With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

"One Francisco?" he asked. "Of the street of St. Angelo?"

"The same," came the immediate answer, while the proprietor of the place looked him over sharply. "And you?"

"Someone with a message from Oporto for you to deal with. Here it is."

An exclamation of delight broke from the man, who at once seized the envelope. "You have orders to wait, then, my friend?" he asked.

"I have; I shall seek a lodging down the street. To-night I will come for the answer."

"Then step inside now and take a glass," the man said promptly. "To-night there shall be an answer. Come, a glass. Ho there, wine!" he shouted.

The scolding voice ceased of a sudden, while a woman appeared at the door of a room located at the end of the passage. Some five minutes later she brought a tray containing glasses, and poured wine into two of them.

"To our success!" cried Francisco, lifting his glass and speaking significantly.

"And may you get what every traitor deserves," thought Tom as he lifted his own allowance. "To you!" he cried, tipping the glass upward.

It was just at that moment that, glancing through the bottom of his upturned glass, and aslant through the open door of the cabaret, which being set at the corner of the street commanded a long view of it, our hero caught sight of four French grenadiers hastening along it. At their head was one who was almost a giant! His flowing moustaches and the breadth of his shoulders seemed strangely familiar, while a second look convinced Tom that it was the very man who had stood sentry at the gate and had admitted him.

"Strange!" he thought. "They are the first soldiers I have seen in this direction, though there are others, of course. There are two in this cabaret at the moment, for I caught a glimpse of them. Ah, the big man is pointing! They are all hurrying – this looks ugly."

It was one of those situations where one engaged in dangerous work such as our hero had undertaken might very well be captured before he was more than aware of his danger. Hesitation might mean his downfall. On the other hand, if he were mistaken in the designs of the approaching grenadiers, and they had no concern with him, then action at the moment might lead to suspicion on the part of Francisco, which would be almost as bad. Tom screwed up his eyes and looked closely at the oncomers; then, seeing them turn towards the cabaret, he asked a question in the most unconcerned voice possible.

"Tell me," he said, "I may rest in here, upstairs where there is less noise? I have come fast from Oporto, and feel too tired even to seek for a lodging."

"Then pass up the stairs," came the answer, while the innkeeper deposited his empty glass on the tray with a bang. "Pass upstairs, friend, and rest in the room overhead. In an hour perhaps, when I am free, I will go to the governor. There is no haste in these matters. Go now. I will attend to the customers who are now coming."

He turned to greet the grenadiers, now within ten yards of the door, while Tom lounged to the stairs, and then darted up them. At the top he stood and listened for a few moments.

"Ha!" he heard the big grenadier exclaim. "This is Francisco. Now, my friend, you have a caller. Where is he?"

That was enough for Tom. It was clear that he was suspected, and equally clear that if he did not hasten he would be captured within a few minutes. But how was he to get away? He opened the nearest door and thrust his head into the room to which it gave admittance. It was empty; there was nothing there to help him. He went then to the next, and peered into it noiselessly. There was nothing there either – "Ah!" Tom gave vent to a startled exclamation, for a man lay full length on a bed – a man who seemed to be sunk in the depths of sleep. Who was he?

He was across the room in an instant, bending over the man. Yes, he was sunk in a profound slumber, and, if Tom could have guessed it, Francisco's wine had something to say to the fellow's drowsiness. But whatever the cause Tom's attention was instantly switched in another direction, for it appeared that the fellow had dragged off his clothing, and there, thrown carelessly on the floor, was the uniform of a French soldier.

"I think – " began our hero, cogitating deeply. "Ah! they're coming upstairs, that innkeeper and the grenadiers. I must chance it."

He stooped over the clothing, dragged the red breeches over his own, pulled them tight at the waist, and threw on the long-tailed surcoat so loved by the French. Round went the belt, hitching with a click, while the hat followed in a twinkling. Then he sat down, dragged off his boots, and was in the act of pulling on one belonging to the sleeper, when he heard footsteps on the landing outside and gruff voices.

"They'll look in here, and see that fellow asleep," he told himself. "No they won't, if I'm sharp. How's that?"

Very swiftly he sprang towards the bed and dragged a curtain into position, for the latter hung from a horizontal iron rod, and was intended to shut off a cubicle containing the bed. He had hardly got back to his seat, and was again pulling on a boot, when there came a thump at the door and again loud voices.

"I tell you that there is only a brother soldier of yours in here," he heard the innkeeper exclaim testily. "He is asleep, or was a little while ago. He has been here making merry with some friends, and fell asleep down below. We carried him to bed and pulled off his clothes."

"Then if he is asleep, open and let us see him," he heard from the grenadier in villainous Spanish. "Open, man, in the name of the Emperor!"

There was another bang at the door, which at once flew open. Tom, with his back to the entrance, leaned over and pulled at the boot.

"Ha!" he heard from behind him. "The rascal! He is awake. Well, comrade?"

"Well," answered our hero in a dull, thick voice. "Well."

"That's you, eh?"

"Me, right enough," Tom coughed sleepily. "What's the time?"

"Time you were back in barracks," came the gruff answer.

The door banged, and again voices were heard on the landing.

"Not there," the grenadier told his friends. "The landlord is right. There is merely a sleepy, half-tipsy comrade. No wonder, too; these rascals of innkeepers sell the worst of wine at the highest figure. But search the other rooms. You, Jacques, stand at the head of the stairs; we will not have our bird bolting. Now, my man, lead on again."

Tom listened attentively, and wondered what his next move should be.

"Walk out in this uniform, I suppose. But it'd be risky; I'd be likely to be accosted by other soldiers. I might get an order from an officer. Still, for the time being, it would do. But I must find some other disguise, for the whole garrison will soon be on the lookout for a young chap dressed like a civilian. I was suspicious of that grenadier; I was afraid he had spotted me. Ah, there they go!"

More voices reached his ear. The French grenadiers stopped at the head of the stairs and discussed the matter.

"Not here – flown through the far window," he heard one say. "Best be after him."

"See here, Jacques," came to his ear. "Go down to the main guard and warn them to send round to all the gates. If we don't get the spy here, we'll have him as he attempts to leave. Tell them to search every civilian."

There was a clatter outside the cabaret after that, and then silence. Tom peeped out of the door and found the landing empty. He turned, hearing a sound from the bed, to find the sleeper sitting up on one arm, drowsily regarding him from the edge of the curtain which he had drawn aside.

"What cheer, comrade!" the fellow gurgled with an inane smile. "Time for parade?"

"Not a bit," answered our hero promptly. "Get to sleep again. It'll clear your head. There; I'll draw the curtain."

He swung the curtain right across the end of the bed and heard the soldier flop down again on his pillows. Then, once more, he went to the door. There was no one about, though on peering out of the window he saw the landlord standing in the street outside with a curious crowd about him.

"Said a spy had been here," he was shouting angrily. "As if I, Francisco, would harbour such an one. A spy indeed! What does an innkeeper have to do with spying?"

The crafty fellow did not tell the listeners that he was an agent of the French, the go-between for information of the movements of the British, the men who had come to the country to free himself and his nation from the grip of France. And he scouted the idea that his messenger could have been an Englishman, or the message he brought written by other than the traitor who hid himself in Oporto and hired rascals like himself in the neighbourhood of Wellington's camp. To this Francisco it was out of the question that Tom could be anything but what he represented himself to be. But that others thought differently was certain; for there was a bustle all over the defences. Tom could see squads of men marching swiftly. Mounted messengers galloped here and there, while a double company was massed at the gate by which he had entered.

"They've made up their minds that they've a spy here, and that's the end of it," he told himself. "Soon there'll be a call for all the troops, and this fellow here will be bustled out to join 'em. That'll be awkward. What can I do? Ah, let's see what the other rooms contain!"

He went scuttling across the landing and dived into a room almost opposite. It belonged, probably, to the daughter of the house, for it was neat and tidy, while a couple of dresses hung on the wall. Tom pulled a cupboard open and peeped in.

"Got it!" he cried. "Here's the very thing – a sort of mantilla. Now for the dress and anything else likely to come handy."

He swept up an armful and dived back to the room he had been occupying. There he threw off the French uniform and dressed himself in the new garments he had secured.

"Not half bad," he grinned, as he stood before a cracked glass perched on a rickety table. "My uncle, as Jack would say, but I'm not half bad-looking when dressed as a girl! Am I right, though? Wish I knew more about these things. If only there was another glass I'd be able to see what my back looks like. Now, we practise walking. Gently does it. Hang this skirt! Nearly took a header that time, and – yes – I've torn the thing badly. Want a pin for that. Got it – here it is, just handy."

Afraid? Not a bit of it; Tom wasn't that. Merely hugely excited, for the occasion was somewhat strenuous. The noise outside, the blare of bugles, the rattle of drums and the clatter of moving troops told him that plainly. Also he guessed, and guessed rightly, that he was the cause of all the bustle. He swung the mantilla over his head, half-swathed his face in it, took one last look at his reflection, and then went to the door. No one was moving upstairs; the coast was clear.

"Straight bang for the window," he told himself. "Wonder what's below? Wouldn't there be a howl if they saw a girl dropping from one. Here we are. This'll do – out we go!"

There was a sheer drop of ten or more feet into an enclosed yard at the back of the house; but a door led from the yard into a lane, and that promised to give access to one of the streets. Tom did not wait a moment. Indeed, the sound of steps on the stairs hastened him, while, as if everything must needs conspire to thwart his hopes, the door he had so recently closed on the sleeping soldier opened, and that individual staggered out on to the landing. By then Tom was half through the window. He waited not an instant, but swung himself down and dropped to the ground. Dashing across to the gate he was through it in a few moments.

"Steady does it," he murmured, finding it extremely difficult to obey the order and to refrain from running. "There's that idiot grinning at me from the window. Ah, that places me out of sight! Guess he's considerably astonished."

There was little doubt but that the soldier was flabbergasted. In his sleepy, maudlin condition he found it very hard to understand the meaning of the scene he had but just witnessed. He was filled with a stupid admiration of the pluck of the damsel he had seen leap from the window, but felt no further interest. His muddled mind asked for no reason for such behaviour, while his ignorance of the commotion then filling the place, and of the search that was being made for a spy, left him merely admiring a feat which was to him extraordinary.

As for Tom, he stepped down the lane and was soon in the main street, that of St. Angelo. A crowd of excited individuals of all ages and of both sexes was hastening down towards the main guard, and, since he could do nothing better, he went with them, safer in their midst than he could have been in any other position. Parties of soldiers passed them constantly, while all down the street houses were being searched, and every civilian of the male sex stopped and closely questioned. As a result there was an extraordinary hubbub. Women shrieked indignantly from their windows, resenting such intrusion, while men stood sullenly at their doors, looking as if they would have gladly murdered the Frenchmen.

"Seems to me that I've dropped on the only real disguise," Tom chuckled. "But there's one thing to be remembered: if the daughter of Francisco goes to her room she will discover what has happened, then there'll be another flare up. Time I looked into the business part of this thing seriously."

He had come carefully armed with a small notebook and pencil, and, having in the past two months received some instruction in sketching, he felt sure that he had only to use his eyes, and discover a retired spot, when he would be able to gather a sufficiently correct plan of the defences. Indeed he strolled about, first with one batch of excited inhabitants and then with another, till he had made a round of the place, retiring now and again to some quiet corner where he jotted down his observations. Every gun he saw was marked, every earthwork drawn in with precision. A few careful questions gave him the position of stores and magazines, while a little smiling chat with a French sentry, who seemed to admire this girl immensely, put Tom in possession of the strength of the garrison, the name of the general in command, and the fact that other troops were nowhere in the vicinity.

"Then it's time to think of departing. That'll be a conundrum," he told himself. "Couldn't drop over the walls, that's certain. Halloo! mounted men have been sent out to cut me off should I try to make a dash from the place. This is getting particularly awkward."

It was well past noon by now, and Tom was getting ravenously hungry. He stood amongst a group of civilians on one of the walls of the place looking out towards the part where Jack and his men were secreted. Troopers could be seen cantering here and there, while others were halted at regular intervals, and stood beside their horses prepared to mount and ride at any moment. Strolling along with his new acquaintances our hero was soon able to get a glimpse of the other side of Ciudad Rodrigo and its surroundings there. But there was not a break in the line of troopers circling the place. It was evident, in fact, that no effort was to be spared to capture the fellow whom the grenadier had first suspected. Nor was there any doubt in the mind of the French general that his suspicion was justified; for Francisco had now disgorged the papers Tom had handed him, and these on inspection proved to be wanting in one particular. The secret sign of the agent who was supposed to have sent them, which was always attached to such papers, was lacking, proof positive that the news was false and the bearer an enemy.

It was, perhaps, two or three hours after noon when Tom mixed with a crowd of curious citizens at the very gate which he had entered that morning, and watched as soldiers came and went. Sometimes a civilian would pass through also, though in every case he was closely inspected. As for the women and children, as yet they had not ventured out. But curiosity soon got the better of them. A laughing dame thrust her way through, the guard passing her willingly. Then the others pressed forward, and in a little while Tom was outside, sauntering here and there, wistfully looking at those hills which he had left in the morning.

"And still as far away as ever," he told himself. "Wish I could get hold of a horse – that would do it. What's the matter now? There's another disturbance in the town; people are shouting. Here's a trooper galloping out."

By then he was some distance from the outer wall, but still within the ring of dismounted troopers. And, as he had observed, there was another commotion. In a few minutes, indeed, there was a movement amongst the civilians. Those nearest the gate were hastening back, while troopers galloped out to fetch in stragglers. One of these came dashing up to the group Tom accompanied.

"Get back through the gates," he commanded brusquely.

"And why?" asked the same laughing dame who had led the movement from the fortress. "Why, friend?"

"Because there is a vixen amongst you who is not what she seems," the man answered angrily. "There's information that this spy borrowed women's clothing; you may be he. We'll have to look into the matter – back you all go."

He was a rough fellow, who held no love for these people, and riding amongst them actually upset the woman who had spoken, causing her to shriek aloud.

"Coward!" she cried, picking herself up with difficulty and trembling at his violence.

"Eh!" exclaimed the brute, angered at the taunt. "Now bustle, and keep a civil tongue between your teeth – bustle, I say."

He edged his horse still closer, till the woman fell again, terrified by the close approach of the animal the trooper rode.

"Shame!" cried Tom, his gorge rising. "Do the French then fight with women?"

He had called out in the voice of a woman, and looked, in fact, merely a young girl. But that made little difference to this brute of a trooper. He set his horse in Tom's direction, and looked as if he would actually ride over him. And then there was a sudden and unexpected change; for the young girl displayed the most extraordinary activity. She leaped aside, darted in, and sprang up behind the trooper. For a moment there was a tussle; and then the trooper was lifted from his saddle and tipped out on to the ground. Before the astonished and frightened crowd of women could realize what was happening, or the trooper gather a particle of his scattered wits, the girl was firmly planted in his place, her feet were jammed in the stirrups, and there was presented to all who happened to be looking in that direction as strange a sight as could be well imagined. Shrieks filled the air; men shouted hoarsely to one another, while the troopers standing at their horses' heads leaped into their saddles.

"It is the spy! It is the English spy!" was shouted from the walls. "The spy!" bellowed the bullying soldier whom Tom had unhorsed, making a funnel of his hands and turning to the trooper who was nearest.

"Follow!" came in stentorian tones from the nearest officer.

Then began a race the like of which had never been witnessed outside Ciudad Rodrigo. Tom clapped the heels of his French boots to the flanks of his borrowed horse, while the mantilla that had done him such service, caught by the breeze, went blowing out behind him. Bending low, he sent the animal galloping direct for the hills, smiling grimly as the crack of carbines came from behind him.

"Jack'll be up there waiting," he thought as he glanced ahead. "He'll soon send these fellows back once they get within shot. Pah! That was a near one; the bullet struck my boot. Beg pardon, not my boot, but that fellow's at the cabaret. Glad there's no horsemen in front of me. So much the better; it's going to be a fine gallop."

A fine gallop it proved, too. His mount was blown before the chase was over, while had it lasted a little longer he would certainly have been taken. But of a sudden heavy musketry fire broke out from a point a little to one side. Dark figures, clad in the well-known rough uniform of Tom's guerrillas, appeared on the hillside. And then a shrill whistle sounded. It was perhaps a minute later that Tom threw himself from his horse and stood amongst his comrades. And how Jack roared with laughter, how the men grinned their delight, how Andrews, who had but just reached the party spluttered and attempted to behave as became a disciplined soldier!

"Introduce me, do," gurgled Jack, seizing Alfonso by the arm and doubling up with merriment. "Miss what's-her-name, eh?"

"Clifford, at your service," grinned Tom, "and don't you forget it!"

"Of all the boys!" spluttered Andrews, his face red with his efforts. "I knew he had backbone, but this here's something different."

"Allow me," said Jack in his most gallant manner, offering an arm. "Excuse me if I appear a little forward."

"Rats!" was Tom's somewhat abrupt answer. "Let the boys fall in. We'll march at once; I've had a spree, I can tell you."

It was with grins of delight and many an exclamation that his comrades listened to the tale, a narrative soon passed on by Alfonso to their following. Meanwhile Tom tore his borrowed clothing from him, donned his handsome uniform, and made ready for more active movement.

"We've done a good part of our work," he said. "Now for that fellow in Oporto. Let's ride back to the camp, leaving some of our men to watch the roads near it. I'll hand my notes in to the chief of the staff, and then look into the last part of this matter. Wonder who the rogue is who's such a friend of Francisco, and sends news to the men that are enemies of his country."

They might all wonder, and the reader need not feel surprised if he learns that this rascal was too clever for those who sought him. The hovel to which the man whom Tom's guerrillas had captured led them – and who had promised information in return for his life – was empty. There was no particle of evidence to prove where the rascal had flown; but careful search discovered a note hidden in a crevice of the ceiling, and when that was opened the information contained proved to be of little value.

"Come to Badajoz," it said. "There ask for Juan de Milares, in the street of St. Paulo. There is still work to be done and money to be earned for the doing."

"Same handwriting without a doubt," declared Jack emphatically. "The bird's flown, and Badajoz is out of the question."

As a general rule one would have agreed with him; for, like Ciudad Rodrigo, that fortress was garrisoned by the French. But circumstances alter cases, and Tom soon recognized this to be a fact, since there was further information awaiting him in Oporto. A visit to the house of Septimus John Clifford & Son discovered something approaching a tragedy. For Juan de Esteros had disappeared that very evening, and with him no less a person than Septimus John Clifford himself.

"But where?" demanded Tom, filled with apprehension.

"Alas, there is nothing to tell us!" answered the chief clerk, as faithful a fellow as the worthy Huggins. "They left without a word to anyone, without so much as a sound. They dined together and sat on the veranda reading. Later they retired to their rooms; after that we know nothing."

"But," exclaimed Tom, aghast at the mystery, "surely there's – "

"There is merely this," came the answer, while a slip of paper was thrust into his hands. "We found it resting on the table, weighted so that it could not blow away. Read, señor."

Tom scanned the lines for some few moments, while his smooth forehead wrinkled deeply. "Thus is the house of Septimus John Clifford & Son punished," he read, the Spanish letters being scrawled across the paper. Yes scrawled. In a moment he recognized that writing. It was put upon the paper by the selfsame man who had sent information to the commandant at Ciudad Rodrigo, the traitor who was eager and willing to supply news which would help the enemies of his country.

"Well? What next?" asked Jack when the fact had been explained to him.

"To Badajoz, that's all," came the short answer. "This villain's got hold of my father and uncle for some reason or other. It's plainly my duty to look into the matter; so I'll pay Badajoz a visit, just as I went to Ciudad Rodrigo. Wonder who this chap is and what game he's up to? But duty first, Jack; we'll make back to the camp and see what's expected of us."

If Tom had hoped to pursue a private matter just then he was to be disappointed. For barely was Christmas past, and the new year entered upon, when Wellington threw the whole force he commanded against Ciudad Rodrigo. Pressing the siege with intense energy – for there was always the fear that the French would concentrate on him from all parts and raise the siege before it was successfully over – he launched his attacking parties after remarkably short delay. The fighting which resulted was of the severest description, and the greatest gallantry and resolution was shown by either side. But British pluck won. The defences were captured, and within a few hours of the assault the place which Tom had visited was garrisoned by British instead of by French soldiers. Then Wellington turned toward Badajoz, outside which Tom and his men had for two weeks past thrown out a circle of their men, thus cutting all communications.