Kitabı oku: «With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula», sayfa 20

CHAPTER XX
A Brilliant Capture

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 results of 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 was abandoned, 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. There were 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-million of 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 the smiling 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 the eyes 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 their longest 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 of Wellington'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 general of 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 at attention 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.