With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

"Dead!" groaned Jack and Andrews when at length they found him. "Killed by the mine which wiped out every man of 'the forlorn hope.' Poor Tom!"

"Breathing!" shouted Alfonso, who also accompanied him. "I tell you he is still alive."

That brought them all about him, and within a few minutes our hero was being carried from the breach. But was he living still? Was Badajoz to see the end of a promising career, and put a stop to his quest? Or would Tom Clifford appear upon the scenes again, and still have something to say to the rascal who had abducted both father and uncle?

CHAPTER XV

Round about Badajoz

There was a business-like air about the jovial Jack Barwood on the second morning after the fall of Badajoz, a seriousness about the smart young adjutant to which his friends were unaccustomed, a furrowing of his youthful brow, and an appearance of intentness and determination which would have aroused the friendly satire of old comrades. Dressed in the smart uniform of the gallant 60th Rifles, he marched briskly along one of the quieter streets, passing as he did so a half-company of infantry escorting a batch of semi-drunken soldiers, the gallant souls amongst Wellington's army who, now that the fighting was over, had lost all sense of discipline, and, aching no doubt for the many good things to which they had been strangers for so long, had burst their way into private dwellings and had behaved like scoundrels instead of brave soldiers.

Jack took the salute of a Portuguese guerrilla sentry marching sedately to and fro before a huge door, and that too of a Spaniard, one also of the band under Tom's command.

"Well?" he questioned in Portuguese, his accent none of the best. "Any news? Any more callers?"

"None, señor."

"And the news?"

"Good, señor; he lives. He will get well and strong to command us."

There was a gleam of pleasure in the eyes of the two sentries as Jack spoke, while they watched him beat upon the door and enter.

"A fine officer; one of the English!" exclaimed the Spaniard, who seemed to be on the best of terms with the Portuguese guerrilla, a strange occurrence in those days. "If the worst were to come to the worst – "

"Yes," responded the other, in a patois both could understand, "yes, he would command. But it would not be the same; the Señor Tom is one man, the Señor Jack another."

Inside stood the faithful Andrews and Howeley, drawn stiffly to attention, saluting their officer. Jack's serious face brightened.

"Well?" he demanded again, as if he were short of words.

"Better, sir, beggin' pardon," came from Andrews, with his accustomed formula demanding pardon. "Surgeon's been and gone; says as Mr. Clifford's as hard as rocks, and if he wasn't he'd have been trampled and banged to pieces. Swears as he must have fust of all been blowed skyhigh, and then charged over by a thousand of the stormers. He's takin' notice of things, sir, is Mr. Clifford. Axing fer the regiment, and you. He'd have been out of bed if I hadn't prevented him – and, my word, he were a handful!"

"Ah!" ejaculated Jack, a grin rising on his solemn features. "A handful! Tom's that all the time. Wanted to get up, eh?"

"Yes, sir," grunted the rifleman, still stiffly at attention. "'Not you, sir,' I says; 'you're as weak as a kitten.' 'Rot!' he whispers, 'cos he can't speak no higher. 'I've got work, Andrews.' 'So has we all,' I answers. 'Orders is orders, sir.' 'Eh?' he asks, sharp-like, as you know, sir. 'Orders that you're to stay abed, sir,' I says, not half-liking things. 'Orders be hanged,' he tries to shout, struggling to get up, and then falling back on the pillow."

"Like him," smiled Jack. "Anyway he's safe now, eh?"

If it were a question of our hero's security from interference, then there was little doubt; for beside those two sentries parading outside the courtyard of the house in which he lay, there were a dozen more at different points, with Andrews and Howeley to supervise them. Nor were such precautions to be wondered at when the tale of the last few hours was told. Tom had not only passed through the dangers of a siege. True, he had escaped the ordeal at the breaches, and had been borne still breathing into the town. But there another danger had suddenly assailed him; for no sooner was he laid in bed, and Jack had departed, than the watchful Andrews had discovered a sneaking form clambering in by one of the windows. Had Andrews been Septimus John Clifford's head clerk he would then and there have made a discovery of vast importance, and one which we will at once hand on to the reader. For this sneaking intruder, bearing a stiletto in one hand, was none other than José de Esteros, Tom's cousin, now sunk to the lowest depths of infamy, and forestalled just in the nick of time in the endeavour to carry out further villainy. He had made good his escape, and, as a result, Tom's little command now watched over their damaged leader.

The best of food, the most careful attention on the part of the army surgeon, and the tenderest nursing at the hands of Andrews and others were already having their effect, and so, for a while, we may leave our hero, satisfied that he will bob up again in the future and encounter more adventures in this memorable campaign.

Let us then step outside the walls of Badajoz, walls conquered at huge sacrifice by the British, and after the most gallant fighting. For it will already have been gathered that this Peninsula campaign was full of incidents, all of which the space at our disposal prevents our mentioning. In the circumstances it will be readily understood that with troops operating here and there over a wide stretch of country there were numerous affairs, some mere skirmishes, some approaching a big engagement, which, while they each and every one undoubtedly helped on the end at which our leaders aimed, and are with equal certainty recorded in official histories, yet for the purposes of this narrative are of small account.

Beginning in 1808, as already recorded, this memorable campaign had at first seen a succession of commanders sent by the vacillating Ministry in England, and of these the great Wellington alone remained, having proved his right to lead our armies. Those momentous months since the opening of the campaign had witnessed, as the reader will remember, the dismissal of the French from Portugal and the advance of our armies into Spain. The tragedy of Sir John Moore's retreat over the border had followed; and we have seen Wellington forced backward in Portugal itself, till the enemy held the country right down to the formidable heights of Torres Vedras. And then had come the turn of the tide. The vast masses of men controlled by Napoleon had been sent to the rightabout, and here, in the eventful year 1812, we find Portugal once more swept clean of the enemy, and the important fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo and of Badajoz in the hands of the British. The tide had turned, we say, and, like the energetic and astute leader he was, the great Wellington at once proceeded to follow up these successes, and to push on into the heart of Spain, with the one object of forcing the enemy finally to quit the Peninsula.

But no narrative of the events which had already happened would be complete without mention of a force, subtle enough and slow to be seen at first, which was now steadily aiding the efforts of our soldiers. Despite the criminal neglect of our ambassador in Madrid, despite, too, the wicked opposition and folly of the Spanish Junta in particular, and in smaller measure of the Portuguese Junta, both of which bodies had persistently opposed each and every aim of the British, our armies had fought and won. Often enough the gallant, thin red line had been basely left by the fleeing troops of Portugal and Spain to face the onslaught of Napoleon's trained battalions. And yet that thin red line of gallant souls had conquered. Their persistence, their cheerful bravery in the face of enormous odds, and their bull-dog, strenuous fighting had told its tale on the masses of the enemy. Scepticism as to their worth as soldiers, a scepticism natural, perhaps, to troops highly trained, and till then victorious in all directions, had been changed to hearty respect, if not to actual fear. That feeling of respect engendering fear and caution alone was the subtle force now aiding our armies. Each man, whether officer or private, had the utmost confidence in his leaders and in his comrades; while the French, bearing the late prowess of the British in mind, wondered whether success were now as certain as they had imagined. Who knows? The persistent advance of our armies, the skill of our leaders, and the bull-dog courage of our men may well have had their effect upon the great Napoleon himself. Accustomed to see his arms successful in every venture, he found in the British a foe who knew no defeat, and who pressed him always. For the Portuguese this restless Emperor may have had some respect; for the Spanish he had only hatred, since their determination not to accept his brother as their king, and their incessant rioting and attacks upon his soldiers had caused him trouble and anxiety. Now there were the British to deal with. British opposition had wrested Portugal from the all-conquering Emperor of France. She was now thrusting her way into the heart of Andalusia. That meant further strenuous fighting, and if past records were to be repeated, it meant further British victories, in spite of the mass of Napoleon's armies. Who knows, then, we suggest, that this fear may have weighed with the restless Emperor of the French, with the ambitious and avaricious little corporal? To be balked in his wishes was with him ever, as with all such men, galling in the extreme. Here, in the Peninsula, our coming and our intervention had resulted in tremendous efforts on the part of Napoleon, efforts set aside by Wellington's armies. And now the tide had turned. What wonder if Napoleon, realizing that here he was on the verge of a defeat, turned his eyes to other conquests? Whatever the cause, Russia now attracted the attention of the Emperor. He had ridden posthaste for Paris. France, groaning already beneath the weight of taxation necessary to maintain such huge armies in the field, was being bled still further, both in money and men, to provide another army of conquest. Troops were already massing on the borders of Russia, and soon was to arrive that calamity which will always hold a prominent place in the histories of the world. For Napoleon was marching to defeat. The plains of Russia were to see his armies swept almost out of existence, while the crops now ripening at the beginning of summer, a summer which Wellington in Spain had determined to make the greatest use of, were to flare up before Napoleon's troops could lay their hungry hands on them. Moscow, the city of promise, the magnet drawing the ambitious and reckless Emperor to destruction, was to burn before his eyes, and thereafter snow and frost and desperate hunger were to fight his armies silently, while Cossacks in their thousands hung like a swarm of flies about the flanks, slaughtering the helpless.

But we are forestalling events. Napoleon had left the Peninsula for other and, as he imagined no doubt, easier conquests, leaving his generals in Spain the difficult task of driving out a British army which, with few exceptions, had proved itself absolutely invincible.

Portugal was entirely in the hands of the British. Spain was beckoning strongly. Wellington, gathering his faithful and war-worn troops about him, was about to plunge into the heart of Andalusia, and, quitting the siege of fortresses, was eager to try conclusions with the enemy in the open. But he was ever a careful man, and as a preliminary to invasion and attack upon the Duke of Ragusa he planned the destruction of the bridge erected at Almarez, spanning the Tagus, and protected by forts immensely strengthened by the French. Here were known to be collected huge stores of ammunition, while the bridge itself served as a means of communication between one French army and another. With the crossing destroyed, Wellington might hope to throw himself upon the enemy with good chance of success; for by keeping the various forces of the enemy apart he might reasonably expect to beat them in detail, victory against the vast masses of French when combined being out of the question. Thus Almarez and the bridge spanning the historic Tagus now attracted his attention, as well as the formidable forts erected to protect the same.

Let us describe in a few words the condition of the surrounding country. From Almarez itself to the city of Toledo the left bank of the River Tagus is hemmed in by a range of steep mountains. From Almarez again to the Portuguese frontier, roads in those days were almost non-existent, and the crossing in any case most difficult; while farther east the bridges at Arzobispo and Talavera were covered by the neighbouring high ground.

The River Tagus itself separated the armies of Soult and of Marmont, and, seeing that Soult's pontoon train had been captured in Badajoz, there was left no other means of communication between the armies than the bridge of boats at Almarez, which the critical eye of Wellington had already selected for destruction. But, as we have hinted, there were difficulties in the way; for in view of the importance of the place, and of the mass of stores of one sort or another concentrated there, the French had made every preparation to protect the bridge. A fort had been erected on the north bank, another at the opposite end of the bridge, while the heights immediately adjacent on the latter side had been connected by a chain of works which a casual inspection would have said defied assault. Yet Wellington considered that Sir Rowland Hill, in command of a force 6000 strong, would contrive to overcome all difficulties, and that gallant officer promptly marched from the camp which the British had now formed, for since the fall of Badajoz our forces had marched north to the Tagus, and had crossed the river. A small expeditionary arm was therefore within striking distance of the all-important crossing at Almarez. Secrecy, as in the case of the descents on Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, was essential in this adventure, and Sir Rowland, therefore, marched at night-time, secreting his whole force in the wood of Jarciejo during the day, this wood being in the immediate neighbourhood of the enemy. Then his men were divided into three columns, and in the early hours, while darkness yet hid the land, they set out upon an expedition destined to prove amongst the most brilliant of any recorded during this long campaign in the Peninsula. For the plans of generals, like those of other more humble individuals perhaps, are destined at times to be overthrown, and here was an example. That secrecy at which Sir Rowland Hill aimed was destroyed by a combination of circumstances, so that the garrisons of the forts about to be attacked became aware of his intentions. Yet the work was done, and done brilliantly, though only at a heavy sacrifice. The forts were taken, the bridge secured, while the losses of the enemy were very heavy. Then, expedition being an essential point, mines were laid, and the works, or a portion of them, destroyed. When Sir Rowland returned to Wellington's camp he was able to report the success of the expedition, while Wellington himself was now able seriously to consider the question of an attack upon the enemy in the open; for the first step toward that effort had been taken. Easy communication between the enemy was destroyed, and now had come the opportunity to seek out and beat in detail the armies of Napoleon.

Forward, then, was the order, and 21st July, 1812, found Wellington and his army north of the Tagus, close to Salamanca and to the Rivers Tormes and Huebra, having meanwhile cleared the intervening country and besieged the Salamanca forts. Marmont, with his French battalions, now lay before him; for they had crossed the river between Huerta and Tormes, and were endeavouring to secure the road to Ciudad Rodrigo. However, if Wellington, as a clever tactician, as he undoubtedly was, had as his object the division of the enemy's forces, with a view of beating them in detail, Marmont also was not unskilful. Remembering the comparative paucity of the British troops, and the fact that they had, as it were, burned their boats behind them, he hoped to throw his troops between our regiments and the fortress of Ciudad Rodrigo, then garrisoned by British, thus not only cutting communication between Wellington and the fortress, but also drawing a line of fire and steel between the British and Portugal, to which country they would naturally retreat in case of defeat or in the event of huge odds being concentrated against them.

Thus, having brought our gallant fellows face to face with an equally gallant enemy in the open, and having reviewed the movements of this difficult and complex campaign, we can leave the two rival armies in position for battle, and can once more seek out Tom Clifford, commander of the composite force of Portuguese and Spanish guerrillas, which, amidst a host of irregular British allies – some good, some indifferent, and some altogether useless and even dangerous – had already earned a name for energy and a patriotic spirit worthy of emulation amongst many chicken-hearted countrymen. Back, then, to Badajoz, let us retrace our steps, and, accepting the salutes of the Spanish and Portuguese sentries – smart fellows both – hammer on the door of the courtyard and enter, there to be greeted by the faithful Howeley and Andrews.

Some weeks had passed since Tom had joined the forlorn hope, and had been blown like a stone down the steep scarp of the breach effected by our gunners. He sat in an armchair, his feet on a stool, Jack Barwood discussing matters with him, and at the same time smoking a pipe which he had secured in the dwelling.

"Of course," Tom was saying in his business-like way, "orders are orders. But – "

"They're a beastly nuisance for all that. Granted," was Jack's interruption. "Well?"

"And, equally of course, must be obeyed. 'Pon my word, Jack, you seem to be as keen as I am on this quest. What's it to do with you, anyway?"

"Nothing; everything." Jack took a heavy pull at his pipe, choked suddenly, and then glared at the pipe as if it had done him a mischief.

"Awful country," he grumbled. "Decent food ungetable, decent beds unknown. Tobacco – ugh! it'd sicken a Billingsgate porter! But this business interests me. Why? you ask. Here's why. Fair play is a thing I like; foul play gets up my dander. Of course I know the whole story now. This cousin chap first took food and lodging from your father and pretended gratitude; then he managed to work things so as to have you impressed. There I owe him a grudge; for if he hadn't, where should I be, eh?"

"Eh?" repeated Tom, a little puzzled.

"That's just it," went on the ensign in an aggrieved tone of voice. "Who'd have had the command of those French troopers? Who'd have brought them through that mess? Who'd now be promoted to the command of a regiment of guerrillas?"

He might have been the most injured of individuals, to look at him. Jack rose to his feet and bashed the offending pipe heavily on a table. And then he grinned at Tom.

"My uncle!" he exclaimed; "you are a flat! Yes, even if you are my superior, I can call you that. Took everything I said as if it were meant seriously. Where should I have been, eh? Dead, Tom – dead as a bullock. Shot outside that Portuguese church, and cut to mincemeat by those rascals. But this business of yours interests me solely because you happen to be a pal of mine, and in my opinion very much injured. This José is a scoundrel. What's more, I believe him to be at the bottom of all these troubles. He's that spy, sir, I declare! He's the very same scoundrel who crept in here with the idea of doing you a mortal mischief. There, think it out, and don't wonder if I am a little interested in this curious and blackguardly mystery."

Could this really be the case? Was José de Esteros not only the rascal who had caused Tom's impressment, as we know, and Tom and his friends now knew, to be the case; but also, was he the treacherous ruffian who had been feeding the enemy with news of Wellington's movements, whose messenger our hero had displaced outside Ciudad Rodrigo? Could Tom's cousin be the selfsame villain who had abducted his father and uncle, and who later on had endeavoured to creep into this house in Badajoz and murder the gallant officer so nearly killed in the storming?

"Humbug!" Tom declared, nursing the arm which he had worn in a sling since receiving his injuries. "I grant that José was the cause of my impressment. There I owe him a grudge, Jack."

"Eh?" asked the adjutant, stoking his pipe with a finger and pulling at it vainly. "How?"

"Been troubled with a certain Jack Barwood ever since," came the serious answer. And then Tom went off into roars of laughter, while Jack pretended indignation.

"Granted that José was the cause of that portion," Tom continued. "We know he came to Oporto; there we lose sight of him. The spy comes on the scene. Granted here, again, that he it was who abducted my father and uncle, for the note left was in the same handwriting as that other we secured outside Ciudad Rodrigo; but that doesn't say that José was the spy, even if you argue that he has reasons for wishing to abduct my two relatives. Now, does it?"

"But the handwriting? It's like his; you forget that."

"I don't; I agree that, from what I can remember of it, there is a similarity. But I'm not by any means sure; besides, José couldn't be such a rascal."

Jack's reply was as emphatic as many others. "Stuff and nonsense!" he blurted out. "A man who tries to get rid of a cousin with whom he has lived all his life, as this fellow did, will take on any piece of rascality. Look at his actions on arrival at Oporto, and think of his cunning. My boy, this José's at the bottom of the whole matter, so keep your eye open."

How Tom was to keep his eye open his adjutant failed to explain, nor was there any further evidence to convict José of this added piece of rascality. Tom was still in ignorance of the personality of the spy whom he had traced to Oporto, and thence to Badajoz. He knew that the man was responsible for the abduction of Septimus and Don Juan de Esteros. But was José the spy? Was the spy the man who had crept into these quarters in Badajoz with the obvious intention of slaying Tom, and, if so, what was his object?

"It's José all the time," declared Jack, cocksure of the fact.

"Doubtful," repeated Tom, still refusing to believe his cousin capable of such villainy. "But leave it at that. The fellow's gone, and taken with him his two captives; the next thing to do is to follow."

"Wrong; the next move is to obey orders."

Jack had become a very useful adjutant by now, and showed his promptness by handing Tom the orders which lay upon the table. Our hero almost ground his teeth as he read them; for there, in black and white, were definite commands for the regiment to march for the Tagus, and there join hands with Wellington's army. Never, in fact, had orders been worse received. Hitherto Tom had been the first to welcome them; now they came between him and private business.

"But duty first," he told himself. "We'll march before the week's out, for those are the instructions. Meanwhile we've at least heard something. Read the report again," he said, signing to his friend.

Jack picked up a paper, and promptly obliged him. "Here we are," he said. "Alfonso reports that following orders he has continued to patrol the surroundings of the fortress. A covered carriage was driven out just before dusk last evening. It was stopped and found to be empty. The driver stated he was going to a country place to fetch in an invalid. Later, when the carriage was well beyond our circle, it stopped beside a convoy of carts going from the fortress. Sharp questioning of the man in charge brought the admission that men were hidden among the contents of the carts, two of whom were bound and gagged. They were placed in the carriage, which was instantly driven away down the road, and when our men arrived was out of hearing. Though they searched, it was in vain. The scoundrel had got away with his captives."

"And then?" asked Tom, listening without sign of emotion.

"Close enquiries here discovered the fact that a carriage had been hired to take a gentleman to Madrid. That's all."