“Sir James. Surely you exaggerate a little?
Papillon. Yes—yes, this interview will sink him.
Young Wilding. True to the letter, upon my honour.”
“Why he will tell you more lies in an hour than all the circulating libraries put together will publish in a year.”—The Liar.
I had scarcely landed when I received the unwelcome intelligence that General —————, to whose staff I had been appointed, had been wounded on the retreat from Burgos, and in consequence obliged to resign his command, and return to England invalided. I felt the disappointment severely—but as the corps that I had previously exchanged into was at Valencia, with the Anglo-Sicilian army there collected, much as I should have desired “to follow to the field” the victor of Salamanca, I determined to join my regiment without delay, and “flesh my maiden sword” the ensuing campaign, under the colours of the old and honourable Twenty-seventh. Ignorant of the route by which I could cross the country to the eastern coast of Spain, and anxious to see that gallant army under whose conquering banners I had anticipated a glorious opening to my career in arms, after a three days’ sojourn in Lisbon, I left that city of filth and splendour in company with half a dozen officers en route to join their respective battalions—some, in return from leave—and others, like myself, to smell powder for the first time. A captain of an Irish regiment was of the party. He was a gay, honest-hearted, blundering countryman; and from the graphic sketches D’Arcy gwe me on the road of all attached to the battalion I was about to join, from the junior Ensign of sixteen, to the old stiff-backed Colonel of sixty, I became so familiar with the corps, that I almost fancied at first sight I could have placed my hand on every head, and identified the individual—and, on the evening when we entered the encampment of the regiment, I felt perfectly at home, and entered the rude mess-room as much at ease, as if, after a temporary absence, I was merely returning to join some old acquaintances.
It was a memorable epoch in the military history of Britain, when, early in the second week of February, 1813, I found myself in the cantonments of the fourth division on the banks of the Agueda. Like all sublunary affairs, war has its season of repose; and those mighty masses of armed men, who but a few months before had stood in threatening array in presence of each other, were separated by mutual consent to recover their losses and fatigues, and prepare for renewed exertions. Each had selected that portion of the country best adapted for obtaining supplies and reinforcements. The allied infantry were cantoned generally on the Agueda and Douro—with their cavalry in the valley of the Moudego, and round Moncorbo. One Spanish corps passed the winter in Gallicia, a second in Estremadura, and a third garrisoned Ciudad Rodrigo. Of the French armies, the head quarters of the northern was at Valladolid; the southern at Toledo; and those of the centre, including King Joseph and his guards, were established at Segovia. In military circumstances, the rival armies found themselves, at the end of the preceding autumn, in a position similar to that of men who have fought a battle in which neither have come off conqueror. Both had sustained enormous losses without countervailing advantages; and each required its casualties to be replaced, and its discipline restored. At the opening of the campaign, fortune went as heavily against the enemy, as it did against the allies at the close. From the 18th of July, when the French passed the Douro, until they recrossed it on the 30th, their loss might have been set down at fifteen thousand men, and the allies at about a third of that number. While, from the time when Lord Wellington broke ground before Burgos, until he halted on the banks of the Huebra, in retreat, chiefly from drunkenness and military irregularity, eight thousand of the allies were rendered hors de combat.
No wonder therefore that to both armies, winter presented a seasonable period of repose, and that both willingly accepted it. Nearly one third of his army were in hospital, and hence Lord Wellington deemed that rest for it was indispensable. Nor could his opponents avail themselves of this weakness, and continue active operations, for the French supplies were insecure, and their bases of operation disturbed by Partida bands, which were every where swarming on their flanks and in their rear. Indeed each army dreaded that the other would resume hostilities; and when a report prevailed that Soult, who was upon the Upper Tonnes, meditated an invasion of Portugal by the valley of the Tagus, and Wellington had, accordingly, removed the boat bridges at Almarez and Arzobispo, the French, equally afraid that the allies might cross the river, destroyed all means of passage at other points which the English general had overlooked as unnecessary.
Such was the military position of the allies in the field—one that, abroad, rendered the question of ulterior success an uncertainty; while at home, the failure before Burgos renewed loud expressions of discontent, which the brilliant opening of the late campaign had partially subdued. England was divided into two great sections; one party advocating the necessity of continuing the Spanish war, and another decrying it as a ruinous experiment. What Salamanca had effected in establishing the policy of maintaining the struggle on the Peninsula, the retreat to the Agueda had undone; and the balance of public opinion respecting the expediency of abandoning the contest in Spain was restored. “The ministerial party had expected far too much, and consequently their disappointment was proportionate: the opposition had raised the wolf-cry until the country had ceased to dread it; and they caught desperately at what proved a last pretext, to reiterate their denunciations, and abuse him who conducted, and those who planned the war. Ministers were denounced for continuing the contest, and for starving it—Lord Wellington both for inactivity and for rashness—for doing too little and too much” *—for wasting time at Madrid, and for attempting a siege with means so inadequate, that nothing but an enormous expenditure of blood could possibly obtain success.
But to the clamour of party and the calumny of faction, he, since happily surnamed “The Iron Duke,” turned an indifferent ear; and the same proud feeling that on the heights of Guinaldo had sustained him, when a less assured courage might have faltered, enabled him now to regard the malice of political opponents with contempt; and, perfectly undisturbed, to direct the energies of a master-mind to the completion of those great means by which alone a great end could be accomplished. Profiting by past experience, the internal economy of the army underwent a sweeping reformation. Abuses were sought for, detected, and removed—every hospital was cleared of men who feigned illness to evade duty—and from every depot idlers were driven back to the columns they had abandoned. Supplies came liberally from England, proving the illimitable resources of the island-home of freedom; and the great captain of the age was thus enabled to organize the most splendid force that ever took the field—one, so perfect in every arm, as to warrant its constructor, years afterwards, when the greater number of those gallant spirits who had composed it were sleeping in the grave, to make the proud and proven boast—that “with that army which had crossed the Pyrenees, he could do any thing and go any where.” No wonder that brilliant era of his life is still readied in cherished remembrance by the old Peninsular; and as, deed after deed, he details the conquering career of that matchless host, with which he crossed the Agueda to halt only on the banks of the Garonne, he may raise his head with military pride, and exclaim, “Pars fui!”
Of two hundred thousand men under the direct command of Lord Wellington, the Anglo-Portuguese, amounting nearly to seventy-five thousand bayonets and sabres, were the flower. From the first moment of the Peninsular contest, the British infantry had established its superiority; and now the cwalry and artillery were superb. Every thing required for field service had been skilfully provided. A fine pontoon train accompanied the army, and ambulances were provided for the accommodation of the sick and wounded. Other means to increase his comforts were also afforded to the soldier; and, for the first time, tents were supplied for shelter in the field, while the cumbrous camp-kettle was replaced with others of smaller size, and lighter material, as better adapted for all the purposes of campaigning.
During the suspension of active operations on both sides, and while the French and Allied armies were quiet in their respective cantonments, that restless enemy, the Partida bands, were busily employed. Longa, in the vicinity of Burgos, was actively engaged in harassing the marauding parties of the enemy, interrupting their communications, and surprising their detached posts; while Hina, in Arragon and Navarre, carried on a desultory warfare with equal success. Another less celebrated but not less active leader was “the Friar,” (El Frayle,) who, with a numerous band admirably organized, kept Valencia in confusion. Indeed, the Guerillas had now become as formidable in numbers as they had ever been audacious in their mode of warfare. No longer confining their operations to the cutting off of foraging parties and the interception of convoys, they fell upon strong detachments, and almost invariably with success; until at last no courier could pass the roads, nor even a battalion of seven hundred men move from one garrison to another, without the protection of an escort. Such was the military attitude of Spain when I joined the fourth division.
In a dilapidated farm-house I found my future companions in arms seated at a comfortable dinner, although a stranger looking mess room was never occupied by gentlemen of the sword. It had been the grand apartment of the dwelling of a farm proprietor; the house was generally in ruins, but this wing had been judiciously selected for the symposia of the gallant Twentieth, inasmuch as the roof was nearly weather-fast. The table was a collection of old doors placed upon temporary supporters; and as every member of the body politic furnished his own conveniency of sitting at “the board,” the especial method of accommodation depended on the ability or fancy of the individual. Some, in superior luxury, had deposited their persons on a camp-stool, while others were contented with a block of wood, a basket, or a broken arm chest. The table appointments were not unique, for every person found his own; and nothing was held in common property save the viands and the wine.
But a lighter-hearted community than the gallant Twentieth could not have been discovered. The hardships of the retreat to the Huebra were still in vivid recollection; and now, anticipating similar privations, but attended by more glorious results, the present was their only care; and over the head of the master of the revels the apposite motto “Carpe diem!” had been inscribed with a burnt cork. Heralded by my loving countryman, I was introduced in terms of commendation that brought the colour to my cheek. I received, consequently, a warm and soldierly reception; and before I retired to a shake-down offered me for the night in the tent of the junior major, I called every man by an abbreviated name—or, at least, as many of the batch as a memory, slightly obfuscated, could manage to remember.
“Upon my sowl!” observed a short and snub-nosed captain, with an accent redolent of “the far west,” “that’s dacent wine; and the divil that brings it should be encouraged.—Here’s your health, O’Halloran; and in return you’ll call me Philbin, if you plase;—and now that the owld colonel’s gone, may I live to see you senior captain of the regiment, and then I know who’ll command it,—and that’s myself.”
To this delicate and disinterested compliment, I replied in suitable terms.
“And what the devil keeps Peter Crotty?” inquired a second.
Ignorant of the occasion of his absence, I inquired the causes from my quondam friend, and learned that the absent gentleman had gone up to head-quarters with certain regimental returns; and that his reappearance had been eagerly expected, to ascertain what reliance might be placed in the rumoured intelligence that an earlier commencement of field operations might be looked for than the season could be supposed to warrant. Peter Crotty, however, did not appear; an hour passed—the said Peter was cursed and envied according to the mood of the individual; it being universally resolved, that he, Peter, had popped into some hospitable cantonary, and got drunk for the honour of the service.
“Lord! what a congregation of lies Peter will have to get rid of in the morning,” said the captain of grenadiers.
“I beg your pardon—he’ll deliver himself of the cargo in a shorter time—for that’s his cough, for a hundred!” responded a light-bob.
The lieutenant’s ear was correct; for in a few moments the denounced absentee modestly presented himself.
Had our meeting been in Kanischatka, I should have claimed Peter for a countryman at first sight. He was a stout, well-timbered fellow, of soldierly setting-up, and, as far as appearance went, perfectly content with himself, and at peace with all the world. To say that he was drunk, would not be true; to assert him sober, might have raised a controverted question: but leave it to the most charitable, and they would freely admit that Peter Crotty, in Connemara parlance, “had been looking at somebody drinking.”
“Arrrah, astore!” observed Mr. Philbin; “may the divil be your welcome! Here have we been waiting these six hours, expecting a little news—while you, no doubt, have visited every wine-house between our quarters and Frenada. By this book!” and Captain Philbin raised a horn drinking-vessel devoutly to his lips, “I’ve a mind to report you in the morning to Sir Lowry.”
“Never listen to him, Peter,” observed the grenadier; “you must be thirsty after your long ride.—Put that down your neck first, give us some fresh intelligence afterwards, and stick as close to the truth as you can conveniently.” And he presented to the new-comer a nondescript tin vessel, filled to the brim with wine.
Peter Crotty had really been thirsty; for he turned down the cup to the very bottom.
“Arrah—what kept ye, Peter?” inquired the first speaker.
“What kept me?—Why, business, and Lord Wellington.”
“Nonsense!”—
“It’s true. Divil a one of me could get away, good nor bad?”
“Any thing wrong in the returns?” inquired the grenadier.
“Oh, sorra thing; for he gave us the height of applause.”
“Did the aide-de-camp tell you so?” asked a listener.
“What aide-de-camp?—Don’t I tell ye it was himself?” observed Lieutenant Crotty.
“Himself? Arrah—the divil an eye ye laid upon him, unless ye happened to see him lighting off his horse,” observed Captain Philbin.
Peter Crotty answered this remark by a look of silent contempt.
“He’s in for it,” whispered my next neighbour, softly. “I’ll back him for a regular rigmarole of lies against any man in the Peninsula. But we must humour him.——“Well, Peter, and was his lordship commonly civil?”
“A pleasanter-spoken man I never was in company with,” was the reply.
“And he did seem pleased with our morning-state?—The aide-decamp told you that?”
“Not at all; it was his lordship. ‘Crotty,’ says he—”
“Oh!” whispered my friend the major, “that’s conclusive.—All’s right when Peter uses the present personal.”
“Ay! ‘Crotty,’ says he,”—observed another, “But you have had a long ride; so before you begin a longer story, take the cobwebs from your throat.”
Again the tin cup was replenished—once more Peter Crotty refreshed himself; and then to a very attentive auditory he commenced the detail of a recent interview with the “great captain.”
“Well, you see, I only got the returns from the orderly room at twelve; and as I had ten miles to ride, off the mule and myself jogged immediately. Nothing particular occurred on the road, barrin’ I met Soames and Hamilton, and—
“Oh, d—n Soames and Hamilton!” exclaimed two or three voices together.
“Well, we had a drop of wine, and on I pushed without delay,—except half an hour with the Eighty-eighth; and we had a sort of a lunch of an over-driven bullock, the rump-steak,—by-the-by, it was cut off the fore-part of the shoulder, and as hard as the divil’s horn.—We had a throw of rum-and-water afterwards—”
“For one, read three,” observed another of the audience.
“Well, I reached Frenada—rode up to the door—gave my mule to an orderly—stept into the ante-room, and handed in the returns—”
“And, as the evening was wet, I suppose they allowed you to sit down,” said Captain Philbin.
Lieutenant Crotty turned a wrathful look upon the speaker, and then continued his narrative.
“The door was open, and every word that passed within I heard plainly.”
“‘Arrah! what’s that?’ said his lordship.
“‘The morning-strength of the Twentieth, my lord,’ replied the aide-de-camp.
“‘Divil welcome the bearer!’ says the general. ‘Isn’t it cruel hard, that a man can’t have a little pace and quiet, without this eternal botheration? Tell the fellow to come to the door; and ask him who he is.’ “Be gogstay! I made bold to answer, ‘It’s me, Lieutenant Crotty—plase your lordship.’”
“‘Crotty!—Crotty!’ says he; ‘Is it Peter Crotty, of the Twentieth?’”
“‘The same, my lord,’ says I.
“‘Arrah, then,’ replies the general, ‘I wouldn’t for a thirty-shillin note ye had gone home, without my seeing ye. Peter, step in and be off’, and shut the doer after ye,’ says he to the aide-de-camp; ‘I’m not at home, if any one inquires this evening. And now, Grotty dear, draw a camp-stool, and bring your heels to an anchor.—Ned, says he, for they called one another by their names; ‘hand Mr. Crotty a glass. And now, Peter, raise y’er elbow a trifle, and fill fair. Is there any news astir:’
“‘Nothing,’ says I, ‘unless your lordship has it.’
“‘Had ye anything to ate on the road?’ says he. ‘We could get ye a broiled bone in half a jiffy.’
‘Too much trouble,’ says I, ‘my lord; I took a bit with the Eighty-eighth, as I was coming along.’
“‘Oh! bad luck to the same lads, Sir Thomas Picton,’ says he.
“‘They’re makin’ an ould man of me, the thieves! The divil himself—Christ pardon us! wouldn’t keep them tolerably reg’lar.’
“He didn’t say ‘Christ pardon us!’ Peter.”
“He did,” returned the narrator. “Do you think that he stopped to pick and choose his words in the company of friends?”
“Well, go on Peter.” *
“All this time, Sir Thomas, and General Paekenham, never said a word; but, like a priest after confessions, they lathered away at the drinking.”
“‘Did you hear lately from y’er family:’ says his lordship to me.
“‘Arrah! the devil a scrape I had from Ireland these nine months,’ says I.
“‘I see what y’er lookin’ at,’ says he, as he caught me throwin’ a sheep’s eye over at a card-table in the corner—‘are you for a rubber, Peter, to help us to put in the evening?’
“‘Feaks! my lord,’ says I, ‘I’d be afeard, as I’m rather out of practice.’
“‘Make it five an’ ten,’ says he; ‘y’er the divil at that, no doubt, as the boy said his mother was at the praying. Come, Ned,’ says he, ‘down with y’er dust, and we’ll cut for who’ll have Peter Grotty; and by my soul, up comes a red knave. ‘By the powers of pewter, Peter, ye’er my own!’ says my lord.
“‘Oh, then, y’er welcome to him, if he was better,’ says Sir Thomas. And he seemed cross at losing me.
“Well—my Lord desired Ned Packenham to make us a tumbler each—and down we sit;—myself as stiff as a new-made quartermaster, although, if God’s truth was told, I hadn’t a skurrick in my pocket to mark the game with.
“‘Here’s luck!’ says his lordship, finishin’ his tumbler at a pull. I forgot to mention, that Sir Thomas stuck to the sherry, and Ned Packenham helped himself to a sketch of brandy in the bottom of a glass, and took it nate, without water.
“Well, I cuts a black deuce, so the dale was mine; and up turns the ace of hearts afterwards. His lordship winked his left eye when he saw it. ‘Be the powers,’ says his lordship, ‘your mother must have been in’ the yeomen, or she’d never have had such a son! Many a Sunday ye play’d cards upon a tombstone instead of goin’ to mass; God forgive ye for the same, Peter!”’
“Colonel Burn wants Lieutenant Crotty immediately,” said a mess waiter from the door.
“Oh, holy Mary!—I forgot to report myself!—and, may be, I won’t catch it from the ould lad?” exclaimed the partner of Lord Wellington, as he sprang from the barrel he was seated on, and hounded after the messenger in desperate alarm, while a roar of laughter accompanied his hurried exit. A dock an durris, for we were all Scotch and Irish intermixed, passed from hand to hand, for the departure of Lieutenant Crotty appeared to be the signal for a general dispersion; and I accompanied the hospitable friend who had offered me a sleeping corner in his tent.
Presently, the cantonments became quiet, and light after light disappeared. Within musket range, five thousand men were sleeping, and yet not a sound was heard but the measured step of “the relief” as it went its rounds, or the loud challenge of the sentry, answered by a whispered countersign. To me, this seemed the opening of a new epoch in my life. I now felt myself a soldier. The camp was to be my future home; and, stretched around me, lay the victors of many a field, with whom, side by side, I was to view, for the first time, the flash of “red artillery.” My couch was fern, my pillow a bullock trunk; and, wrapped in my cloak, I sought the balmy visit of the drowsy god, but sought it vainly. A feverish excitement had banished sleep, and I could not but envy the profoundness of my companion’s repose, whose heavy breathing, a minute after the brief petition of “God bless us!” had passed his lips, told how sound were his slumbers. I dosed at last—dreamed of siege and battle-field, while gentler thoughts floated at times among these martial visions, and love and war were singularly blended. Day dawned, a bugle sounded, the drums beat the réveillée, and instantly the camp, hitherto so silent, was all life and bustle, like an alarmed bee-hive, as the startled soldiery issued from tent and hovel. In a few minutes each regiment formed on its respective parade; and the fourth division was reported under arms, as a horseman, attended by an orderly dragoon, galloped along the front of the cantonment. On reaching the flank of the line, he reined up his horse and rode slowly past, directing an eagle glance at every regiment that composed the division. The drums rolled, arms were presented, and I had no difficulty in recognising in the plainly-dressed stranger, one who had already divided the attention of the world with the great Napoleon—the victor of Assaye—the hero of Salamanca—Lord Wellington!
“True courage grows in proportion to the increase of danger.”
“This arm shall make a corpse of him who hesitates when danger calls, or retreats when it presses.”—The Robbers.
Having brought two or three letters of introduction to some veteran soldiers who served with my father in the Low Countries, the delivery of each ensured me a hospitable welcome at their respective cantonments. A month had nearly been consumed in rambling visits, when it was officially intimated, that as the armies were preparing for active operations, the presence of every officer would be expected at the head-quarters of his regiment. With deep regret I made all arrangements for a journey to Valençia; and having procured mules and a guide to secure the transport of the persons and property of my fosterbrother and myself, I set out at dawn of day, on the 7th of March, to pass through Toledo and Cuenca, and reach the head-quarters of the Anglo-Sicilian army, to which my regiment was attached.
The route lay between the French outposts on one side, and a hilly country on the other, infested by Partida bands; and, sooth to say, it would have been difficult to decide on which hand lay the greater danger. From the French scouting-parties it would be desirable to preserve a respectful distance; and for Guerilla civility, we should be mainly indebted to the protection afforded by a British uniform.
As the head-quarters of the south were established at Toledo, the enemy’s posts were extended over the country in front of that city, to keep open the communications, and enable their foragers to bring in any supplies they could obtain. Hence, these roads were rendered dangerous by the constant visits of French pickets and marauders; and, by the advice of our friend the muleteer, we leaned towards the mountains on our right, after we had crossed the Ibor by an unguarded ford below the Hospital del Obispo.
From the moment that we cleared the cantonments of the allies, our route assumed a dangerous character that gave it an additional interest. It ran through a debatable land, subject alike to flying visits from the allied cavalry, French scouting parties, and guerillas; while, here and there, a few disbanded men, of every country and calling, were occasionally encountered, who stopped the wayfarer, be he Trojan or Tyrian, with a lofty-minded impartiality worthy of the school and spirit of Jack Sheppard, easing him of life and purse together, without any impertinent inquiry of, “Under which king, Bezonian?” In plain English, from robbers of high and low degree, the routes connecting Estremadura with Valencia were rendered almost impassable; and it was nearly a toss-up to the traveller, whether the person who called “Stand and deliver,” was brigand, forager, or partida.
Though the roads were hewy and the rivers swollen, yet, as the weather was remarkably fine, for a few days the fosterer and I roughed it pretty comfortably. It was a new passage in the life of both—and full of youthful vigour, and eager for adventure, we got on gallantly.
On the fifth evening we reached a little hamlet pleasantly situated on the river Sedana. Here, the muleteer had several acquaintances, and the owner of the posada was his cousin. Our journey that day had been unusually long; and, therefore, the intelligence that a good supper and snug shake-down awaited us on our arrival at Villa Mora, was particularly gratifying. As we wound down the mountains, the sun set, the vesper-bell was heard, and the village lights sparkled through the haze of evening. We urged our mules forward to gain the halting-place, as the sky, for the last hour, had presented certain appearances, which the guide apprised us were always considered to be forerunners of a tempest.
We passed through the village street and alighted at the door of the posada, where we were hospitably received, and inducted to a large and lofty apartment, which answered the double purpose of kitchen and parlour. Fuel was added to the fire, and due preparations made for further entertainment. As the guide had predicted, the night became wild and wet; and, accounting ourselves to be most fortunate travellers in gaining our shelter before the storm burst, we took a position on a settle where we could enjoy the comfort of a blazing wood-fire; and, what was equally agreeable to hungry wayfarers, personally inspect culinary operations while supper was in progress.
An hour passed—the table was spread—and the muleteer, having stabled his long-eared charge, entered the kitchen, and seated himself at the foot of the board. The host deposited a huge leathern bottle in the centre of the table, which, as he avouched, contained wine of exquisite vintage, and the meal was about to commence, when a trampling of horses’ feet was heard without, and the landlord rose hastily, and, with every appearance of alarm, peeped suspiciously from the casement.
“Three travellers,” he exclaimed, “by San Marco. The Virgin be praised; I feared some of those French robbers had returned once more, and that we should be plundered by them for the hundredth time.”
I rose and looked out, but it was too dark to discover who the late visitors might be. One seemed superior to the others; for he flung the bridle of his horse to a companion with an air of authority, and quitting the court-yard, entered the kitchen of the posada.
He was evidently a gentleman of little ceremony; for he stalked direct to the fire—threw his sombrero carelessly to the attendant—desired the landlord to hang up his cloak to dry—unbuckled a belt, to which a long toledo was suspended—deposited a carbine and brace of pistols on a bench—and then took a seat at the head of the table, with as much indifference as if he had been the host himself.
When disencumbered of hat and cloak, the very singular air and figure of the stranger fastened my attention. His face would have puzzled Lavater—it was one that you could not look upon without a nameless feeling of suspicion and alarm, and yet, take each alone, and the features were positively handsome. Hair, eyes, moustache and beard, were black as the raven’s wing; and the complexion, dark as a gypsy’s. The face was well-proportioned—the teeth white and regular—I never looked on an eye more lustrous, searching, and intelligent; and the forehead was nobly expanded. But the ensemble was the worst. It bespoke a stern determination, close akin to ferocity; and betrayed a disposition, stern of purpose—ardent in regard—immitigable in vengeance.
The stranger’s figure was athletic and commanding—sufficiently substantial for any feat of strength, and yet not too cumbrous in its proportions for light and active exercise. His under dress was plain. He wore a close green jacket and pantaloons, with tawny boots and a buff waist-belt, in which a weapon, like a highland dirk with a buck’s-horn handle, was secured. Such was the exterior of our new companion.
While I examined the stranger with deep attention, a hurried look, on his part, round the table, appeared to satisfy his curiosity touching the company to whom he had introduced himself. His assumption of superiority was at once apparent; and, with the easiest manner imaginable, he usurped a regular dictatorship of the venta. Raising the drinking-vessel that stood beside his platter, he signalled the landlord to fill it from the goat-skin, and at one strong draught emptied it to the bottom, and indulged, afterwards, in observations more remarkable for candour than compliment, touching the cellars of the posada.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, contemptuously, “call ye that thin liquid, true Carvallôs? Hast thou no conscience left thee, man? ’Tis well enough wherewithal to wash a supper down; but see, honest friend, that you find us something better for the evening. Ha!—this podrida’s passable; and these partridges seem tolerably roasted. On with more viands. Two friends of mine will presently be here. They have good appetites; have ridden twenty leagues, and fasted as many hours. Need I say more?”
Whoever the stranger was, his orders were not disregarded. The maritornes of the venta renewed her culinary labours; and the host voluntarily departed to see that the horses of the late guests had been properly accommodated, and make researches in his wine-stores, afterwards, to try whether a flask more congenial to the taste of the dark stranger might not be procurable. The latter, towards myself and foster-brother, evinced from the first, decided symptoms of civility; and among us three there appeared to be a friendly rivalship as to which of us should hold out longest at the podrida. Were the hostleries in the Peninsula frequently obnoxious to such visitors as we proved, I verily believe that half the innkeepers in Spain would have been insolvent in a twelvemonth.
“Faith, gentlemen,” observed the stranger, “to judge by the performances of each other, we seem all in excellent health. No sauce for supper after all, like a twelve hours’ ride through the mountains. What, ho! Sir landlord! Wine—I say; and none of that valuable vintage you keep for muleteers and travelling friars, who pay their scores in aves and credos. What news, gentlemen?” he said, addressing us, “What is the English Lord about; and will he soon be on the move again?”
I assured him that on these points I was in blessed ignorance—told the simple tale of my journey to Valencia, and its causes—and, in return, asked his advice touching which route I should adopt, as the one most likely to be free from the French.
“You could not have made that inquiry from a better person,” he replied. “I know the mountain country indifferently well; and if you place yourself under my guidance, I shall ensure your safety to Cuenca. Thence, to Valencia, I shall be able to obtain a passport that the partidas will respect. Ha! I see my companions have scented supper in the stable. Sit down, Jose; thou and Velasquez have seen more than a single cork-tree since you heard the matin-bell.”
Following the example of their chief, the strangers deposited their mantles and sombreros on a bench. Both were well armed; and each placed his weapons immediately contiguous to his seat, like men who dread and guard against surprise.
I thought nothing could have exceeded our late attack upon mine host’s partridges and podrida. Pshaw!—as trenchermen, we could not hold a candle to the worthy twain, who now went to work as if they had been steadfastly resolved to clear out the posada of every edible it contained.
At last they, too, were forced to cry, “enough” and we all united in a closer circle round the fire, while the wine-flask made a frequent circuit of the company. Dark and repulsive as the stranger’s countenance might be, as “sweetest nut has sourest rind,” he seemed at heart an excellent camarado. Indeed, we were no longer strangers. I spoke unreservedly—told him my objects and intentions—and, in return, obtained counsel and information. It struck me as being remarkable how very intimately the stranger seemed acquainted with the cantonments occupied by the allies, and the facility with which he named the strength and formation of every corps that occupied them. Touching the positions of the French armies, he was equally well informed—and, with the Spanish dispositions, perfectly familiar.
“Ho—ho!” he exclaimed, holding the empty flask between him and the lamp; “the bottle’s dry. More wine, there! Come, gentlemen,” he said, “I shall play host to-night. I felt it rather an uncertainty this morning, whether I should have found the posada tenanted by friends or enemies; but the doubt has been agreeably resolved.”
As he spoke, the landlord entered—placed a flask upon the table—and, having extracted the cork, was preparing to retire, when the dark stranger motioned him to sit down; an invitation, which it appeared to me “mine host” would rather have declined than accepted.
“Fill thy horn,” said the master of the revels; “I would ask a few questions. There are none present but those to whom a true Spaniard need never be afraid to unbosom himself. In that jacket lie honour and good faith.” He pointed to my uniform. “And for my friends, I will be their security.”
I never, in my life, saw a host less flattered with a guest’s civility. He took a seat—filled a cup—drank our good health—and appeared excessively uncomfortable.
“Your name, my friend, is, I think, Gonsalvez—and I would ask some questions touching some of your acquaintances in Villa Moro. Speak out; and—” the stranger lowered his voice to a deep tone, that made me shudder—“what is more to the purpose, speak truth!”
The landlord winced—while my dark-visaged friend, in a careless voice, continued—
“You had occasional visits from the French cwalry during the winter. There was a squadron of the 5th chasseurs à cheval here for a month. Where did their commandant reside?”
“He quartered himself at the alcade’s,” returned the host.
“Did he ever visit the postmaster?” asked the stranger.
“Frequently,” was the reply.
“What age is Jose de Toro?”
“Sixty—or more.” returned the host.
“And what the age of his wife”
“Younger by forty years,” was the reply.
“Then Jose de Toro was a fool to marry as he did. Was Captain Hillaire particularly intimate with the lady?”
“They said—but Lord! in a village they say many things that are not true—they said that the poor postmaster was almost jealous. After a little time the scandal wore away; and Jose de Toro and Captain Hillaire were the best friends imaginable.”
“Base villain!” muttered the dark stranger, between his clenched teeth. “Well, my friend, if the alcade and postmaster found the society of the French so agreeable, how did the Cura feel?’
“He never could disguise his hatred; and for some days he was kept in close arrest, until the pretty wife of Jose Toro pleaded to the handsome captain for her old confessor, and obtained his liberty.”
“Humph!” said the stranger.—“What is the nearest post that is at present occupied by the French cavalry?”
“The nearest!—praise to the Virgin!—I have heard from a traveller is at Areanza—some half score leagues from Toro.”
“‘Tis well,” muttered the stranger.—“Get me a trusty messenger; and mind that he be trusty—or—‘’ he looked the rest, the landlord perfectly understanding it. Egad! I never saw anything more expressive; it was a look that conveyed more than any language could express. One of his companions rose, and looked from the casement.
“How soon,” he said, “the storm has abated! The moon has risen; and a finer night to take a hurried march and surprise a sleeping outpost could not be found.”
“I wish it were otherwise,” returned he who seemed the leader. “And yet ten leagues from a French picket, methinks, is tolerable security. Go, Velasquez,—and see that this packet be sent forward, safely and swiftly. For his messenger’s fidelity I hold the landlord accountable. Tell him that;—and whisper in his ear, that the guest he entertains to-night is —————” His voice dropped, but a smile of sinister expression told the rest.
From a secret pocket the dark stranger drew out a splendid watch. “Past midnight. Come, gentlemen, one round more, and then for bed: we must all be astir by cock-crow.”
The bottle for the last time made its circuit. Velasquez returned after despatching the packet, accompanied by the host bearing a lamp. He conducted us to a long gallery, containing at least sleeping apartments for a dozen; but the only occupants that night were the strangers, the fosterer, and myself. Where the muleteer bestowed himself I knew not; but subsequent events sufficiently explained the reason why we were not favoured with his company.
No stronger proof of caution and insecurity could be required than the care with which each individual arranged his clothes and arms. Every weapon was placed in a position to be ready for the owner’s hand; while the business of the toilet was dispensed with altogether, as we all stretched ourselves on our woollen beds without undressing. The Spaniards crossed themselves devoutly; the fosterer repeated a short prayer; I cried “God bless us!” and in ten minutes all within the spacious chamber slept profoundly.
Several hours must have elapsed, and still my slumbers continued unbroken. Suddenly an uneasy dream disturbed me, and I started upright on the mattress. The lamp was burning gloomily; and the sleepers round the chamber were fast as watchmen. I listened—noises low and indistinct without excited my attention. The sounds were such as men make when they attempt to move unheard. I glided out of bed, and peeped cautiously from the lattice. By Heaven!—the court-yard was filled with dismounted dragoons, and one glance told me that they were enemies.
The elder Spaniard lay on the bed next to mine, and I laid my hand softly on his arm. In a moment his dark eyes were turned suspiciously on mine, as I stooped my head and whispered that we were betrayed. He heard the intelligence without any apparent emotion, slipped quietly from his couch, and looked for a moment on the court-yard. I heard him muttering to himself, “Ten—fifteen—twenty—forty in all: the odds are great, and we, too, cut off from the stables. Ha!—let me think—there’s but one hope—the gate first—the river afterwards—ay, there lies the only chance of our deliverance.”
Flitting from couch to couch, he awakened his sleeping companions. They seemed to be men accustomed to similar visitations, for not an exclamation escaped their lips, nor even by a word did they betray the least alarm. A finger, pointed towards the casement told its silent tale; and each, as he arose, peeped from the window on the moon-lit court-yard, and immediately comprehended the extent of his danger. In a minute every man was armed and ready for the coming struggle; and we looked to the dark guerilla for orders, as soldiers to their leader.
“In a position like ours, safety consists in daring. No matter how great the disparity in numbers, we must not wait to be attacked; but push, at the sword’s point, for the gate—reach the river if possible—spring boldly in, and trust to the Sedana for our freedom. One word more—if you can—escape;—but if the hour is come, fall sword in hand, and let the dying effort be vengeance on the oppressor.‘Tis time for action. Strike bravely, my friends: in every blow lies death or freedom. And now for the attempt: in five minutes the Empecinado will be a lifeless corpse, or free as the mountain eagle!”
“And are you that dreaded chief?” I inquired.
“I am indeed Juan Martin Diez: he whose dreaded by-name has carried terror with it to the boldest enemy of Spain; who lived the scourge of the oppressor, and will die, inflicting injury while his hand can hold a sword, and venting his last breath in curses upon those who would have enslaved him!”
We drew up silently behind the entrance of the posada; all the bolts save one were quietly withdrawn, and that one the Empecinado held. Presently a man approached, struck the door loudly, and in a haughty tone demanded instant admission. Never was order more promptly obeyed. The Spaniard removed the last fastening—the door was suddenly flung open; a discharge from the carbine of the Empecinado laid the nearest Frenchman dead upon the threshold where he stood; while bounding from his concealment like a tiger on his hunters, the guerilla chief sprang headlong among a group of the chasseurs, cutting down a trooper right and left, and shouting in a voice of thunder, “Guerra al Cuchillo!”
A sudden onslaught from desperate men is always formidable; and the enemy, never imagining that those whom they expected to surprise, would resist, still less attack, a numerous and well appointed detachment, were quite unprepared to oppose this unexpected irruption from the posada. The guerillas fought with the recklessness of men who feel that they must succeed or perish; while, as circumstances occasionally make heroes, the fosterer and I, considering that in a close and furious mêlée there is no respect for persons, imitated the example of our worthy confreres, and, as I was afterwards informed, made a very promising début. The atfair was short and sanguinary. Before the French could recover from the surprise, nearly a dozen were killed, wounded, or beaten down; the gate was gained, and for escape, the chances were decidedly in our favour.
But, as it unfortunately turned out, a part only of the French detachment had entered the court-yard of the posada, while an equal number remained mounted outside the gate. The sudden uproar from within put the outliers on the qui vive, and consequently they were ready to receive us. Surprised, but nothing daunted, the Empecinado and his companions fought with desperate ferocity; and the French cry of “Down with the brigands!” was fiercely answered by the Spanish slogan, “War to the knife!”
The conflict now was hopeless; each of us was engaged with three or four chasseurs, some mounted and some on foot. I had seen the commencement of the fray, but, as is the frequent fortune of war, I was not fated to witness its termination. A blow from the butt of a carbine stretched me upon mother earth—and when my senses returned, I found myself a prisoner, and in the same apartment of the Venta, where on the preceding night I had supped in perfect comfort and security.
I looked round—the room was filled with soldiers—and the only faces I could recall to memory, were the dark and sullen countenances of the two companions of the Empecinado, who were seated on a bench immediately in my front, closely hand-cuffed to each other. Both had received divers sword-cuts on the head; and their coal-black hair, matted with blood, added to a ferocious expression of the features, afforded a perfect picture of a captive brigand. Upon the wounded partidas, looks of deadly vengeance were directed by all who surrounded them. Many of the chasseurs had been wounded; and in the recent affair, five of their companions had fallen; and one, whom they all regarded, the second in command, and a young officer of great promise, had been stabbed to the heart by the Empecinado.
“Where am I? Where are my companions?” I muttered.
“Escaped!” returned one of the wounded guerillas, with swage exultation. “Escaped, my friend; to take ample vengeance for thee and me upon these murderers.”
“Silence!” dog exclaimed a chasseur, striking the captive a sharp blow upon the shoulder with the flat of his sabre-blade.
I never witnessed such a look as the insulted, but impotent guerilla directed at the Frenchman. Could rage, and hatred, and revenge, be concentrated in a glance, that look expressed them all.
“Oh, that this hand were free,” he murmured; “and that it clutched the knife that never failed it yet; and then, robber—.” He left the sentence incomplete; but none required further words to convey its purport.
A noise without, was heard. It was the measured step of marching men and in a few minutes the elite companies of the 16th Voltigeurs, entered and piled arms in the court-yard. Whatever was the cause of this military movement, its scale seemed far too extensive for the mere purpose of arresting two or three individuals who had made themselves obnoxious to the invaders; and this suspicion was confirmed, when it was announced that Colonel La Coste, the chief of General Laval’s staff, had arrived in person, to direct the promenade militaire, as the Frenchman termed this midnight expedition.