The Conspirators' Den
Imagine a low-ceilinged room, the whitening long since gone a
dull smoke colour, cobwebs in the corner, dust on every angle and
ridge, and a floor innocent of scrubbing-brush for many a long day.
Imagine an atmosphere charged with pungent smoke from the pipes and
cigarettes of ten conspirators, smoke generated by tobacco of the
coarsest and foulest. Add to that the nauseating fumes of an oil
lamp, trimmed perhaps a month before, flickering, red, and smoky.
Then picture the forms and faces of those ten conspirators gathered
about a huge, rickety table, forms of small proportion for the
most part, slim and lithe as becomes the young man of Spain, but
alternated in the case of two at least by the grossest stoutness.
Double chins were owned by that more aged couple. Their faces were
masked by bushy eyebrow, and fierce moustaches, that curled upwards,
while their chins were clad and obscured by black beards of a week's
growth. For the rest, they were mostly clean-shaven, hawk-eyed, keen,
blinking at the newcomers through the smoke which filled the chamber.
"Welcome!" A solitary voice broke the silence when at length Tom and
his companions were seated. But whence it came, from whom, he had
no notion. The tones were deep, almost guttural. They might have
emanated from the floor or from the smoke-blacked ceiling.
"Welcome! You come in time to do good work. Declare your names, your
age, and your parentage. Let one of you stand out before us and
speak."
The time had come to brave the whole matter, to risk discovery. Tom
rose to his feet from the rickety chair to which he had been invited
and stood before the company. He stared across the table, through the
gloom, and sought the one who had spoken. But not one of the ten had
moved. Not one seemed to have opened his lips. Ah! in the background,
sheltered in the angle of the room, was yet another figure. The face
leered out at him, one writhing hand concealing the features. Did Tom
recognize this fellow even then?
"No," he told himself. "The cunning beggar keeps a hand across his
face. But--but I'll swear the voice is familiar, though masked now.
Present!" he cried boldly. "We have come for information. We are
ready to do good work and to earn a reward better than that paid to
humble muleteers."
The figure moved from the angled recess in which it had been hiding.
The man or youth--Tom could not guess which--writhed his way across
the unwashed floor and halted at the table. One thin, shivering hand
was stretched forward as if to gather warmth from the lamp, which was
suddenly dashed to one side and the room plunged into darkness. At
that instant vice-like fingers seized our hero by the neck, his legs
were cut away from beneath him, while someone, evidently prepared
for the occasion, tossed a coil of rope about him and drew it tight.
There was the sound of a desperate struggle near at hand. Once Tom
was violently kicked, evidently by accident. And then there was
stillness; the lamp was set flaring again; the same masked, guttural
voice once more was heard.
"Take them away; deal with them according to instructions. See that
they are securely bound; let them understand that the end is near.
Go."
Tom could still see, though his arms were trussed to his side, while
he was otherwise helpless. He fixed his eyes upon that central figure
and tried to pierce the disguise, for disguised this leader of the
conspirators was. But was it José? He scoffed at the idea. José
ringleader of such a group! He had not the pluck for such a venture.
Then who? He knew the voice, masked though it was. It had been
familiar at some occasion. Where, then? When?
"Go; take them away. To-morrow deal with them as you have been
ordered."
Men lit their cigarettes again. The band gathered once more about
the table. There was an air of triumph about them all, something
which seemed to say that they had brought about a _coup_ and had
been wonderfully clever; as, indeed, they had been. Tom in his young,
ambitious heart had fondly imagined that all had been taken in by
the disguise which he had affected. But the rascals of whom Lord
Wellington had to complain were no ordinary individuals, though, as
a rule, they were dressed as muleteers and followed that vocation.
There was a clever, subtle brain behind them, and that brain had
contrived to discover the plan so carefully formulated by Tom and his
cousin. The rascally, leering driver of mules who had brought them to
this rendezvous was but a decoy, fooled just as cleverly as they had
been. Their coming was expected. Preparations for their capture were
completed even before they left the safety of their camp. And now,
what was before them?
"Murder, I suppose," thought Tom, repressing a shiver. "That's the
sort of thing these fellows go in for. What's the move now? They're
bundling us out of the room, but where to is more than I can guess.
Keep your pecker up, Alfonso," he called, when the door was shut on
them, and they stood in a passage. "It'll all come out right in the
end."
"Silence! Pass in here," commanded one of the two ruffians who
escorted them. "Not both, but you."
A door was wrenched open, and Tom was flung in, receiving a savage
kick from the second of their escort. The door banged, the lock
creaked and grated before he picked himself up from the floor. Then
there was more tramping, the wrenching open of a second door, and
another crash and bang. The heavy steps of two men came and passed
his door. The room beyond, which they had so lately left, was opened.
There came to his ears the buzz of many voices. Even the pungent reek
of tobacco and lamp smoke smote upon his nostrils, and then there was
comparative silence, save for a dull murmur.
"Muzzled! Fooled! Caught finely! In chokey!" groaned Tom, full of
bitterness. "And just when we thought things were going so nicely.
But let's look round. I'm tied fast by the elbows and thumbs; I can't
move my arms, while my legs are free. So much then to the good; it
might have been worse."
That was Tom all over--an optimist from the very depths of him.
Always ready to look on the bright side of things. A grouser? Never!
Life held too many rosy spots for our hero, as it does for all who
care to look just an inch below the surface for them. Things could
not always run smoothly, that he knew. They never do for anyone.
Even kings have their trials and troubles, and why not humble
individuals like our hero? It is the man who looks upon the bright
side of matters who lives long and enjoys happiness. Unconsciously,
perhaps--perhaps also because he was the son of his father, the
jovial, stout, and rollicking Septimus, himself an optimist--Tom,
too, looked ever upon the rosy side. He was in trouble; why then make
the very worst of that fact? Why not try to improve matters? And,
being the practical fellow he was, Tom began to look about him. The
gloom gave way after a while. Light from a street lamp, or perhaps
it came from a house opposite, flickered into the room, and now that
his eyes were accustomed to it he could see his surroundings. There
was a window, yes. It was twenty feet from the ground. An easy jump
if his limbs were free, a dangerous attempt with his arms fettered.
There was a dirty floor and a smoke-blacked ceiling. Not a stick of
furniture was present. Yes there was, if blinds are furniture; for
there was a blind to the window. It was let down to its full length,
and there was the cord. It passed beneath a catch, and----
"My uncle!" gasped Tom, following Jack's pet expression. "There's a
serrated surface there, a regular saw, if only I could approach the
edge. How's that? Bad. Try again. How's that? Worse. Never say die
then. What's the report on this occasion?"
It was good, or fair, or middling, as he changed his position ever
so little. Sometimes the edges of the toothed band controlling the
length or position of the pulley over which the blind cord ran
gripped the strands of rope about his thumbs. Sometimes the latter
slid over them as if they were not in existence. Then they gripped
again, feebly perhaps, then with a vim there was no denying. Tom
grew hot with the effort. Perspiration poured from his forehead. He
pressed with even greater fierceness against the toothed edge he had
found.
"Through! Thumbs free," he was able to assure himself after a while.
"Those chaps are still at it, gassing and smoking. Now for my elbows.
That's a different matter altogether. It's mighty hard to get them
down into position, and one isn't sure when they're rubbing."
But it could be done. If he had been successful so far, surely this
additional difficulty was not going to discourage him. Tom clenched
his teeth and stooped, managing by a gymnastic evolution to bring his
fettered elbows against the serrated edge of the blind-cord catch.
But the task was irritatingly slow and laborious. He rubbed with all
his might, and still the cord held his arms pinioned closely together
behind him. However, perseverance was a virtue of which he had quite
his fair share, and Tom hated being beaten. Yes, whether in a matter
of life and death, as this was, or in the ordinary affairs of life,
Tom was a demon for work--a stickler, a fellow who liked to see a
thing through and watch it to success. A strand of the cord gave with
a little pop. Beads of perspiration burst from pores in his forehead
until then untapped, and, welling up, joined the stream already
flowing towards the corners of his eyes. Then there came a sound of
loud and exultant laughter from the smoke-grimed room occupied by the
conspirators. The door burst open, while heavy feet resounded in the
passage outside.
"Free! Pulled the cords open. If they try any games with me I'm
ready."
He gathered up the fallen strands like lightning, threw himself into
the darkest corner, with his arms held behind his back as if they
were still pinioned, while in one hand he gripped his pistol, his
stiletto in the other. Nor was he any too soon. A key grated in the
lock; the bolt slid back with a rusty creaking. The door itself came
open with a bang, admitting half a dozen ruffians, who staggered in
one after the other.
One was fat and jowly and unwieldy of body. He brought a rickety
chair with him and a lamp, and having thumped the former down in
a central position proceeded to mop his reddened face. The others
leaned against the dirty walls, surveying their prisoner with
satisfied grimaces, while cigarettes protruded from their lips.
"_Señor Inglise_," began one--when the fat man interrupted him.
"_Señor_ indeed! Prisoner. Dog of an Englishman!"
"As you will," shrugged the other. "Dog of an Englishman! Here is a
test, and our fat friend will carry it out. You are on the staff of
Lord Wellington. You know all things; then tell your tale. There is
life and liberty for the telling."
"As there was for me outside the walls of Rodrigo," shouted another
of the rascals, whom Tom instantly recognized as the spy his men had
captured, and whom he had impersonated. "Life and liberty. I took
both. Here now is your chance. The tale, and then the open door."
[Illustration: THE FAT MAN THREATENS TOM]
"Or a grave," added the fat man, thrusting his handkerchief away and
slowly drawing a pistol. "Mark you, Englishman, we wish you no harm.
We ask for very little. What now are the plans of the English lord?"
Tom laughed at them. He rocked from side to side at their questions,
but as he did so he wondered whether he ought straightway to shoot
the rascal into whose pistol muzzle he looked. It would be so easy.
As for the others, pooh! he did not fear them. A blow here, a thrust
with his stiletto there, and he would be out of the room. But there
was Alfonso. No--the time had not yet come for shooting.
"_Señors_, you choose to joke," he said pleasantly. "What next?"
"For you, nothing after my bullet. For us, the easy task of
extracting information from your comrade."
"Ah! There they thought to succeed--never!" Tom told himself, for
Alfonso was a strict patriot. "Why ask for this information?" he
demanded. "Of what use is it to you?"
Quick as a flash he saw the importance of here and now discovering
whether or no this was a gang of conspirators or spies dealing in
official secrets, the pests who had already purloined maps and plans
from Lord Wellington's dispatch case, rascals, in fact, who traded
on the news they were able to sell to the enemy. He noticed glances
passing between the men present. The sunken orbits of the fat man
turned from one to another, his jowly cheeks flapping. And then he
swung round on Tom.
"You may as well know as not," he said, with an air of impertinent
assurance, "for if you speak, and tell this tale, you are one of us.
If you decline----"
He levelled his pistol with precision, squinted along the sights
till our hero, staring at the rogue, could see his fat cheek at the
far end bulging over the butt. And then a podgy finger went to the
trigger. It was a nasty feeling, that, distinctly nasty. Tom found
himself clinging very hard to his pistol butt. He barely withstood
the strong temptation to start to his feet and attack the odious
ruffian. Then a smile broke across his face, a smile that seemed to
reassure the fat man, while the others, villains undoubtedly, sighed
as they were relieved of a strain which even they felt.
"But of course you will speak, and therefore I may tell you who we
are," the man in the centre said, leaning forward so that the chair
squeaked, while he slowly lowered his weapon. "Know then, Englishman,
that we have business with all such matters. To the British we carry
plans made by the French. From the British we take similar plans, and
pass them to the enemy. Simple, is it not? Unpatriotic! Poof! We must
live, and such business is paying. I will tell you. From this Lord
Wellington our friend yonder took many documents but a month ago.
They now rest in the case of Monsieur the French commander, while we
live here in luxury. That is so, comrade?"
The rascal alluded to, none less than the very one whom Tom
impersonated at Ciudad Rodrigo, wagged his head knowingly and smiled
a smile of triumph.
"It is so; we have papers here to prove it."
"Then it's the gang, and a pretty set of scoundrels they are, to be
sure," thought Tom, turning the matter over swiftly. But he wanted to
know more, he wanted additional time in which to complete a plan then
forming in his head. "But----" he began.
"There is not such a thing as but in our business. We succeed always.
Here, supposing we fail with you, and I have the unpleasant task of
shooting you, we succeed without a doubt with your comrade. Ah, that
stirs you!" gurgled the fat ruffian, hugely enjoying his fancied
position of bully.
"That is understood," came Tom's answer, given with easy assurance,
though the poor fellow was feeling far from happy. "But I was about
to ask, seeing that I am invited to join you, surely you have a
leader? Then who is he?"
"The tale, and then you shall see; for of a surety we have a leader.
Now, friend Englishman, you have put your own head into this noose,
take therefore my advice and escape in the only way possible. Believe
me, the part of spy, conspirator, what you like to term it, is easy
enough."
"And supposing I know nothing?" It was, after all, only a reasonable
suggestion, for the officer in command of a British army, or any
other army for the matter of that, is not in the habit of spreading
his plans broadcast, nor is every staff officer of sufficient
importance to warrant such confidence. No; such matters are buried
secrets, discussed only amongst the highest, often enough known only
to those immediately helping the commander. To speak the truth, Tom
had his own ideas of the future movements of this Peninsula campaign;
but they were his ideas only, discussed with comrades over a camp
fire. They were very likely not Wellington's. Once before, too, he
had had ideas, ideas imagined for a purpose. He remembered of a
sudden how he had rewritten the spy's message to the commander at
Ciudad Rodrigo, giving supposed plans of his commanding officer which
were likely enough, no doubt, but happened to be merely the result of
guesswork. And why not buy freedom here for a while? Why not purchase
respite even for a few hours? Yes, even for only a few hours, for in
that space of time he could do much.
"I'll speak," he said abruptly, causing the fat man almost to
overbalance. "But the tale is a long one. A map will be necessary. I
must sketch the plans and write against them."
"Ah! Did I not say that he, a staff officer, must know all?" gurgled
the stout wretch. "Did I not prophesy that he would speak? While our
leader swore the opposite. Declared he would never open his mouth,
even with a pistol grinning at him. Poof! I knew I should succeed. I
have that reputation."
He mopped the perspiration from his face, rolled a cigarette, and
lit it with the help of a comrade. "But why not speak now?" he asked
suspiciously. "Now, while we are here to listen."
Tom paused a little before answering. It would not do, he guessed,
to be too emphatic. "Yes," he began, wrinkling his brows, "I could
try, of course. But the thing must be written and sketched some time
if it is to be any use to you, so that I should have to tell it all
over again. Why not let me do it all at the same time, and add the
sketches? Then you will have such complete information that you will
be able to command a high price for it."
"Bravo!" called one of the men. "He speaks the truth. Why not as he
suggests? We have him securely here. Then give him time. Cut him free
now, and leave him to it."
How strange to feel in his heart almost terror at that suggestion,
a suggestion which he would have welcomed but ten minutes before.
Tom went furiously hot from head to foot, and then felt like an
icicle. For to cut him free meant a discovery. That discovery of his
severed bonds would rouse suspicion, and even he could hardly hope to
persuade these folks to trust him again. "Wait," he called. "Leave me
as I am to think. Bring pens and ink and paper when you have them."
"And food in the first place. See you there," cried the fat man,
pointing to the fellow Tom had already met, "go for food. Then pass
outside the house and get the writing things. We will go back to a
meal; you can join us later.
"After the meal I have a friend to see outside. I will get these
things, and then join you as the night gets older."
There was a knowing smile on more than one of the ruffianly faces.
The fat man grinned and chortled. "A friend! Hola!" he cried. "And
one whose company is better and more entertaining than that of these
comrades. Well, well! We have all had friends. When the war is ended,
and we have done more business, you will marry the wench, and small
blame to you."
They went away at once, banging the door and leaving their prisoner.
The sigh which Tom sighed was of the number one order. It was
immense. It heaved his shoulders upward and his ribs outward till he
looked like a trussed pigeon. And the perspiration trickling from his
forehead showed under what tension he had laboured. For he had passed
through a terrible ordeal, one which might easily have overmastered
his courage. That grinning pistol was not the worst part of it all,
though it was bad enough. There were a hundred fears lurking in his
heart. Supposing, for instance, it came to the point where he drew
up this sketch, information and plans purely imaginary, conjured up
in a somewhat inventive brain, and those plans proved in the end
to be actually in a manner similar to those projected by the great
Wellington! Then his name would go down for ever and ever as a
traitor, as a coward, as a spy. The word was loathsome to him. Better
to be butchered than suffer such a chance.
Then the old optimistic spirit triumphed. "Chance! There wasn't such
a thing, for he hadn't yet set his hand to paper, and wouldn't if he
could help it. The job's got to be tackled right at once," he told
himself; "there's no time for delaying. But one thing's certain: this
is the very gang Lord Wellington wishes to discover. For haven't I
had proof positive? Then how to haul the whole lot by the heels? Ah,
that's a conundrum! Precious queer for a fellow to be sitting in a
hole like this, a prisoner, and to wonder how he's going to capture
the fellows who have bagged him! Queer, I do think!"
He actually smiled. Tom began to grin at the recollection of his good
fortune, for he had had undoubtedly the best of the recent interview.
He had, for the time being at any rate, hoodwinked a portion of the
gang, and, seeing that the noise in the adjacent room, deafening
after the entry of his late visitors, had now subsided into a
gentle murmur, why, if noise was any criterion of his fortunes, the
conspirators were easy in their minds.
Seated in his corner, Tom began to pass each one of the individuals
who composed the gang in review before him. Not that he could
remember in detail all those ruffianly countenances; but there were
some whose features had left an impression. The two fat men, for
instance, rascals if ever there were any; then half a dozen of the
others; and lastly, and to the exclusion of the remainder, the one he
had taken for leader, the shadowy individual, obviously disguised,
with the writhing hand across his mouth and the assumed voice.
"Could that be José? No. The fellow was too short. But--but, awfully
like him, that writhing hand. And the voice too?"
Tom scratched his head, a luxury denied him a little earlier. "Bother
the chap!" he cried. "Anyway, I hope it won't prove to be that
precious cousin. All the better for him and for us when I come to
round up this crowd!"
How Jack Barwood would have roared with laughter at him! But let us
tell the whole truth. Down in the depths of his own jovial heart of
hearts Jack would have been, secretly, just a wee little bit jealous.
For what thundering optimism was here!
"The cheek of him!" he would decidedly have exclaimed. "Here's Tom
foxing in a corner, with his hands freed when they're supposed to
be lashed together. That's, so far as I can see, his only point of
advantage. Against that single item he's a prisoner, locked in a
room, with a band of cut-throat villains eating their supper beside
him. And here he has the amazing cheek to think, and think seriously
too, of the time when he'll have captured the lot, to even sympathize
with a cousin who may possibly be the leader. Hoo!"
Indignation, amusement, concern for the evident idiocy of his chum
would be expressed in his retort had he been there to make one. But
he wasn't, more's the pity. And to our hero the amusing, idiotic
side of his thoughts, if so you care to term it, was a source of no
more than passing interest. He began to check certain matters over
on the tips of his fingers. He nodded his head knowingly, and then,
of a sudden, he looked up. For the door yonder had opened. Now it
banged to with a crash. A step was coming along the passage. A key
was thrust into the lock, and presently the man who was to supply him
with food, and, later, with writing implements and paper, was pushing
his way into his prison. In a moment he would stoop to cut those
lashings which now were not in existence. In a moment, in fact, the
cat would be out of the bag. Tom braced his muscles for a struggle.