In a small room of Count Redondo’s palace, a room that had been set
apart for cards, sat three men about a card-table. They were Count
Samoval, the elderly Marquis of Minas, lean, bald and vulturine of
aspect, with a deep-set eye that glared fiercely through a single
eyeglass rimmed in tortoise-shell, and a gentleman still on the fair
side of middle age, with a clear-cut face and iron-grey hair, who wore
the dark green uniform of a major of Cacadores.
Considering his Portuguese uniform, it is odd that the low-toned,
earnest conversation amongst them should have been conducted in French.
There were cards on the table; but there was no pretence of play. You
might have conceived them a group of players who, wearied of their game,
had relinquished it for conversation. They were the only tenants of
the room, which was small, cedar-panelled and lighted by a girandole of
sparkling crystal. Through the closed door came faintly from the distant
ballroom the strains of the dance music.
With perhaps the single exception of the Principal Souza, the British
policy had no more bitter opponent in Portugal than the Marquis of
Minas. Once a member of the Council of Regency--before Souza had been
elected to that body--he had quitted it in disgust at the British
measures. His chief ground of umbrage had been the appointment of
British officers to the command of the Portuguese regiments which formed
the division under Marshal Beresford. In this he saw a deliberate insult
and slight to his country and his countrymen. He was a man of burning
and blinded patriotism, to whom Portugal was the most glorious nation
in the world. He lived in his country’s splendid past, refusing to
recognise that the days of Henry the Navigator, of Vasco da Gama, of
Manuel the Fortunate--days in which Portugal had been great indeed
among the nations of the Old World were gone and done with. He respected
Britons as great merchants and industrious traders; but, after all,
merchants and traders are not the peers of fighters on land and sea, of
navigators, conquerors and civilisers, such as his countrymen had been,
such as he believed them still to be. That the descendants of Gamas,
Cunhas, Magalhaes and Albuquerques--men whose names were indelibly
written upon the very face of the world--should be passed over, whilst
alien officers lead been brought in to train and command the Portuguese
legions, was an affront to Portugal which Minas could never forgive.
It was thus that he had become a rebel, withdrawing from a government
whose supineness he could not condone. For a while his rebellion had
been passive, until the Principal Souza had heated him in the fire of
his own rage and fashioned him into an intriguing instrument of the
first power. He was listening intently now to the soft, rapid speech of
the gentleman in the major’s uniform.
“Of course, rumours had reached the Prince of this policy of
devastation,” he was saying, “but his Highness has been disposed to
treat these rumours lightly, unable to see, as indeed are we all, what
useful purpose such a policy could finally serve. He does not underrate
the talents of milord Wellington as a commander. He does not imagine
that he would pursue such operations out of pure wantonness; yet if
such operations are indeed being pursued, what can they be but wanton? A
moment, Count,” he stayed Samoval, who was about to interrupt. His
mind and manner were authoritative. “We know most positively from the
Emperor’s London agents that the war is unpopular in England; we know
that public opinion is being prepared for a British retreat, for the
driving of the British into the sea, as must inevitably happen once
Monsieur le Prince decides to launch his bolt. Here in the Tagus the
British fleet lies ready to embark the troops, and the British
Cabinet itself” (he spoke more slowly and emphatically) “expects that
embarkation to take place at latest in September, which is just about
the time that the French offensive should be at its height and the
French troops under the very walls of Lisbon. I admit that by this
policy of devastation if, indeed, it be true--added to a stubborn
contesting of every foot of ground, the French advance may be retarded.
But the process will be costly to Britain in lives and money.”
“And more costly still to Portugal,” croaked the Marquis of Minas.
“And, as you, say, Monsieur le Marquis, more costly still to Portugal.
Let me for a moment show you another side of the picture. The French
administration, so sane, so cherishing, animated purely by ideas of
progress, enforcing wise and beneficial laws, making ever for the
prosperity and well-being of conquered nations, knows how to render
itself popular wherever it is established. This Portugal knows
already--or at least some part of it. There was the administration of
Soult in Oporto, so entirely satisfactory to the people that it was no
inconsiderable party was prepared, subject to the Emperor’s consent, to
offer him the crown and settle down peacefully under his rule. There was
the administration of Junot in Lisbon. I ask you: when was Lisbon better
governed?
“Contrast, for a moment, with these the present British
administration--for it amounts to an administration. Consider the
burning grievances that must be left behind by this policy of laying the
country waste, of pauperising a million people of all degrees, driving
them homeless from the lands on which they were born, after compelling
them to lend a hand in the destruction of all that their labour has
built up through long years. If any policy could better serve the
purposes of France, I know it not. The people from here to Beira should
be ready to receive the French with open arms, and to welcome their
deliverance from this most costly and bitter British protection.
“Do you, Messieurs, detect a flaw in these arguments?”
Both shook their heads.
“Bien!” said the major of Portuguese Cacadores. “Then we reach one
or two only possible conclusions: either these rumours of a policy of
devastation which have reached the Prince of Esslingen are as utterly
false as he believes them to be, or--”
“To my cost I know them to be true, as I have already told you,” Samoval
interrupted bitterly.
“Or,” the major persisted, raising a hand to restrain the Count, “or
there is something further that has not been yet discovered--a mystery
the enucleation of which will shed light upon all the rest. Since you
assure me, Monsieur le Comte, that milord Wellington’s policy is beyond
doubt, as reported to Monsieur, le Marechal, it but remains to
address ourselves to the discovery of the mystery underlying it.
What conclusions have you reached? You, Monsieur de Samoval, have had
exceptional opportunities of observation, I understand.”
“I am afraid my opportunities have been none so exceptional as you
suppose,” replied Samoval, with a dubious shake of his sleek, dark head.
“At one time I founded great hopes in Lady O’Moy. But Lady O’Moy is a
fool, and does not enjoy her husband’s confidence in official matters.
What she knows I know. Unfortunately it does not amount to very much.
One conclusion, however, I have reached: Wellington is preparing in
Portugal a snare for Massena’s army.”
“A snare? Hum!” The major pursed his full lips into a smile of scorn.
“There cannot be a trap with two exits, my friend. Massena enters
Portugal at Almeida and marches to Lisbon and the open sea. He may be
inconvenienced or hampered in his march; but its goal is certain. Where,
then, can lie the snare? Your theory presupposes an impassable
barrier to arrest the French when they are deep in the country and
an overwhelming force to cut off their retreat when that barrier
is reached. The overwhelming force does not exist and cannot be
manufactured; as for the barrier, no barrier that it lies within human
power to construct lies beyond French power to over-stride.”
“I should not make too sure of that,” Samoval warned him. “And you have
overlooked something.”
The major glanced at the Count sharply and without satisfaction. He
accounted himself--trained as he had been under the very eye of the
great Emperor--of some force in strategy and tactics, a player too well
versed in the game to overlook the possible moves of an opponent.
“Ha!” he said, with the ghost of a sneer. “For instance, Monsieur le
Comte?”
“The overwhelming force exists,” said Samoval.
“Where is it then? Whence has it been created? If you refer to the
united British and Portuguese troops, you will be good enough to bear in
mind that they will be retreating before the Prince. They cannot at once
be before and behind him.”
The man’s cool assurance and cooler contempt of Samoval’s views stung
the Count into some sharpness.
“Are you seeking information, sir, or are you bestowing it?” he
inquired.
“Ah! Your pardon, Monsieur le Comte. I inquire of course. I put forward
arguments to anticipate conditions that may possibly be erroneous.”
Samoval waived the point. “There is another force besides the British
and Portuguese troops that you have left out of your calculations.”
“And that?” The major was still faintly incredulous.
“You should remember what Wellington obviously remembers: that a French
army depends for its sustenance upon the country it is invading. That
is why Wellington is stripping the French line of penetration as bare
of sustenance as this card-table. If we assume the existence of the
barrier--an impassable line of fortifications encountered within many
marches of the frontier--we may also assume that starvation will be the
overwhelming force that will cut off the French retreat.”
The other’s keen eyes flickered. For a moment his face lost its
assurance, and it was Samoval’s turn to smile. But the major made a
sharp recovery. He slowly shook his iron-grey head.
“You have no right to assume an impassable barrier. That is an
inadmissible hypothesis. There is no such thing as a line of
fortifications impassable to the French.”
“You will pardon me, Major, but it is yourself have no right to your own
assumptions. Again you overlook something. I will grant that technically
what you say is true. No fortifications can be built that cannot be
destroyed--given adequate power, with which it is yet to prove that
Massena not knowing what may await him, will be equipped.
“But let us for a moment take so much for granted, and now consider
this: fortifications are unquestionably building in the region of Torres
Vedras, and Wellington guards the secret so jealously that not even the
British--either here or in England--are aware of their nature. That is
why the Cabinet in London takes for granted an embarkation in September.
Wellington has not even taken his Government into his confidence. That
is the sort of man he is. Now these fortifications have been building
since last October. Best part of eight months have already gone in their
construction. It may be another two or three months before the French
army reaches them. I do not say that the French cannot pass them, given
time. But how long will it take the French to pull down what it will
have taken ten or eleven months to construct? And if they are unable
to draw sustenance from a desolate, wasted country, what time will they
have at their disposal? It will be with them a matter of life or
death. Having come so far they must reach Lisbon or perish; and if the
fortifications can delay them by a single month, then, granted that all
Lord Wellington’s other dispositions have been duly carried out, perish
they must. It remains, Monsieur le Major, for you to determine whether,
with all their energy, with all their genius and all their valour, the
French can--in an ill-nourished condition--destroy in a few weeks the
considered labour of nearly a year.”
The major was aghast. He had changed colour, and through his eyes, wide
and staring, his stupefaction glared forth at them.
Minas uttered a dry cough under cover of his hand, and screwed up his
eyeglass to regard the major more attentively. “You do not appear to
have considered all that,” he said.
“But, my dear Marquis,” was the half-indignant answer, “why was I
not told all this to begin with? You represented yourself as but
indifferently informed, Monsieur de Samoval. Whereas--”
“So I am, my dear Major, as far as information goes. If I did not use
these arguments before, it was because it seemed to me an impertinence
to offer what, after all, are no more than the conclusions of my own
constructive and deductive reasoning to one so well versed in strategy
as yourself.”
The major was silenced for a moment. “I congratulate you, Count,” he
said. “Monsieur le Marechal shall have your views without delay. Tell
me,” he begged. “You say these fortifications lie in the region of
Torres Vedras. Can you be more precise?”
“I think so. But again I warn you that I can tell you only what I infer.
I judge they will run from the sea, somewhere near the mouth of the
Zizandre, in a semicircle to the Tagus, somewhere to the south of
Santarem. I know that they do not reach as far north as San, because
the roads there are open, whereas all roads to the south, where I am
assuming that the fortifications lie, are closed and closely guarded.”
“Why do you suggest a semicircle?”
“Because that is the formation of the hills, and presumably the line of
heights would be followed.”
“Yes,” the major approved slowly. “And the distance, then, would be some
thirty or forty miles?”
“Fully.”
The major’s face relaxed its gravity. He even smiled. “You will agree,
Count, that in a line of that extent a uniform strength is out of the
question. It must perforce present many weak, many vulnerable, places.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.”
“Plans of these lines must be in existence.”
“Again undoubtedly. Sir Terence O’Moy will have plans in his possession
showing their projected extent. Colonel Fletcher, who is in charge
of the construction, is in constant communication with the adjutant,
himself an engineer; and--as I partly imagine, partly infer from odd
phrases that I have overheard--especially entrusted by Lord Wellington
with the supervision of the works.”
“Two things, then, are necessary,” said the major promptly. “The first
is, that the devastation of the country should be retarded, and as far
as possible hindered altogether.”
“That,” said Minas, “you may safely leave to myself and Souza’s other
friends, the northern noblemen who have no intention of becoming the
victims of British disinclination to pitched battles.”
“The second--and this is more difficult--is that we should obtain by
hook or by crook a plan of the fortifications.” And he looked directly
at Samoval.
The Count nodded slowly, but his face expressed doubt.
“I am quite alive to the necessity. I always have been. But--”
“To a man of your resource and intelligence--an intelligence of which
you have just given such very signal proof--the matter should be
possible.” He paused a moment. Then: “If I understand you correctly,
Monsieur de Samoval, your fortunes have suffered deeply, and you are
almost ruined by this policy of Wellington’s. You are offered the
opportunity of making a magnificent recovery. The Emperor is the most
generous paymaster in the world, and he is beyond measure impatient at
the manner in which the campaign in the Peninsula is dragging on. He has
spoken of it as an ulcer that is draining the Empire of its resources.
For the man who could render him the service of disclosing the weak
spot in this armour, the Achilles heel of the British, there would be a
reward beyond all your possible dreams. Obtain the plans, then, and--”
He checked abruptly. The door had opened, and in a Venetian mirror
facing him upon the wall the major caught the reflection of a British
uniform, the stiff gold collar surmounted by a bronzed hawk face with
which he was acquainted.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said the officer in Portuguese, “I was
looking for--”
His voice became indistinct, so that they never knew who it was that
he had been seeking when he intruded upon their privacy. The door had
closed again and the reflection had vanished from the mirror. But there
were beads of perspiration on the major’s brow.
“It is fortunate,” he muttered breathlessly, “that my back was towards
him. I would as soon meet the devil face to face. I didn’t dream he was
in Lisbon.”
“Who is he?” asked Minas.
“Colonel Grant, the British Intelligence officer. Phew! Name of a Name!
What an escape!” The major mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief.
“Beware of him, Monsieur de Samoval.”
He rose. He was obviously shaken by the meeting.
“If one of you will kindly make quite sure that he is not about I think
that I had better go. If we should meet everything might be ruined.”
Then with a change of manner he stayed Samoval, who was already on his
way to the door. “We understand each other, then?” he questioned them.
“I have my papers, and at dawn I leave Lisbon. I shall report your
conclusions to the Prince, and in anticipation I may already offer you
the expression of his profoundest gratitude. Meanwhile, you know what
is to do. Opposition to the policy, and the plans of the
fortifications--above all the plans.”
He shook hands with them, and having waited until Samoval assured him
that the corridor outside was clear, he took his departure, and was soon
afterwards driving home, congratulating himself upon his most fortunate
escape from the hawk eye of Colquhoun Grant.
But when in the dead of that night he was awakened to find a British
sergeant with a halbert and six redcoats with fixed bayonets surrounding
his bed it occurred to him belatedly that what one man can see in a
mirror is also visible to another, and that Marshal Massena, Prince of
Esslingen, waiting for information beyond Ciudad Rodrigo, would
never enjoy the advantages of a report of Count Samoval’s masterly
constructive and deductive reasoning.