Tom Thinks Furiously
The man who had entered Tom's prison, the one whom his irregulars had
captured outside Ciudad Rodrigo, and in whose clothes our hero had
made his venture into the fortress, pushed the door to with his toe,
and, stooping, deposited a wooden tray in the centre of the room, on
the identical spot so lately occupied by the rickety and creaking
chair of the fat rascal who had been so free with his promises and
his pistol.
"Food and drink," he said, as he stood upright. "Ah, I had forgotten
the comrade! He, too, perhaps, would care for something. Then I must
get the key. Eduardo has it. Yes, that is what I shall do. Then there
is the pen and ink and paper, and later----"
"The friend," smiled Tom, watching the fellow like a cat. "The little
friend, comrade, whom you will marry when you have made this fortune."
The fellow grinned; he liked the wit of the English staff officer. It
flattered his vanity to be chaffed about this little matter of which
he was inordinately proud. Yes, it pleased him distinctly--this
prisoner was quite an amiable fellow.
"Ho, ho!" he laughed. "Wait till you are one of us. But, remember,
fine feathers make fine birds. You will have no gaudy uniforms. In
matters such as this with us it is a case of the man alone. It is
personality that tells."
Tom would have laughed at his stupid vanity at another time. But
there he was, all strung up for the struggle which he knew to be
inevitable, waiting and waiting. And how can a man, or a youth for
the matter of that, conjure up an easy smile under such circumstances?
"Yes, it is always the man himself who makes the running," said this
fellow. "But I will take food to your comrade, and then for the rest."
He was wool-gathering, this spy. Even spies, we suppose, have their
amorous moments and their gentler passions. This man was so taken up
with the thought of the outing he was to have that he was actually
pulling the door open and leaving without a thought as to the
condition of his prisoner. Of what use food and drink when a man's
hands were supposed to be fast bound behind him?
The reader can imagine the temptation Tom felt to let him go without
a murmur; for then the struggle, inevitable no doubt, would be
deferred for a while. He would have a longer breathing space; he
would, perhaps, be better prepared in the course of a few minutes.
"Funking, eh?" he asked himself severely. "Wanting to put it off,
you brute. Hi!" he called. "Thanks for the food and all that is to
follow, but permit me to point out that I am unable to touch it.
After all, even were I a four-footed animal, I could hardly manage
the task with two of my limbs tied. No doubt the thought of this
friend drives such trivial matters out of your head."
A roar escaped the jailer. This was quite the best joke he had come
across in many a long day's march. How his comrades would cackle when
he told them; for of course he would do that. It would add zest to
their chaffing.
"Indeed it is a pretty compliment I am paying a certain person,
and so I shall tell her," he giggled. "To think that I who am so
careful should go about with my wits so flying. She will smile and be
pleased. Hola! Then this is a true sign of my feelings for the minx."
"Quite a decent fellow in some ways, though a traitor," thought Tom,
eyeing the fellow narrowly. "Makes one feel rather a sneak to upset
this meeting. But then, business comes first, eh? Yes, I'm sorry for
him, but it can't be helped."
He staggered to his feet as the man came towards him, still with
his hands behind his back. And then he lunged swiftly, catching the
jailer neatly between the eyes with a fist the knuckles of which were
now hard after months of strenuous campaigning. The man rose bodily
from the floor, his feet kicked spasmodically forward, and in a
moment the Spanish hero, the spy and traitor who with his comrades
made a living by selling the stolen secrets of those who had come to
deliver their country, was crashing upon the floor.
Tom bent over him, a stern look on his face. He was ready for more
violence if need be, though not eager. "Stunned, knocked him out
with the sort of blow a pugilist would give. That's satisfactory for
the moment. Now for the future. Sorry about that girl though. Must
tell Jack Barwood and see if he cannot console. Now for Alfonso; but
there's a bothering key wanted. Perhaps this one'll fit. Supposing it
don't?"
Up went his hand again. The dashing young staff officer, of whom Lord
Wellington already had such a high opinion, looked for the moment
just like a Spanish churl. For, recollect, he was still dressed as
muleteer, and muleteers wear clothing which compares but badly with
the smart uniform of an officer of the staff. Besides, he had been
somewhat tumbled about of late. But what did it matter? Even had
there been anyone to look on, it was too dark to discover details.
Not that Tom could not see. Those ruffians who had interviewed him
had taken a lamp to the room, and the man who lay sprawling now had
brought a candle, only it had gone sprawling too, and lay guttering
and almost out at that moment. Tom picked it up and looked about him.
"No use waiting; time's precious," he told himself. "I'll see what
can be done with Alfonso's door. Then we'll set things humming."
He took the key from the door of his own prison, and, snatching up
the candle, stealthily slipped along the passage. There was a door
ten feet down it, and the key slid into the lock. But it refused to
turn, causing Tom to groan with vexation. He closely inspected the
lock then, and stood considering matters. A roar of laughing and
loud voices from the farther room, in which the spies were supping,
distracted his attention, and in a moment he was back at his own
door. Ah! A streak of light burst its way into the passage. The door
was opening. Tom instantly slid into his own room, closed the door
gently, and locked it from within. Then, putting the candle in the
far corner, on the same wall as the door, he waited events. They
followed swiftly; for a minute later there came a thunderous blow
upon the door, and then a burst of laughter.
"Ho, there, within! We come to join a comrade at supper, and to bring
him better fare than he has been given--open."
It was the voice of the fat man, breathless as if after much effort,
a little incoherent, if the truth be told. The laughter was that of
men easily roused to merriment, who enjoy a feeble joke, or a saying
wanting in wit and point, more thoroughly and longer than it merits.
They had been supping, that was the explanation, and conspirators
such as these might well be expected to sup wisely, but too freely
perhaps. And here seemed to be an example.
"Open!" bellowed the fat man, shaking the door violently.
"Open!" roared his comrades, lurching against it. "Open and sup with
new comrades."
"And the key? Does a prisoner, even if he be about to become a new
comrade--does he have the key of his prison given into his care?"
The note of amusement which Tom managed to fling into his voice
caught the fancy of these ruffians. They laughed uproariously, so
that for a while not one could make his voice heard. And then one
suggested that they should beat the door in.
"Aye, beat it in!" gurgled the fat man. "See, I will throw myself
against it, and, pish! the thing will fall to the ground."
That put a summary end to the matter, for the fat individual was
unable to control his muscles with sufficient precision and dexterity
to bring about the attempted movement. He launched his ponderous
weight at the door, it is true, but his dive fell short by two feet
at least, and, stumbling, he rolled amongst his comrades, bringing
about a scene of confusion.
The place rocked with the laughter of men. More than one leaned
against the door, shaking it badly. Then there were groans, fat
groans, almost in a stifled voice, and coming from the one who seemed
to be the ringleader in this piece of mischief. There was more
movement and more groaning, then heavy steps, as if of men carrying
a burden. In fact the fat man had been placed _hors de combat_. His
own indiscretion and dash had brought about his downfall. A damaged
leg caused his overexcited spirits to evaporate into the smoky air of
the foul dwelling in which his comrades were supping, while the pain
drew a succession of the dreariest of groans from him.
"Done with their invitation for the time being," hoped Tom. "Ah,
there goes the door to with a bang! I'll have a look outside and see
what has happened."
Gently turning the key, he pulled the door ajar and listened. Not a
sound came from the passage, and when his head was thrust out there
was not even a glimmer of light to be seen in the direction of the
supper room. But there was noise enough. Laughter rose and fell,
and was punctuated frequently by the dismal groanings of the man
who had been hurt. In fact, it looked as if the gang had settled
down for a time, and as if our hero might prosecute his own affairs
without interference. He tiptoed along to Alfonso's room and shook
the door heavily. But there was no answer from within, not even when
he called in as loud a voice as he dared risk. Had he but known it,
his cousin lay on the floor over by the far window, still pinioned,
as obstinate as any mule, determined to hold no converse with the
rascals who had captured him. He was not wanting in spirit, this
Spanish cousin of Tom's. As a matter of plain fact, he too had made
many and many an effort to free his limbs. But he had not observed
a similar catch existing on his own window, and with which our hero
had managed to saw through his own bonds. That was, perhaps, an
excellent illustration of the difference existing between the two
young fellows. Alfonso was a gallant officer, and had proved himself
possessed of ample courage on many an occasion. He was not brilliant,
however, and wanted some of the dash displayed by his English cousin.
Perhaps that was the result of his nationality, of his upbringing,
of his general life and surroundings until the outbreak of this
Peninsula War. But then, had Tom's life and conditions been much
different? He had lived his seventeen years in that quaint old house
down by the Thames, with its fine mulberry tree spreading wide, leafy
branches in front. The peeping into a big office provides no great
excitement, nor the seeing there of certain grey-headed clerks who,
as was the case at the establishment of Septimus John Clifford & Son,
carried out their allotted tasks daily without a hair's variation.
There was his school, to be sure; contact there with many a comrade;
friendships made and lost and regained; struggles for supremacy in
such games as then were practised; and, on occasion, somewhat too
frequently as his masters stated flatly, there were contests outside,
such as that between Tom and the grocer's lad. That had been our
hero's life, quiet and regular enough, as one must admit. But the
result was that Tom had a dash and swiftness about him Alfonso would
never possess, while here was an illustration which pointed to his
quickness. Alfonso still lay bound by the thumbs and elbows: Tom was
free, in the enjoyment of active movement.
"Perhaps he's asleep," he thought, shaking the door again and calling
without receiving an answer. "Anyway, I daren't make more noise, and
there is nothing about with which I could hope to force the lock. It
begins to look as if I'll have to go to those rascals and hold the
lot of them up till they produce the key. How'd it do?"
His finger went pensively to his forehead, while he stood in the
passage thinking deeply. At the far end the noise in the supper
chamber had become even greater. There were shouts as well as
laughter now, and once a sudden stamping, as if one of the gang had
risen to his feet and was indulging in a _pas seul_, with which to
enliven his comrades.
"Let's get along to the farther end and see what's there. Ah, another
room! Locked? No, open. No key, though, and the place as dirty as the
others."
He lifted the guttering candle overhead and inspected his
surroundings. The room was empty, completely stripped of furniture.
As a matter of fact the house itself was an empty one which this
rascally gang had appropriated, taking full advantage of the times. A
raid on neighbouring houses at the moment of the French retreat and
the coming of the British had stocked certain of the rooms, while the
owner must have been absent, else there would have been enquiries.
Then, too, by staring out of the window, Tom made the discovery that
the dwelling was situated at the end of a narrow yard, there being
stabling on either hand. It blocked this far end, while opposite
there was a low, arched exit leading into one of the minor streets of
Madrid.
"Just the sort of crib for such fellows. No one likely to come into
the yard unless they had actual business here; and since these
troubles started I expect few have been able to keep horses. The
French cavalry, of whom there have been thousands swarming through
the city, will have snapped up every atom of forage, and made
horsekeeping an expensive and impossible thing for most inhabitants.
So it's the place of all others for such a gang. Perhaps it'll suit
me just as well too. Now I wonder."
Stretching his head out of the narrow window he looked thoughtfully
about him, and, gazing upward, took stock of the stars, for the
clear night sky was thickly sown with them. One of the advantages of
campaigning, and commanding an irregular corps undertaking frequent
detached duties, was that he had learned to read his direction by the
stars, and now a little careful study told him that he was facing
south, that the street into which the house looked and the yard
actually emptied ran east and west.
"While the bulk of the city's to the north," he told himself.
"That'll help once we get out of this hole."
It is to be remarked that he had already decided that escape was
not only possible but certain. And he had used the word "we". Tom,
in fact, never even dreamed of leaving Alfonso. Had he done so, he
could have dropped from that window and gone clear away. It would be
a squeeze to push his somewhat bulky figure through the frame; but it
could be done, and below, outside, lay freedom; within lay death. For
this gang of spies was not likely to spare a young fellow possessed
of some of their secrets, and able to bring soldiers to arrest them.
The fact that they had spoken so plainly was proof positive that they
considered the two prisoners had no chance of escape, while so little
were they in sympathy with the feelings of an Englishman that they,
for the most part, had taken it for granted that both Tom and Alfonso
would willingly sell any knowledge they happened to have for the sake
of security. And the very act of doing so would, of course, make them
part and parcel of the gang; for to return to the troops would be
impossible.
"No use thinking at all," he grumbled, satisfied with his look out of
the window. "Let's get to work. This room's empty, so I'll leave it.
Now for the passage again. Ah! Stairs leading downward; others going
up. Try those descending first of all."
There was a door at the bottom of the steps leading directly into
the big yard. The huge paving stones, littered with unswept rubbish,
seemed to call loudly to him, to invite him to come out; for across
their surfaces he could step to freedom. Behind, upstairs, lay
danger; but a friend, a cousin, lay there also. Clambering up again,
Tom was about to ascend to the floor above his prison, when shouts
came from the supper room and sent him darting back to his own. The
door hiding those villains swung back with a crash and revealed
a scene which, when he came to look more closely at it--for he
was now only venturing to peep through the partly opened door of
his prison--caused him to stare at the members of the gang, whose
acquaintance he had so recently made, with eyes which were distinctly
startled. What else could one expect with such people, the lowest of
the low, traitors to their country, men who made profit out of the
misfortunes of the nation, and who stooped even to do a mischief to
the very people who had come at such risk, and at such cost in blood
and money, to help the Spanish against the French? These ruffians had
been making merry without a doubt. Secure in their retreat--for the
house was so isolated and shut in that even their shouts and ribald
laughter were hardly likely to attract attention from outsiders--they
had been supping liberally, and the red wine of Spain had been
flowing. The view through the open door discovered three of the
wretches dancing hilariously with unsteady feet, while beyond them,
separated by the table, on which stood a smoky lamp, was the fat
individual who had been so free with his pistol. His ungainly cheeks
hung flabbily. His pig-like eyes were hardly visible, while his lips
were blown outward at every expiration. Nor had he ceased groaning.
Evidently he found the chair in which he had been placed little to
his liking, or he may have been more severely injured than Tom
thought. In any case his wrinkled forehead, his sallow cheeks, and
his anxious eyes showed that he was suffering.
But what cared the others? Not a jot. Those three danced right
merrily, more than once being on the eve of upsetting the injured
man. Comrades sprawled across the table, their heads buried in their
hands, evidently sunk in sleep, while the picture was completed in so
far as the contents of the room went, or so much of them as Tom could
see, by a couple of the fellows sprawled motionless on the floor.
Obviously it was not any of these who had caused the commotion. The
centre of the scene, in fact, was occupied by two men half in and
half out of the door, past whose figures Tom squinted to see the
interior. One still clung to the latch, reeling unsteadily, while the
other leaned against the post. It was clear that there had been an
altercation between them, and as a matter of fact they had risen to
go outside and fight the matter out. But Spanish tempers are quick
and fiery. Shouts of anger came from both, while the man clinging to
the door already had his stiletto drawn. Indeed Tom had hardly taken
in all these particulars when the two threw themselves at one another
like tigers, and, gripping wherever they could, fell to the ground,
and there rolled from side to side as they struggled. Gasps and cries
of hatred escaped them both, and then a shriek silenced every other
sound within the building. It even stirred Alfonso to movement. He
came to his door and beat his shoulders against it, for that shriek
sent a horrible chill through him.
"It may be Tom they're murdering," he told himself, with a gasp.
But Tom was merely an onlooker, a horrified one, to be sure. That
shriek told a tale there was no mistaking. Suddenly one of the men
seemed to become flabby. The hand which had gripped his opponent's
neck fell to the floor with a hollow bump. Then his head sank
backward. The victor rose with difficulty, stood looking down at
his victim, and, having wiped his stiletto on the tail of his coat,
staggered back into the supper room and banged the door behind him.
There was a hush about the building after that. Maybe those of the
conspirators still able to understand were as disturbed as Tom at the
occurrence. But we hardly think so. Quarrels were frequent enough;
bloodletting was a common occupation.
"Well, they're brutes, the whole lot of 'em, that's true," Tom
told himself; "and it seems to me that the majority are in such a
condition that they are hardly likely to discover what's happening.
I'll wait a little, and then just go tooth and nail for that door.
It would take any one of them five minutes to stir his drunken wits,
and by then the thing'll be open and Alfonso out. But that's not all
that I want. My orders were to discover the gang and apprehend them.
That's clear; so the job's not finished with Alfonso's release."
He went out into the passage boldly and slid along to the door of
the supper room. A feeble groan came to his ears. That was the fat
man--snores caused the air to vibrate. No doubt the rascals sprawling
on the table and beneath it were responsible. But of talking there
was none. As for the man on the floor, he was dead. Tom leaned over
him and listened; there was not so much as the whisper of a breath.
He ran his hands over the man's face, down his clothing, to his belt.
The sheath of his drawn stiletto was there, and a pistol also. There
was nothing more, nothing. Yes, there was something: Tom gripped it.
It was a key thrust into the belt. He tore it out as if his life
depended on his haste, and went racing down the passage. It fitted.
The lock of Alfonso's room turned. The door swung open widely.
"Come swiftly," whispered Tom, darting in and proceeding at once to
cut Alfonso's bonds with the blade of a knife he always carried.
"But--how have you done it? How long have you been free? Who helped
you?" gasped his cousin, firing off a string of questions in a deep
whisper. "Those brutes, where are they? I heard them fighting or
drinking."
"Hush! We'll talk the thing over later. Come to the window and look
out. Now, there is the courtyard at the bottom of which this house is
situated. When you reach the street, turn sharp left and run to the
camp. Bring men back with you. Bring any soldiers you can come upon.
It is hardly nine yet, and there will be plenty about. Also there is
a bright, harvest moon, and that makes matters easier. Surround this
house. Guard every outlet, and then we shall have the lot of these
fellows. Alfonso, this is the very gang we are after."
He took the still astonished Alfonso by the shoulders and pushed him
out of the room and down the stairs into the yard.
"But you, you, Tom? What happens? You stay? Why?"
"Go quickly; this is a great chance. Go at once."
Tom turned abruptly and entered the house again, while his cousin,
knowing him by this time, and having already learned in the course of
service under his command that this young English cousin of his had
a way, when thwarted, of giving the curtest orders, darted out into
the yard and went racing through it. The one remaining, the young man
upon whom the great Lord Wellington had already turned his attention,
crept up the stairs again to the passage. He stole softly to the door
of the supper room and then back to those stairs leading upward.
Ascending them, he reached another landing with a couple of doors
leading from it. The flickering candle he bore in his hand showed
the dirt and squalor of the place, and showed, moreover, something
strange about one of the doors. It was heavily barred outside, while
a padlock passed though an eyelet in the bar and made all secure.
There were voices coming from the inside. Did our hero recognize
those voices after listening for a while? Then why such extraordinary
excitement, the like of which he had not shown before, even in the
midst of strenuous adventure? He went red-hot from head to foot and
gazed desperately about him. What could have caused this sudden
nervousness? Could it be that one of the speakers must be José, the
rascally cousin who had already done him such an injury, or could it
be possible----?
Frantic with eagerness he backed against the wall of the passage and
then rushed at the door, putting all his strength and weight into
the blow. He kicked it desperately. Careless of the commotion he
raised, he kicked and kicked and kicked again, till, of a sudden,
the door flew open. That moment, too, was the signal for loud shouts
from the supper room. A swarm of rascals, roused from their stupor by
the noise, came swarming out, and, running down the passage, found
two empty prisons to greet them. The sound of breaking timber above
reached their ears, and at once they turned to the stairs and raced
up them.