THE FAT MAN THREATENS TOM
THE FAT MAN THREATENS TOM
"Or a grave," added the fat man, thrusting his handkerchief away and slowly drawing a pistol. "Mark you, Englishman, we wish you no harm. We ask for very little. What now are the plans of the English lord?"
Tom laughed at them. He rocked from side to side at their questions, but as he did so he wondered whether he ought straightway to shoot the rascal into whose pistol muzzle he looked. It would be so easy. As for the others, pooh! he did not fear them. A blow here, a thrust with his stiletto there, and he would be out of the room. But there was Alfonso. No—the time had not yet come for shooting.
"Señors, you choose to joke," he said pleasantly. "What next?"
"For you, nothing after my bullet. For us, the easy task of extracting information from your comrade."
"Ah! There they thought to succeed—never!" Tom told himself, for Alfonso was a strict patriot. "Why ask for this information?" he demanded. "Of what use is it to you?"
Quick as a flash he saw the importance of here and now discovering whether or no this was a gang of conspirators or spies dealing in official secrets, the pests who had already purloined maps and plans from Lord Wellington's dispatch case, rascals, in fact, who traded on the news they were able to sell to the enemy. He noticed glances passing between the men present. The sunken orbits of the fat manturned from one to another, his jowly cheeks flapping. And then he swung round on Tom.
"You may as well know as not," he said, with an air of impertinent assurance, "for if you speak, and tell this tale, you are one of us. If you decline——"
He levelled his pistol with precision, squinted along the sights till our hero, staring at the rogue, could see his fat cheek at the far end bulging over the butt. And then a podgy finger went to the trigger. It was a nasty feeling, that, distinctly nasty. Tom found himself clinging very hard to his pistol butt. He barely withstood the strong temptation to start to his feet and attack the odious ruffian. Then a smile broke across his face, a smile that seemed to reassure the fat man, while the others, villains undoubtedly, sighed as they were relieved of a strain which even they felt.
"But of course you will speak, and therefore I may tell you who we are," the man in the centre said, leaning forward so that the chair squeaked, while he slowly lowered his weapon. "Know then, Englishman, that we have business with all such matters. To the British we carry plans made by the French. From the British we take similar plans, and pass them to the enemy. Simple, is it not? Unpatriotic! Poof! We must live, and such business is paying. I will tell you. From this Lord Wellington our friend yonder took many documents but a month ago. They now rest in the case of Monsieur the French commander, while we live here in luxury. That is so, comrade?"
The rascal alluded to, none less than the very one whom Tom impersonated at Ciudad Rodrigo, wagged his head knowingly and smiled a smile of triumph.
"It is so; we have papers here to prove it."
"Then it's the gang, and a pretty set of scoundrels they are, to be sure," thought Tom, turning the matter over swiftly. But he wanted to know more, he wanted additional time in which to complete a plan then forming in his head. "But——" he began.
"There is not such a thing as but in our business. We succeed always. Here, supposing we fail with you, and I have the unpleasant task of shooting you, we succeed without a doubt with your comrade. Ah, that stirs you!" gurgled the fat ruffian, hugely enjoying his fancied position of bully.
"That is understood," came Tom's answer, given with easy assurance, though the poor fellow was feeling far from happy. "But I was about to ask, seeing that I am invited to join you, surely you have a leader? Then who is he?"
"The tale, and then you shall see; for of a surety we have a leader. Now, friend Englishman, you have put your own head into this noose, take therefore my advice and escape in the only way possible. Believe me, the part of spy, conspirator, what you like to term it, is easy enough."
"And supposing I know nothing?" It was, after all, only a reasonable suggestion, for the officer in command of a British army, or any other army for the matter of that, is not in the habit of spreading hisplans broadcast, nor is every staff officer of sufficient importance to warrant such confidence. No; such matters are buried secrets, discussed only amongst the highest, often enough known only to those immediately helping the commander. To speak the truth, Tom had his own ideas of the future movements of this Peninsula campaign; but they were his ideas only, discussed with comrades over a camp fire. They were very likely not Wellington's. Once before, too, he had had ideas, ideas imagined for a purpose. He remembered of a sudden how he had rewritten the spy's message to the commander at Ciudad Rodrigo, giving supposed plans of his commanding officer which were likely enough, no doubt, but happened to be merely the result of guesswork. And why not buy freedom here for a while? Why not purchase respite even for a few hours? Yes, even for only a few hours, for in that space of time he could do much.
"I'll speak," he said abruptly, causing the fat man almost to overbalance. "But the tale is a long one. A map will be necessary. I must sketch the plans and write against them."
"Ah! Did I not say that he, a staff officer, must know all?" gurgled the stout wretch. "Did I not prophesy that he would speak? While our leader swore the opposite. Declared he would never open his mouth, even with a pistol grinning at him. Poof! I knew I should succeed. I have that reputation."
He mopped the perspiration from his face, rolleda cigarette, and lit it with the help of a comrade. "But why not speak now?" he asked suspiciously. "Now, while we are here to listen."
Tom paused a little before answering. It would not do, he guessed, to be too emphatic. "Yes," he began, wrinkling his brows, "I could try, of course. But the thing must be written and sketched some time if it is to be any use to you, so that I should have to tell it all over again. Why not let me do it all at the same time, and add the sketches? Then you will have such complete information that you will be able to command a high price for it."
"Bravo!" called one of the men. "He speaks the truth. Why not as he suggests? We have him securely here. Then give him time. Cut him free now, and leave him to it."
How strange to feel in his heart almost terror at that suggestion, a suggestion which he would have welcomed but ten minutes before. Tom went furiously hot from head to foot, and then felt like an icicle. For to cut him free meant a discovery. That discovery of his severed bonds would rouse suspicion, and even he could hardly hope to persuade these folks to trust him again. "Wait," he called. "Leave me as I am to think. Bring pens and ink and paper when you have them."
"And food in the first place. See you there," cried the fat man, pointing to the fellow Tom had already met, "go for food. Then pass outside thehouse and get the writing things. We will go back to a meal; you can join us later.
"After the meal I have a friend to see outside. I will get these things, and then join you as the night gets older."
There was a knowing smile on more than one of the ruffianly faces. The fat man grinned and chortled. "A friend! Hola!" he cried. "And one whose company is better and more entertaining than that of these comrades. Well, well! We have all had friends. When the war is ended, and we have done more business, you will marry the wench, and small blame to you."
They went away at once, banging the door and leaving their prisoner.
The sigh which Tom sighed was of the number one order. It was immense. It heaved his shoulders upward and his ribs outward till he looked like a trussed pigeon. And the perspiration trickling from his forehead showed under what tension he had laboured. For he had passed through a terrible ordeal, one which might easily have overmastered his courage. That grinning pistol was not the worst part of it all, though it was bad enough. There were a hundred fears lurking in his heart. Supposing, for instance, it came to the point where he drew up this sketch, information and plans purely imaginary, conjured up in a somewhat inventive brain, and those plans proved in the end to be actually in a manner similar to those projected by the great Wellington!Then his name would go down for ever and ever as a traitor, as a coward, as a spy. The word was loathsome to him. Better to be butchered than suffer such a chance.
Then the old optimistic spirit triumphed. "Chance! There wasn't such a thing, for he hadn't yet set his hand to paper, and wouldn't if he could help it. The job's got to be tackled right at once," he told himself; "there's no time for delaying. But one thing's certain: this is the very gang Lord Wellington wishes to discover. For haven't I had proof positive? Then how to haul the whole lot by the heels? Ah, that's a conundrum! Precious queer for a fellow to be sitting in a hole like this, a prisoner, and to wonder how he's going to capture the fellows who have bagged him! Queer, I do think!"
He actually smiled. Tom began to grin at the recollection of his good fortune, for he had had undoubtedly the best of the recent interview. He had, for the time being at any rate, hoodwinked a portion of the gang, and, seeing that the noise in the adjacent room, deafening after the entry of his late visitors, had now subsided into a gentle murmur, why, if noise was any criterion of his fortunes, the conspirators were easy in their minds.
Seated in his corner, Tom began to pass each one of the individuals who composed the gang in review before him. Not that he could remember in detail all those ruffianly countenances; but there were some whose features had left an impression. The two fatmen, for instance, rascals if ever there were any; then half a dozen of the others; and lastly, and to the exclusion of the remainder, the one he had taken for leader, the shadowy individual, obviously disguised, with the writhing hand across his mouth and the assumed voice.
"Could that be José? No. The fellow was too short. But—but, awfully like him, that writhing hand. And the voice too?"
Tom scratched his head, a luxury denied him a little earlier. "Bother the chap!" he cried. "Anyway, I hope it won't prove to be that precious cousin. All the better for him and for us when I come to round up this crowd!"
How Jack Barwood would have roared with laughter at him! But let us tell the whole truth. Down in the depths of his own jovial heart of hearts Jack would have been, secretly, just a wee little bit jealous. For what thundering optimism was here!
"The cheek of him!" he would decidedly have exclaimed. "Here's Tom foxing in a corner, with his hands freed when they're supposed to be lashed together. That's, so far as I can see, his only point of advantage. Against that single item he's a prisoner, locked in a room, with a band of cut-throat villains eating their supper beside him. And here he has the amazing cheek to think, and think seriously too, of the time when he'll have captured the lot, to even sympathize with a cousin who may possibly be the leader. Hoo!"
Indignation, amusement, concern for the evident idiocy of his chum would be expressed in his retort had he been there to make one. But he wasn't, more's the pity. And to our hero the amusing, idiotic side of his thoughts, if so you care to term it, was a source of no more than passing interest. He began to check certain matters over on the tips of his fingers. He nodded his head knowingly, and then, of a sudden, he looked up. For the door yonder had opened. Now it banged to with a crash. A step was coming along the passage. A key was thrust into the lock, and presently the man who was to supply him with food, and, later, with writing implements and paper, was pushing his way into his prison. In a moment he would stoop to cut those lashings which now were not in existence. In a moment, in fact, the cat would be out of the bag. Tom braced his muscles for a struggle.
The man who had entered Tom's prison, the one whom his irregulars had captured outside Ciudad Rodrigo, and in whose clothes our hero had made his venture into the fortress, pushed the door to with his toe, and, stooping, deposited a wooden tray in the centre of the room, on the identical spot so lately occupied by the rickety and creaking chair of the fat rascal who had been so free with his promises and his pistol.
"Food and drink," he said, as he stood upright. "Ah, I had forgotten the comrade! He, too, perhaps, would care for something. Then I must get the key. Eduardo has it. Yes, that is what I shall do. Then there is the pen and ink and paper, and later——"
"The friend," smiled Tom, watching the fellow like a cat. "The little friend, comrade, whom you will marry when you have made this fortune."
The fellow grinned; he liked the wit of the English staff officer. It flattered his vanity to be chaffed about this little matter of which he was inordinately proud.Yes, it pleased him distinctly—this prisoner was quite an amiable fellow.
"Ho, ho!" he laughed. "Wait till you are one of us. But, remember, fine feathers make fine birds. You will have no gaudy uniforms. In matters such as this with us it is a case of the man alone. It is personality that tells."
Tom would have laughed at his stupid vanity at another time. But there he was, all strung up for the struggle which he knew to be inevitable, waiting and waiting. And how can a man, or a youth for the matter of that, conjure up an easy smile under such circumstances?
"Yes, it is always the man himself who makes the running," said this fellow. "But I will take food to your comrade, and then for the rest."
He was wool-gathering, this spy. Even spies, we suppose, have their amorous moments and their gentler passions. This man was so taken up with the thought of the outing he was to have that he was actually pulling the door open and leaving without a thought as to the condition of his prisoner. Of what use food and drink when a man's hands were supposed to be fast bound behind him?
The reader can imagine the temptation Tom felt to let him go without a murmur; for then the struggle, inevitable no doubt, would be deferred for a while. He would have a longer breathing space; he would, perhaps, be better prepared in the course of a few minutes.
"Funking, eh?" he asked himself severely. "Wanting to put it off, you brute. Hi!" he called. "Thanks for the food and all that is to follow, but permit me to point out that I am unable to touch it. After all, even were I a four-footed animal, I could hardly manage the task with two of my limbs tied. No doubt the thought of this friend drives such trivial matters out of your head."
A roar escaped the jailer. This was quite the best joke he had come across in many a long day's march. How his comrades would cackle when he told them; for of course he would do that. It would add zest to their chaffing.
"Indeed it is a pretty compliment I am paying a certain person, and so I shall tell her," he giggled. "To think that I who am so careful should go about with my wits so flying. She will smile and be pleased. Hola! Then this is a true sign of my feelings for the minx."
"Quite a decent fellow in some ways, though a traitor," thought Tom, eyeing the fellow narrowly. "Makes one feel rather a sneak to upset this meeting. But then, business comes first, eh? Yes, I'm sorry for him, but it can't be helped."
He staggered to his feet as the man came towards him, still with his hands behind his back. And then he lunged swiftly, catching the jailer neatly between the eyes with a fist the knuckles of which were now hard after months of strenuous campaigning. The man rose bodily from the floor, his feet kicked spasmodicallyforward, and in a moment the Spanish hero, the spy and traitor who with his comrades made a living by selling the stolen secrets of those who had come to deliver their country, was crashing upon the floor.
Tom bent over him, a stern look on his face. He was ready for more violence if need be, though not eager. "Stunned, knocked him out with the sort of blow a pugilist would give. That's satisfactory for the moment. Now for the future. Sorry about that girl though. Must tell Jack Barwood and see if he cannot console. Now for Alfonso; but there's a bothering key wanted. Perhaps this one'll fit. Supposing it don't?"
Up went his hand again. The dashing young staff officer, of whom Lord Wellington already had such a high opinion, looked for the moment just like a Spanish churl. For, recollect, he was still dressed as muleteer, and muleteers wear clothing which compares but badly with the smart uniform of an officer of the staff. Besides, he had been somewhat tumbled about of late. But what did it matter? Even had there been anyone to look on, it was too dark to discover details. Not that Tom could not see. Those ruffians who had interviewed him had taken a lamp to the room, and the man who lay sprawling now had brought a candle, only it had gone sprawling too, and lay guttering and almost out at that moment. Tom picked it up and looked about him.
"No use waiting; time's precious," he told himself. "I'll see what can be done with Alfonso's door. Then we'll set things humming."
He took the key from the door of his own prison, and, snatching up the candle, stealthily slipped along the passage. There was a door ten feet down it, and the key slid into the lock. But it refused to turn, causing Tom to groan with vexation. He closely inspected the lock then, and stood considering matters. A roar of laughing and loud voices from the farther room, in which the spies were supping, distracted his attention, and in a moment he was back at his own door. Ah! A streak of light burst its way into the passage. The door was opening. Tom instantly slid into his own room, closed the door gently, and locked it from within. Then, putting the candle in the far corner, on the same wall as the door, he waited events. They followed swiftly; for a minute later there came a thunderous blow upon the door, and then a burst of laughter.
"Ho, there, within! We come to join a comrade at supper, and to bring him better fare than he has been given—open."
It was the voice of the fat man, breathless as if after much effort, a little incoherent, if the truth be told. The laughter was that of men easily roused to merriment, who enjoy a feeble joke, or a saying wanting in wit and point, more thoroughly and longer than it merits. They had been supping, that was the explanation, and conspirators such as these might wellbe expected to sup wisely, but too freely perhaps. And here seemed to be an example.
"Open!" bellowed the fat man, shaking the door violently.
"Open!" roared his comrades, lurching against it. "Open and sup with new comrades."
"And the key? Does a prisoner, even if he be about to become a new comrade—does he have the key of his prison given into his care?"
The note of amusement which Tom managed to fling into his voice caught the fancy of these ruffians. They laughed uproariously, so that for a while not one could make his voice heard. And then one suggested that they should beat the door in.
"Aye, beat it in!" gurgled the fat man. "See, I will throw myself against it, and, pish! the thing will fall to the ground."
That put a summary end to the matter, for the fat individual was unable to control his muscles with sufficient precision and dexterity to bring about the attempted movement. He launched his ponderous weight at the door, it is true, but his dive fell short by two feet at least, and, stumbling, he rolled amongst his comrades, bringing about a scene of confusion.
The place rocked with the laughter of men. More than one leaned against the door, shaking it badly. Then there were groans, fat groans, almost in a stifled voice, and coming from the one who seemed to be the ringleader in this piece of mischief. There was more movement and more groaning, then heavysteps, as if of men carrying a burden. In fact the fat man had been placedhors de combat. His own indiscretion and dash had brought about his downfall. A damaged leg caused his overexcited spirits to evaporate into the smoky air of the foul dwelling in which his comrades were supping, while the pain drew a succession of the dreariest of groans from him.
"Done with their invitation for the time being," hoped Tom. "Ah, there goes the door to with a bang! I'll have a look outside and see what has happened."
Gently turning the key, he pulled the door ajar and listened. Not a sound came from the passage, and when his head was thrust out there was not even a glimmer of light to be seen in the direction of the supper room. But there was noise enough. Laughter rose and fell, and was punctuated frequently by the dismal groanings of the man who had been hurt. In fact, it looked as if the gang had settled down for a time, and as if our hero might prosecute his own affairs without interference. He tiptoed along to Alfonso's room and shook the door heavily. But there was no answer from within, not even when he called in as loud a voice as he dared risk. Had he but known it, his cousin lay on the floor over by the far window, still pinioned, as obstinate as any mule, determined to hold no converse with the rascals who had captured him. He was not wanting in spirit, this Spanish cousin of Tom's. As a matter of plain fact, he too had made many and many an effort tofree his limbs. But he had not observed a similar catch existing on his own window, and with which our hero had managed to saw through his own bonds. That was, perhaps, an excellent illustration of the difference existing between the two young fellows. Alfonso was a gallant officer, and had proved himself possessed of ample courage on many an occasion. He was not brilliant, however, and wanted some of the dash displayed by his English cousin. Perhaps that was the result of his nationality, of his upbringing, of his general life and surroundings until the outbreak of this Peninsula War. But then, had Tom's life and conditions been much different? He had lived his seventeen years in that quaint old house down by the Thames, with its fine mulberry tree spreading wide, leafy branches in front. The peeping into a big office provides no great excitement, nor the seeing there of certain grey-headed clerks who, as was the case at the establishment of Septimus John Clifford & Son, carried out their allotted tasks daily without a hair's variation. There was his school, to be sure; contact there with many a comrade; friendships made and lost and regained; struggles for supremacy in such games as then were practised; and, on occasion, somewhat too frequently as his masters stated flatly, there were contests outside, such as that between Tom and the grocer's lad. That had been our hero's life, quiet and regular enough, as one must admit. But the result was that Tom had a dash and swiftness about him Alfonso would never possess, while here was anillustration which pointed to his quickness. Alfonso still lay bound by the thumbs and elbows: Tom was free, in the enjoyment of active movement.
"Perhaps he's asleep," he thought, shaking the door again and calling without receiving an answer. "Anyway, I daren't make more noise, and there is nothing about with which I could hope to force the lock. It begins to look as if I'll have to go to those rascals and hold the lot of them up till they produce the key. How'd it do?"
His finger went pensively to his forehead, while he stood in the passage thinking deeply. At the far end the noise in the supper chamber had become even greater. There were shouts as well as laughter now, and once a sudden stamping, as if one of the gang had risen to his feet and was indulging in apas seul, with which to enliven his comrades.
"Let's get along to the farther end and see what's there. Ah, another room! Locked? No, open. No key, though, and the place as dirty as the others."
He lifted the guttering candle overhead and inspected his surroundings. The room was empty, completely stripped of furniture. As a matter of fact the house itself was an empty one which this rascally gang had appropriated, taking full advantage of the times. A raid on neighbouring houses at the moment of the French retreat and the coming of the British had stocked certain of the rooms, while the owner must have been absent, else there would have been enquiries. Then, too, by staring out of the window,Tom made the discovery that the dwelling was situated at the end of a narrow yard, there being stabling on either hand. It blocked this far end, while opposite there was a low, arched exit leading into one of the minor streets of Madrid.
"Just the sort of crib for such fellows. No one likely to come into the yard unless they had actual business here; and since these troubles started I expect few have been able to keep horses. The French cavalry, of whom there have been thousands swarming through the city, will have snapped up every atom of forage, and made horsekeeping an expensive and impossible thing for most inhabitants. So it's the place of all others for such a gang. Perhaps it'll suit me just as well too. Now I wonder."
Stretching his head out of the narrow window he looked thoughtfully about him, and, gazing upward, took stock of the stars, for the clear night sky was thickly sown with them. One of the advantages of campaigning, and commanding an irregular corps undertaking frequent detached duties, was that he had learned to read his direction by the stars, and now a little careful study told him that he was facing south, that the street into which the house looked and the yard actually emptied ran east and west.
"While the bulk of the city's to the north," he told himself. "That'll help once we get out of this hole."
It is to be remarked that he had already decided that escape was not only possible but certain. And he had used the word "we". Tom, in fact, nevereven dreamed of leaving Alfonso. Had he done so, he could have dropped from that window and gone clear away. It would be a squeeze to push his somewhat bulky figure through the frame; but it could be done, and below, outside, lay freedom; within lay death. For this gang of spies was not likely to spare a young fellow possessed of some of their secrets, and able to bring soldiers to arrest them. The fact that they had spoken so plainly was proof positive that they considered the two prisoners had no chance of escape, while so little were they in sympathy with the feelings of an Englishman that they, for the most part, had taken it for granted that both Tom and Alfonso would willingly sell any knowledge they happened to have for the sake of security. And the very act of doing so would, of course, make them part and parcel of the gang; for to return to the troops would be impossible.
"No use thinking at all," he grumbled, satisfied with his look out of the window. "Let's get to work. This room's empty, so I'll leave it. Now for the passage again. Ah! Stairs leading downward; others going up. Try those descending first of all."
There was a door at the bottom of the steps leading directly into the big yard. The huge paving stones, littered with unswept rubbish, seemed to call loudly to him, to invite him to come out; for across their surfaces he could step to freedom. Behind, upstairs, lay danger; but a friend, a cousin, lay there also. Clambering up again, Tom was about to ascend tothe floor above his prison, when shouts came from the supper room and sent him darting back to his own. The door hiding those villains swung back with a crash and revealed a scene which, when he came to look more closely at it—for he was now only venturing to peep through the partly opened door of his prison—caused him to stare at the members of the gang, whose acquaintance he had so recently made, with eyes which were distinctly startled. What else could one expect with such people, the lowest of the low, traitors to their country, men who made profit out of the misfortunes of the nation, and who stooped even to do a mischief to the very people who had come at such risk, and at such cost in blood and money, to help the Spanish against the French? These ruffians had been making merry without a doubt. Secure in their retreat—for the house was so isolated and shut in that even their shouts and ribald laughter were hardly likely to attract attention from outsiders—they had been supping liberally, and the red wine of Spain had been flowing. The view through the open door discovered three of the wretches dancing hilariously with unsteady feet, while beyond them, separated by the table, on which stood a smoky lamp, was the fat individual who had been so free with his pistol. His ungainly cheeks hung flabbily. His pig-like eyes were hardly visible, while his lips were blown outward at every expiration. Nor had he ceased groaning. Evidently he found the chair in which he had been placed little to his liking, or he may have beenmore severely injured than Tom thought. In any case his wrinkled forehead, his sallow cheeks, and his anxious eyes showed that he was suffering.
But what cared the others? Not a jot. Those three danced right merrily, more than once being on the eve of upsetting the injured man. Comrades sprawled across the table, their heads buried in their hands, evidently sunk in sleep, while the picture was completed in so far as the contents of the room went, or so much of them as Tom could see, by a couple of the fellows sprawled motionless on the floor. Obviously it was not any of these who had caused the commotion. The centre of the scene, in fact, was occupied by two men half in and half out of the door, past whose figures Tom squinted to see the interior. One still clung to the latch, reeling unsteadily, while the other leaned against the post. It was clear that there had been an altercation between them, and as a matter of fact they had risen to go outside and fight the matter out. But Spanish tempers are quick and fiery. Shouts of anger came from both, while the man clinging to the door already had his stiletto drawn. Indeed Tom had hardly taken in all these particulars when the two threw themselves at one another like tigers, and, gripping wherever they could, fell to the ground, and there rolled from side to side as they struggled. Gasps and cries of hatred escaped them both, and then a shriek silenced every other sound within the building. It even stirred Alfonso to movement. He came to his door andbeat his shoulders against it, for that shriek sent a horrible chill through him.
"It may be Tom they're murdering," he told himself, with a gasp.
But Tom was merely an onlooker, a horrified one, to be sure. That shriek told a tale there was no mistaking. Suddenly one of the men seemed to become flabby. The hand which had gripped his opponent's neck fell to the floor with a hollow bump. Then his head sank backward. The victor rose with difficulty, stood looking down at his victim, and, having wiped his stiletto on the tail of his coat, staggered back into the supper room and banged the door behind him. There was a hush about the building after that. Maybe those of the conspirators still able to understand were as disturbed as Tom at the occurrence. But we hardly think so. Quarrels were frequent enough; bloodletting was a common occupation.
"Well, they're brutes, the whole lot of 'em, that's true," Tom told himself; "and it seems to me that the majority are in such a condition that they are hardly likely to discover what's happening. I'll wait a little, and then just go tooth and nail for that door. It would take any one of them five minutes to stir his drunken wits, and by then the thing'll be open and Alfonso out. But that's not all that I want. My orders were to discover the gang and apprehend them. That's clear; so the job's not finished with Alfonso's release."
He went out into the passage boldly and slid along to the door of the supper room. A feeble groan came to his ears. That was the fat man—snores caused the air to vibrate. No doubt the rascals sprawling on the table and beneath it were responsible. But of talking there was none. As for the man on the floor, he was dead. Tom leaned over him and listened; there was not so much as the whisper of a breath. He ran his hands over the man's face, down his clothing, to his belt. The sheath of his drawn stiletto was there, and a pistol also. There was nothing more, nothing. Yes, there was something: Tom gripped it. It was a key thrust into the belt. He tore it out as if his life depended on his haste, and went racing down the passage. It fitted. The lock of Alfonso's room turned. The door swung open widely.
"Come swiftly," whispered Tom, darting in and proceeding at once to cut Alfonso's bonds with the blade of a knife he always carried.
"But—how have you done it? How long have you been free? Who helped you?" gasped his cousin, firing off a string of questions in a deep whisper. "Those brutes, where are they? I heard them fighting or drinking."
"Hush! We'll talk the thing over later. Come to the window and look out. Now, there is the courtyard at the bottom of which this house is situated. When you reach the street, turn sharp left and run to the camp. Bring men back withyou. Bring any soldiers you can come upon. It is hardly nine yet, and there will be plenty about. Also there is a bright, harvest moon, and that makes matters easier. Surround this house. Guard every outlet, and then we shall have the lot of these fellows. Alfonso, this is the very gang we are after."
He took the still astonished Alfonso by the shoulders and pushed him out of the room and down the stairs into the yard.
"But you, you, Tom? What happens? You stay? Why?"
"Go quickly; this is a great chance. Go at once."
Tom turned abruptly and entered the house again, while his cousin, knowing him by this time, and having already learned in the course of service under his command that this young English cousin of his had a way, when thwarted, of giving the curtest orders, darted out into the yard and went racing through it. The one remaining, the young man upon whom the great Lord Wellington had already turned his attention, crept up the stairs again to the passage. He stole softly to the door of the supper room and then back to those stairs leading upward. Ascending them, he reached another landing with a couple of doors leading from it. The flickering candle he bore in his hand showed the dirt and squalor of the place, and showed, moreover, something strange about one of the doors. It was heavily barred outside, while a padlock passed though an eyelet in the bar and made all secure. There werevoices coming from the inside. Did our hero recognize those voices after listening for a while? Then why such extraordinary excitement, the like of which he had not shown before, even in the midst of strenuous adventure? He went red-hot from head to foot and gazed desperately about him. What could have caused this sudden nervousness? Could it be that one of the speakers must be José, the rascally cousin who had already done him such an injury, or could it be possible——?
Frantic with eagerness he backed against the wall of the passage and then rushed at the door, putting all his strength and weight into the blow. He kicked it desperately. Careless of the commotion he raised, he kicked and kicked and kicked again, till, of a sudden, the door flew open. That moment, too, was the signal for loud shouts from the supper room. A swarm of rascals, roused from their stupor by the noise, came swarming out, and, running down the passage, found two empty prisons to greet them. The sound of breaking timber above reached their ears, and at once they turned to the stairs and raced up them.
While Tom Clifford, commander of the composite force of Spanish and Portuguese irregulars, staff officer, and as smart a young fellow as served under Wellington's command, listens to the approach of those ruffians who had been such a scourge to our army, and who had traded upon the military plans and secrets of those who had come to aid their country, let us for a few moments anticipate events and narrate what followed the eventful conflict at Salamanca.
Portugal was long ago cleared of the invading French. Now the enemy were sent flying into the heart of Spain, while Wellington could cheerfully cut himself clear of Portugal, feeling sure that the troops in rear would be sufficient to keep open his lines of communication, always an important matter with a general invading a country swarming with enemies. For then, if the worst came to the worst, the retreat lay open.
We find him, then, promptly marching on Madrid, and have told how the troops, with Tom Clifford's command, reached that city. The immediate resultsof Salamanca and this march were far-reaching. King Joseph, the usurper thrust upon the Spanish throne by Napoleon, fled the city, ordering Soult and Suchet to come to his help. The former, then at Cadiz, where Sir Rowland Hill opposed him, destroyed his heavy cannon and marched to join Joseph, while Sir Rowland Hill at once proceeded to attach his force to that of Wellington. The latter then set out for Burgos, a most antique city, situated on the highroad to Bayonne, the French retreating steadily before him, looting churches and houses as they went. This movement of the invader towards his own frontier did not declare that he had given up the contest. On the contrary, General Souham, who had now taken over the command of the French in Spain, or did so on 3 October, was making every effort to collect a huge force to oppose us, and, although no serious opposition was offered to our march to Burgos, the clouds were gathering daily, and Wellington had reason to fear that, if he failed to capture this stronghold, he would be left to face overwhelming French odds or to retreat once more on his own base. And, as we have taken the liberty of anticipating events, let us say that, in spite of the utmost gallantry and the most dashing assaults, Burgos resisted, and Wellington who was unprepared for assault, since he had no adequate siege train with him, had to attack the defences. After no fewer than five assaults, a number of sallies by the gallant garrison, and thirty-three days investment, the siege wasabandoned, some 2000 of our men having fallen, while the French had also lost heavily. Nor must we omit to mention the skill and undoubted valour of Colonel du Breton and his men, who here opposed us.
Souham had now collected some 70,000 of all arms, and, therefore, retreat was urgent. That retreat became, indeed, almost a facsimile of the famous retreat of Sir John Moore, though it did not continue so long; for, in spite of every precaution, in spite of wrapping cannon wheels with straw to deaden the sound, the garrison of Burgos got wind of the beginning of the movement. Almost at once French columns were in pursuit, and from that day there were constant conflicts between our rearguard and the enemy. Passing by way of the River Tormes, on his route for the frontier of Portugal, Wellington crossed that river, leaving a thin brigade to hold the bridge at Alba—and a gallant brigade it proved. Pelted with cannon shot, unable to reply save with musketry, this brigade clung to the spot, arresting the pursuit of the enemy till their position was turned by French cavalry crossing the river elsewhere. Then came the passage of the Huebra, accompanied by constant fighting. But the skilful Wellington drew off his troops, though many a poor fellow was left dead or wounded, until at length the frontier of Portugal was reached, and with it winter quarters. Some 9000 men had been lost on the way, while baggage had for the most part fallen into the hands of the enemy.
But let us realize that this was no defeat. Therewere some 90,000 Frenchmen now swarming about our retreating column, for every available soldier had been brought up by Souham, who determined once and for all to check the designs of the British. And yet he failed. Wellington had reached security with the bulk of his forces. Thus ended the campaign for the year 1812, only to be resumed again in the spring of 1813, when our armies, still beneath the same conquering hand, were to advance north again, right up to the French frontier, and finally to enter France. Let us also contrast at this point the movements of Wellington's troops with those of Napoleon's men in other fields of conquest. Wellington began that memorable retreat from Burgos on the night of 21 October, 1812, and saw its completion within a few days of the crossing of the Huebra on 18 November. At the very same time Napoleon was also in retreat, that famous and fearful retrograde movement which laid the foundation of his final downfall. Reaching Moscow with his hosts on 14 September, he found the city deserted by its 250,000 inhabitants. His triumphal entry was disturbed by the outbreak of fire, and finally he was driven forth to face an Arctic Russian winter by the destruction of the city. He set his face homeward on 19 October. And later we find him hastening from a field that no longer attracted his attention, just as he had hastened out of Spain soon after the coming of the British. Entering Russia full of confidence, and with nearly a half-millionof men, he bade farewell to those of his generals who still lived on 5 December, leaving behind him a shattered remnant, devoid of discipline, half-frozen and more than half-starved, a rabble still to suffer frightfully at the hands of the dashing Cossacks. Think of the untold misery. Think of the very many thousands of men, all in the flower of manhood, who perished in this Russian campaign. Then recollect that the overpowering ambition of this "Little Corporal," this commoner, this distinguished artillery officer, was chiefly responsible. France needed no larger territory. Honour and glory could have been won for her emperor and her people by this lost energy, this sad loss of young vigour, applied to her own internal affairs, to commerce and other matters. Instead, France wept at the loss of its young manhood and groaned beneath the burden of excessive war taxation, while the years which followed were to see the downfall of the empire which was then being created, the loss of all these provinces won by the sword at the price of the misery and death of thousands and thousands of innocent and would-be peaceful people. Napoleon may have been great—he was, admittedly, a military genius and a man of unsurpassed courage and ambition—but the thousands who went to their doom at his bidding, or who sent thousands of their fellows to their end because of his actions, bear a terrible testimony against him. His deathbed amidst those peaceful surroundings at St. Helena, high up over thesmiling sea, was a glaring contrast to the deathbed of many and many a poor fellow who followed or opposed his fortunes.
But let us turn from a subject such as this to the fortunes of as bright a lad as ever set foot on the Peninsula. We left Tom acting in a manner almost inexplicable. See him now, then, with that door shattered and burst wide open, and himself returned to the head of the stairs up which the rascals from below were rushing. And look at the two who were with him. One, a stout jovial man of medium height, and possessed of ruddy features which showed resolution and energy, stood at his side armed with a length of splintered woodwork. A second, taller perhaps, thin and cadaverous, and of sallow Spanish complexion, stood in rear gripping our hero's stiletto. Both were more or less in rags, and grimed with long confinement in a noisome prison. But in each case fearless eyes looked out through flashing glasses. And down below, coming upward helter-skelter, were a dozen rascals, one bearing a lantern, elbowing one another, firing their weapons haphazard, shouting at the three above them.
"Silence!" Tom commanded at the pitch of his voice. "Silence for a moment. Now, lay down your arms and go back to your room. You are surrounded. You are prisoners. The man who dares to fire another weapon will be taken outside and shot instantly."
Gaping faces looked up at him, and then into theeyes of their fellows. Two men at the bottom of the stairs turned to run. And then one of the leaders called upon them not to be cowards.
"Surrounded!" he laughed. "He is fooling the lot of us. Hear him call upon us to surrender when we are on the point of chopping him to pieces. Up we go. In a trice we will have the lot of them strung by the necks from the windows."
His pistol belched a charge of flame and shot in Tom's direction, and, missing our hero's head by a narrow margin, swept above the spectacles of his gallant father—for it was Septimus whom he had unearthed from the room behind him, and his uncle Juan also—causing that sedate, business gentleman to duck most violently. It completed its work by crashing into the ceiling and bringing down a yard of material which almost blinded Don Juan as it smashed into pieces. As for Tom, he leaned forward, took steady aim, and sent the rascal tumbling backward with a bullet through his body. He was after him, too, in an instant, beating at those below with the butt of his pistol, while Septimus ably backed up the attack, laying about him vigorously with his piece of splintered boarding. Men dived for their legs, hoping to bring them down in that way, but were met with blows which sent them heeling downward. Shots were fired by the ruffians, and were answered by the howls of the wretches hit by accident. Then a shout of consternation set the whole lot retreating.
What was that? Tom stretched his ears to theirlongest and listened. Septimus produced a very red and somewhat soiled silk handkerchief and slowly mopped his streaming forehead. Juan took off his glasses, wiped them thoughtfully, and then gave vent to the expression: "Well, I never!"
"Soldiers! British!" shouted Septimus, beginning to dance from one toe to the other, and presenting a somewhat ludicrous appearance. "Tom, I tell you those are British soldiers!"
"No—Portuguese and Spanish. Listen, that's my adjutant, Ensign John Barwood."
Up through the windows of the house came the curt commands of an officer, commands issued in a language neither Spanish nor Portuguese, but a species of patois made more hideous by the obvious English accent of the officer.
"Recover arms! Ground arms! Split up by sections. Shoot any man who comes from the house and refuses to surrender. Andrews and Howeley take charge each of a section. Ensign Alfonso is at the rear and guards the place in that quarter."
"Hooray!" bellowed Tom, racing down the stairs and to the window of his late prison. "Jack, ahoy! Pass a few files into the house for our protection. I've got the two we've been searching for. Pass the news to Alfonso. His father's here, safe and sound. And mind you, don't let one of those beggars escape. Seize or shoot them all. Search their clothing and send a couple of men at once to help me to search for papers."
The minutes which passed after that were somewhat strenuous. Every exit from the house was guarded, and when a man dropped from one of the windows, and refused to halt at the command of one of Jack's parties, there came the snap of a musket, followed by a fusillade, for the first shot had missed the mark. A piercing shriek echoed through the yard, and when Tom craned his neck out of the window there was one of the rascals stretched still and stark on his face.
By now the irregulars were pouring into the house, their bayonets fixed in readiness for trouble. They found the bulk of the conspirators crouching in their supper room amid the litter of bottles and glasses, while in their centre, looking still more woeful and downcast, was the fat man who had been injured. He was carried below after being searched, while the rest were mustered together, thoroughly searched, and then marched into the yard, where they were put under a guard. Then began a complete and thorough investigation of the premises. Documents and papers were dragged from hiding places, and as the night wore on towards early morning Tom was able, with the help of his friends, to unravel the whole mystery.
"The same handwriting," he repeated on many an occasion, turning over some new document. "Plans of Badajoz as regarrisoned and defended by the British. Ditto of Ciudad Rodrigo, showing that these men have had agents in both places. Details here ofWellington's forces, with the exact number of guns, their calibre, &c."
"And here the same of the French," sang out Alfonso, now an interested spectator. "Double-dealing individuals, evidently."
"I'll eat my hat if that writing isn't the same as that found in the house where your father and uncle were living," suddenly interrupted Jack.
"Right—I've seen that all along. It goes to prove that the ringleader all through who managed this gang also abducted those two. Who was he?"
"That is a question beyond me," declared Septimus, leaning over his son's shoulder. "We never saw a leader. He was never referred to in our presence. We were suddenly set upon and bound and gagged. That same night we began the journey to Badajoz. Then came the siege, the assault, and our flight; that is to say, we were hustled away from the fortress. And here you are, Tom. 'Pon my word, how you do turn up!"
"Like the usual bad penny," grinned Jack, whereat Tom made a slash at him with his own sword, which the young adjutant had placed upon the rickety table.
"But," he said, "how does it happen that you fellows yourselves turned up just in the nick of time? Things were getting decidedly warm for us at the top of those stairs."
"Warm!—Boiling!" gasped Septimus, mopping his forehead at the thought, while Don Juan took off his spectacles and rubbed them.
"Beg pardon, sir, but there's officers ridden into the square," reported Andrews in his stentorian tones, thrusting a head into the room. "They've called for the officer commanding."
"That's you," declared Tom, pointing at Jack. "I'm still a muleteer; haven't rejoined yet."
But the generous Jack wouldn't have that at all. He insisted on Tom's obeying the order.
"This special job's ended," he said, "You've bagged that crowd, and mighty pleased Wellington'll be at the news. As for our arrival, why, your men acting as muleteers got to hear something after you had gone and sent along to me. I brought half a company into the city at once. Alfonso tumbled upon us almost as we were passing the yard, and—here we are, all aliv—o."
It was a strange coincidence that Wellington should be the one on this occasion to turn up unexpectedly also, but at a moment which could only be called opportune. He and his staff had attended a ball given in honour of the arrival of the British, and there he was in the yard when Tom and his friends descended, tall and austere, his slim figure standing out in the moonlight.
"You command this party!" he exclaimed in amazement, as a seeming muleteer drew himself to attention a few paces away and saluted. "You!"
"Yes, sir."
Ah! There was something familiar about the face and the figure. The voice reminded the generalof a young officer he had often had in his thoughts.
"Name?" he asked curtly.
"Lieutenant Tom Clifford, sir, in disguise. I have to report that the mission on which you sent me has been successfully carried out. With the help of my comrades I have captured or killed every member of a gang dealing in military secrets. There is abundance of documentary evidence to convict them."
"Ah, that is news! And their leader?"
"Over there, sir," explained Jack, who stood at attention beside our hero.
The whole party crossed the yard to the far corner, where lay the body of the man who had attempted to escape, and who had been shot down in the act. A torch was produced, and the light enabled them to see the features.
"The prisoners have admitted that he was their leader," said Jack.
It was José. Tom turned away with a feeling of sickness. After all, it was not pleasant to think that a cousin could have been such a rascal. There, in fact, was the end of all his scheming, all his meanness and jealousy.
"You will report to-morrow at headquarters, Mr. Clifford. I offer you and your officers and men the heartiest thanks—good morning!"
Wellington was gone. Tom watched the gilt of his epaulettes shining as he went through the archway; then he turned. Jack was standing stiffly atattention behind him. Septimus was rushing forward with outstretched hand.
"Congratulations, sir," gasped the ensign.
"To both of you," cried Septimus. "The chief of the staff gave me the news. Tom, you've been gazetted captain for that work at Salamanca, while Jack also gets a step, and Alfonso a mention. Now let's get to supper, or breakfast—which is it?"
There is little more to tell of our friends. In the year which followed, that of 1813, they took the field again with Wellington, having meanwhile passed safely through the retreat from Burgos. Their corps saw service in the complicated battle of Vittoria, where the British were successful. Thence they helped at the capture of San Sebastian, while in October they actually marched into France, having driven the French from Spain altogether. The battle of Nivelle was then fought, Tom's men taking their part. The Nive was crossed after desperate skirmishing, and so the advance of the British force continued. Meanwhile, Napoleon's Russian disaster had set upon him a flood of enemies, all pressing for vengeance. To describe all that happened would need many a chapter; but in the end the power of Napoleon was shattered. He himself abdicated the throne of France, and was exiled to the island of Elba. Thence he escaped, and gathered the flower and manhood of France once more about him. But it was his fate to meet Wellington yet again. On the field of Waterloo that great general, with the help of the Germans,broke his army to pieces. A fugitive, Napoleon handed himself into the care of the British, and thenceforward was exiled in St. Helena, where, amid the cacti and the ferns, he died peacefully in the truckle bed which had followed him on his campaigns.
For Jack and Tom we have something more to say. The former was a captain at the end of the Peninsula War; Tom a colonel, the youngest in the army. Minus one arm, he looked, if anything, rather more fetching in his uniform than formerly, for he served on the commander-in-chief's staff at home till he retired. Then Jack went also. Cast your eyes back at the house of Septimus John Clifford & Son. It's not so very long ago that the old head of the firm could be seen asleep beneath the shade of that mulberry tree. He was full of years and kindness. A white-haired clerk sat often beside him, a relic of the faithful lot who were there when Tom was a boy. And there were children about, Tom's, for he had left the service and married. Jack Barwood had married Marguerite, and he and his old friend met daily at the office, for they were partners, while Alfonso managed in Oporto.
Thus our tale comes to an end. We take off our hats to Tom and his fellows. They helped to break down the menace which threatened England.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAINAt the Villafield Press, Glasgow, Scotland