Round about Badajoz
There was a business-like air about the jovial Jack Barwood on the
second morning after the fall of Badajoz, a seriousness about the
smart young adjutant to which his friends were unaccustomed, a
furrowing of his youthful brow, and an appearance of intentness and
determination which would have aroused the friendly satire of old
comrades. Dressed in the smart uniform of the gallant 60th Rifles,
he marched briskly along one of the quieter streets, passing as he
did so a half-company of infantry escorting a batch of semi-drunken
soldiers, the gallant souls amongst Wellington's army who, now that
the fighting was over, had lost all sense of discipline, and, aching
no doubt for the many good things to which they had been strangers
for so long, had burst their way into private dwellings and had
behaved like scoundrels instead of brave soldiers.
Jack took the salute of a Portuguese guerrilla sentry marching
sedately to and fro before a huge door, and that too of a Spaniard,
one also of the band under Tom's command.
"Well?" he questioned in Portuguese, his accent none of the best.
"Any news? Any more callers?"
"None, _señor_."
"And the news?"
"Good, _señor_; he lives. He will get well and strong to command us."
There was a gleam of pleasure in the eyes of the two sentries as Jack
spoke, while they watched him beat upon the door and enter.
"A fine officer; one of the English!" exclaimed the Spaniard, who
seemed to be on the best of terms with the Portuguese guerrilla, a
strange occurrence in those days. "If the worst were to come to the
worst----"
"Yes," responded the other, in a patois both could understand, "yes,
he would command. But it would not be the same; the _Señor_ Tom is
one man, the _Señor_ Jack another."
Inside stood the faithful Andrews and Howeley, drawn stiffly to
attention, saluting their officer. Jack's serious face brightened.
"Well?" he demanded again, as if he were short of words.
"Better, sir, beggin' pardon," came from Andrews, with his accustomed
formula demanding pardon. "Surgeon's been and gone; says as Mr.
Clifford's as hard as rocks, and if he wasn't he'd have been trampled
and banged to pieces. Swears as he must have fust of all been blowed
skyhigh, and then charged over by a thousand of the stormers.
He's takin' notice of things, sir, is Mr. Clifford. Axing fer the
regiment, and you. He'd have been out of bed if I hadn't prevented
him--and, my word, he were a handful!"
"Ah!" ejaculated Jack, a grin rising on his solemn features. "A
handful! Tom's that all the time. Wanted to get up, eh?"
"Yes, sir," grunted the rifleman, still stiffly at attention. "'Not
you, sir,' I says; 'you're as weak as a kitten.' 'Rot!' he whispers,
'cos he can't speak no higher. 'I've got work, Andrews.' 'So has we
all,' I answers. 'Orders is orders, sir.' 'Eh?' he asks, sharp-like,
as you know, sir. 'Orders that you're to stay abed, sir,' I says, not
half-liking things. 'Orders be hanged,' he tries to shout, struggling
to get up, and then falling back on the pillow."
"Like him," smiled Jack. "Anyway he's safe now, eh?"
If it were a question of our hero's security from interference,
then there was little doubt; for beside those two sentries parading
outside the courtyard of the house in which he lay, there were a
dozen more at different points, with Andrews and Howeley to supervise
them. Nor were such precautions to be wondered at when the tale of
the last few hours was told. Tom had not only passed through the
dangers of a siege. True, he had escaped the ordeal at the breaches,
and had been borne still breathing into the town. But there another
danger had suddenly assailed him; for no sooner was he laid in bed,
and Jack had departed, than the watchful Andrews had discovered a
sneaking form clambering in by one of the windows. Had Andrews been
Septimus John Clifford's head clerk he would then and there have made
a discovery of vast importance, and one which we will at once hand on
to the reader. For this sneaking intruder, bearing a stiletto in one
hand, was none other than José de Esteros, Tom's cousin, now sunk to
the lowest depths of infamy, and forestalled just in the nick of time
in the endeavour to carry out further villainy. He had made good his
escape, and, as a result, Tom's little command now watched over their
damaged leader.
The best of food, the most careful attention on the part of the army
surgeon, and the tenderest nursing at the hands of Andrews and others
were already having their effect, and so, for a while, we may leave
our hero, satisfied that he will bob up again in the future and
encounter more adventures in this memorable campaign.
Let us then step outside the walls of Badajoz, walls conquered at
huge sacrifice by the British, and after the most gallant fighting.
For it will already have been gathered that this Peninsula campaign
was full of incidents, all of which the space at our disposal
prevents our mentioning. In the circumstances it will be readily
understood that with troops operating here and there over a wide
stretch of country there were numerous affairs, some mere skirmishes,
some approaching a big engagement, which, while they each and every
one undoubtedly helped on the end at which our leaders aimed, and
are with equal certainty recorded in official histories, yet for the
purposes of this narrative are of small account.
Beginning in 1808, as already recorded, this memorable campaign had
at first seen a succession of commanders sent by the vacillating
Ministry in England, and of these the great Wellington alone
remained, having proved his right to lead our armies. Those momentous
months since the opening of the campaign had witnessed, as the reader
will remember, the dismissal of the French from Portugal and the
advance of our armies into Spain. The tragedy of Sir John Moore's
retreat over the border had followed; and we have seen Wellington
forced backward in Portugal itself, till the enemy held the country
right down to the formidable heights of Torres Vedras. And then had
come the turn of the tide. The vast masses of men controlled by
Napoleon had been sent to the rightabout, and here, in the eventful
year 1812, we find Portugal once more swept clean of the enemy, and
the important fortresses of Ciudad Rodrigo and of Badajoz in the
hands of the British. The tide had turned, we say, and, like the
energetic and astute leader he was, the great Wellington at once
proceeded to follow up these successes, and to push on into the heart
of Spain, with the one object of forcing the enemy finally to quit
the Peninsula.
But no narrative of the events which had already happened would
be complete without mention of a force, subtle enough and slow to
be seen at first, which was now steadily aiding the efforts of our
soldiers. Despite the criminal neglect of our ambassador in Madrid,
despite, too, the wicked opposition and folly of the Spanish Junta
in particular, and in smaller measure of the Portuguese Junta, both
of which bodies had persistently opposed each and every aim of the
British, our armies had fought and won. Often enough the gallant,
thin red line had been basely left by the fleeing troops of Portugal
and Spain to face the onslaught of Napoleon's trained battalions.
And yet that thin red line of gallant souls had conquered. Their
persistence, their cheerful bravery in the face of enormous odds, and
their bull-dog, strenuous fighting had told its tale on the masses
of the enemy. Scepticism as to their worth as soldiers, a scepticism
natural, perhaps, to troops highly trained, and till then victorious
in all directions, had been changed to hearty respect, if not to
actual fear. That feeling of respect engendering fear and caution
alone was the subtle force now aiding our armies. Each man, whether
officer or private, had the utmost confidence in his leaders and
in his comrades; while the French, bearing the late prowess of the
British in mind, wondered whether success were now as certain as they
had imagined. Who knows? The persistent advance of our armies, the
skill of our leaders, and the bull-dog courage of our men may well
have had their effect upon the great Napoleon himself. Accustomed
to see his arms successful in every venture, he found in the British
a foe who knew no defeat, and who pressed him always. For the
Portuguese this restless Emperor may have had some respect; for the
Spanish he had only hatred, since their determination not to accept
his brother as their king, and their incessant rioting and attacks
upon his soldiers had caused him trouble and anxiety. Now there were
the British to deal with. British opposition had wrested Portugal
from the all-conquering Emperor of France. She was now thrusting
her way into the heart of Andalusia. That meant further strenuous
fighting, and if past records were to be repeated, it meant further
British victories, in spite of the mass of Napoleon's armies. Who
knows, then, we suggest, that this fear may have weighed with the
restless Emperor of the French, with the ambitious and avaricious
little corporal? To be balked in his wishes was with him ever, as
with all such men, galling in the extreme. Here, in the Peninsula,
our coming and our intervention had resulted in tremendous efforts
on the part of Napoleon, efforts set aside by Wellington's armies.
And now the tide had turned. What wonder if Napoleon, realizing
that here he was on the verge of a defeat, turned his eyes to other
conquests? Whatever the cause, Russia now attracted the attention
of the Emperor. He had ridden posthaste for Paris. France, groaning
already beneath the weight of taxation necessary to maintain such
huge armies in the field, was being bled still further, both in
money and men, to provide another army of conquest. Troops were
already massing on the borders of Russia, and soon was to arrive that
calamity which will always hold a prominent place in the histories
of the world. For Napoleon was marching to defeat. The plains of
Russia were to see his armies swept almost out of existence, while
the crops now ripening at the beginning of summer, a summer which
Wellington in Spain had determined to make the greatest use of, were
to flare up before Napoleon's troops could lay their hungry hands on
them. Moscow, the city of promise, the magnet drawing the ambitious
and reckless Emperor to destruction, was to burn before his eyes,
and thereafter snow and frost and desperate hunger were to fight his
armies silently, while Cossacks in their thousands hung like a swarm
of flies about the flanks, slaughtering the helpless.
But we are forestalling events. Napoleon had left the Peninsula for
other and, as he imagined no doubt, easier conquests, leaving his
generals in Spain the difficult task of driving out a British army
which, with few exceptions, had proved itself absolutely invincible.
Portugal was entirely in the hands of the British. Spain was
beckoning strongly. Wellington, gathering his faithful and war-worn
troops about him, was about to plunge into the heart of Andalusia,
and, quitting the siege of fortresses, was eager to try conclusions
with the enemy in the open. But he was ever a careful man, and as a
preliminary to invasion and attack upon the Duke of Ragusa he planned
the destruction of the bridge erected at Almarez, spanning the Tagus,
and protected by forts immensely strengthened by the French. Here
were known to be collected huge stores of ammunition, while the
bridge itself served as a means of communication between one French
army and another. With the crossing destroyed, Wellington might hope
to throw himself upon the enemy with good chance of success; for by
keeping the various forces of the enemy apart he might reasonably
expect to beat them in detail, victory against the vast masses of
French when combined being out of the question. Thus Almarez and the
bridge spanning the historic Tagus now attracted his attention, as
well as the formidable forts erected to protect the same.
Let us describe in a few words the condition of the surrounding
country. From Almarez itself to the city of Toledo the left bank of
the River Tagus is hemmed in by a range of steep mountains. From
Almarez again to the Portuguese frontier, roads in those days were
almost non-existent, and the crossing in any case most difficult;
while farther east the bridges at Arzobispo and Talavera were covered
by the neighbouring high ground.
The River Tagus itself separated the armies of Soult and of Marmont,
and, seeing that Soult's pontoon train had been captured in Badajoz,
there was left no other means of communication between the armies
than the bridge of boats at Almarez, which the critical eye of
Wellington had already selected for destruction. But, as we have
hinted, there were difficulties in the way; for in view of the
importance of the place, and of the mass of stores of one sort or
another concentrated there, the French had made every preparation
to protect the bridge. A fort had been erected on the north bank,
another at the opposite end of the bridge, while the heights
immediately adjacent on the latter side had been connected by a chain
of works which a casual inspection would have said defied assault.
Yet Wellington considered that Sir Rowland Hill, in command of a
force 6000 strong, would contrive to overcome all difficulties, and
that gallant officer promptly marched from the camp which the British
had now formed, for since the fall of Badajoz our forces had marched
north to the Tagus, and had crossed the river. A small expeditionary
arm was therefore within striking distance of the all-important
crossing at Almarez. Secrecy, as in the case of the descents on
Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, was essential in this adventure, and
Sir Rowland, therefore, marched at night-time, secreting his whole
force in the wood of Jarciejo during the day, this wood being in
the immediate neighbourhood of the enemy. Then his men were divided
into three columns, and in the early hours, while darkness yet hid
the land, they set out upon an expedition destined to prove amongst
the most brilliant of any recorded during this long campaign in the
Peninsula. For the plans of generals, like those of other more
humble individuals perhaps, are destined at times to be overthrown,
and here was an example. That secrecy at which Sir Rowland Hill
aimed was destroyed by a combination of circumstances, so that the
garrisons of the forts about to be attacked became aware of his
intentions. Yet the work was done, and done brilliantly, though only
at a heavy sacrifice. The forts were taken, the bridge secured, while
the losses of the enemy were very heavy. Then, expedition being an
essential point, mines were laid, and the works, or a portion of
them, destroyed. When Sir Rowland returned to Wellington's camp he
was able to report the success of the expedition, while Wellington
himself was now able seriously to consider the question of an attack
upon the enemy in the open; for the first step toward that effort
had been taken. Easy communication between the enemy was destroyed,
and now had come the opportunity to seek out and beat in detail the
armies of Napoleon.
Forward, then, was the order, and 21st July, 1812, found Wellington
and his army north of the Tagus, close to Salamanca and to the
Rivers Tormes and Huebra, having meanwhile cleared the intervening
country and besieged the Salamanca forts. Marmont, with his French
battalions, now lay before him; for they had crossed the river
between Huerta and Tormes, and were endeavouring to secure the road
to Ciudad Rodrigo. However, if Wellington, as a clever tactician, as
he undoubtedly was, had as his object the division of the enemy's
forces, with a view of beating them in detail, Marmont also was not
unskilful. Remembering the comparative paucity of the British troops,
and the fact that they had, as it were, burned their boats behind
them, he hoped to throw his troops between our regiments and the
fortress of Ciudad Rodrigo, then garrisoned by British, thus not only
cutting communication between Wellington and the fortress, but also
drawing a line of fire and steel between the British and Portugal, to
which country they would naturally retreat in case of defeat or in
the event of huge odds being concentrated against them.
Thus, having brought our gallant fellows face to face with an equally
gallant enemy in the open, and having reviewed the movements of
this difficult and complex campaign, we can leave the two rival
armies in position for battle, and can once more seek out Tom
Clifford, commander of the composite force of Portuguese and Spanish
guerrillas, which, amidst a host of irregular British allies--some
good, some indifferent, and some altogether useless and even
dangerous--had already earned a name for energy and a patriotic
spirit worthy of emulation amongst many chicken-hearted countrymen.
Back, then, to Badajoz, let us retrace our steps, and, accepting
the salutes of the Spanish and Portuguese sentries--smart fellows
both--hammer on the door of the courtyard and enter, there to be
greeted by the faithful Howeley and Andrews.
Some weeks had passed since Tom had joined the forlorn hope, and had
been blown like a stone down the steep scarp of the breach effected
by our gunners. He sat in an armchair, his feet on a stool, Jack
Barwood discussing matters with him, and at the same time smoking a
pipe which he had secured in the dwelling.
"Of course," Tom was saying in his business-like way, "orders are
orders. But----"
"They're a beastly nuisance for all that. Granted," was Jack's
interruption. "Well?"
"And, equally of course, must be obeyed. 'Pon my word, Jack, you
seem to be as keen as I am on this quest. What's it to do with you,
anyway?"
"Nothing; everything." Jack took a heavy pull at his pipe, choked
suddenly, and then glared at the pipe as if it had done him a
mischief.
"Awful country," he grumbled. "Decent food ungetable, decent beds
unknown. Tobacco--ugh! it'd sicken a Billingsgate porter! But this
business interests me. Why? you ask. Here's why. Fair play is a thing
I like; foul play gets up my dander. Of course I know the whole story
now. This cousin chap first took food and lodging from your father
and pretended gratitude; then he managed to work things so as to have
you impressed. There I owe him a grudge; for if he hadn't, where
should I be, eh?"
"Eh?" repeated Tom, a little puzzled.
"That's just it," went on the ensign in an aggrieved tone of voice.
"Who'd have had the command of those French troopers? Who'd have
brought them through that mess? Who'd now be promoted to the command
of a regiment of guerrillas?"
He might have been the most injured of individuals, to look at him.
Jack rose to his feet and bashed the offending pipe heavily on a
table. And then he grinned at Tom.
"My uncle!" he exclaimed; "you are a flat! Yes, even if you are my
superior, I can call you that. Took everything I said as if it were
meant seriously. Where should I have been, eh? Dead, Tom--dead as a
bullock. Shot outside that Portuguese church, and cut to mincemeat by
those rascals. But this business of yours interests me solely because
you happen to be a pal of mine, and in my opinion very much injured.
This José is a scoundrel. What's more, I believe him to be at the
bottom of all these troubles. He's that spy, sir, I declare! He's
the very same scoundrel who crept in here with the idea of doing you
a mortal mischief. There, think it out, and don't wonder if I am a
little interested in this curious and blackguardly mystery."
Could this really be the case? Was José de Esteros not only the
rascal who had caused Tom's impressment, as we know, and Tom and his
friends now knew, to be the case; but also, was he the treacherous
ruffian who had been feeding the enemy with news of Wellington's
movements, whose messenger our hero had displaced outside Ciudad
Rodrigo? Could Tom's cousin be the selfsame villain who had abducted
his father and uncle, and who later on had endeavoured to creep into
this house in Badajoz and murder the gallant officer so nearly killed
in the storming?
"Humbug!" Tom declared, nursing the arm which he had worn in a sling
since receiving his injuries. "I grant that José was the cause of my
impressment. There I owe him a grudge, Jack."
"Eh?" asked the adjutant, stoking his pipe with a finger and pulling
at it vainly. "How?"
"Been troubled with a certain Jack Barwood ever since," came the
serious answer. And then Tom went off into roars of laughter, while
Jack pretended indignation.
"Granted that José was the cause of that portion," Tom continued. "We
know he came to Oporto; there we lose sight of him. The spy comes on
the scene. Granted here, again, that he it was who abducted my father
and uncle, for the note left was in the same handwriting as that
other we secured outside Ciudad Rodrigo; but that doesn't say that
José was the spy, even if you argue that he has reasons for wishing
to abduct my two relatives. Now, does it?"
"But the handwriting? It's like his; you forget that."
"I don't; I agree that, from what I can remember of it, there is a
similarity. But I'm not by any means sure; besides, José couldn't be
such a rascal."
Jack's reply was as emphatic as many others. "Stuff and nonsense!"
he blurted out. "A man who tries to get rid of a cousin with whom he
has lived all his life, as this fellow did, will take on any piece of
rascality. Look at his actions on arrival at Oporto, and think of his
cunning. My boy, this José's at the bottom of the whole matter, so
keep your eye open."
How Tom was to keep his eye open his adjutant failed to explain, nor
was there any further evidence to convict José of this added piece
of rascality. Tom was still in ignorance of the personality of the
spy whom he had traced to Oporto, and thence to Badajoz. He knew that
the man was responsible for the abduction of Septimus and Don Juan de
Esteros. But was José the spy? Was the spy the man who had crept into
these quarters in Badajoz with the obvious intention of slaying Tom,
and, if so, what was his object?
"It's José all the time," declared Jack, cocksure of the fact.
"Doubtful," repeated Tom, still refusing to believe his cousin
capable of such villainy. "But leave it at that. The fellow's gone,
and taken with him his two captives; the next thing to do is to
follow."
"Wrong; the next move is to obey orders."
Jack had become a very useful adjutant by now, and showed his
promptness by handing Tom the orders which lay upon the table. Our
hero almost ground his teeth as he read them; for there, in black
and white, were definite commands for the regiment to march for the
Tagus, and there join hands with Wellington's army. Never, in fact,
had orders been worse received. Hitherto Tom had been the first to
welcome them; now they came between him and private business.
"But duty first," he told himself. "We'll march before the week's
out, for those are the instructions. Meanwhile we've at least heard
something. Read the report again," he said, signing to his friend.
Jack picked up a paper, and promptly obliged him. "Here we are,"
he said. "Alfonso reports that following orders he has continued
to patrol the surroundings of the fortress. A covered carriage was
driven out just before dusk last evening. It was stopped and found to
be empty. The driver stated he was going to a country place to fetch
in an invalid. Later, when the carriage was well beyond our circle,
it stopped beside a convoy of carts going from the fortress. Sharp
questioning of the man in charge brought the admission that men were
hidden among the contents of the carts, two of whom were bound and
gagged. They were placed in the carriage, which was instantly driven
away down the road, and when our men arrived was out of hearing.
Though they searched, it was in vain. The scoundrel had got away with
his captives."
"And then?" asked Tom, listening without sign of emotion.
"Close enquiries here discovered the fact that a carriage had been
hired to take a gentleman to Madrid. That's all."
That indeed was all the information that our hero or his friends had
been able to come by. The strenuous efforts and the danger which Tom
had incurred in endeavouring to make an early entry into Badajoz had
resulted in nothing. The miscreant who gave information to the enemy
had slipped out with his captives, and there were our heroes none the
nearer to success. They were farther off, in fact, for there, on the
table, were orders taking them north to the Tagus, while it seemed
likely enough that Tom's father and uncle had been hurried east to
Madrid, where search for them, if ever the opportunity came, would be
long and difficult.
"Can't be helped. When orders allow, we'll make a rush for the city,"
said Tom. "Meanwhile, it's off to the Tagus!"
"To join the army again--hooray!" shouted Jack. "That means a big
general engagement; it means fighting, my boy! Perhaps it'll give us
both promotion."
Hard knocks, wounds, and exposure were more likely to be their
portion. But what did these two young officers care? What would other
officers of a similar age in these days care? Nothing. Rather they
were elated at the prospect of taking a share in a pitched battle,
and had not so much as a qualm when at length they reached the
neighbourhood of Salamanca. As for their men, confident now of their
ability to fight, proud of what they had already done, they marched
to their allotted quarters in the camp with a tramp and a swing that
commanded attention.
"General Lord Wellington's compliments," began a staff officer,
galloping up just as Tom had inspected his men, and had called upon
Jack to dismiss the parade. "Are you Lieutenant Clifford?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then have the goodness to ride over to headquarters at once; his
lordship desires to see you."
"Hooray!" cried Jack, careless of decorum, hurrying up at the moment.
"That'll mean business, my boy. The general's got a special job for
our guerrillas."
And Wellington had. When Tom had been ushered into the tent which
housed the leader of the British army he found that painstaking
individual seated on a camp stool carefully measuring distances on a
map stretched on a table before him. Tom stood stiffly at attention,
and though the staff officer who ushered him twice called his name,
there was no answer. Then suddenly a point of the compasses was
struck into the map and an exclamation escaped the general.
"If he moves there, we have him," he cried. "Then all depends on the
Spaniards. Ah!" He shut the map hurriedly, and looked at Tom as if
he thought him to be a suspicious person. Then, recognizing him, he
smiled.
"The officer the French will not fight," he said cheerfully. "The
Englishman they did their best to destroy in the breaches at Badajoz.
You are recovered, sir?"
"Perfectly," Tom hastened to assure him, fearful that a fancied
weakness might cause the general to choose another officer for any
special work he might have in prospect.
"And will accept a special risk?"
Tom drew himself up stiffly. With anyone else there would have been
a note of injury in the answer; for had he shirked special risk in
the past? Ciudad Rodrigo was a telling answer to such a question. And
Wellington realized the fact as soon as he had spoken.
"I take it for granted that you are more than ready," he said. "Good!
Then the mission I have is somewhat similar to that other. You saw
me close this plan hurriedly? I did it unknowingly, impelled by the
fear that you might be a stranger; for here is my story. Maps and
plans jealously guarded by us have disappeared, my dispatch case
has been broken open. My officers have information that there is a
small gang of rascals who trade on our secrets. I want to bring that
gang to book, if it exists. Now, Mr. Clifford, once more I make no
suggestions, and give no orders. You will act as you think best.
After to-morrow you are free to carry out whatever seems best to you.
Remember, after to-morrow."
That was all. Tom found himself outside the tent, still saluting.
"A pretty job to unravel," he told himself. "And what's on to-morrow?"
Yes, what was to happen when the day broke once more across the
smooth surface of the River Tormes?
There was to be war, real war, war in the open, the like of which Tom
had never before witnessed.