British regiments. None doubted now that even when skill did not count, bull-dog courage was one of their cherished possessions. Moreover, Salamanca had cast a shade over the French invaders of the Peninsula. Almarez, and the destruction of those forts, the bridge, and the vast stores of the enemy were but an incident, if one of utmost importance, in this third victory; that week of crafty manœuvring near the road to Ciudad Rodrigo, with its attendant little actions and skirmishes, but a forecast of what was to follow. It was the stand-up fight in the open, when British troops had been exposed to veterans of France, led by noted strategists, when our brave fellows had smashed the power of Marmont—and by manœuvres vieing his in skill—that helped to send the enemy rightabout, their faces set in the direction of France itself. The great king of Spain fled his capital. This Joseph, brother of the Great Napoleon, the "Little Corporal," so fond of placing members of his own family on the thrones of Europe, had departed in haste from Madrid, while Soult marched to join hands with Suchet. There was evidence that the enemy were less assured than formerly. There was a decided inclination for forces to co-operate; for the lesson Salamanca had taught was salutary. The British troops were worthy of a greater respect than had hitherto been accorded.
And so for a while we may leave Wellington and his army, satisfied that the conduct of affairs would be always careful. Our interest turns naturally to Tom, sleeping then beside his cousin.
For three days they continued to march with the troops, and each succeeding one found them better acquainted with their fellow muleteers, and already earning the reputation of being discontented fellows.
"Then you find fault with the work?" asked a bulky, stiff-necked Spaniard, with pock-marked face, who had once before accosted Tom. He it was, in fact, who had so cunningly watched the altercation between our hero and Jack Barwood.
"The work? That is good enough as work goes, friend," Tom answered sulkily; "but had I my way I would be back there at home lolling away my time. Who wants to work, and for these British? And then, think of the pittance we earn."
Tom was romancing with a vengeance, for if anyone liked work it was he. To be idle with him, as with the majority of decent fellows, was to be supremely miserable. As for the pay, a British army has the reputation of being liberal, and Wellington's was no exception.
"Ah!" exclaimed the bull-necked fellow, leering cunningly at Tom, and expectorating to a distance. "The British! I hate them as I hate the French. But as for pay, there are ways of getting rich even when one is only a muleteer."
Tom pricked up his ears instantly. He had taken note of this thick-necked, stumpy fellow before, he with the pock-mark face, a face which even if it had not been marred by disease would still have been the reverse of attractive.
"Getting rich? How?" he asked.
"Ah! That's telling. But there are ways, easy ways, ways unknown to the others."
"And there is good money in it, my friend?"
"Doubloons in plenty, I tell you," came the slow answer, while the man looked about him craftily.
"Come to my wagon," said Tom, at once, anxious to allay any suspicions, and prepared to lead the man on. For here might be something in the nature of a clue. "I have a friend there who also would make money, if it is to be made readily. There is danger?"
"Poof! Who thinks of danger when there is gold?" exclaimed the man loftily, though the flicker about his eyes belied his vaunted courage. "I will come gladly. You have a bottle of wine, perhaps. That would be interesting."
Tom had a bottle of excellent stuff, as a matter of fact, and had obtained it with a view to a possible meeting of this sort. And, after all, the offer of a good glass of wine on a campaign such as that of the Peninsula was often more binding than a greater service. It followed that, within ten minutes, the three, this muleteer, Tom, and his cousin, were as bosom comrades, while before the fellow left he had made a cunning appointment.
"Listen," he said, staring about him. "To-morrow we come to the city of Madrid. There I have friends, and you will meet them. I will give you the time and place of meeting. There you shall learn how money can be earned, and with such a spice of adventure about it that you will be charmed. Look for me to-morrow, then."
"On the track at last," murmured Alfonso breathlessly when the man was gone. "You think he is one of the gang, Tom?"
"Certain. Can't say, of course, that he has had anything to do with Wellington's papers; but I guess that's the case. However, we shall soon know that. Still, this is equally certain: whatever this work may be, and spying has something to do with it, it's the merest toss-up that it can have any connection with our governors. Oporto's a long cry from Madrid; Badajoz ain't much nearer."
Late on the following evening the troops reached the outskirts of Madrid, where Tom and his cousin parked their carts and secured their mules in the mule lines.
"You will look after things while we are gone," said Tom, addressing one of the men with them. "We have information which takes us into the city to-night perhaps. That information might possibly keep us absent from the camp for some days, so do not be alarmed if we do not return. Carry on as if we were still present."
An hour later the rascally-looking muleteer put in an appearance, and promptly cast his eyes upon the bottle of wine nestling in a corner of Tom's cart.
"A fine evening, one on which you will pave the way to a fortune," he leered. "But hot, infamously hot; these August days are always sultry in this country."
Tom poured him out a glass, and watched with feelings of loathing as the fellow gulped down the fluid. He was a scoundrel, of that he was sure, a thick-headed scoundrel to be so easily duped. For here he was about to introduce two comrades, of whom he had but little knowledge, to a group of conspirators perhaps, and in any case to someone able and willing to pay for work not as a rule performed by muleteers. What was that work?
"Spying—dirty work anyway," our hero growled to himself, for the thing was as foreign to his open-air, straightforward character as it could be. "But for the time being, at least, I'm prepared to be as great a spy and conspirator as any."
"You are free to come?" leered the fellow, looking askance again at the bottle. Tom took the hint and refilled the glass.
"Yes," he said coarsely, handing the wine over.
"To the city?"
"Anywhere where gold is promised."
"And the danger?"
"Pooh! Are we not under fire often?"
"Then come."
"But where? The city is a big place."
"It is; but there are cribs where a man may hide. There we shall find our chief. Young like you, yes, young; but cunning, clever as they make them; keen, yes, sharp as any needle. Where? Ah, that wants telling! You wish for fortune. Then wait for it till the time comes. I am here as a benefactor."
Was he foxing? Was this crafty fellow luring them on? No—a thousand times no. The whole transaction had been so spontaneous.
Tom looked across at Alfonso and found no warning glance in his eyes. His Spanish cousin was as eager as he; he had no fears of a plot against them.
"Ready then," said Tom, as he felt the dagger beneath his waistcoat and the pistol thrust into the leg of his boot, for he was seated on the shaft of the cart. "We put ourselves in your hands."
"Then come."
Watched by the eyes of the other men who had accompanied them, Tom and his cousin went off with their companion and were soon within the city, for the place had opened on the arrival of the British. Plunging into a side street, they wended their way towards the lower quarters of the city and were soon threading narrow alleys with noisome slums on either hand. Then their guide turned into a doorway and tapped three times sharply. Once more he gave his signal. Scurrying feet were heard. Stairs groaned and squeaked beneath a descending weight. The door was dragged open on rusty hinges.
"Enter—how many?"
"Three."
"Then enter."
Led by the one who had opened the door, and next by the rascally muleteer with whom they had scraped an acquaintance, Tom and his cousin entered the narrow, dark passage. They climbed the same groaning, squeaking flight of stairs, and then plunged into a room but dimly lighted. Ten men were present, a full ten, seated about a rickety table.
Who were they? Conspirators? Yes, without doubt. Was José there? Impossible to say. Then any other they could recognize? No—yes.
Tom's eyes pierced the flimsy disguise of one of the men present. It was the selfsame rascal captured outside Ciudad Rodrigo, whom he had impersonated, a spy then, and one now, one, moreover, whose sharp eyes might easily penetrate his own disguise and bring a hornet's nest about him.
"But it's duty," he murmured softly to himself, as he took a seat. "Wellington's orders must be obeyed. I'm here to unravel a plot and make an end of a set of ruffians who are a nuisance and a danger to my countrymen."
Yes, it was duty. But the risk! Tom and his cousin had still to fathom its depth, had still to face the consequences of this rash visit.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Conspirators' Den
Imagine a low-ceilinged room, the whitening long since gone a dull smoke colour, cobwebs in the corner, dust on every angle and ridge, and a floor innocent of scrubbing-brush for many a long day. Imagine an atmosphere charged with pungent smoke from the pipes and cigarettes of ten conspirators, smoke generated by tobacco of the coarsest and foulest. Add to that the nauseating fumes of an oil lamp, trimmed perhaps a month before, flickering, red, and smoky. Then picture the forms and faces of those ten conspirators gathered about a huge, rickety table, forms of small proportion for the most part, slim and lithe as becomes the young man of Spain, but alternated in the case of two at least by the grossest stoutness. Double chins were owned by that more aged couple. Their faces were masked by bushy eyebrow, and fierce moustaches, that curled upwards, while their chins were clad and obscured by black beards of a week's growth. For the rest, they were mostly clean-shaven, hawk-eyed, keen, blinking at the newcomers through the smoke which filled the chamber.
"Welcome!" A solitary voice broke the silence when at length Tom and his companions were seated. But whence it came, from whom, he had no notion. The tones were deep, almost guttural. They might have emanated from the floor or from the smoke-blacked ceiling.
"Welcome! You come in time to do good work. Declare your names, your age, and your parentage. Let one of you stand out before us and speak."
The time had come to brave the whole matter, to risk discovery. Tom rose to his feet from the rickety chair to which he had been invited and stood before the company. He stared across the table, through the gloom, and sought the one who had spoken. But not one of the ten had moved. Not one seemed to have opened his lips. Ah! in the background, sheltered in the angle of the room, was yet another figure. The face leered out at him, one writhing hand concealing the features. Did Tom recognize this fellow even then?
"No," he told himself. "The cunning beggar keeps a hand across his face. But—but I'll swear the voice is familiar, though masked now. Present!" he cried boldly. "We have come for information. We are ready to do good work and to earn a reward better than that paid to humble muleteers."
The figure moved from the angled recess in which it had been hiding. The man or youth—Tom could not guess which—writhed his way across the unwashed floor and halted at the table. One thin, shivering hand was stretched forward as if to gather warmth from the lamp, which was suddenly dashed to one side and the room plunged into darkness. At that instant vice-like fingers seized our hero by the neck, his legs were cut away from beneath him, while someone, evidently prepared for the occasion, tossed a coil of rope about him and drew it tight. There was the sound of a desperate struggle near at hand. Once Tom was violently kicked, evidently by accident. And then there was stillness; the lamp was set flaring again; the same masked, guttural voice once more was heard.
"Take them away; deal with them according to instructions. See that they are securely bound; let them understand that the end is near. Go."
Tom could still see, though his arms were trussed to his side, while he was otherwise helpless. He fixed his eyes upon that central figure and tried to pierce the disguise, for disguised this leader of the conspirators was. But was it José? He scoffed at the idea. José ringleader of such a group! He had not the pluck for such a venture. Then who? He knew the voice, masked though it was. It had been familiar at some occasion. Where, then? When?
"Go; take them away. To-morrow deal with them as you have been ordered."
Men lit their cigarettes again. The band gathered once more about the table. There was an air of triumph about them all, something which seemed to say that they had brought about a coup and had been wonderfully clever; as, indeed, they had been. Tom in his young, ambitious heart had fondly imagined that all had been taken in by the disguise which he had affected. But the rascals of whom Lord Wellington had to complain were no ordinary individuals, though, as a rule, they were dressed as muleteers and followed that vocation. There was a clever, subtle brain behind them, and that brain had contrived to discover the plan so carefully formulated by Tom and his cousin. The rascally, leering driver of mules who had brought them to this rendezvous was but a decoy, fooled just as cleverly as they had been. Their coming was expected. Preparations for their capture were completed even before they left the safety of their camp. And now, what was before them?
"Murder, I suppose," thought Tom, repressing a shiver. "That's the sort of thing these fellows go in for. What's the move now? They're bundling us out of the room, but where to is more than I can guess. Keep your pecker up, Alfonso," he called, when the door was shut on them, and they stood in a passage. "It'll all come out right in the end."
"Silence! Pass in here," commanded one of the two ruffians who escorted them. "Not both, but you."
A door was wrenched open, and Tom was flung in, receiving a savage kick from the second of their escort. The door banged, the lock creaked and grated before he picked himself up from the floor. Then there was more tramping, the wrenching open of a second door, and another crash and bang. The heavy steps of two men came and passed his door. The room beyond, which they had so lately left, was opened. There came to his ears the buzz of many voices. Even the pungent reek of tobacco and lamp smoke smote upon his nostrils, and then there was comparative silence, save for a dull murmur.
"Muzzled! Fooled! Caught finely! In chokey!" groaned Tom, full of bitterness. "And just when we thought things were going so nicely. But let's look round. I'm tied fast by the elbows and thumbs; I can't move my arms, while my legs are free. So much then to the good; it might have been worse."
That was Tom all over—an optimist from the very depths of him. Always ready to look on the bright side of things. A grouser? Never! Life held too many rosy spots for our hero, as it does for all who care to look just an inch below the surface for them. Things could not always run smoothly, that he knew. They never do for anyone. Even kings have their trials and troubles, and why not humble individuals like our hero? It is the man who looks upon the bright side of matters who lives long and enjoys happiness. Unconsciously, perhaps—perhaps also because he was the son of his father, the jovial, stout, and rollicking Septimus, himself an optimist—Tom, too, looked ever upon the rosy side. He was in trouble; why then make the very worst of that fact? Why not try to improve matters? And, being the practical fellow he was, Tom began to look about him. The gloom gave way after a while. Light from a street lamp, or perhaps it came from a house opposite, flickered into the room, and now that his eyes were accustomed to it he could see his surroundings. There was a window, yes. It was twenty feet from the ground. An easy jump if his limbs were free, a dangerous attempt with his arms fettered. There was a dirty floor and a smoke-blacked ceiling. Not a stick of furniture was present. Yes there was, if blinds are furniture; for there was a blind to the window. It was let down to its full length, and there was the cord. It passed beneath a catch, and——
"My uncle!" gasped Tom, following Jack's pet expression. "There's a serrated surface there, a regular saw, if only I could approach the edge. How's that? Bad. Try again. How's that? Worse. Never say die then. What's the report on this occasion?"
It was good, or fair, or middling, as he changed his position ever so little. Sometimes the edges of the toothed band controlling the length or position of the pulley over which the blind cord ran gripped the strands of rope about his thumbs. Sometimes the latter slid over them as if they were not in existence. Then they gripped again, feebly perhaps, then with a vim there was no denying. Tom grew hot with the effort. Perspiration poured from his forehead. He pressed with even greater fierceness against the toothed edge he had found.
"Through! Thumbs free," he was able to assure himself after a while. "Those chaps are still at it, gassing and smoking. Now for my elbows. That's a different matter altogether. It's mighty hard to get them down into position, and one isn't sure when they're rubbing."
But it could be done. If he had been successful so far, surely this additional difficulty was not going to discourage him. Tom clenched his teeth and stooped, managing by a gymnastic evolution to bring his fettered elbows against the serrated edge of the blind-cord catch. But the task was irritatingly slow and laborious. He rubbed with all his might, and still the cord held his arms pinioned closely together behind him. However, perseverance was a virtue of which he had quite his fair share, and Tom hated being beaten. Yes, whether in a matter of life and death, as this was, or in the ordinary affairs of life, Tom was a demon for work—a stickler, a fellow who liked to see a thing through and watch it to success. A strand of the cord gave with a little pop. Beads of perspiration burst from pores in his forehead until then untapped, and, welling up, joined the stream already flowing towards the corners of his eyes. Then there came a sound of loud and exultant laughter from the smoke-grimed room occupied by the conspirators. The door burst open, while heavy feet resounded in the passage outside.
"Free! Pulled the cords open. If they try any games with me I'm ready."
He gathered up the fallen strands like lightning, threw himself into the darkest corner, with his arms held behind his back as if they were still pinioned, while in one hand he gripped his pistol, his stiletto in the other. Nor was he any too soon. A key grated in the lock; the bolt slid back with a rusty creaking. The door itself came open with a bang, admitting half a dozen ruffians, who staggered in one after the other.
One was fat and jowly and unwieldy of body. He brought a rickety chair with him and a lamp, and having thumped the former down in a central position proceeded to mop his reddened face. The others leaned against the dirty walls, surveying their prisoner with satisfied grimaces, while cigarettes protruded from their lips.
"Señor Inglise," began one—when the fat man interrupted him.
"Señor indeed! Prisoner. Dog of an Englishman!"
"As you will," shrugged the other. "Dog of an Englishman! Here is a test, and our fat friend will carry it out. You are on the staff of Lord Wellington. You know all things; then tell your tale. There is life and liberty for the telling."
"As there was for me outside the walls of Rodrigo," shouted another of the rascals, whom Tom instantly recognized as the spy his men had captured, and whom he had impersonated. "Life and liberty. I took both. Here now is your chance. The tale, and then the open door."