With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula
CHAPTER XVIII
The Conspirators' Den
Imagine a low-ceilinged room, the whitening long since gone adull smoke colour, cobwebs in the corner, dust on every angle andridge, and a floor innocent of scrubbing-brush for many a long day.Imagine an atmosphere charged with pungent smoke from the pipes andcigarettes of ten conspirators, smoke generated by tobacco of thecoarsest and foulest. Add to that the nauseating fumes of an oillamp, trimmed perhaps a month before, flickering, red, and smoky.Then picture the forms and faces of those ten conspirators gatheredabout a huge, rickety table, forms of small proportion for themost part, slim and lithe as becomes the young man of Spain, butalternated in the case of two at least by the grossest stoutness.Double chins were owned by that more aged couple. Their faces weremasked by bushy eyebrow, and fierce moustaches, that curled upwards,while their chins were clad and obscured by black beards of a week'sgrowth. For the rest, they were mostly clean-shaven, hawk-eyed, keen,blinking at the newcomers through the smoke which filled the chamber.
"Welcome!" A solitary voice broke the silence when at length Tom andhis companions were seated. But whence it came, from whom, he hadno notion. The tones were deep, almost guttural. They might haveemanated from the floor or from the smoke-blacked ceiling.
"Welcome! You come in time to do good work. Declare your names, yourage, and your parentage. Let one of you stand out before us andspeak."
The time had come to brave the whole matter, to risk discovery. Tomrose to his feet from the rickety chair to which he had been invitedand stood before the company. He stared across the table, through thegloom, and sought the one who had spoken. But not one of the ten hadmoved. Not one seemed to have opened his lips. Ah! in the background,sheltered in the angle of the room, was yet another figure. The faceleered out at him, one writhing hand concealing the features. Did Tomrecognize this fellow even then?
"No," he told himself. "The cunning beggar keeps a hand across hisface. But--but I'll swear the voice is familiar, though masked now.Present!" he cried boldly. "We have come for information. We areready to do good work and to earn a reward better than that paid tohumble muleteers."
The figure moved from the angled recess in which it had been hiding.The man or youth--Tom could not guess which--writhed his way acrossthe unwashed floor and halted at the table. One thin, shivering handwas stretched forward as if to gather warmth from the lamp, which wassuddenly dashed to one side and the room plunged into darkness. Atthat instant vice-like fingers seized our hero by the neck, his legswere cut away from beneath him, while someone, evidently preparedfor the occasion, tossed a coil of rope about him and drew it tight.There was the sound of a desperate struggle near at hand. Once Tomwas violently kicked, evidently by accident. And then there wasstillness; the lamp was set flaring again; the same masked, gutturalvoice once more was heard.
"Take them away; deal with them according to instructions. See thatthey are securely bound; let them understand that the end is near.Go."
Tom could still see, though his arms were trussed to his side, whilehe was otherwise helpless. He fixed his eyes upon that central figureand tried to pierce the disguise, for disguised this leader of theconspirators was. But was it Jose? He scoffed at the idea. Joseringleader of such a group! He had not the pluck for such a venture.Then who? He knew the voice, masked though it was. It had beenfamiliar at some occasion. Where, then? When?
"Go; take them away. To-morrow deal with them as you have beenordered."
Men lit their cigarettes again. The band gathered once more aboutthe table. There was an air of triumph about them all, somethingwhich seemed to say that they had brought about a _coup_ and hadbeen wonderfully clever; as, indeed, they had been. Tom in his young,ambitious heart had fondly imagined that all had been taken in bythe disguise which he had affected. But the rascals of whom LordWellington had to complain were no ordinary individuals, though, asa rule, they were dressed as muleteers and followed that vocation.There was a clever, subtle brain behind them, and that brain hadcontrived to discover the plan so carefully formulated by Tom and hiscousin. The rascally, leering driver of mules who had brought them tothis rendezvous was but a decoy, fooled just as cleverly as they hadbeen. Their coming was expected. Preparations for their capture werecompleted even before they left the safety of their camp. And now,what was before them?
"Murder, I suppose," thought Tom, repressing a shiver. "That's thesort of thing these fellows go in for. What's the move now? They'rebundling us out of the room, but where to is more than I can guess.Keep your pecker up, Alfonso," he called, when the door was shut onthem, and they stood in a passage. "It'll all come out right in theend."
"Silence! Pass in here," commanded one of the two ruffians whoescorted them. "Not both, but you."
A door was wrenched open, and Tom was flung in, receiving a savagekick from the second of their escort. The door banged, the lockcreaked and grated before he picked himself up from the floor. Thenthere was more tramping, the wrenching open of a second door, andanother crash and bang. The heavy steps of two men came and passedhis door. The room beyond, which they had so lately left, was opened.There came to his ears the buzz of many voices. Even the pungent reekof tobacco and lamp smoke smote upon his nostrils, and then there wascomparative silence, save for a dull murmur.
"Muzzled! Fooled! Caught finely! In chokey!" groaned Tom, full ofbitterness. "And just when we thought things were going so nicely.But let's look round. I'm tied fast by the elbows and thumbs; I can'tmove my arms, while my legs are free. So much then to the good; itmight have been worse."
That was Tom all over--an optimist from the very depths of him.Always ready to look on the bright side of things. A grouser? Never!Life held too many rosy spots for our hero, as it does for all whocare to look just an inch below the surface for them. Things couldnot always run smoothly, that he knew. They never do for anyone.Even kings have their trials and troubles, and why not humbleindividuals like our hero? It is the man who looks upon the brightside of matters who lives long and enjoys happiness. Unconsciously,perhaps--perhaps also because he was the son of his father, thejovial, stout, and rollicking Septimus, himself an optimist--Tom,too, looked ever upon the rosy side. He was in trouble; why then makethe very worst of that fact? Why not try to improve matters? And,being the practical fellow he was, Tom began to look about him. Thegloom gave way after a while. Light from a street lamp, or perhapsit came from a house opposite, flickered into the room, and now thathis eyes were accustomed to it he could see his surroundings. Therewas a window, yes. It was twenty feet from the ground. An easy jumpif his limbs were free, a dangerous attempt with his arms fettered.There was a dirty floor and a smoke-blacked ceiling. Not a stick offurniture was present. Yes there was, if blinds are furniture; forthere was a blind to the window. It was let down to its full length,and there was the cord. It passed beneath a catch, and----
"My uncle!" gasped Tom, following Jack's pet expression. "There's aserrated surface there, a regular saw, if only I could approach theedge. How's that? Bad. Try again. How's that? Worse. Never say diethen. What's the report on this occasion?"
It was good, or fair, or middling, as he changed his position everso little. Sometimes the edges of the toothed band controlling thelength or position of the pulley over which the blind cord rangripped the strands of rope about his thumbs. Sometimes the latterslid over them as if they were not in existence. Then they grippedagain, feebly perhaps, then with a vim there was no denying. Tomgrew hot with the effort. Perspiration poured from his forehead. Hepressed with even greater fierceness against the toothed edge he hadfound.
"Through! Thumbs free," he was able to assure himself after a while."Those chaps are still at it, gassing and smoking. Now for my elbows.That's a different matter altogether. It's mighty hard to get themdown into position, and one isn't sure when they're rubbing."
But it could be done. If he had been successful so far, surely thisadditional difficulty was not going to discourage him. Tom clenchedhis teeth and stooped, managing
by a gymnastic evolution to bring hisfettered elbows against the serrated edge of the blind-cord catch.But the task was irritatingly slow and laborious. He rubbed with allhis might, and still the cord held his arms pinioned closely togetherbehind him. However, perseverance was a virtue of which he had quitehis fair share, and Tom hated being beaten. Yes, whether in a matterof life and death, as this was, or in the ordinary affairs of life,Tom was a demon for work--a stickler, a fellow who liked to see athing through and watch it to success. A strand of the cord gave witha little pop. Beads of perspiration burst from pores in his foreheaduntil then untapped, and, welling up, joined the stream alreadyflowing towards the corners of his eyes. Then there came a sound ofloud and exultant laughter from the smoke-grimed room occupied by theconspirators. The door burst open, while heavy feet resounded in thepassage outside.
"Free! Pulled the cords open. If they try any games with me I'mready."
He gathered up the fallen strands like lightning, threw himself intothe darkest corner, with his arms held behind his back as if theywere still pinioned, while in one hand he gripped his pistol, hisstiletto in the other. Nor was he any too soon. A key grated in thelock; the bolt slid back with a rusty creaking. The door itself cameopen with a bang, admitting half a dozen ruffians, who staggered inone after the other.
One was fat and jowly and unwieldy of body. He brought a ricketychair with him and a lamp, and having thumped the former down ina central position proceeded to mop his reddened face. The othersleaned against the dirty walls, surveying their prisoner withsatisfied grimaces, while cigarettes protruded from their lips.
"_Senor Inglise_," began one--when the fat man interrupted him.
"_Senor_ indeed! Prisoner. Dog of an Englishman!"
"As you will," shrugged the other. "Dog of an Englishman! Here is atest, and our fat friend will carry it out. You are on the staff ofLord Wellington. You know all things; then tell your tale. There islife and liberty for the telling."
"As there was for me outside the walls of Rodrigo," shouted anotherof the rascals, whom Tom instantly recognized as the spy his men hadcaptured, and whom he had impersonated. "Life and liberty. I tookboth. Here now is your chance. The tale, and then the open door."
THE FAT MAN THREATENS TOM]
"Or a grave," added the fat man, thrusting his handkerchief away andslowly drawing a pistol. "Mark you, Englishman, we wish you no harm.We ask for very little. What now are the plans of the English lord?"
Tom laughed at them. He rocked from side to side at their questions,but as he did so he wondered whether he ought straightway to shootthe rascal into whose pistol muzzle he looked. It would be so easy.As for the others, pooh! he did not fear them. A blow here, a thrustwith his stiletto there, and he would be out of the room. But therewas Alfonso. No--the time had not yet come for shooting.
"_Senors_, you choose to joke," he said pleasantly. "What next?"
"For you, nothing after my bullet. For us, the easy task ofextracting information from your comrade."
"Ah! There they thought to succeed--never!" Tom told himself, forAlfonso was a strict patriot. "Why ask for this information?" hedemanded. "Of what use is it to you?"
Quick as a flash he saw the importance of here and now discoveringwhether or no this was a gang of conspirators or spies dealing inofficial secrets, the pests who had already purloined maps and plansfrom Lord Wellington's dispatch case, rascals, in fact, who tradedon the news they were able to sell to the enemy. He noticed glancespassing between the men present. The sunken orbits of the fat manturned from one to another, his jowly cheeks flapping. And then heswung round on Tom.
"You may as well know as not," he said, with an air of impertinentassurance, "for if you speak, and tell this tale, you are one of us.If you decline----"
He levelled his pistol with precision, squinted along the sightstill our hero, staring at the rogue, could see his fat cheek at thefar end bulging over the butt. And then a podgy finger went to thetrigger. It was a nasty feeling, that, distinctly nasty. Tom foundhimself clinging very hard to his pistol butt. He barely withstoodthe strong temptation to start to his feet and attack the odiousruffian. Then a smile broke across his face, a smile that seemed toreassure the fat man, while the others, villains undoubtedly, sighedas they were relieved of a strain which even they felt.
"But of course you will speak, and therefore I may tell you who weare," the man in the centre said, leaning forward so that the chairsqueaked, while he slowly lowered his weapon. "Know then, Englishman,that we have business with all such matters. To the British we carryplans made by the French. From the British we take similar plans, andpass them to the enemy. Simple, is it not? Unpatriotic! Poof! We mustlive, and such business is paying. I will tell you. From this LordWellington our friend yonder took many documents but a month ago.They now rest in the case of Monsieur the French commander, while welive here in luxury. That is so, comrade?"
The rascal alluded to, none less than the very one whom Tomimpersonated at Ciudad Rodrigo, wagged his head knowingly and smileda smile of triumph.
"It is so; we have papers here to prove it."
"Then it's the gang, and a pretty set of scoundrels they are, to besure," thought Tom, turning the matter over swiftly. But he wanted toknow more, he wanted additional time in which to complete a plan thenforming in his head. "But----" he began.
"There is not such a thing as but in our business. We succeed always.Here, supposing we fail with you, and I have the unpleasant task ofshooting you, we succeed without a doubt with your comrade. Ah, thatstirs you!" gurgled the fat ruffian, hugely enjoying his fanciedposition of bully.
"That is understood," came Tom's answer, given with easy assurance,though the poor fellow was feeling far from happy. "But I was aboutto ask, seeing that I am invited to join you, surely you have aleader? Then who is he?"
"The tale, and then you shall see; for of a surety we have a leader.Now, friend Englishman, you have put your own head into this noose,take therefore my advice and escape in the only way possible. Believeme, the part of spy, conspirator, what you like to term it, is easyenough."
"And supposing I know nothing?" It was, after all, only a reasonablesuggestion, for the officer in command of a British army, or anyother army for the matter of that, is not in the habit of spreadinghis plans broadcast, nor is every staff officer of sufficientimportance to warrant such confidence. No; such matters are buriedsecrets, discussed only amongst the highest, often enough known onlyto those immediately helping the commander. To speak the truth, Tomhad his own ideas of the future movements of this Peninsula campaign;but they were his ideas only, discussed with comrades over a campfire. They were very likely not Wellington's. Once before, too, hehad had ideas, ideas imagined for a purpose. He remembered of asudden how he had rewritten the spy's message to the commander atCiudad Rodrigo, giving supposed plans of his commanding officer whichwere likely enough, no doubt, but happened to be merely the result ofguesswork. And why not buy freedom here for a while? Why not purchaserespite even for a few hours? Yes, even for only a few hours, for inthat space of time he could do much.
"I'll speak," he said abruptly, causing the fat man almost tooverbalance. "But the tale is a long one. A map will be necessary. Imust sketch the plans and write against them."
"Ah! Did I not say that he, a staff officer, must know all?" gurgledthe stout wretch. "Did I not prophesy that he would speak? While ourleader swore the opposite. Declared he would never open his mouth,even with a pistol grinning at him. Poof! I knew I should succeed. Ihave that reputation."
He mopped the perspiration from his face, rolled a cigarette, andlit it with the help of a comrade. "But why not speak now?" he askedsuspiciously. "Now, while we are here to listen."
Tom paused a little before answering. It would not do, he guessed,to be too emphatic. "Yes," he began, wrinkling his brows, "I couldtry, of course. But the thing must be written and sketched some timeif it is to be any use to you, so that I should have to tell it allover again. Why not let me do it a
ll at the same time, and add thesketches? Then you will have such complete information that you willbe able to command a high price for it."
"Bravo!" called one of the men. "He speaks the truth. Why not as hesuggests? We have him securely here. Then give him time. Cut him freenow, and leave him to it."
How strange to feel in his heart almost terror at that suggestion,a suggestion which he would have welcomed but ten minutes before.Tom went furiously hot from head to foot, and then felt like anicicle. For to cut him free meant a discovery. That discovery of hissevered bonds would rouse suspicion, and even he could hardly hope topersuade these folks to trust him again. "Wait," he called. "Leave meas I am to think. Bring pens and ink and paper when you have them."
"And food in the first place. See you there," cried the fat man,pointing to the fellow Tom had already met, "go for food. Then passoutside the house and get the writing things. We will go back to ameal; you can join us later.
"After the meal I have a friend to see outside. I will get thesethings, and then join you as the night gets older."
There was a knowing smile on more than one of the ruffianly faces.The fat man grinned and chortled. "A friend! Hola!" he cried. "Andone whose company is better and more entertaining than that of thesecomrades. Well, well! We have all had friends. When the war is ended,and we have done more business, you will marry the wench, and smallblame to you."
They went away at once, banging the door and leaving their prisoner.
The sigh which Tom sighed was of the number one order. It wasimmense. It heaved his shoulders upward and his ribs outward till helooked like a trussed pigeon. And the perspiration trickling from hisforehead showed under what tension he had laboured. For he had passedthrough a terrible ordeal, one which might easily have overmasteredhis courage. That grinning pistol was not the worst part of it all,though it was bad enough. There were a hundred fears lurking in hisheart. Supposing, for instance, it came to the point where he drewup this sketch, information and plans purely imaginary, conjured upin a somewhat inventive brain, and those plans proved in the endto be actually in a manner similar to those projected by the greatWellington! Then his name would go down for ever and ever as atraitor, as a coward, as a spy. The word was loathsome to him. Betterto be butchered than suffer such a chance.
Then the old optimistic spirit triumphed. "Chance! There wasn't sucha thing, for he hadn't yet set his hand to paper, and wouldn't if hecould help it. The job's got to be tackled right at once," he toldhimself; "there's no time for delaying. But one thing's certain: thisis the very gang Lord Wellington wishes to discover. For haven't Ihad proof positive? Then how to haul the whole lot by the heels? Ah,that's a conundrum! Precious queer for a fellow to be sitting in ahole like this, a prisoner, and to wonder how he's going to capturethe fellows who have bagged him! Queer, I do think!"
He actually smiled. Tom began to grin at the recollection of his goodfortune, for he had had undoubtedly the best of the recent interview.He had, for the time being at any rate, hoodwinked a portion of thegang, and, seeing that the noise in the adjacent room, deafeningafter the entry of his late visitors, had now subsided into agentle murmur, why, if noise was any criterion of his fortunes, theconspirators were easy in their minds.
Seated in his corner, Tom began to pass each one of the individualswho composed the gang in review before him. Not that he couldremember in detail all those ruffianly countenances; but there weresome whose features had left an impression. The two fat men, forinstance, rascals if ever there were any; then half a dozen of theothers; and lastly, and to the exclusion of the remainder, the one hehad taken for leader, the shadowy individual, obviously disguised,with the writhing hand across his mouth and the assumed voice.
"Could that be Jose? No. The fellow was too short. But--but, awfullylike him, that writhing hand. And the voice too?"
Tom scratched his head, a luxury denied him a little earlier. "Botherthe chap!" he cried. "Anyway, I hope it won't prove to be thatprecious cousin. All the better for him and for us when I come toround up this crowd!"
How Jack Barwood would have roared with laughter at him! But let ustell the whole truth. Down in the depths of his own jovial heart ofhearts Jack would have been, secretly, just a wee little bit jealous.For what thundering optimism was here!
"The cheek of him!" he would decidedly have exclaimed. "Here's Tomfoxing in a corner, with his hands freed when they're supposed tobe lashed together. That's, so far as I can see, his only point ofadvantage. Against that single item he's a prisoner, locked in aroom, with a band of cut-throat villains eating their supper besidehim. And here he has the amazing cheek to think, and think seriouslytoo, of the time when he'll have captured the lot, to even sympathizewith a cousin who may possibly be the leader. Hoo!"
Indignation, amusement, concern for the evident idiocy of his chumwould be expressed in his retort had he been there to make one. Buthe wasn't, more's the pity. And to our hero the amusing, idioticside of his thoughts, if so you care to term it, was a source of nomore than passing interest. He began to check certain matters overon the tips of his fingers. He nodded his head knowingly, and then,of a sudden, he looked up. For the door yonder had opened. Now itbanged to with a crash. A step was coming along the passage. A keywas thrust into the lock, and presently the man who was to supply himwith food, and, later, with writing implements and paper, was pushinghis way into his prison. In a moment he would stoop to cut thoselashings which now were not in existence. In a moment, in fact, thecat would be out of the bag. Tom braced his muscles for a struggle.