With Wellington in Spain
BY CAPTAIN BRERETON
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LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
[Illustration: TOM IS SUMMONED BY WELLINGTON]
With Wellington
in Spain
A Story of the Peninsula
BY
CAPTAIN F. S. BRERETON
Author of "The Great Airship," "Kidnapped by Moors,"
"A Boy of the Dominion," "The Hero of Panama," &c.
_ILLUSTRATED BY W. RAINEY, R.I._
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
1914
Contents
CHAP. Page
I. SEPTIMUS JOHN CLIFFORD & SON 9
II. UNDERHAND CONDUCT 25
III. ABOARD A BRITISH FRIGATE 46
IV. A NAVAL ENCOUNTER 67
V. PRISONERS 87
VI. NAPOLEON THE AMBITIOUS 105
VII. A TIGHT CORNER 124
VIII. TOM CHANGES QUARTERS 143
IX. HARD PRESSED 162
X. THE GREAT GENERAL 185
XI. ON ACTIVE SERVICE 202
XII. GUARDING THE BY-WAYS 222
XIII. CIUDAD RODRIGO 240
XIV. ONE OF THE FORLORN HOPE 263
XV. ROUND ABOUT BADAJOZ 281
XVI. THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA 302
XVII. A CLUE AT LAST 321
XVIII. THE CONSPIRATORS' DEN 337
XIX. TOM THINKS FURIOUSLY 354
XX. A BRILLIANT CAPTURE 371
Illustrations
Page
TOM IS SUMMONED BY WELLINGTON _Frontispiece_ 300
"CRASH! WENT THE BROADSIDE" 72
THE PEASANTS BREAK IN THE CHURCH DOORS 112
"GRIPPING ONE OF THE LADDERS DRAGGED IT ASIDE WITH
ALL HIS FORCE" 169
"TO HIS AMAZEMENT THE MAN CLUTCHED HIM BY THE HAND" 225
TOM ESCAPES FROM CIUDAD RODRIGO 258
A CLEVER DISGUISE 324
THE FAT MAN THREATENS TOM 345
WITH WELLINGTON IN SPAIN
CHAPTER I
Septimus John Clifford & Son
No cooler spot could be imagined on the hottest midsummer day than
the picturesque forecourt of the premises occupied by Septimus John
Clifford & Son, wine merchants, importers and exporters.
Behind the forecourt, crowding the latter closely towards the edge of
the River Thames, some few hundred yards below the point where the
stream swept and swirled through the arches of the bridge, stretched
an irregular block of buildings, that portion farthest from the court
presenting a somewhat severe frontage to the river, its many floors,
its narrow windows, and its winches and hoists dangling outside
serving to show that it was there that Septimus John Clifford & Son
stored their goods from oversea. Huge doors leading by wide, shallow
steps to the basement hinted that it was through these easy portals
that the wines of France, of Spain, and of Portugal found access to
the vast vaults stretching away behind the muddy bank of the river.
The forecourt and its immediate background bore a very different
appearance, for the garden, encompassed by moss-grown walls, was
ablaze with flowers, while one huge mulberry tree reared its foliage
before the main entrance of the building, its leaves rustling against
the curious old dormer windows and strangely shaped balconies
which adorned the front. Beneath the grateful shade cast by that
mulberry tree lay Septimus John Clifford himself, at full length
in a capacious basketwork chair, oblivious of his surroundings,
careless even of the persistent flies that hovered about the gaudy
silk handkerchief with which he had covered his head. Mr. Septimus
was asleep. Clerks in the busy office within the huge bay window, not
five yards from him, turned the leaves of musty ledgers with pathetic
care lest they should awake the ruler of this establishment. The
office boy, an urchin with round, rosy cheeks, swelled to the point
of bursting, gathered up his feet upon the staves of his chair when
the head clerk admonished him for shuffling them, and cast an anxious
eye out through the wide-open window. Marlow, the clerk nearest to
that sleeping form, almost held his breath; for he was apt to grunt
and expand his lungs with a hiss that was exasperating.
"One hour, I think," observed Huggins, a white-haired clerk, who
seemed to be the head of the office, consulting a silver watch which
was as large as a good-sized turnip. "One hour precisely, I make it."
"And four minutes," ventured his assistant, a thin, lanky man,
white-haired like his comrade. "It is time to wake him."
"Yes, now; he would not forgive delay."
Huggins rose silently from the high stool on which he was seated and
crossed to the door on tiptoe. He descended the picturesque steps
leading from the main entrance to the place with as much care as
he would have employed had he been stepping over hot bricks, and
advanced to the side of his master, as if determined to leave him
asleep till the very last possible moment. For that was the spirit
which pervaded the establishment of Septimus John Clifford & Son. A
good master was served by loyal and grateful clerks, of whom none
were more loyal and thoughtful than Huggins, the stout, clean-shaven,
white-haired man who had spent thirty years of his peaceful life in
the office.
"Hem! Three o'clock," said Huggins, coming to a standstill and
casting his eyes first at the sleeping form of his master, then at
the waving foliage of the mulberry tree, and later out across the
river to the southern shore, then almost devoid of houses. For we
do not speak of London in this year of grace 1913, but of London in
1810, a city of huge proportions even then, but small and puny when
compared with the mass of buildings which now stretch far and wide.
Smoke stacks and chimneys belching forth huge billows of dark cloud
were not then such a feature of the giant capital. Green fields
and waving trees came close up to the opposite bank of the Thames,
while the few houses there were, the open country, and the stretch
of shimmering water, with its quaint river craft, made a picture
that was fascinating. From the shade and shelter of the forecourt
the view was perfectly enchanting, and for a little while held all
Huggins's attention, even though he looked out upon it every day of
his life. Then he hemmed again, and gently touched the sleeve of the
sleeper. Mr. Septimus stirred, then, hearing a cough beside him, sat
up briskly, drew the handkerchief from his head, and, folding it with
care, placed it in his pocket.
"Three o'clock, sir," said Huggins.
"No more?" asked Mr. Septimus.
"Five minutes past."
"Four," declared Mr. Septimus, consulting his own watch--one, too, of
vast proportions. "The post has come?"
Huggins nodded.
"From Spain?"
"There are four letters."
"And from Portugal?" asked Mr. Septimus eagerly.
"One only."
"Drat the war!" cried Mr. Septimus, sitting forward with energy.
"First this Bonaparte, Emperor of the French, disturbs all trade by
pouring his soldiers into the Peninsula, and then he keeps up the
disturbance by refusing to agree that he's beaten. He's beaten, ain't
he, Huggins?"
"If not quite, then nearly, sir," came the respectful answer. "But
they say that Wellington has cleared Portugal of the French. Stocks
of wines are coming through more freely."
The reminder seemed to hearten the master of this establishment;
his face assumed a cheerful expression. Not that it had appeared
seamed with care before, for Septimus was the personification of good
humour. He was a short, stout little man, bald headed and slightly
bandy legged. Round, inquisitive goggles sat on a broad nose that
spoke of good temper. A white muffler and stock, together with an
even whiter waistcoat, covered a frame which may be described as
decidedly ample, while shapely legs--shapely even though prone
to bandiness--were clad in snuff-coloured overalls, which fitted
like the proverbial glove, and set off a figure that was decidedly
attractive and gentlemanly.
He stretched out a hand and took the letters which his clerk had
brought for him. Then, selecting the one from Portugal, he opened it
with the blade of his penknife.
"From Dom Juan de Esteros," he said, extracting the sheet within the
envelope. "Ha! That is good news. The tide of war turns to Spain, and
wines are accumulating at Oporto. That is good, Huggins. Our clients
will be glad to hear that we can soon replenish their cellars.
Business will look up."
Huggins nodded, while his sallow features reddened a trifle; for
what concerned the house of Septimus John Clifford & Son concerned
him, not from the pecuniary point of view, seeing that he was paid a
steady salary whether business were good or bad, but because of his
sympathetic interest in the firm.
"We can do with it, sir," he said. "Things have been a little slow
in the office. There has been little work after three o'clock. The
clerks have been inclined to become sleepy."
"And no wonder," responded Septimus, looking up with a laugh. "Like
master, like man, Huggins. Can't blame 'em for sleeping after dinner
if I do. It's a bad habit, Huggins, a bad habit. All the same, I
believe it helps one wonderfully. Couldn't get through these hot
days if it weren't for the forty winks I snatch. But let's see.
Dom Juan--ah! he thinks the time has come for us to have a direct
representative in Oporto. Talks of indifferent health caused by the
anxieties of the war. Asks us to send someone."
"Ahem! Yes, sir," came from Huggins suggestively.
"To send someone," repeated Septimus. "A representative, Huggins. Eh?"
"Master Tom," came promptly from the clerk. "And son, sir--Clifford &
Son."
He laid special emphasis on the last two words, causing Mr. Septimus
to look up at him and discover the old servant's face glowing. As for
the owner of this successful business of wine merchants, we can only
say that he, too, looked enthusiastic.
"And son--yes, Huggins," he said. "How long is it since there was a
son?"
"Seventeen years three months and two days, sir," was the answer.
"Master Tom's age exactly."
"To the minute almost," laughed Septimus. "He's the one; he shall
represent the firm at Oporto."
By the interest and attention these two gave to the affair one would
have imagined that it was an entirely novel subject of discussion,
whereas, to be precise, this quaint pair had long since settled
the matter. For the "& Son" had become a feature of the business.
Two centuries earlier Clifford & Son had first hung their trade
sign outside those same premises, only in those days the house was
exceedingly small and unpretentious. Still, there had been a son
in the business, and thereafter, as the years passed, a succession
of sons, while Septimus John had become, as it were, part of the
stock-in-trade of this old house which boasted of the "& Son" always
attached to it. However, in latter days, there had come a time when
that old boast had almost failed them, for Mr. Septimus had succeeded
his father at the age of thirty, exactly and precisely one day
after the birth of his own boy. It was this same infant, christened
Septimus John Esteros Thomas Clifford, who was now under discussion.
"You'll send him, of course, sir," exclaimed Huggins.
"Of course. He'd have gone two years ago if it hadn't been for the
war. Drat the war, Huggins!" cried Septimus peevishly. "It has upset
all my plans and ruined business. Here's Master Tom kicking his heels
about the place and attempting to learn Spanish and Portuguese,
when he should be in Oporto learning the languages simply because
he couldn't help doing so, and at the same time attending to the
business. I did that. I went out when I was sixteen, and came home
for good at thirty. The son in this firm has been wanting ever since,
for always the father has managed here in London, while the son has
worked the business in Oporto. Tom shall go, and quickly too; I'll
see him. What's that?"
Both heads were raised promptly, while Mr. Septimus and his clerk
remained in their respective attitudes listening intently. From the
room behind the wide bay window where the office staff worked there
came not so much as a sound. Doubtless the white-haired junior clerk
and his helpers still pored over their ledgers, while the fat office
boy still sat with his legs curled around the supports of his stool.
But from a room overhead there came the sound of strife. A girl's
voice was heard, then came that of some young fellow, piercing and
high pitched and querulous. The noise of a blow followed, a dull,
heavy sound, which gave one the impression that a fist had descended
on someone's jaw. A thud telling of a tumble came to the ears of the
listeners almost immediately afterwards.
Mr. Septimus rose to his feet with agility and gathered up his
letters. There was a severe look on his face as he made towards the
steps leading into the house.
"Those two quarrelling," he said over his shoulder.
"Then it isn't Master Tom's doing," declared Huggins, with decision.
"That Master José's always at him. He's sly, he is; he's jealous of
his cousin."
"Then it'll be a good thing when they're separated. Ah! There again!"
cried Mr. Septimus, as the sound of other blows came to his ears,
as well as a scream of rage. "I'll go to them; this conduct is
disgraceful!"
He bounded up the steps at a speed that would have surprised those
who did not know him; for, as we have explained, the head of the firm
of wine merchants was distinctly stout, and his appearance belied
all suggestion of activity. But Septimus could move quickly when he
liked, while his business hours were characterized by bustle. He
stepped hurriedly across the hall and went up the wide oak staircase
two steps at a time. He was panting just a little when he reached the
door of the apartment wherein the scuffle was taking place and threw
it wide open. And there he stood for a little time, breathing deeply,
regarding the people in the room with wide-open eyes, which seemed to
fill the whole area of his spectacles and take in everything.
"Stop this instantly!" he commanded, seeing two lads struggling
together in the far corner. "I have never seen anything more
disgraceful."
The scene before him might well have drawn such words from the lips
of the head of such a decorous firm as Septimus John Clifford & Son;
for the room was in confusion. A heavy desk, occupying the centre,
that would have been upset but for its weight, had been jerked out of
position and now stood at an angle. A chair lay on its back, while
an inkpot of large dimensions lay against the near wall with a wide
puddle of ink about it, and the panelled wall itself was splashed in
all directions with the same dark fluid. A young girl some sixteen
years of age gripped one side of the desk, and stood there watching
the contest with staring eyes that were decidedly frightened. Two
lads occupied the centre of the picture, and as Septimus entered
they were locked together in a firm embrace, each one endeavouring
to belabour the other. But at the voice of command they broke away,
one of them, a youth of medium height, promptly turning from his
antagonist toward the door. The movement was the signal for the other
to strike out swiftly, sending his fist crashing against the other's
head, and following the cowardly movement by a kick which cut the
feet of his opponent from beneath him, and brought the lad with a
thud to the floor.
"That was a coward's blow!" declared Septimus hotly, advancing into
the room; "the kick was contemptible. Stand away in that corner,
José. I will thrash you severely if you attempt another movement."
He closed the door quietly behind him, placed a seat at the desk so
that he could see all three within the room, then slowly wiped and
adjusted his glasses.
"Please explain," he began icily, when finally his glasses were
adjusted. "I left you here at two o'clock. You had work sufficient to
last you till the evening. What is the meaning of this disgraceful
interruption? You, Tom, answer."
He looked closely at each of the lads in turn, and then fixed his
eyes upon the one who had been struck in such a cowardly manner by
the other. In doing so Septimus Clifford looked upon the counterpart
of himself. For before him was the son who was of so much importance
to the house of Clifford, the son who was to represent the firm in
Oporto--the one, in fact, whom the reader will already have observed
was particularly favoured by Huggins. Tom was of middle height, as
we have remarked, well built and solidly put together. In spite of
his ruffled hair and his flushed face there was something undoubtedly
attractive about the young fellow, so much so that Septimus could not
fail but note it.
"Looks me square in the face and eye," he muttered beneath his
breath. "That's the way with the Cliffords. Knows he's probably in
for a licking, and yet don't funk it. He's ready to receive what he's
earned, and ain't going to lie to lessen the punishment. Well?" he
asked severely, for Septimus was not the one to show favour.
But Tom made no answer. He stood squarely facing his father, his
character clearly shown upon a face that was decidedly pleasing if
not exactly handsome.
"Well?" demanded Septimus again, more curtly if anything.
"Ask him, sir," came the reply, while Tom jerked his head at the lad
over in the far corner where Septimus had ordered him.
"Then you," exclaimed the stout little man, turning to the second
youth, he who had delivered the cowardly blow and kick. "What have
you to answer?"
"He started it," came abruptly from the one questioned. "Tom called
me names and struck me."
"Ah!" exclaimed Septimus, regarding the youth coldly, till the latter
reddened beneath his scrutiny. "He started it, José, you say. Why?"
The youth addressed reddened even more at the question, while his
eyes shifted from the face of his interrogator to Tom's, and then
across to the girl's. Contrasting the two young fellows, Tom and
José, one could not compliment the latter; for he seemed to be the
very opposite of Tom. A year his senior, perhaps, he was lanky and
lean, while his arms and legs and body seemed to writhe and twist as
his eyes shifted from corner to corner. The chin disclosed weakness
of character and want of firmness, to which thin lips and watery
eyes added nothing. In short, José was anything but attractive.
"Why did Tom start this quarrel?" asked Septimus relentlessly, his
glasses turned on José all the while.
"I don't know," came the surly answer. "He's always quarrelling."
"Then you began the matter?" said Septimus, turning upon Tom the same
close scrutiny. "Why?"
"He didn't!" came abruptly from the girl, who was standing a few
paces from him. "José is not telling the truth. Even though he is my
brother, I can't remain quiet and know that he is blaming Tom for
what is really his own fault."
José's eyes gleamed as his sister spoke. His brows were knit together
and his thin lips pursed, as is the case with one in anger. At that
moment this unattractive youth looked as if he would willingly have
struck his own sister.
"She favours him," he cried angrily. "She's always on his side."
"Silence!" commanded Septimus sternly. "Now, Marguerite, tell me
about it."
"He started to tease me," declared the girl, nodding towards her
brother. "He splashed the letter I was writing with ink, and then
threw some over my needlework. Tom asked him to stop, and then called
him a bully. José threw the inkpot at him promptly."
"Ah!" came from the man seated in the centre. "And then?"
"Tom knocked him down twice; then they began to struggle together."
"It's a lie!" shouted José, beside himself with rage, his pale lips
trembling.
"Eh?" asked Tom curtly, advancing a pace towards him, and looking
threatening.
"Stop!" ordered Septimus, lifting a hand. "By rights I ought to leave
you two to settle the matter between you. I have no fears as to what
the result would be; for a man or youth who accuses his sister of
lying deserves a thrashing, while you, José, deserve it twice over.
You have lied yourself, and I myself saw you deliver a cowardly blow.
You will remain here and go on with your work; Tom will come below
with me. For the future try to be friendly to one another, at least
till you are parted."
"Parted?" asked Tom curiously, while a scowl showed on José's face.
"Yes, parted," repeated Septimus. "The time has come for you to go to
Oporto, Tom, there to act as representative of this business."
José's face was a study as he listened to the words and saw the
pride and enthusiasm with which Tom was so obviously filled. Even
Marguerite was regarding her cousin as if he were a hero, and,
indeed, that was the light in which she was wont to look at him. For
ever since he was a little fellow Tom had been Marguerite's special
protector, and often and often had he saved her from her brother's
ill treatment. José was, in fact, a bully. Sneaking and mean by
nature, he was the very opposite of his sister, and ever since the
two had been brought to the house he had been jealous of his cousin
Tom. That was the secret of their ill feeling from the beginning.
Provided José treated Marguerite fairly, Tom was prepared to live
on good terms with him. But always José regarded Tom as a fortunate
rival, as his future master; for was not Tom the son attached to the
firm? And now to hear that he was to go to Oporto, there to rule
the roast, filled José with envy and hatred. He could see Tom his
own master, with clerks to do his bidding, while he, José, the less
fortunate, was slaving at a humble desk in England. It roused his ire
when he recollected that were there no Tom he himself would fill his
place, and would one day be the head of the firm of Septimus John
Clifford & Son.
The scowl on José's face had deepened as Septimus spoke. Tom's happy
features incensed him to the point of bursting. A moment or so later,
when the door had closed between him and the other three, and while
their steps still resounded in the passage, José gave full vent to
his hatred and anger. He pranced up and down the room. He glared out
through the window as Tom appeared, and if looks could have killed,
that young fellow would have ceased to exist forthwith. Then José
flung himself petulantly on to a chair, buried his face in his hands,
and remained in that position for some few minutes, his restless
limbs writhing and twitching meanwhile.
Suddenly, however, he sat up and stared hard at the wall opposite.
"Why not?" he asked himself, as if apropos of nothing, while a
cunning leer bent his lips. "If there were no Tom, José would go to
Oporto. And who would carry out the work more fittingly? Tom shall
not go there. I swear that I will prevent him."
He was poring over a book half an hour later when Septimus entered
the room again with the intention of having a serious conversation
with him, and to all appearances José was a different individual. He
was sorry for the anger he had shown, sorry that he had insulted his
sister, and eager to be friendly with everyone. But, then, José was a
crafty individual. That night as he lay in bed within ten feet of our
hero he was concocting plans whereby to defeat the aims of Septimus,
and bring about the downfall of Tom, his cousin.