Ciudad Rodrigo
"Halt! Stand fast and give the countersign!"
A huge French grenadier barred the road where it passed in beneath
the frowning doorway of the fortress of Ciudad Rodrigo, and with his
long bayonet dropped to the level of the chest of the intruder called
upon him brusquely and in no uncertain tones to halt.
"The countersign," he demanded once more, peremptorily, the point
of his weapon actually entangled in the stranger's clothing, while
the look on the soldier's face seemed to say that he would willingly
make a little error and transfix him. As for the latter, he was a
well-grown, active, young fellow, with tousled hair dangling over his
eyes, a general appearance of untidiness, and a something about him
which denoted neither the genuine Spaniard nor the genuine Portuguese.
"Son of a dog no doubt," growled the sentry. "Neither fish nor flesh,
nor yet good herring. A _peste_ on these loafers about this place.
Poof! If I were here I should be fighting, instead of swilling wine
and idling as do these men. Well?" he called loudly. "The word?"
Tom looked up at the man from beneath the drawn-down brim of the
tattered hat he had borrowed from the news bearer his men had
captured. "Orleans," he murmured, putting into the word the queer
accent to be expected of a stranger.
"Ha! Then enter; but whither? The dog may be a spy of the British,"
the man growled, and at the recollection, and the sudden suspicion,
once more elevated the point of his weapon, and cleverly contrived to
catch it in the lapel of Tom's coat.
"The street of St. Angelo," answered our hero under his breath, as
if he were imparting a secret. "To one Francisco, with news, you
understand?"
Apparently the man had learned some Spanish since the invasion of the
Peninsula, and contrived to understand the words.
"Then enter," he cried. "Enter."
Down came the butt of his weapon with a clatter on the stones, while
Tom passed on meekly. Indeed he was anxious to give the impression
of one with little courage, merely a tale bearer. Also, he was in a
hurry to get away from the Frenchman. For always he was dogged with
the fear that he might by some evil chance come face to face with
one of the troopers with whom he had fought the Portuguese peasants.
However, the grenadier was not one of them. Tom left him standing at
ease, and at once clambered up the steep way leading to the town. As
for the grenadier, he watched the retreating figure of the stranger
reflectively.
"A Spaniard? No," he told himself. "A Portuguese? _Parbleu!_
Impossible! He has not the colouring. Then what? A mixture? No.
Then--English!"
The very suspicion set him marching to and fro with energy. His
musket flew to his shoulder, and then came down again with a bump.
The grenadier was consumed with doubt for some few moments, and then
with suspicion that soon became certainty. He called loudly for the
serjeant of the guard, made his report, and was promptly relieved.
A few minutes later he was hurrying in the direction Tom had taken,
with three of his grenadier comrades to assist him.
"A fairly tall, broad-shouldered ragamuffin," he explained. "One with
the appearance and manner of a coward at first sight, and with the
frame and body of an athlete, and the eyes of one who has courage in
abundance. Seek for him; if he fails to surrender on demand, shoot!"
It was a very pleasant prospect for Tom, and no doubt, had he known
what was happening, he would have hastened his footsteps, and
would have promptly taken measures to ensure his escape. But Tom
had important work to do, work which required time and patience.
First, there was the envelope to deliver, with the fictitious
plans he had drawn, and the wording that told not of Wellington's
anticipated attempt of Ciudad Rodrigo, but of his retirement towards
Lisbon. In fact, Tom had fabricated a yarn which, if the governor
of this fortress believed it, would throw dust in his eyes and aid
Wellington's plans enormously. Then there was a tour to be made of
the defences, the guns to be located and counted, and any special
works recorded on the plan he must draw. Our hero was, indeed,
engaged on recognizance work of the utmost importance, work hardly
likely to be facilitated by the three grenadiers who were making so
hurriedly after him.
"The street of St. Angelo," he repeated to himself; "one Francisco."
Selecting a lad who was playing in the street, he enquired the way of
him.
"Up there to the right, then to the left sharp. It's the last street
in that direction," he was told, the boy evidently seeing nothing
strange about him. Tom promptly took the direction indicated, and,
following the turnings in succession, came to the street he was
searching for.
"Francisco lives at a cabaret at the corner," he reminded himself.
"There it is: 'Michael Francisco, dealer in wine.' And there's the
fellow himself."
A beetle-browed, untidy individual was sitting just within the
entrance to the cabaret, warming his toes at a charcoal brazier. From
a room within came the sound of voices, the tinkle of a stringed
instrument, and the chink of glasses, while from a spot still farther
away, perhaps in the back regions of the dwelling, the voice of a
scolding woman could be heard, drowning the other sounds completely
for some few seconds. Tom looked cautiously about him, and then
sauntered up to the door.
"One Francisco?" he asked. "Of the street of St. Angelo?"
"The same," came the immediate answer, while the proprietor of the
place looked him over sharply. "And you?"
"Someone with a message from Oporto for you to deal with. Here it is."
An exclamation of delight broke from the man, who at once seized the
envelope. "You have orders to wait, then, my friend?" he asked.
"I have; I shall seek a lodging down the street. To-night I will come
for the answer."
"Then step inside now and take a glass," the man said promptly.
"To-night there shall be an answer. Come, a glass. Ho there, wine!"
he shouted.
The scolding voice ceased of a sudden, while a woman appeared at the
door of a room located at the end of the passage. Some five minutes
later she brought a tray containing glasses, and poured wine into two
of them.
"To our success!" cried Francisco, lifting his glass and speaking
significantly.
"And may you get what every traitor deserves," thought Tom as he
lifted his own allowance. "To you!" he cried, tipping the glass
upward.
It was just at that moment that, glancing through the bottom of his
upturned glass, and aslant through the open door of the cabaret,
which being set at the corner of the street commanded a long view
of it, our hero caught sight of four French grenadiers hastening
along it. At their head was one who was almost a giant! His flowing
moustaches and the breadth of his shoulders seemed strangely
familiar, while a second look convinced Tom that it was the very man
who had stood sentry at the gate and had admitted him.
"Strange!" he thought. "They are the first soldiers I have seen in
this direction, though there are others, of course. There are two in
this cabaret at the moment, for I caught a glimpse of them. Ah, the
big man is pointing! They are all hurrying--this looks ugly."
It was one of those situations where one engaged in dangerous work
such as our hero had undertaken might very well be captured before
he was more than aware of his danger. Hesitation might mean his
downfall. On the other hand, if he were mistaken in the designs
of the approaching grenadiers, and they had no concern with him,
then action at the moment might lead to suspicion on the part of
Francisco, which would be almost as bad. Tom screwed up his eyes and
looked closely at the oncomers; then, seeing them turn towards the
cabaret, he asked a question in the most unconcerned voice possible.
"Tell me," he said, "I may rest in here, upstairs where there is less
noise? I have come fast from Oporto, and feel too tired even to seek
for a lodging."
"Then pass up the stairs," came the answer, while the innkeeper
deposited his empty glass on the tray with a bang. "Pass upstairs,
friend, and rest in the room overhead. In an hour perhaps, when I am
free, I will go to the governor. There is no haste in these matters.
Go now. I will attend to the customers who are now coming."
He turned to greet the grenadiers, now within ten yards of the door,
while Tom lounged to the stairs, and then darted up them. At the top
he stood and listened for a few moments.
"Ha!" he heard the big grenadier exclaim. "This is Francisco. Now, my
friend, you have a caller. Where is he?"
That was enough for Tom. It was clear that he was suspected, and
equally clear that if he did not hasten he would be captured within
a few minutes. But how was he to get away? He opened the nearest
door and thrust his head into the room to which it gave admittance.
It was empty; there was nothing there to help him. He went then to
the next, and peered into it noiselessly. There was nothing there
either----"Ah!" Tom gave vent to a startled exclamation, for a man
lay full length on a bed--a man who seemed to be sunk in the depths
of sleep. Who was he?
He was across the room in an instant, bending over the man. Yes, he
was sunk in a profound slumber, and, if Tom could have guessed it,
Francisco's wine had something to say to the fellow's drowsiness. But
whatever the cause Tom's attention was instantly switched in another
direction, for it appeared that the fellow had dragged off his
clothing, and there, thrown carelessly on the floor, was the uniform
of a French soldier.
"I think----" began our hero, cogitating deeply. "Ah! they're coming
upstairs, that innkeeper and the grenadiers. I must chance it."
He stooped over the clothing, dragged the red breeches over his own,
pulled them tight at the waist, and threw on the long-tailed surcoat
so loved by the French. Round went the belt, hitching with a click,
while the hat followed in a twinkling. Then he sat down, dragged off
his boots, and was in the act of pulling on one belonging to the
sleeper, when he heard footsteps on the landing outside and gruff
voices.
"They'll look in here, and see that fellow asleep," he told himself.
"No they won't, if I'm sharp. How's that?"
Very swiftly he sprang towards the bed and dragged a curtain into
position, for the latter hung from a horizontal iron rod, and was
intended to shut off a cubicle containing the bed. He had hardly got
back to his seat, and was again pulling on a boot, when there came a
thump at the door and again loud voices.
"I tell you that there is only a brother soldier of yours in here,"
he heard the innkeeper exclaim testily. "He is asleep, or was a
little while ago. He has been here making merry with some friends,
and fell asleep down below. We carried him to bed and pulled off his
clothes."
"Then if he is asleep, open and let us see him," he heard from the
grenadier in villainous Spanish. "Open, man, in the name of the
Emperor!"
There was another bang at the door, which at once flew open. Tom,
with his back to the entrance, leaned over and pulled at the boot.
"Ha!" he heard from behind him. "The rascal! He is awake. Well,
comrade?"
"Well," answered our hero in a dull, thick voice. "Well."
"That's you, eh?"
"Me, right enough," Tom coughed sleepily. "What's the time?"
"Time you were back in barracks," came the gruff answer.
The door banged, and again voices were heard on the landing.
"Not there," the grenadier told his friends. "The landlord is right.
There is merely a sleepy, half-tipsy comrade. No wonder, too; these
rascals of innkeepers sell the worst of wine at the highest figure.
But search the other rooms. You, Jacques, stand at the head of the
stairs; we will not have our bird bolting. Now, my man, lead on
again."
Tom listened attentively, and wondered what his next move should be.
"Walk out in this uniform, I suppose. But it'd be risky; I'd be
likely to be accosted by other soldiers. I might get an order from
an officer. Still, for the time being, it would do. But I must find
some other disguise, for the whole garrison will soon be on the
lookout for a young chap dressed like a civilian. I was suspicious of
that grenadier; I was afraid he had spotted me. Ah, there they go!"
More voices reached his ear. The French grenadiers stopped at the
head of the stairs and discussed the matter.
"Not here--flown through the far window," he heard one say. "Best be
after him."
"See here, Jacques," came to his ear. "Go down to the main guard and
warn them to send round to all the gates. If we don't get the spy
here, we'll have him as he attempts to leave. Tell them to search
every civilian."
There was a clatter outside the cabaret after that, and then silence.
Tom peeped out of the door and found the landing empty. He turned,
hearing a sound from the bed, to find the sleeper sitting up on one
arm, drowsily regarding him from the edge of the curtain which he had
drawn aside.
"What cheer, comrade!" the fellow gurgled with an inane smile. "Time
for parade?"
"Not a bit," answered our hero promptly. "Get to sleep again. It'll
clear your head. There; I'll draw the curtain."
He swung the curtain right across the end of the bed and heard the
soldier flop down again on his pillows. Then, once more, he went
to the door. There was no one about, though on peering out of the
window he saw the landlord standing in the street outside with a
curious crowd about him.
"Said a spy had been here," he was shouting angrily. "As if I,
Francisco, would harbour such an one. A spy indeed! What does an
innkeeper have to do with spying?"
The crafty fellow did not tell the listeners that he was an agent
of the French, the go-between for information of the movements of
the British, the men who had come to the country to free himself
and his nation from the grip of France. And he scouted the idea
that his messenger could have been an Englishman, or the message he
brought written by other than the traitor who hid himself in Oporto
and hired rascals like himself in the neighbourhood of Wellington's
camp. To this Francisco it was out of the question that Tom could
be anything but what he represented himself to be. But that others
thought differently was certain; for there was a bustle all over
the defences. Tom could see squads of men marching swiftly. Mounted
messengers galloped here and there, while a double company was massed
at the gate by which he had entered.
"They've made up their minds that they've a spy here, and that's
the end of it," he told himself. "Soon there'll be a call for all
the troops, and this fellow here will be bustled out to join 'em.
That'll be awkward. What can I do? Ah, let's see what the other rooms
contain!"
He went scuttling across the landing and dived into a room almost
opposite. It belonged, probably, to the daughter of the house, for it
was neat and tidy, while a couple of dresses hung on the wall. Tom
pulled a cupboard open and peeped in.
"Got it!" he cried. "Here's the very thing--a sort of mantilla. Now
for the dress and anything else likely to come handy."
He swept up an armful and dived back to the room he had been
occupying. There he threw off the French uniform and dressed himself
in the new garments he had secured.
"Not half bad," he grinned, as he stood before a cracked glass
perched on a rickety table. "My uncle, as Jack would say, but I'm
not half bad-looking when dressed as a girl! Am I right, though?
Wish I knew more about these things. If only there was another
glass I'd be able to see what my back looks like. Now, we practise
walking. Gently does it. Hang this skirt! Nearly took a header that
time, and--yes--I've torn the thing badly. Want a pin for that. Got
it--here it is, just handy."
Afraid? Not a bit of it; Tom wasn't that. Merely hugely excited, for
the occasion was somewhat strenuous. The noise outside, the blare of
bugles, the rattle of drums and the clatter of moving troops told
him that plainly. Also he guessed, and guessed rightly, that he was
the cause of all the bustle. He swung the mantilla over his head,
half-swathed his face in it, took one last look at his reflection,
and then went to the door. No one was moving upstairs; the coast was
clear.
"Straight bang for the window," he told himself. "Wonder what's
below? Wouldn't there be a howl if they saw a girl dropping from one.
Here we are. This'll do--out we go!"
There was a sheer drop of ten or more feet into an enclosed yard at
the back of the house; but a door led from the yard into a lane, and
that promised to give access to one of the streets. Tom did not wait
a moment. Indeed, the sound of steps on the stairs hastened him,
while, as if everything must needs conspire to thwart his hopes, the
door he had so recently closed on the sleeping soldier opened, and
that individual staggered out on to the landing. By then Tom was half
through the window. He waited not an instant, but swung himself down
and dropped to the ground. Dashing across to the gate he was through
it in a few moments.
"Steady does it," he murmured, finding it extremely difficult to obey
the order and to refrain from running. "There's that idiot grinning
at me from the window. Ah, that places me out of sight! Guess he's
considerably astonished."
There was little doubt but that the soldier was flabbergasted. In his
sleepy, maudlin condition he found it very hard to understand the
meaning of the scene he had but just witnessed. He was filled with a
stupid admiration of the pluck of the damsel he had seen leap from
the window, but felt no further interest. His muddled mind asked for
no reason for such behaviour, while his ignorance of the commotion
then filling the place, and of the search that was being made for a
spy, left him merely admiring a feat which was to him extraordinary.
As for Tom, he stepped down the lane and was soon in the main street,
that of St. Angelo. A crowd of excited individuals of all ages and
of both sexes was hastening down towards the main guard, and, since
he could do nothing better, he went with them, safer in their midst
than he could have been in any other position. Parties of soldiers
passed them constantly, while all down the street houses were being
searched, and every civilian of the male sex stopped and closely
questioned. As a result there was an extraordinary hubbub. Women
shrieked indignantly from their windows, resenting such intrusion,
while men stood sullenly at their doors, looking as if they would
have gladly murdered the Frenchmen.
"Seems to me that I've dropped on the only real disguise," Tom
chuckled. "But there's one thing to be remembered: if the daughter of
Francisco goes to her room she will discover what has happened, then
there'll be another flare up. Time I looked into the business part of
this thing seriously."
He had come carefully armed with a small notebook and pencil, and,
having in the past two months received some instruction in sketching,
he felt sure that he had only to use his eyes, and discover a retired
spot, when he would be able to gather a sufficiently correct plan
of the defences. Indeed he strolled about, first with one batch of
excited inhabitants and then with another, till he had made a round
of the place, retiring now and again to some quiet corner where he
jotted down his observations. Every gun he saw was marked, every
earthwork drawn in with precision. A few careful questions gave him
the position of stores and magazines, while a little smiling chat
with a French sentry, who seemed to admire this girl immensely, put
Tom in possession of the strength of the garrison, the name of the
general in command, and the fact that other troops were nowhere in
the vicinity.
"Then it's time to think of departing. That'll be a conundrum," he
told himself. "Couldn't drop over the walls, that's certain. Halloo!
mounted men have been sent out to cut me off should I try to make a
dash from the place. This is getting particularly awkward."
It was well past noon by now, and Tom was getting ravenously hungry.
He stood amongst a group of civilians on one of the walls of the
place looking out towards the part where Jack and his men were
secreted. Troopers could be seen cantering here and there, while
others were halted at regular intervals, and stood beside their
horses prepared to mount and ride at any moment. Strolling along
with his new acquaintances our hero was soon able to get a glimpse
of the other side of Ciudad Rodrigo and its surroundings there. But
there was not a break in the line of troopers circling the place.
It was evident, in fact, that no effort was to be spared to capture
the fellow whom the grenadier had first suspected. Nor was there
any doubt in the mind of the French general that his suspicion was
justified; for Francisco had now disgorged the papers Tom had handed
him, and these on inspection proved to be wanting in one particular.
The secret sign of the agent who was supposed to have sent them,
which was always attached to such papers, was lacking, proof positive
that the news was false and the bearer an enemy.
It was, perhaps, two or three hours after noon when Tom mixed with
a crowd of curious citizens at the very gate which he had entered
that morning, and watched as soldiers came and went. Sometimes
a civilian would pass through also, though in every case he was
closely inspected. As for the women and children, as yet they had not
ventured out. But curiosity soon got the better of them. A laughing
dame thrust her way through, the guard passing her willingly. Then
the others pressed forward, and in a little while Tom was outside,
sauntering here and there, wistfully looking at those hills which he
had left in the morning.
"And still as far away as ever," he told himself. "Wish I could get
hold of a horse--that would do it. What's the matter now? There's
another disturbance in the town; people are shouting. Here's a
trooper galloping out."
By then he was some distance from the outer wall, but still within
the ring of dismounted troopers. And, as he had observed, there was
another commotion. In a few minutes, indeed, there was a movement
amongst the civilians. Those nearest the gate were hastening back,
while troopers galloped out to fetch in stragglers. One of these came
dashing up to the group Tom accompanied.
"Get back through the gates," he commanded brusquely.
"And why?" asked the same laughing dame who had led the movement from
the fortress. "Why, friend?"
"Because there is a vixen amongst you who is not what she seems," the
man answered angrily. "There's information that this spy borrowed
women's clothing; you may be he. We'll have to look into the
matter--back you all go."
He was a rough fellow, who held no love for these people, and riding
amongst them actually upset the woman who had spoken, causing her to
shriek aloud.
"Coward!" she cried, picking herself up with difficulty and trembling
at his violence.
"Eh!" exclaimed the brute, angered at the taunt. "Now bustle, and
keep a civil tongue between your teeth--bustle, I say."
He edged his horse still closer, till the woman fell again, terrified
by the close approach of the animal the trooper rode.
"Shame!" cried Tom, his gorge rising. "Do the French then fight with
women?"
He had called out in the voice of a woman, and looked, in fact,
merely a young girl. But that made little difference to this brute
of a trooper. He set his horse in Tom's direction, and looked as
if he would actually ride over him. And then there was a sudden
and unexpected change; for the young girl displayed the most
extraordinary activity. She leaped aside, darted in, and sprang
up behind the trooper. For a moment there was a tussle; and then
the trooper was lifted from his saddle and tipped out on to the
ground. Before the astonished and frightened crowd of women could
realize what was happening, or the trooper gather a particle of his
scattered wits, the girl was firmly planted in his place, her feet
were jammed in the stirrups, and there was presented to all who
happened to be looking in that direction as strange a sight as could
be well imagined. Shrieks filled the air; men shouted hoarsely to one
another, while the troopers standing at their horses' heads leaped
into their saddles.
"It is the spy! It is the English spy!" was shouted from the walls.
"The spy!" bellowed the bullying soldier whom Tom had unhorsed,
making a funnel of his hands and turning to the trooper who was
nearest.
"Follow!" came in stentorian tones from the nearest officer.
Then began a race the like of which had never been witnessed outside
Ciudad Rodrigo. Tom clapped the heels of his French boots to the
flanks of his borrowed horse, while the mantilla that had done him
such service, caught by the breeze, went blowing out behind him.
Bending low, he sent the animal galloping direct for the hills,
smiling grimly as the crack of carbines came from behind him.
[Illustration: TOM ESCAPES FROM CIUDAD RODRIGO]
"Jack'll be up there waiting," he thought as he glanced ahead. "He'll
soon send these fellows back once they get within shot. Pah! That was
a near one; the bullet struck my boot. Beg pardon, not my boot, but
that fellow's at the cabaret. Glad there's no horsemen in front of
me. So much the better; it's going to be a fine gallop."
A fine gallop it proved, too. His mount was blown before the chase
was over, while had it lasted a little longer he would certainly
have been taken. But of a sudden heavy musketry fire broke out from
a point a little to one side. Dark figures, clad in the well-known
rough uniform of Tom's guerrillas, appeared on the hillside. And then
a shrill whistle sounded. It was perhaps a minute later that Tom
threw himself from his horse and stood amongst his comrades. And how
Jack roared with laughter, how the men grinned their delight, how
Andrews, who had but just reached the party spluttered and attempted
to behave as became a disciplined soldier!
"Introduce me, do," gurgled Jack, seizing Alfonso by the arm and
doubling up with merriment. "Miss what's-her-name, eh?"
"Clifford, at your service," grinned Tom, "and don't you forget it!"
"Of all the boys!" spluttered Andrews, his face red with his efforts.
"I knew he had backbone, but this here's something different."
"Allow me," said Jack in his most gallant manner, offering an arm.
"Excuse me if I appear a little forward."
"Rats!" was Tom's somewhat abrupt answer. "Let the boys fall in.
We'll march at once; I've had a spree, I can tell you."
It was with grins of delight and many an exclamation that his
comrades listened to the tale, a narrative soon passed on by Alfonso
to their following. Meanwhile Tom tore his borrowed clothing from
him, donned his handsome uniform, and made ready for more active
movement.
"We've done a good part of our work," he said. "Now for that fellow
in Oporto. Let's ride back to the camp, leaving some of our men to
watch the roads near it. I'll hand my notes in to the chief of the
staff, and then look into the last part of this matter. Wonder who
the rogue is who's such a friend of Francisco, and sends news to the
men that are enemies of his country."
They might all wonder, and the reader need not feel surprised if he
learns that this rascal was too clever for those who sought him.
The hovel to which the man whom Tom's guerrillas had captured led
them--and who had promised information in return for his life--was
empty. There was no particle of evidence to prove where the rascal
had flown; but careful search discovered a note hidden in a crevice
of the ceiling, and when that was opened the information contained
proved to be of little value.
"Come to Badajoz," it said. "There ask for Juan de Milares, in the
street of St. Paulo. There is still work to be done and money to be
earned for the doing."
"Same handwriting without a doubt," declared Jack emphatically. "The
bird's flown, and Badajoz is out of the question."
As a general rule one would have agreed with him; for, like
Ciudad Rodrigo, that fortress was garrisoned by the French. But
circumstances alter cases, and Tom soon recognized this to be a fact,
since there was further information awaiting him in Oporto. A visit
to the house of Septimus John Clifford & Son discovered something
approaching a tragedy. For Juan de Esteros had disappeared that very
evening, and with him no less a person than Septimus John Clifford
himself.
"But where?" demanded Tom, filled with apprehension.
"Alas, there is nothing to tell us!" answered the chief clerk, as
faithful a fellow as the worthy Huggins. "They left without a word to
anyone, without so much as a sound. They dined together and sat on
the veranda reading. Later they retired to their rooms; after that we
know nothing."
"But," exclaimed Tom, aghast at the mystery, "surely there's----"
"There is merely this," came the answer, while a slip of paper was
thrust into his hands. "We found it resting on the table, weighted so
that it could not blow away. Read, _señor_."
Tom scanned the lines for some few moments, while his smooth forehead
wrinkled deeply. "Thus is the house of Septimus John Clifford & Son
punished," he read, the Spanish letters being scrawled across the
paper. Yes scrawled. In a moment he recognized that writing. It was
put upon the paper by the selfsame man who had sent information to
the commandant at Ciudad Rodrigo, the traitor who was eager and
willing to supply news which would help the enemies of his country.
"Well? What next?" asked Jack when the fact had been explained to him.
"To Badajoz, that's all," came the short answer. "This villain's got
hold of my father and uncle for some reason or other. It's plainly my
duty to look into the matter; so I'll pay Badajoz a visit, just as I
went to Ciudad Rodrigo. Wonder who this chap is and what game he's up
to? But duty first, Jack; we'll make back to the camp and see what's
expected of us."
If Tom had hoped to pursue a private matter just then he was to be
disappointed. For barely was Christmas past, and the new year entered
upon, when Wellington threw the whole force he commanded against
Ciudad Rodrigo. Pressing the siege with intense energy--for there
was always the fear that the French would concentrate on him from
all parts and raise the siege before it was successfully over--he
launched his attacking parties after remarkably short delay. The
fighting which resulted was of the severest description, and the
greatest gallantry and resolution was shown by either side. But
British pluck won. The defences were captured, and within a few hours
of the assault the place which Tom had visited was garrisoned by
British instead of by French soldiers. Then Wellington turned toward
Badajoz, outside which Tom and his men had for two weeks past thrown
out a circle of their men, thus cutting all communications.
"It'll be a hard nut to crack," observed the merry Jack, casting his
eye up at the defences; "but I suppose we'll do it."
"We must," declared Tom with emphasis. "Anyway, I've got to get
inside the place and unravel this mystery. There's father and Don
Juan to find and release, and then there's that rascal who took them."
But would Tom, or indeed any of our men, ever get within this
terribly grim fortress? It seemed unlikely enough, viewing the
defences, and we may declare here and now that before our hero was to
set foot within the place he was to take part in fighting of the very
fiercest.