News of the affair at Tavora reached Sir Terence O’Moy, the
Adjutant-General at Lisbon, about a week later in dispatches from
headquarters. These informed him that in the course of the humble
apology and explanation of the regrettable occurrence offered by the
Colonel of the 8th Dragoons in person to the Mother Abbess, it had
transpired that Lieutenant Butler had left the convent alive, but that
nevertheless he continued absent from his regiment.
Those dispatches contained other unpleasant matters of a totally
different nature, with which Sir Terence must proceed to deal at once;
but their gravity was completely outweighed in the adjutant’s mind by
this deplorable affair of Lieutenant Butler’s. Without wishing to convey
an impression that the blunt and downright O’Moy was gifted with any
undue measure of shrewdness, it must nevertheless be said that he was
quick to perceive what fresh thorns the occurrence was likely to throw
in a path that was already thorny enough in all conscience, what
a semblance of justification it must give to the hostility of the
intriguers on the Council of Regency, what a formidable weapon it must
place in the hands of Principal Souza and his partisans. In itself this
was enough to trouble a man in O’Moy’s position. But there was more.
Lieutenant Butler happened to be his brother-in-law, own brother to
O’Moy’s lovely, frivolous wife. Irresponsibility ran strongly in that
branch of the Butler family.
For the sake of the young wife whom he loved with a passionate and
fearful jealousy such as is not uncommon in a man of O’Moy’s temperament
when at his age--he was approaching his forty-sixth birthday--he marries
a girl of half his years, the adjutant had pulled his brother-in-law out
of many a difficulty; shielded him on many an occasion from the proper
consequences of his incurable rashness.
This affair of the convent, however, transcended anything that had gone
before and proved altogether too much for O’Moy. It angered him as much
as it afflicted him. Yet when he took his head in his hands and groaned,
it was only his sorrow that he was expressing, and it was a sorrow
entirely concerned with his wife.
The groan attracted the attention of his military secretary, Captain
Tremayne, of Fletcher’s Engineers, who sat at work at a littered
writing-table placed in the window recess. He looked up sharply, sudden
concern in the strong young face and the steady grey eyes he bent upon
his chief. The sight of O’Moy’s hunched attitude brought him instantly
to his feet.
“Whatever is the matter, sir?”
“It’s that damned fool Richard,” growled O’Moy. “He’s broken out again.”
The captain looked relieved. “And is that all?”
O’Moy looked at him, white-faced, and in his blue eyes a blaze of that
swift passion that had made his name a byword in the army.
“All?” he roared. “You’ll say it’s enough, by God, when you hear what
the fool’s been at this time. Violation of a nunnery, no less.” And he
brought his massive fist down with a crash upon the document that had
conveyed the information. “With a detachment of dragoons he broke into
the convent of the Dominican nuns at Tavora one night a week ago.
The alarm bell was sounded, and the village turned out to avenge the
outrage. Consequences: three troopers killed, five peasants sabred to
death and seven other casualties, Dick himself missing and reported to
have escaped from the convent, but understood to remain in hiding--so
that he adds desertion to the other crime, as if that in itself were not
enough to hang him. That’s all, as you say, and I hope you consider it
enough even for Dick Butler--bad luck to him.”
“My God!” said Captain Tremayne.
“I’m glad that you agree with me.”
Captain Tremayne stared at his chief, the utmost dismay upon his fine
young face. “But surely, sir, surely--I mean, sir, if this report is
correct some explanation--” He broke down, utterly at fault.
“To be sure, there’s an explanation. You may always depend upon a most
elegant explanation for anything that Dick Butler does. His life is made
up of mistakes and explanations.” He spoke bitterly, “He broke into
the nunnery under a misapprehension, according to the account of the
sergeant who accompanied him,” and Sir Terence read out that part of the
report. “But how is that to help him, and at such a time as this, with
public feeling as it is, and Wellington in his present temper about it?
The provost’s men are beating the country for the blackguard. When they
find him it’s a firing party he’ll have to face.”
Tremayne turned slowly to the window and looked down the fair prospect
of the hillside over a forest of cork oaks alive with fresh green
shoots to the silver sheen of the river a mile away. The storms of the
preceding week had spent their fury--the travail that had attended the
birth of Spring--and the day was as fair as a day of June in England.
Weaned forth by the generous sunshine, the burgeoning of vine and fig,
of olive and cork went on apace, and the skeletons of trees which a
fortnight since had stood gaunt and bare were already fleshed in tender
green.
From the window of this fine conventual house on the heights of
Monsanto, above the suburb of Alcantara, where the Adjutant-General had
taken up his quarters, Captain Tremayne stood a moment considering the
panorama spread to his gaze, from the red-brown roofs of Lisbon on his
left--that city which boasted with Rome that it was built upon a cluster
of seven hills--to the lines of embarkation that were building about
the fort of St. Julian on his left. Then he turned, facing again the
spacious, handsome room with its heavy, semi-ecclesiastical furniture,
and Sir Terence, who, hunched in his chair at the ponderously carved
black writing-table, scowled fiercely at nothing.
“What are you going to do, sir?” he inquired.
Sir Terence shrugged impatiently and heaved himself up in his chair.
“Nothing,” he growled.
“Nothing?”
The interrogation, which seemed almost to cover a reproach, irritated
the adjutant.
“And what the devil can I do?” he rapped.
“You’ve pulled Dick out of scrapes before now.”
“I have. That seems to have been my principal occupation ever since I
married his sister. But this time he’s gone too far. What can I do?”
“Lord Wellington is fond of you,” suggested Captain Tremayne. He was
your imperturbable young man, and he remained as calm now as O’Moy was
excited. Although by some twenty years the adjutant’s junior, there was
between O’Moy and himself, as well as between Tremayne and the Butler
family, with which he was remotely connected, a strong friendship, which
was largely responsible for the captain’s present appointment as Sir
Terence’s military secretary.
O’Moy looked at him, and looked away. “Yes,” he agreed. “But he’s still
fonder of law and order and military discipline, and I should only
be imperilling our friendship by pleading with him for this young
blackguard.”
“The young blackguard is your brother-in-law,” Tremayne reminded him.
“Bad luck to you, Tremayne, don’t I know it? Besides, what is there I
can do?” he asked again, and ended testily: “Faith, man, I don’t know
what you’re thinking of.”
“I’m thinking of Una,” said Captain Tremayne in that composed way of
his, and the words fell like cold water upon the hot iron of O’Moy’s
anger.
The man who can receive with patience a reproach, implicit or explicit,
of being wanting in consideration towards his wife is comparatively
rare, and never a man of O’Moy’s temperament and circumstances.
Tremayne’s reminder stung him sharply, and the more sharply because of
the strong friendship that existed between Tremayne and Lady O’Moy. That
friendship had in the past been a thorn in O’Moy’s flesh. In the days of
his courtship he had known a fierce jealousy of Tremayne, beholding in
him for a time a rival who, with the strong advantage of youth, must in
the end prevail. But when O’Moy, putting his fortunes to the test, had
declared himself and been accepted by Una Butler, there had been an end
to the jealousy, and the old relations of cordial friendship between the
men had been resumed.
O’Moy had conceived that jealousy of his to have been slain. But there
had been times when from its faint, uneasy stirrings he should have
taken warning that it did no more than slumber. Like most warm hearted,
generous, big-natured men, O’Moy was of a singular humility where women
were concerned, and this humility of his would often breathe a doubt
lest in choosing between himself and Tremayne Una might have been guided
by her head rather than her heart, by ambition rather than affection,
and that in taking himself she had taken the man who could give her by
far the more assured and affluent position.
He had crushed down such thoughts as disloyal to his young wife,
as ungrateful and unworthy; and at such times he would fall into
self-contempt for having entertained them. Then Una herself had revived
those doubts three months ago, when she had suggested that Ned Tremayne,
who was then at Torres Vedras with Colonel Fletcher, was the very man to
fill the vacant place of military secretary to the adjutant, if he would
accept it. In the reaction of self-contempt, and in a curious surge
of pride almost as perverse as his humility, O’Moy had adopted her
suggestion, and thereafter--in the past-three months, that is to
say--the unreasonable devil of O’Moy’s jealousy had slept, almost
forgotten. Now, by a chance remark whose indiscretion Tremayne could
not realise, since he did not so much as suspect the existence of that
devil, he had suddenly prodded him into wakefulness. That Tremayne
should show himself tender of Lady O’Moy’s feelings in a matter in which
O’Moy himself must seem neglectful of them was gall and wormwood to the
adjutant. He dissembled it, however, out of a natural disinclination to
appear in the ridiculous role of the jealous husband.
“That,” he said, “is a matter that you may safely leave to me,” and his
lips closed tightly upon the words when they were uttered.
“Oh, quite so,” said Tremayne, no whit abashed. He persisted
nevertheless. “You know Una’s feelings for Dick.”
“When I married Una,” the adjutant cut in sharply, “I did not marry the
entire Butler family.” It hardened him unreasonably against Dick to have
the family cause pleaded in this way. “It’s sick to death I am of Master
Richard and his escapades. He can get himself out of this mess, or he
can stay in it.”
“You mean that you’ll not lift a hand to help him.”
“Devil a finger,” said O’Moy.
And Tremayne, looking straight into the adjutant’s faintly smouldering
blue eyes, beheld there a fierce and rancorous determination which
he was at a loss to understand, but which he attributed to something
outside his own knowledge that must lie between O’Moy and his
brother-in-law.
“I am sorry,” he said gravely. “Since that is how you feel, it is to
be hoped that Dick Butler may not survive to be taken. The alternative
would weigh so cruelly upon Una that I do not care to contemplate it.”
“And who the devil asks you to contemplate it?” snapped O’Moy. “I am not
aware that it is any concern of yours at all.”
“My dear O’Moy!” It was an exclamation of protest, something between
pain and indignation, under the stress of which Tremayne stepped
entirely outside of the official relations that prevailed between
himself and the adjutant. And the exclamation was accompanied by such a
look of dismay and wounded sensibilities that O’Moy, meeting this, and
noting the honest manliness of Tremayne’s bearing and countenance; was
there and then the victim of reaction. His warm-hearted and impulsive
nature made him at once profoundly ashamed of himself. He stood up,
a tall, martial figure, and his ruggedly handsome, shaven countenance
reddened under its tan. He held out a hand to Tremayne.
“My dear boy, I beg your pardon. It’s so utterly annoyed I am that the
savage in me will be breaking out. Sure, it isn’t as if it were
only this affair of Dick’s. That is almost the least part of the
unpleasantness contained in this dispatch. Here! In God’s name, read it
for yourself, and judge for yourself whether it’s in human nature to be
patient under so much.”
With a shrug and a smile to show that he was entirely mollified, Captain
Tremayne took the papers to his desk and sat down to con them. As he
did so his face grew more and more grave. Before he had reached the end
there was a tap at the door. An orderly entered with the announcement
that Dom Miguel Forjas had just driven up to Monsanto to wait upon the
adjutant-general.
“Ha!” said O’Moy shortly, and exchanged a glance with his secretary.
“Show the gentleman up.”
As the orderly withdrew, Tremayne came over and placed the dispatch on
the adjutant’s desk. “He arrives very opportunely,” he said.
“So opportunely as to be suspicious, bedad!” said O’Moy. He had
brightened suddenly, his Irish blood quickening at the immediate
prospect of strife which this visit boded. “May the devil admire me, but
there’s a warm morning in store for Mr. Forjas, Ned.”
“Shall I leave you?”
“By no means.”
The door opened, and the orderly admitted Miguel Forjas, the Portuguese
Secretary of State. He was a slight, dapper gentleman, all in black,
from his silk stockings and steel-buckled shoes to his satin stock.
His keen aquiline face was swarthy, and the razor had left his chin and
cheeks blue-black. His sleek hair was iron-grey. A portentous gravity
invested him this morning as he bowed with profound deference first to
the adjutant and then to the secretary.
“Your Excellencies,” he said--he spoke an English that was smooth and
fluent for all its foreign accent “Your Excellencies, this is a terrible
affair.”
“To what affair will your Excellency be alluding?” wondered O’Moy.
“Have you not received news of what has happened at Tavora? Of the
violation of a convent by a party of British soldiers? Of the fight that
took place between these soldiers and the peasants who went to succour
the nuns?”
“Oh, and is that all?” said O’Moy. “For a moment I imagined your
Excellency referred to other matters. I have news of more terrible
affairs than the convent business with which to entertain you this
morning.”
“That, if you will pardon me, Sir Terence, is quite impossible.”
“You may think so. But you shall judge, bedad. A chair, Dom Miguel.”
The Secretary of State sat down, crossed his knees and placed his hat in
his lap. The other two resumed their seats, O’Moy leaning forward, his
elbows on the writing-table, immediately facing Senhor Forjas.
“First, however,” he said, “to deal with this affair of Tavora. The
Council of Regency will, no doubt, have been informed of all the
circumstances. You will be aware, therefore, that this very deplorable
business was the result of a misapprehension, and that the nuns of
Tavora might very well have avoided all this trouble had they behaved in
a sensible, reasonable manner. If instead of shutting themselves up in
the chapel and ringing the alarm bell the Mother-Abbess or one of the
sisters had gone to the wicket and answered the demand of admittance
from the officer commanding the detachment, he would instantly have
realised his mistake and withdrawn.”
“What does your Excellency suggest was this mistake?” inquired the
Secretary.
“You have had your report, sir, and surely it was complete. You must
know that he conceived himself to be knocking at the gates of the
monastery of the Dominican fathers.”
“Can your Excellency tell me what was this officer’s business at the
monastery of the Dominican fathers?” quoth the Secretary, his manner
frostily hostile.
“I am without information on that point,” O’Moy admitted; “no doubt
because the officer in question is missing, as you will also have been
informed. But I have no reason to doubt that, whatever his business may
have been, it was concerned with the interests which are common alike to
the British and the Portuguese nation.”
“That is a charitable assumption, Sir Terence.”
“Perhaps you will inform me, Dom Miguel, of the uncharitable assumption
which the Principal Souza prefers,” snapped O’Moy, whose temper began to
simmer.
A faint colour kindled in the cheeks of the Portuguese minister, but his
manner remained unruffled.
“I speak, sir, not with the voice of Principal Souza, but with that of
the entire Council of Regency; and the Council has formed the opinion,
which your own words confirm, that his Excellency Lord Wellington is
skilled in finding excuses for the misdemeanours of the troops under his
command.”
“That,” said O’Moy, who would never have kept his temper in control but
for the pleasant consciousness that he held a hand of trumps with which
he would presently overwhelm this representative of the Portuguese
Government, “that is an opinion for which the Council may presently like
to apologise, admitting its entire falsehood.”
Senhor Forjas started as if he had been stung. He uncrossed his black
silk legs and made as if to rise.
“Falsehood, sir?” he cried in a scandalised voice.
“It is as well that we should be plain, so as to be avoiding all
misconceptions,” said O’Moy. “You must know, sir, and your Council must
know, that wherever armies move there must be reason for complaint.
The British army does not claim in this respect to be superior to
others--although I don’t say, mark me, that it might not claim it with
perfect justice. But we do claim for ourselves that our laws against
plunder and outrage are as strict as they well can be, and that where
these things take place punishment inevitably follows. Out of your own
knowledge, sir, you must admit that what I say is true.”
“True, certainly, where the offenders are men from the ranks. But in
this case, where the offender is an officer, it does not transpire that
justice has been administered with the same impartial hand.” “That,
sir,” answered O’Moy sharply, testily, “is because he is missing.”
The Secretary’s thin lips permitted themselves to curve into the
faintest ghost of a smile. “Precisely,” he said.
For answer O’Moy, red in the face, thrust forward the dispatch he had
received relating to the affair.
“Read, sir--read for yourself, that you may report exactly to the
Council of Regency the terms of the report that has just reached me from
headquarters. You will be able to announce that diligent search is being
made for the offender.”
Forjas perused the document carefully, and returned it.
“That is very good,” he said, “and the Council will be glad to hear of
it. It will enable us to appease the popular resentment in some degree.
But it does not say here that when taken this officer will not be
excused upon the grounds which yourself you have urged to me.”
“It does not. But considering that he has since been guilty of
desertion, there can be no doubt--all else apart--that the finding of a
court martial will result in his being shot.”
“Very well,” said Forjas. “I will accept your assurance, and the Council
will be relieved to hear of it.” He rose to take his leave. “I am
desired by the Council to express to Lord Wellington the hope that he
will take measures to preserve better order among his troops and to
avoid the recurrence of such extremely painful incidents.”
“A moment,” said O’Moy, and rising waved his guest back into his chair,
then resumed his own seat. Under a more or less calm exterior he was
a seething cauldron of passion. “The matter is not quite at an end, as
your Excellency supposes. From your last observation, and from a variety
of other evidence, I infer that the Council is far from satisfied with
Lord Wellington’s conduct of the campaign.”
“That is an inference which I cannot venture to contradict. You will
understand, General, that I do not speak for myself, but for the
Council, when I say that many of his measures seem to us not merely
unnecessary, but detrimental. The power having been placed in the hands
of Lord Wellington, the Council hardly feels itself able to interfere
with his dispositions. But it nevertheless deplores the destruction of
the mills and the devastation of the country recommended and insisted
upon by his lordship. It feels that this is not warfare as the Council
understands warfare, and the people share the feelings of the Council.
It is felt that it would be worthier and more commendable if Lord
Wellington were to measure himself in battle with the French, making a
definite attempt to stem the tide of invasion on the frontiers.”
“Quite so,” said O’Moy, his hand clenching and unclenching, and
Tremayne, who watched him, wondered how long it would be before the
storm burst. “Quite so. And because the Council disapproves of the
very measures which at Lord Wellington’s instigation it has publicly
recommended, it does not trouble to see that those measures are carried
out. As you say, it does not feel itself able to interfere with his
dispositions. But it does not scruple to mark its disapproval by
passively hindering him at every turn. Magistrates are left to
neglect these enactments, and because,” he added with bitter sarcasm,
“Portuguese valour is so red-hot and so devilish set on battle the
Militia Acts calling all men to the colours are forgotten as soon as
published. There is no one either to compel the recalcitrant to take
up arms, or to punish the desertions of those who have been driven into
taking them up. Yet you want battles, you want your frontiers defended.
A moment, sir! there is no need for heat, no need for any words. The
matter may be said to be at an end.” He smiled--a thought viciously,
be it confessed--and then played his trump card, hurled his bombshell.
“Since the views of your Council are in such utter opposition to
the views of the Commander-in-Chief, you will no doubt welcome Lord
Wellington’s proposal to withdraw from this country and to advise his
Majesty’s Government to withdraw the assistance which it is affording
you.”
There followed a long spell of silence, O’Moy sitting back in his chair,
his chin in his hand, to observe the result of his words. Nor was he in
the least disappointed. Dom Miguel’s mouth fell open; the colour slowly
ebbed from his cheeks, leaving them an ivory-yellow; his eyes dilated
and protruded. He was consternation incarnate.
“My God!” he contrived to gasp at last, and his shaking hands clutched
at the carved arms of his chair.
“Ye don’t seem as pleased as I expected,” ventured O’Moy.
“But, General, surely... surely his Excellency cannot mean to take so...
so terrible a step?”
“Terrible to whom, sir?” wondered O’Moy.
“Terrible to us all.” Forjas rose in his agitation. He came to lean
upon O’Moy’s writing-table, facing the adjutant. “Surely, sir, our
interests--England’s interests and Portugal’s--are one in this.”
“To be sure. But England’s interests can be defended elsewhere than in
Portugal, and it is Lord Wellington’s view that they shall be. He has
already warned the Council of Regency that, since his Majesty and the
Prince Regent have entrusted him with the command of the British and
Portuguese armies, he will not suffer the Council or any of its members
to interfere with his conduct of the military operations, or suffer any
criticism or suggestion of theirs to alter system formed upon mature
consideration. But when, finding their criticisms fail, the members of
the Council, in their wrongheadedness, in their anxiety to allow private
interest to triumph over public duty, go the length of thwarting the
measures of which they do not approve, the end of Lord Wellington’s
patience has been reached. I am giving your Excellency his own words.
He feels that it is futile to remain in a country whose Government is
determined to undermine his every endeavour to bring this campaign to a
successful issue.
“Yourself, sir, you appear to be distressed. But the Council of Regency
will no doubt take a different view. It will rejoice in the departure
of a man whose military operations it finds so detestable. You will
no doubt discover this when you come to lay Lord Wellington’s decision
before the Council, as I now invite you to do.”
Bewildered and undecided, Forjas stood there for a moment, vainly
seeking words. Finally:
“Is this really Lord Wellington’s last word?” he asked in tones of
profoundest consternation.
“There is one alternative--one only,” said O’Moy slowly.
“And that?” Instantly Forjas was all eagerness.
O’Moy considered him. “Faith, I hesitate to state it.”
“No, no. Please, please.”
“I feel that it is idle.”
“Let the Council judge. I implore you, General, let the Council judge.”
“Very well.” O’Moy shrugged, and took up a sheet of the dispatch which
lay before him. “You will admit, sir, I think, that the beginning of
these troubles coincided with the advent of the Principal Souza upon
the Council of Regency.” He waited in vain for a reply. Forjas, the
diplomat, preserved an uncompromising silence, in which presently O’Moy
proceeded: “From this, and from other evidence, of which indeed there
is no lack, Lord Wellington has come to the conclusion that all the
resistance, passive and active, which he has encountered, results from
the Principal Souza’s influence upon the Council. You will not, I think,
trouble to deny it, sir.”
Forjas spread his hands. “You will remember, General,” he answered, in
tones of conciliatory regret, “that the Principal Souza represents a
class upon whom Lord Wellington’s measures bear in a manner peculiarly
hard.”
“You mean that he represents the Portuguese nobility and landed
gentry, who, putting their own interests above those of the State, have
determined to oppose and resist the devastation of the country which
Lord Wellington recommends.”
“You put it very bluntly,” Forjas admitted.
“You will find Lord Wellington’s own words even more blunt,” said O’Moy,
with a grim smile, and turned to the dispatch he held. “Let me read you
exactly what he writes:
“‘As for Principal Souza, I beg you to tell him from me that as I have
had no satisfaction in transacting the business of this country since he
has become a member of the Government, no power on earth shall induce
me to remain in the Peninsula if he is either to remain a member of the
Government or to continue in Lisbon. Either he must quit the country, or
I will do so, and this immediately after I have obtained his Majesty’s
permission to resign my charge.’”
The adjutant put down the letter and looked expectantly at the Secretary
of State, who returned the look with one of utter dismay. Never in all
his career had the diplomat been so completely dumbfounded as he was
now by the simple directness of the man of action. In himself Dom Miguel
Forjas was both shrewd and honest. He was shrewd enough to apprehend to
the full the military genius of the British Commander-in-Chief, fruits
of which he had already witnessed. He knew that the withdrawal of
Junot’s army from Lisbon two years ago resulted mainly from the
operations of Sir Arthur Wellesley--as he was then--before his
supersession in the supreme command of that first expedition, and he
more than suspected that but for that supersession the defeat of the
first French army of invasion might have been even more signal. He had
witnessed the masterly campaign of 1809, the battle of the Douro and
the relentless operations which had culminated in hurling the shattered
fragments of Soult’s magnificent army over the Portuguese frontier,
thus liberating that country for the second time from the thrall of the
mighty French invader. And he knew that unless this man and the troops
under his command remained in Portugal and enjoyed complete liberty of
action there could be no hope of stemming the third invasion for which
Massena--the ablest of all the Emperor’s marshals was now gathering his
divisions in the north. If Wellington were to execute his threat and
withdraw with his army, Forjas beheld nothing but ruin for his country.
The irresistible French would sweep forward in devastating conquest, and
Portuguese independence would be ground to dust under the heel of the
terrible Emperor.
All this the clear-sighted Dom Miguel Forjas now perceived. To do him
full justice, he had feared for some time that the unreasonable conduct
of his Government might ultimately bring about some such desperate
situation. But it was not for him to voice those fears. He was the
servant of that Government, the “mere instrument and mouthpiece of the
Council of Regency.
“This,” he said at length in a voice that was awed, “is an ultimatum.”
“It is that,” O’Moy admitted readily.
Forjas sighed, shook his dark head and drew himself up like a man who
has chosen his part. Being shrewd, he saw the immediate necessity of
choosing, and, being honest, he chose honestly.
“Perhaps it is as well,” he said.
“That Lord Wellington should go?” cried O’Moy.
“That Lord Wellington should announce intentions of going,” Forjas
explained. And having admitted so much, he now stripped off the official
mask completely. He spoke with his own voice and not with that of the
Council whose mouthpiece he was. “Of course it will never be permitted.
Lord Wellington has been entrusted with the defence of the country by
the Prince Regent; consequently it is the duty of every Portuguese to
ensure that at all costs he shall continue in that office.”
O’Moy was mystified. Only a knowledge of the minister’s inmost thoughts
could have explained this oddly sudden change of manner.
“But your Excellency understands the terms--the only terms upon which
his lordship will so continue?”
“Perfectly. I shall hasten to convey those terms to the Council. It is
also quite clear--is it not?--that I may convey to my Government and
indeed publish your complete assurance that the officer responsible for
the raid on the convent at Tavora will be shot when taken?”
Looking intently into O’Moy’s face, Dom Miguel saw the clear blue eyes
flicker under his gaze, he beheld a grey shadow slowly overspreading
the adjutant’s ruddy cheek. Knowing nothing of the relationship between
O’Moy and the offender, unable to guess the sources of the hesitation
of which he now beheld such unmistakable signs, the minister naturally
misunderstood it.
“There must be no flinching in this, General,” he cried. “Let me
speak to you for a moment quite frankly and in confidence, not as
the Secretary of State of the Council of Regency, but as a Portuguese
patriot who places his country and his country’s welfare above every
other consideration. You have issued your ultimatum. It may be harsh,
it may be arbitrary; with that I have no concern. The interests,
the feelings of Principal Souza or of any other individual, however
high-placed, are without weight when the interests of the nation hang
against them in the balance. Better that an injustice be done to one man
than that the whole country should suffer. Therefore I do not argue with
you upon the rights and wrongs of Lord Wellington’s ultimatum. That is
a matter apart. Lord Wellington demands the removal of Principal
Souza from the Government, or, in the alternative, proposes himself to
withdraw from Portugal. In the national interest the Government can come
to only one decision. I am frank with you, General. Myself I shall stand
ranged on the side of the national interest, and what my influence in
the Council can do it shall do. But if you know Principal Souza at all,
you must know that he will not relinquish his position without a fight.
He has friends and influence--the Patriarch of Lisbon and many of the
nobility will be on his side. I warn you solemnly against leaving any
weapon in his hands.”
He paused impressively. But O’Moy, grey-faced now and haggard, waited in
silence for him to continue.
“From the message I brought you,” Forjas resumed, “you will have
perceived how Principal Souza has fastened upon this business at Tavora
to support his general censure of Lord Wellington’s conduct of the
campaign. That is the weapon to which my warning refers. You must--if we
who place the national interest supreme are to prevail--you must
disarm him by the assurance that I ask for. You will perceive that I am
disloyal to a member of my Council so that I may be loyal to my country.
But I repeat, I speak to you in confidence. This officer has committed
a gross outrage, which must bring the British army into odium with the
people, unless we have your assurance that the British army is the first
to censure and to punish the offender with the utmost rigour. Give me
now, that I may publish everywhere, your official assurance that this
man will be shot, and on my side I assure you that Principal Souza,
thus deprived of his stoutest weapon, must succumb in the struggle that
awaits us.”
“I hope,” said O’Moy slowly, his head bowed, his voice dull and even
unsteady, “I hope that I am not behind you in placing public duty above
private consideration. You may publish my official assurance that the
officer in question will be... shot when taken.”
“General, I thank you. My country thanks you. You may be confident
of this issue.” He bowed gravely to O’Moy and then to Tremayne. “Your
Excellencies, I have the honour to wish you good-day.” He was shown out
by the orderly who had admitted him, and he departed well satisfied
in his patriotic heart that the crisis which he had always known to
be inevitable should have been reached at last. Yet, as he went, he
wondered why the Adjutant-General had looked so downcast, why his voice
had broken when he pledged his word that justice should be done upon
the offending British officer. That, however, was no concern of Dom
Miguel’s, and there was more than enough to engage his thoughts when
he came to consider the ultimatum to his Government with which he was
charged.