WITH THE GUERILLAS.
It was on a fine morning at the end of March that a cortége of
muleteers and mules left the little town of Alonqua. It was now four
months since the Scudamores left the army, and in the intervening time
they had tramped through a large portion of Spain. They had carried
with them only a dozen or so little despatches done up in tiny rolls
of the length and about the thickness of a bodkin, These were sewn
inside the lining of their coats, in the middle of the cloth where
it was doubled in at the seams, so that, even were the clothes to be
examined carefully and felt all over, the chances of detection were
slight indeed. They had each, on starting, half a dozen pieces of
Spanish gold coin sewn between the thicknesses of leather of the soles
of each of their shoes, for they did not start in the beggar clothes
in which they had first disguised themselves. Their clothes were,
indeed, worn and somewhat patched, but were of stout material, and
they wore shoes, but no stockings. They had, indeed, the appearance of
Spanish boys of the peasant class. The weather in the north of Spain
is often very cold in winter, and the boys felt that, with rags and
bare feet, they should suffer severely. All that they had to say and
do had been learned by heart. The names and addresses of the agents
of the British Government at every town had been laboriously learned
before starting, and, as Peter said ruefully, it was worse than a
dozen Greek impositions.
At each place of any importance they would find the person to whom
they were instructed to apply, would accost him with some password,
and would be put up by him while they remained there. When they had
gained the intelligence they required--of the number of French troops
in the place and its neighborhood, a knowledge always obtained by
going round, counting the men on parade, or, in the case of small
villages, finding out easily enough from a peasant the number,
quartered there, they would write a report on the number the
intentions as far as they could learn them, the amount of food
in store, and the sentiments of the population, would enclose
the despatch in a goose-quill and give it to their host, who was
responsible for forwarding it.
In a great number of cases, indeed, the man to whom they were
accredited was a muleteer. These men hated the French with a hatred
even more deep and deadly than that of other Spaniards, for, in
addition to the national causes of hatred, their mules were constantly
being requisitioned or seized by the troops and they themselves forced
to accompany the army for long distances at a nominal rate of pay for
themselves and their animals. Then, too, they were in close connection
with the guerillas, for whom they carried goods up into the mountains
from the towns, and when the chance came would leave their animals in
the mountains and join in cutting off an enemy's convoy. They acted as
messengers and spies too, and took their friends in the hills early
news of intended movements of the enemy. Many a day had the boys
traveled in the company of these muleteers, merry, careless fellows,
singing and talking to their mules, apparently the best-natured of
men, until something would be said which would recall the hated foe,
and then their black eyes would flash, their fingers clutch their
knife-handles, and they would pour out long strings of deep Spanish
oaths. Great was the surprise of these men on receiving the password
from two boys, but they never hesitated an instant in taking them in,
in giving them hospitality as long as they remained, and in either
accompanying them to the next town, or handing them over to the charge
of some comrade going in that direction. Not even to them did the
Scudamores ever betray that they were not what they were taken to be,
two Spanish boys employed by the English commander as messengers.
Often they were questioned how the English had come to entrust
important communications to two boys, and their reply always was that
their father and mother had fled to Portugal from the French, and were
living there near the English lines, and that they had offered their
lives in case of their sons' treachery.
This system of hostages seemed probable enough to their questioners,
and if the boys' fare was rather harder, and their treatment more
unceremonious than it would have been had they said that they were
British officers in disguise, they ran far less risk of detection
from an accidental word or sign. Indeed it would have been next to
impossible for them, had they desired it, to convince any one of their
identity. There was no fear now of their accent betraying them. Since
they had left the army they had never, even when alone together,
spoken in English. They made the rule and kept to it for two reasons,
the one being that they found that if they did not get into this habit
of always speaking Spanish, they might inadvertently address each
other in English, and thus betray themselves; the second, that they
wanted to learn to speak absolutely like natives. This they had in the
four months thoroughly learned to do. At first their pronunciation
and occasional mistakes excited curiosity when asked questions as
to the part of Spain from which they had come, but their constant
communication with their muleteer friends had quite removed this, and
for the last two months not one person had doubted that they were not
only Spanish, but that they came from the northern provinces.
Hitherto they had journeyed principally between large towns and over
country held by the French, but that part of their work was finished;
they had accurately computed the number of the army with which Massena
was to advance shortly to besiege Ciudad Rodrigo, and they had now to
carry the despatches to the guerilla leaders. Hitherto they had not in
a single instance excited suspicion. Not a Frenchman had asked them
a question, and no adventure of anything like an exciting nature had
taken place. They were now, however, entering into a country entirely
different from that which they had hitherto traversed. The northeast
of Spain is wild and mountainous, and offers immense natural
facilities for irregular warfare. Through the various passes of the
Pyrenees lead all the roads from France, whether to Vittoria on the
great road to Madrid, or through Navarre to Catalonia. Here and there
fortified towns still held out against the French, and the town of
Gerona, in Catalonia, had only fallen after a six months' regular
siege, and a desperate defense which fully rivals that of Saragossa.
Is it not a little singular that the Spaniards, who in the open field
were, with a few remarkable exceptions, absolutely contemptible, yet
frequently defended towns with wonderful fortitude, courage, and
desperation. It may, indeed, be said that in every siege where the
Spaniards were commanded by brave and resolute chiefs they behaved
admirably. This great range of hill country was the stronghold of the
guerillas, and every convoy from France had to be protected by a large
force, and even then often suffered greatly from the harassing attacks
of their active enemies.
The bands of the guerilla chiefs differed greatly in strength, varying
from merely ten or a dozen men to three or four thousand, and indeed
each band varied continually. The men, when not required, would
scatter to their homes, cultivate their little patches of ground, and
throw down the spade and take up the rifle again when they heard of a
convoy to cut off, or an invading column to beat back. The bands, too,
would vary in proportion to the renown of their chiefs. An energetic
man, who, at the head of a handful, had performed some daring feats,
would find himself a week afterwards the leader of many hundreds,
while a chief who was slow and dilatory would find his band melt away
like snow in summer.
The character of the warfare depended much upon the character of the
French generals. A few of these kept the troops under their command
sternly in hand, would permit no plundering, and insisted upon their
fair treatment of the Spaniards. These in turn wanted nothing better
than to remain quietly in their homes, and the guerilla bands would
melt away to nothing. Other generals, furious at the savage nature
of the warfare, and the incessant toil and loss entailed upon their
troops, allowed the latter to do as they pleased, and burning houses
and dead bodies marked their course. Then the peasantry, now turned
guerillas, retaliated as savagely, giving no quarter, sacrificing all
prisoners, and putting the wounded to death, sometimes with torture.
On both sides horrible atrocities were committed.
The guerillas were armed partly with rifles and carbines, partly with
muskets landed on the coast by the British Government, who also, from
time to time, sent powder and money to assist them to continue their
resistance to the French. Although nowhere really formidable, yet,
being scattered over a great extent of country, these bands occupied
very large bodies of French troops, who would otherwise have
been disposable for general operations in the field. The English
commander-in-chief had, of course, no shadow of authority over the
guerillas, or, indeed, over any of the Spanish troops, and his
communication to them simply asked what arms and ammunition they
required, and begged them to send him a list of the number of men they
could each throw on the French communications and lines of retreat in
case he should find himself in a position to make a general advance
against them. He also recommended most strongly the bearers of the
despatch to their care. It was to the chief known as Nunez that they
were now bound. The mule train was nominally destined for Vittoria, to
which town the leader had got a pass, specifying the number of mules
and the nature of the goods they carried, from the French commandant
at Alonqua, for no one was allowed to take the goods about the country
without a pass, in order to prevent supplies being forwarded to the
mountains. This pass, however, only mentioned twelve mules with four
drivers, and this was the number which started from Alonqua. Another
score of mules, however, joined them at a short distance from the town
where a by-road turned off. Some of these had gone out from the town
unloaded, as if taken out to graze, others had not entered the town,
but had come direct from the sea-coast by by-paths with powder, and
had been awaiting the departure of Garcias, the name of the leader of
the party. They had eight men with them, all armed to the teeth.
"Is it all right, Garcias?"
"All right," the leader said; "they have sent out their squadrons on
the other road, so I think we are safe for to-day."
"What boys have you got there with you?"
"They have business with Nunez; letter from the coast."
The cavalcade was now in motion again, and wound gradually up into the
hills. Presently they came to a point where four roads met. A clump of
trees grew hard by, and the boys gave a start of horror at seeing the
bodies of six French soldiers swinging from them. "Ay, that's Nunez's
work, I expect," Garcias said coolly. "There were three of his men
swinging there last week, so as a lesson he has hung up six of the
French. He is a rough boy to play with, is Nunez."
At sunset the party slept in a small farm, and at daybreak continued
their journey. They were now in the heart of the mountains, and their
path lay sometimes up deep ravines, sometimes along rocky ledges.
At last, about midday, they entered a valley in which stood a small
village. "That's Nunez's head-quarters to-day," Garcias said;
"to-morrow he may be no one knows where."
"But does he have to sally out by the wretched road by which we have
come?" Tom asked.
"No, no," Garcias replied; "he would not catch much prey that way.
There are three other ways out of the valley. That winding path you
see there leads up to Santona. That road on the other side leads out
on to the plain, and thence to Vittoria; while the footpath over the
brow opposite leads right down into the wide valley through which the
main north road runs. So you see this is a handy spot. From that brow
we can see the convoys going to and from France, and can pour down
upon them if they are weak; while, if a column is sent in search of
us, we can vanish away long before they can catch us. Nunez does not
use the direct road over the brow for his attack, but follows the
Santona or Vittoria road for a while, and then makes a swoop round. He
does not want to bring the French up to this village, for his family
and the families of many of the men live here."
As they approached the village, they found that there was a good deal
of bustle going on. Armed men were coming out of the cottages, and
gathering in a group round a rough stone cross, which stood in the
center of a sort of green. "We are just in time," Garcias said; "Nunez
is starting on some expedition or other."
When they reached the spot there were nearly two hundred men
assembled. They greeted Garcias with shouts of welcome as he arrived.
"Ah, ah! Garcias, just in time. Our last skin of wine was emptied last
night; we will bring some more up to-morrow; but if you had not come
we should have had to start thirsty, and that's unlucky besides being
unpleasant."
"Where is Nunez!" Garcias asked.
"Here he comes," was the reply; and the boys turning saw a figure
approaching, which by no means answered to the expectation of the
celebrated guerilla chief. He was small and almost humpbodied, but
very broad. His head seemed too large for his body, and a pair of
fierce eyes gleamed out from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. His mustache
was thin and bristly and his month wide, but with thin lips. The boys
could understand the reputation for cruelty and mercilessness which
attached to this sinister-looking figure, but there was none of the
savage power which they had expected to see in so celebrated a leader.
"Any news, Garcias?" he asked shortly, as he came up.
"None, captain, except that these boys have brought some despatches
for you from the English Lord."
Nunez looked sharply at them, and held out his hand without speaking.
Tom gave him the little quill.
The guerilla opened it, read the contents, and, saying briefly, "An
answer to-morrow," strode on to his men, and in a few minutes they
were defiling out at the end of the valley.
"That hardly seems a strong enough body to attack a French convoy,
Garcias," Tom remarked.
"No, it would not be, but there is only a part of his band here; the
rest will join him at some place agreed on--perhaps ten miles from
here. I believe he has about thousand men under his orders. Now come
along; we shall be none the worse for dinner," and, leaving his men to
unload the mules, he led the way into the little posada, or inn.
"Ah! Mother Morena," he said to an old woman who was crouching near a
blazing wood fire, "warming yourself as usual; it's well you've a good
fire, for you will be able to get us some dinner all the more quickly.
Twelve of us altogether, and all as hungry as wolves."
"Ah!" exclaimed the old woman crossly; "it seems as if I were never to
have an hour's quiet, just as all that roaring, greedy lot, with their
Mother Morena here and Mother Morena there, and their grumbling at
the olla, and their curses and their quarrels, are off, and I think I
am going to have a quiet afternoon, then you come in with your twelve
hungry wolves."
"Ah! mother, but wolves don't pay, and we do, you see."
The frugal supper over, the boys laid down on the benches, and were
soon asleep. The next day passed slowly, for the band were not
expected to return until late at night--perhaps not until the next
morning, as the pass where the attack would be made was some fifteen
miles off, and the convoy might not pass there until late in the
afternoon. The boys soon made friends with some of the women and
children of the place, to whom they told stories of the great cities
of the plain, and of the great water which washed the shores of Spain.
The greater portion of the Spanish peasantry are incredibly ignorant,
and very few of the inhabitants of this village had ever gone beyond
the mountains. Walking about in the village, but apparently mixing but
very little in the games of the other children, were two little girls,
whose gay dress of rich silk seemed strangely out of place in such a
spot.
Tom asked one of the women who they were, and she replied, with a toss
of the head, "They are the captain's children. The last time the band
went out they found among the baggage and brought up here, the dresses
of the children of some fine lady, and the captain kept them all as
part of his share, just as if there were no children in the village
whom it would become a great deal better than those stuck-up little
things. Not," she said, softening a little, "that they were not nice
enough before they got these things; but since they came their heads
have been quite turned by the finery and they are almost too grand to
speak to their old playfellows."
"Is their mother alive?"
"No, poor thing, she was killed by the French when the village she
lived in was burned by them, because some of them were found hung in
the neighborhood. The captain was away at the time and the children
were out in the woods. When he came back he found them crying by the
side of their mother's body, in the middle of the burning village. So
then he took to the mountains, and he never spares a Frenchman who
falls into his hands. He has suffered, of course, but he brought it
upon himself, for he had a hand in hanging the French soldiers, and
now he is a devil. It will be bad for us all; for some day, when the
French are not busy with other things, they will rout us out here, and
then who can blame them if they pay us for all the captain's deeds?
Ah! me, they are terrible times, and Father Predo says he thinks the
end of the world must be very near. I hope it will come before the
French have time to hunt us down."
The boys had a hard struggle not to smile, but the woman spoke so
earnestly and seriously, that they could only shake their heads in
grave commiseration for her trouble; and then Tom asked, "Is the
captain very fond of the children?"
"He worships them," the woman said; "he has no heart and no pity for
others. He thinks no more of blood than I do of water; but he is as
tender as a woman with them. One of them was ill the other day--a mere
nothing, a little fever--and he sat by her bedside for eight days
without ever lying down."
"I suppose," Tom said, "they never bring prisoners up here?"
"Yes, they do," the woman said; "not common soldiers; they kill them
at once; but sometimes officers, if they want to exchange them for
some of ours who may have been taken, or if they think they are likely
to get a high ransom for them. But there, it always comes to the same
thing; there, where you see that mound on the hillside, that's where
they are. They blindfold them on their way up here, lest they might
find their way back after all. Only one or two have ever gone down
again. I wish they would finish with them all down below; they are
devils and heretics these French; but I don't care about seeing them
killed. Many of us do, though, and we have not many diversions up
here, so I suppose it's all for the best."
"I wish that fellow had given us our answer before he went away,"
Tom said to Peter when they were alone. "I hope he won't bring any
prisoners up here; these massacres are frightful, and one side seems
as bad as the other. Well, in another month we shall have finished
with all this work, and be making for the frontier again. Shan't I be
glad when we catch sight of the first red-coats!"
In the middle of the night the boys were roused by a general bustle,
and found that a messenger had just arrived, saying that the
expedition had been successful, that a portion of the enemy had been
cut off, their rear-guard destroyed, and that the whole band would be
up soon after daylight. The village was astir early, but it was not
until nine o'clock that the guerilla band arrived. The boys saw at a
glance that they were stronger in numbers than when they started, and
that with them were some twenty or thirty baggage animals.
The women flocked out to meet them with shrill cries of welcome. The
booty taken was not of any great value in money, but was more valuable
than gold to the guerillas.
Each one of the band carried, in addition to his own piece, a new
French musket, while in the barrels on the mules were powder and ball;
there were bales of cloth, and some cases of brandy and champagne, and
a few boxes and portmanteaus of officers' baggage. In the rear of all,
under a strong guard, were two French officers, both wounded, a lady
and a child of some seven or eight years old.
After a boisterous greeting to their wives, the band broke up, and
scattered over the village, three or four men remaining to guard the
captives, who were told to sit down against a wall.
The whole band were soon engaged in feasting, but no one paid the
least attention to the prisoners. The lady had sunk down exhausted,
with the little girl nestled close to her, the officers faint and pale
from loss of blood, leaned against the wall. One of them asked the
guards for some water, but the men paid no attention to the request,
answering only with a savage curse. Tom and Peter, who were standing
by, immediately went to the inn, filled a jug with water, and, taking
a drinking horn and some bread, went back. One of the guards angrily
ordered them back as they approached.
"I am not going to free them," Tom said, soothingly; "there can be no
reason why they should die of thirst, if they are enemies."
"I am thirsty myself," one of the guard said, "and it does us good to
see them thirst."
"What, has no one brought you anything to drink?" Tom said, in a tone
of surprise. "Here, Peter, you give this bread and water to these
prisoners; I will run to Mother Morena's and bring some wine for the
guard."
The guard would not allow Peter to approach the captives until Tom
arrived with a large jug of wine, and a cold fowl, which he had
obtained at the inn. These the Spaniards accepted, and allowed the
boys to give the water to the prisoners. All drank eagerly, with every
expression of thankfulness, the lady seizing Peter's hand and kissing
it as he handed the horn to the child. The lady was a very bright,
pretty woman, though now pale and worn with fatigue and emotion, and
the child was a lovely little creature.
The boys, on leaving the prisoners, hurried to Garcias.
"What are they going to do with the prisoners, Garcias?"
"They have brought them up here to exchange for Nunez's lieutenant,
who was taken last week. One of the men went off last night to
Vittoria with a letter to offer to exchange. One of the officers is a
colonel, and the young one a captain. The lady is, they say, the wife
of General Reynier."
"Then they are safe," Tom said joyfully, "for, of course the French
would exchange a guerilla against three such prisoners."
"Yes," Garcias said, "they are safe if Vagas has not been shot before
the messenger gets to Vittoria. The messenger will hear directly he
gets there, and if they have finished Vagas, he will come straight
back, for his letter will be of no use then."
"But the French would pay a ransom for them."
"Yes; but the captain is never fond of ransoming, and if the news
comes that Vagas is shot it is all up with them."
"But they will never murder a woman and child in cold blood!" Tom
said, in tones of indignant horror.
"Women are killed on both sides," the muleteer said, placidly. "I
don't hold to it myself, but I don't know, after all, why a woman's
life is a bit more precious than a man's. Vagas's wife and children
are here, too, and if the news comes of his death, she would stir the
band up to kill the prisoners, even if the captain wanted to save
them, which he certainly will not do."
"When is the messenger expected back?"
"If he goes to Vittoria and finds Vagas is alive, and arranges for
the exchange, he won't be back till late to-night, perhaps not till
to-morrow; but, if he hears, either on the way or directly he gets
there, that he is dead, he may be back this afternoon." Soon after
this conversation Garcias was sent for to the chief, and returned
with a small note, which he handed to the boys as the answer to the
despatch, and urged them to go at once. The boys said that they could
not leave until they saw the end of this terrible drama which was
passing before their eyes. It was early in the afternoon when a man
was seen coming along the path from Vittoria. A hundred eager eyes
examined him, and ere long it was declared as certain that it was the
messenger. The boys' heart sank within them as they saw the fierce
look cast by the Spaniards in the direction of the prisoners, for
every one in the village was well aware of the meaning of this early
return. The boys had arranged upon the course they would pursue, and
they at once hurried to Garcias.
"Please come with us at once to Nunez. We want to see him before the
messenger arrives."
"I will come with you," Garcias said; "but if you think that any
talking of yours will persuade Nunez to move out of his way, you are
mistaken. It is more likely to cost you your own lives, I can tell
you; however, I gave you the promise I would do my best for you when
you started with me, and I will go with you now, though what you want
to interfere for here is more than I can make out. Pshaw! what matters
two or three of these accursed French, more or less?"
As they neared the chief's house they saw him coming towards them. His
brow was as black as thunder; he was evidently prepared for the news
of his lieutenant's death.
"These messengers want to speak to you for a moment," Garcias said.
The chief stopped with an impatient gesture.
"Señor," Tom said, with a dignity which surprised the chief; "we are
not what we seem. We are two English officers, and we have come to beg
of you, to implore you, not to tarnish the cause for which you fight
by shedding the blood of women and children."
The boys had agreed that it would be altogether hopeless to try to
save the French officers.
"British officers, indeed," exclaimed Nunez, "a likely story. Do you
know them as such, Garcias?"
"No," Garcias said bluntly, "I never guessed at it; but now they say
so, I think it's likely enough, for they don't seem to see things in
the same way as other people."
"I can give you proof of it," Tom said, calmly, pulling up the sleeve
of his coat, and showing a cicatrix in his forearm. Taking a knife
from his pocket, he cut into the skin, and drew forth a tiny silver
tube. This he opened, and handed to Nunez a paper signed by Lord
Wellington, declaring the bearers to be British officers, and
requesting all loyal Spaniards to give them every assistance.
The captain read it through, and flung it down. "You may be officers,"
he said contemptuously; "but if you were Lord Wellington himself, I
would not spare these accursed French. Listen!" and as he spoke a howl
of rage ran from the other end of the village, and told too plainly
the nature of the tidings the messenger had brought.
"I again protest," Tom said firmly. "I protest, as a British officer,
and in the name of humanity, against this cold-blooded murder of a
woman and child. It is a disgrace to Spain, a disgrace to the cause,
it is a brutal and cowardly act."
The guerilla furiously drew a pistol; but Garcias placed himself
between him and Tom. "I have promised him a safe conduct," he said,
"and have given my word for his safety. He is only a boy, and a young
fool; don't trouble with him."
Fortunately at this moment, for the guerilla was still irresolutely
handling his pistol, a crowd was seen coming towards them, headed by
a woman who seemed frantic with rage and grief. All were shouting,
"Death to the assassins! death to the French!" The chief at once moved
forward to meet them.
Tom and Peter gave a significant glance towards each other, and then
Tom turned to go back towards the house which Nunez inhabited, while
Peter hurried towards the spot where the prisoners were kept. Already
a crowd was assembling who were talking threateningly at the French
officers. Peter made his way through them until he stood by the lady,
who, with her child clinging to her neck, looked in terror at the
angry crowd, whose attention, however, was directed to the officers,
who stood looking calmly indifferent to their threats and insults.
"Do you speak Spanish, madam?" Peter asked, leaning over her.
She shook her head.
"Do you speak English?" he asked, in that tongue.
"Yes, yes, a little." the lady said, eagerly; "who are you? What is
this fierce crowd about?"
"Hush!" Peter said. "I am a friend. Listen. In a few minutes they are
going to shoot you all." The lady gave a stifled cry, and pressed
her child close to her. "Remember, when they come to you, ask for a
priest; gain a few minutes, and I hope to save you and the child."
So saying, he slipped away into the crowd again. He had scarcely done
so when Nunez arrived, accompanied by many of his men. The crowd fell
back, and he strode up to the French officers. "French dogs," he said,
"you are to die. I spared you to exchange, but your compatriots have
murdered my lieutenant, and so now it's your turn. You may think
yourselves lucky that I shoot you, instead of hanging you. Take them
to that wall," he said, pointing to one some twenty yards off.
The Frenchmen understood enough Spanish to know that their fate was
sealed. Without a word they took each other's hands, and marched
proudly to the spot pointed out. Here, turning round, they looked with
calm courage at the Spaniards, who formed up with leveled muskets at
a few paces distance. "Vive la France! Tirez," said the elder, in a
firm, voice, and in a moment they fell back dead, pierced with a dozen
balls.
Peter had turned away when Nunez appeared on the scene, to avoid
seeing the murder, and with his eyes fixed in the direction in which
Tom had gone, he listened almost breathlessly to what should come.
The French lady had sat immovable, cowering over her child, while her
countrymen were taken away and murdered. As Nunez passed where she
crouched, he said to two of his men, "Put your muskets to their heads,
and finish them!" As the men approached, she lifted up her face, pale
as death, and said,--
"Un prêtre, uno padre!"
"She wants a priest," the men said, drawing back; "she has a right to
absolution."
There was a murmur of assent from those around, and two or three
started to the priest's house, situated only a few yards away, being
one of the end houses of the village. The priest soon appeared, came
up to the spot, and received orders to shrive the Frenchwoman. He
attempted a remonstrance, but was silenced by a threat from Nunez,
and knowing from experience of such scenes that his influence went
for nothing with Nunez and his fierce band, he bent over her, and the
crowd drew back, to let them speak unheard. At this moment, to Peter's
intense relief, he saw Tom approaching with the captain's two children
walking beside him. Absorbed in what was passing before them, no one
else looked round, and Peter slipped away and joined his brother. They
came within twenty yards of the crowd, and then paused.
"Wait a minute," Tom said to the children, "your father is busy."
In another minute Nunez shouted roughly, "There that will do; finish
with it and have done! I want to be off to my dinner."
Tom and Peter simultaneously drew out a large Spanish knife, and each
took one of the children firmly by the shoulder.
"Stop! Señor Nunez!" Tom shouted in a loud, clear tone. "Stop! or by
heaven there will be four victims instead of two! Let one of you lift
a finger against these captives--let one of you come one step nearer
to us--and, by the Holy Virgin, we will drive our knives into these
children's hearts!"
A cry of astonishment broke from the crowd, and one of agony and rage
from Nunez, who tottered against a wall in horror at the danger in
which his daughters were placed.
"Listen! all of you," Tom said, "we are English officers, we have
shown our papers to Nunez, and he knows it is so. We will not suffer
this murder of a mother and her child. If they are to die, we will die
with them; but these two children shall die too! Now, what is it to
be?"
A dozen of the guerillas leveled their guns at the two daring boys.
"No! no!" Nunez shrieked; "lower your guns. Don't hurt the children,
señors. The captives shall not be hurt; I swear it! They shall go
free. Give me my children."
"Not if I know it," Tom said; "Do you think I could trust the word of
a man who would murder women and children in cold blood? No; these
girls shall go with us as hostages, till we are safe under French
guard."
"They will tell them the way up here," said one of the woman in the
group, "and then we shall be all killed."
"No," Tom said; "the lady shall swear not to tell the way up here. She
shall swear on your priest's crucifix. We will give you our words as
British officers."
"But how are the children to get back here again?" another asked, for
Nunez was so paralyzed that he could only gaze on the children, who
were crying bitterly, and implore them to stand quiet, and not try to
get away. After more parleying the arrangements were completed. The
crowd fell back on either side, so as to leave a large space round the
French lady. Tom and Peter then went up to them with the little girls.
The lady was sobbing with joy and excitement at this unexpected
relief.
"Can you walk?" Tom asked her in English.
"Yes," she said, getting up hastily, but almost falling again.
"Garcias will go first, as guide. The priest will give you his arm,"
Tom went on, "these two young women will go with you and carry your
child if necessary. You will walk on, twenty yards ahead of us. We
follow with these girls. No one is to follow us, or accompany us. We
are to go on like that till we come upon your outposts, and then the
priest and the two women will bring back Nunez's children."
"You will send them safe back, you swear?" asked Nunez, in tremulous
tones.
"Psha!" Tom said contemptuously, "you don't suppose we are
child-murderers, like yourself."
"Remember!" the guerilla said, in a sudden burst of passion, "if you
ever cross my path again, I will--"
"Do terrible things no doubt," Tom said scornfully; "and do you
beware, too. It is wild beasts like yourself who have brought disgrace
and ruin on Spain. No defeat could dishonor and disgrace her as much
as your fiendish cruelty. It is in revenge for the deeds that you and
those like you do, that the French carry the sword and fire to your
villages. We may drive the French out, but never will a country which
fights by murder and treachery become a great nation. Are you ready,
Garcias!"
"I am ready," the muleteer said, stepping forward from the silent and
scowling throng.
"We can trust you," Tom said heartily; "take us the short way straight
down into the valley; we may have the luck to come upon a passing
French troop in an hour. Think of that, madam," he said to the French
lady, "let that give you strength and courage."
So saying, the procession set out in the order Tom had indicated,
amidst the curses of the guerillas, who were furious at seeing
themselves thus bearded. At the brow of the hill Tom looked back, and
saw that the guerillas were still standing in a group, in front of
which he could distinguish the figure of Nunez. Taking off his hat,
he waved an ironical farewell, and then followed the party down
the hillside into the broad valley below. They could see the road
stretching like a thread along it, but to their disappointment, not
a figure was visible upon it. Now that there was no longer danger of
treachery, the party closed up together.
"How far is it to Vittoria, Garcias?"
"Twenty good miles, señor."
"But we shall never get there," Tom said in dismay. "I am sure the
lady could not walk another five miles; she is quite exhausted now."
"You will not have to go five miles, señor. There is a body of four
or five hundred French in that large village you see there; it is not
more than three miles at most."
It was a weary journey, for the French lady, exhausted by fatigue
and excitement, was often obliged to stop and sit down to rest, and,
indeed, could not have got on at all had not Garcias on one side and
the padre on the other helped her on. At last, just as the sun was
setting, they approached the village, and could see the French
sentries at its entrance. When within a hundred yards they paused.
"We are safe now," Tom said; "it is not necessary for you to go
farther. Good-by, little ones; I am sorry we have given you such a
fright, but it was not our fault. Good-by, padre; I know that you will
not grudge your walk, for the sake of its saving the lives of these
unfortunates. Good-by, Garcias; thanks for your kindness and fidelity.
I will report them when I return, and will, if I get a chance, send
you a remembrance of our journey together."
"Good-by, señors," Garcias said, shaking them by the hand; "you
English are different to us, and I am not surprised now at your
General holding Portugal against all the French armies." Then he
lowered his voice, so that the Spanish women standing by could not
hear him. "Be on your guard, señors; don't move on from the village
without a strong convoy is going on; change your disguise, if
possible; distrust every one you come across, and, in heaven's name,
get back to your lines as soon as possible, for you may be assured
that your steps will be dogged, and that you will be safe nowhere in
Spain from Nunez's vengeance. The guerillas communicate with each
other, and you are doomed if you fall into the hands of any, except,
perhaps, one or two of the greater chiefs. Be always on your guard;
sleep with your eyes open. Remember, except in the middle of a French
regiment, you will never be really safe."
"Thanks, Garcias!" the boys said earnestly, "we will do our best to
keep our throats safe. At any rate, if we go down, it shall not be for
want of watchfulness!"
Another shake of the hands, and the party separated. The Spanish woman
who was carrying the sleeping French child handed her over to Tom, who
took her without waking her while Peter lent his arm to the French
lady.
"Madam," Tom said in English, "you will soon be among your friends. I
know that you will keep your promise not to divulge the situation of
the village you have left. I must ask you, also, to promise me not
to say that we speak English, or to say anything which may create a
suspicion that we are not what we seem. You will, of course, relate
your adventures, and speak of us merely as Spanish boys, who acted as
they did being moved by pity for you. We must accompany you for some
time, for Nunez will move heaven and earth to get us assassinated, and
all we want is that you shall obtain permission for us to sleep in the
guard-room, so as to be under shelter of French bayonets until we can
decide upon our course of action."
The lady assented with a gesture, for she was too exhausted to speak,
and as they reached the French sentries she tottered and sank down on
the ground insensible.