CHAPTER XX
A Brilliant Capture
While Tom Clifford, commander of the composite force of Spanish andPortuguese irregulars, staff officer, and as smart a young fellow asserved under Wellington's command, listens to the approach of thoseruffians who had been such a scourge to our army, and who had tradedupon the military plans and secrets of those who had come to aidtheir country, let us for a few moments anticipate events and narratewhat followed the eventful conflict at Salamanca.
Portugal was long ago cleared of the invading French. Now theenemy were sent flying into the heart of Spain, while Wellingtoncould cheerfully cut himself clear of Portugal, feeling sure thatthe troops in rear would be sufficient to keep open his lines ofcommunication, always an important matter with a general invading acountry swarming with enemies. For then, if the worst came to theworst, the retreat lay open.
We find him, then, promptly marching on Madrid, and have told how thetroops, with Tom Clifford's command, reached that city. The immediateresults of Salamanca and this march were far-reaching. King Joseph,the usurper thrust upon the Spanish throne by Napoleon, fled thecity, ordering Soult and Suchet to come to his help. The former, thenat Cadiz, where Sir Rowland Hill opposed him, destroyed his heavycannon and marched to join Joseph, while Sir Rowland Hill at onceproceeded to attach his force to that of Wellington. The latter thenset out for Burgos, a most antique city, situated on the highroad toBayonne, the French retreating steadily before him, looting churchesand houses as they went. This movement of the invader towards hisown frontier did not declare that he had given up the contest. Onthe contrary, General Souham, who had now taken over the commandof the French in Spain, or did so on 3 October, was making everyeffort to collect a huge force to oppose us, and, although no seriousopposition was offered to our march to Burgos, the clouds weregathering daily, and Wellington had reason to fear that, if he failedto capture this stronghold, he would be left to face overwhelmingFrench odds or to retreat once more on his own base. And, as wehave taken the liberty of anticipating events, let us say that, inspite of the utmost gallantry and the most dashing assaults, Burgosresisted, and Wellington who was unprepared for assault, since hehad no adequate siege train with him, had to attack the defences.After no fewer than five assaults, a number of sallies by the gallantgarrison, and thirty-three days investment, the siege was abandoned,some 2000 of our men having fallen, while the French had also lostheavily. Nor must we omit to mention the skill and undoubted valourof Colonel du Breton and his men, who here opposed us.
Souham had now collected some 70,000 of all arms, and, therefore,retreat was urgent. That retreat became, indeed, almost a facsimileof the famous retreat of Sir John Moore, though it did not continueso long; for, in spite of every precaution, in spite of wrappingcannon wheels with straw to deaden the sound, the garrison of Burgosgot wind of the beginning of the movement. Almost at once Frenchcolumns were in pursuit, and from that day there were constantconflicts between our rearguard and the enemy. Passing by way of theRiver Tormes, on his route for the frontier of Portugal, Wellingtoncrossed that river, leaving a thin brigade to hold the bridge atAlba--and a gallant brigade it proved. Pelted with cannon shot,unable to reply save with musketry, this brigade clung to the spot,arresting the pursuit of the enemy till their position was turned byFrench cavalry crossing the river elsewhere. Then came the passageof the Huebra, accompanied by constant fighting. But the skilfulWellington drew off his troops, though many a poor fellow was leftdead or wounded, until at length the frontier of Portugal wasreached, and with it winter quarters. Some 9000 men had been lost onthe way, while baggage had for the most part fallen into the hands ofthe enemy.
But let us realize that this was no defeat. There were some 90,000Frenchmen now swarming about our retreating column, for everyavailable soldier had been brought up by Souham, who determined onceand for all to check the designs of the British. And yet he failed.Wellington had reached security with the bulk of his forces. Thusended the campaign for the year 1812, only to be resumed again in thespring of 1813, when our armies, still beneath the same conqueringhand, were to advance north again, right up to the French frontier,and finally to enter France. Let us also contrast at this point themovements of Wellington's troops with those of Napoleon's men inother fields of conquest. Wellington began that memorable retreatfrom Burgos on the night of 21 October, 1812, and saw its completionwithin a few days of the crossing of the Huebra on 18 November. Atthe very same time Napoleon was also in retreat, that famous andfearful retrograde movement which laid the foundation of his finaldownfall. Reaching Moscow with his hosts on 14 September, he foundthe city deserted by its 250,000 inhabitants. His triumphal entry wasdisturbed by the outbreak of fire, and finally he was driven forthto face an Arctic Russian winter by the destruction of the city. Heset his face homeward on 19 October. And later we find him hasteningfrom a field that no longer attracted his attention, just as he hadhastened out of Spain soon after the coming of the British. EnteringRussia full of confidence, and with nearly a half-million of men, hebade farewell to those of his generals who still lived on 5 December,leaving behind him a shattered remnant, devoid of discipline,half-frozen and more than half-starved, a rabble still to sufferfrightfully at the hands of the dashing Cossacks. Think of the untoldmisery. Think of the very many thousands of men, all in the flower ofmanhood, who perished in this Russian campaign. Then recollect thatthe overpowering ambition of this "Little Corporal," this commoner,this distinguished artillery officer, was chiefly responsible. Franceneeded no larger territory. Honour and glory could have been won forher emperor and her people by this lost energy, this sad loss ofyoung vigour, applied to her own internal affairs, to commerce andother matters. Instead, France wept at the loss of its young manhoodand groaned beneath the burden of excessive war taxation, while theyears which followed were to see the downfall of the empire whichwas then being created, the loss of all these provinces won by thesword at the price of the misery and death of thousands and thousandsof innocent and would-be peaceful people. Napoleon may have beengreat--he was, admittedly, a military genius and a man of unsurpassedcourage and ambition--but the thousands who went to their doom at hisbidding, or who sent thousands of their fellows to their end becauseof his actions, bear a terrible testimony against him. His deathbedamidst those peaceful surroundings at St. Helena, high up over thesmiling sea, was a glaring contrast to the deathbed of many and manya poor fellow who followed or opposed his fortunes.
But let us turn from a subject such as this to the fortunes of asbright a lad as ever set foot on the Peninsula. We left Tom actingin a manner almost inexplicable. See him now, then, with that doorshattered and burst wide open, and himself returned to the head ofthe stairs up which the rascals from below were rushing. And look atthe two who were with him. One, a stout jovial man of medium height,and possessed of ruddy features which showed resolution and energy,stood at his side armed with a length of splintered woodwork. Asecond, taller perhaps, thin and cadaverous, and of sallow Spanishcomplexion, stood in rear gripping our hero's stiletto. Both weremore or less in rags, and grimed with long confinement in a noisomeprison. But in each case fearless eyes looked out through flashingglasses. And down below, coming upward helter-skelter, were a dozenrascals, one bearing a lantern, elbowing one another, firing theirweapons haphazard, shouting at the three above them.
"Silence!" Tom commanded at the pitch of his voice. "Silence for amoment. Now, lay down your arms and go back to your room. You aresurrounded. You are prisoners. The man who dares to fire anotherweapon will be taken outside and shot instantly."
Gaping faces looked up at him, and then into the eyes of theirfellows. Two men at the bottom of the stairs turned to run. And thenone of the leaders called upon them not to be cowards.
"Surrounded!" he laughed. "He is fooling the lot of us. Hear him callupon us to surrender when we are on the point of chopping him topieces. Up we go. In a trice we will have the lot of them strung bythe necks from the windows."
His pistol
belched a charge of flame and shot in Tom's direction,and, missing our hero's head by a narrow margin, swept above thespectacles of his gallant father--for it was Septimus whom he hadunearthed from the room behind him, and his uncle Juan also--causingthat sedate, business gentleman to duck most violently. It completedits work by crashing into the ceiling and bringing down a yard ofmaterial which almost blinded Don Juan as it smashed into pieces.As for Tom, he leaned forward, took steady aim, and sent the rascaltumbling backward with a bullet through his body. He was after him,too, in an instant, beating at those below with the butt of hispistol, while Septimus ably backed up the attack, laying about himvigorously with his piece of splintered boarding. Men dived for theirlegs, hoping to bring them down in that way, but were met with blowswhich sent them heeling downward. Shots were fired by the ruffians,and were answered by the howls of the wretches hit by accident. Thena shout of consternation set the whole lot retreating.
What was that? Tom stretched his ears to their longest and listened.Septimus produced a very red and somewhat soiled silk handkerchiefand slowly mopped his streaming forehead. Juan took off his glasses,wiped them thoughtfully, and then gave vent to the expression: "Well,I never!"
"Soldiers! British!" shouted Septimus, beginning to dance from onetoe to the other, and presenting a somewhat ludicrous appearance."Tom, I tell you those are British soldiers!"
"No--Portuguese and Spanish. Listen, that's my adjutant, Ensign JohnBarwood."
Up through the windows of the house came the curt commands ofan officer, commands issued in a language neither Spanish norPortuguese, but a species of patois made more hideous by the obviousEnglish accent of the officer.
"Recover arms! Ground arms! Split up by sections. Shoot any man whocomes from the house and refuses to surrender. Andrews and Howeleytake charge each of a section. Ensign Alfonso is at the rear andguards the place in that quarter."
"Hooray!" bellowed Tom, racing down the stairs and to the window ofhis late prison. "Jack, ahoy! Pass a few files into the house for ourprotection. I've got the two we've been searching for. Pass the newsto Alfonso. His father's here, safe and sound. And mind you, don'tlet one of those beggars escape. Seize or shoot them all. Searchtheir clothing and send a couple of men at once to help me to searchfor papers."
The minutes which passed after that were somewhat strenuous. Everyexit from the house was guarded, and when a man dropped from one ofthe windows, and refused to halt at the command of one of Jack'sparties, there came the snap of a musket, followed by a fusillade,for the first shot had missed the mark. A piercing shriek echoedthrough the yard, and when Tom craned his neck out of the windowthere was one of the rascals stretched still and stark on his face.
By now the irregulars were pouring into the house, their bayonetsfixed in readiness for trouble. They found the bulk of theconspirators crouching in their supper room amid the litter ofbottles and glasses, while in their centre, looking still more woefuland downcast, was the fat man who had been injured. He was carriedbelow after being searched, while the rest were mustered together,thoroughly searched, and then marched into the yard, where they wereput under a guard. Then began a complete and thorough investigationof the premises. Documents and papers were dragged from hidingplaces, and as the night wore on towards early morning Tom was able,with the help of his friends, to unravel the whole mystery.
"The same handwriting," he repeated on many an occasion, turning oversome new document. "Plans of Badajoz as regarrisoned and defended bythe British. Ditto of Ciudad Rodrigo, showing that these men have hadagents in both places. Details here of Wellington's forces, with theexact number of guns, their calibre, &c."
"And here the same of the French," sang out Alfonso, now aninterested spectator. "Double-dealing individuals, evidently."
"I'll eat my hat if that writing isn't the same as that found in thehouse where your father and uncle were living," suddenly interruptedJack.
"Right--I've seen that all along. It goes to prove that theringleader all through who managed this gang also abducted those two.Who was he?"
"That is a question beyond me," declared Septimus, leaning over hisson's shoulder. "We never saw a leader. He was never referred to inour presence. We were suddenly set upon and bound and gagged. Thatsame night we began the journey to Badajoz. Then came the siege, theassault, and our flight; that is to say, we were hustled away fromthe fortress. And here you are, Tom. 'Pon my word, how you do turnup!"
"Like the usual bad penny," grinned Jack, whereat Tom made a slash athim with his own sword, which the young adjutant had placed upon therickety table.
"But," he said, "how does it happen that you fellows yourselvesturned up just in the nick of time? Things were getting decidedlywarm for us at the top of those stairs."
"Warm!--Boiling!" gasped Septimus, mopping his forehead at thethought, while Don Juan took off his spectacles and rubbed them.
"Beg pardon, sir, but there's officers ridden into the square,"reported Andrews in his stentorian tones, thrusting a head into theroom. "They've called for the officer commanding."
"That's you," declared Tom, pointing at Jack. "I'm still a muleteer;haven't rejoined yet."
But the generous Jack wouldn't have that at all. He insisted on Tom'sobeying the order.
"This special job's ended," he said, "You've bagged that crowd, andmighty pleased Wellington'll be at the news. As for our arrival, why,your men acting as muleteers got to hear something after you had goneand sent along to me. I brought half a company into the city at once.Alfonso tumbled upon us almost as we were passing the yard, and--herewe are, all aliv--o."
It was a strange coincidence that Wellington should be the one onthis occasion to turn up unexpectedly also, but at a moment whichcould only be called opportune. He and his staff had attended a ballgiven in honour of the arrival of the British, and there he was inthe yard when Tom and his friends descended, tall and austere, hisslim figure standing out in the moonlight.
"You command this party!" he exclaimed in amazement, as a seemingmuleteer drew himself to attention a few paces away and saluted."You!"
"Yes, sir."
Ah! There was something familiar about the face and the figure. Thevoice reminded the general of a young officer he had often had inhis thoughts.
"Name?" he asked curtly.
"Lieutenant Tom Clifford, sir, in disguise. I have to report that themission on which you sent me has been successfully carried out. Withthe help of my comrades I have captured or killed every member of agang dealing in military secrets. There is abundance of documentaryevidence to convict them."
"Ah, that is news! And their leader?"
"Over there, sir," explained Jack, who stood at attention beside ourhero.
The whole party crossed the yard to the far corner, where lay thebody of the man who had attempted to escape, and who had been shotdown in the act. A torch was produced, and the light enabled them tosee the features.
"The prisoners have admitted that he was their leader," said Jack.
It was Jose. Tom turned away with a feeling of sickness. After all,it was not pleasant to think that a cousin could have been such arascal. There, in fact, was the end of all his scheming, all hismeanness and jealousy.
"You will report to-morrow at headquarters, Mr. Clifford. I offer youand your officers and men the heartiest thanks--good morning!"
Wellington was gone. Tom watched the gilt of his epaulettes shiningas he went through the archway; then he turned. Jack was standingstiffly at attention behind him. Septimus was rushing forward withoutstretched hand.
"Congratulations, sir," gasped the ensign.
"To both of you," cried Septimus. "The chief of the staff gave me thenews. Tom, you've been gazetted captain for that work at Salamanca,while Jack also gets a step, and Alfonso a mention. Now let's get tosupper, or breakfast--which is it?"
There is little more to tell of our friends. In the year whichfollowed, that of 1813, they took the field again with Wellington,having meanwhile passed safely through
the retreat from Burgos.Their corps saw service in the complicated battle of Vittoria, wherethe British were successful. Thence they helped at the capture ofSan Sebastian, while in October they actually marched into France,having driven the French from Spain altogether. The battle of Nivellewas then fought, Tom's men taking their part. The Nive was crossedafter desperate skirmishing, and so the advance of the British forcecontinued. Meanwhile, Napoleon's Russian disaster had set upon him aflood of enemies, all pressing for vengeance. To describe all thathappened would need many a chapter; but in the end the power ofNapoleon was shattered. He himself abdicated the throne of France,and was exiled to the island of Elba. Thence he escaped, and gatheredthe flower and manhood of France once more about him. But it washis fate to meet Wellington yet again. On the field of Waterloothat great general, with the help of the Germans, broke his armyto pieces. A fugitive, Napoleon handed himself into the care of theBritish, and thenceforward was exiled in St. Helena, where, amid thecacti and the ferns, he died peacefully in the truckle bed which hadfollowed him on his campaigns.
For Jack and Tom we have something more to say. The former wasa captain at the end of the Peninsula War; Tom a colonel, theyoungest in the army. Minus one arm, he looked, if anything, rathermore fetching in his uniform than formerly, for he served on thecommander-in-chief's staff at home till he retired. Then Jack wentalso. Cast your eyes back at the house of Septimus John Clifford &Son. It's not so very long ago that the old head of the firm couldbe seen asleep beneath the shade of that mulberry tree. He was fullof years and kindness. A white-haired clerk sat often beside him,a relic of the faithful lot who were there when Tom was a boy. Andthere were children about, Tom's, for he had left the service andmarried. Jack Barwood had married Marguerite, and he and his oldfriend met daily at the office, for they were partners, while Alfonsomanaged in Oporto.
Thus our tale comes to an end. We take off our hats to Tom and hisfellows. They helped to break down the menace which threatenedEngland.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
_At the Villafield Press, Glasgow, Scotland_
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Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious typographical errors were repaired, but stylistic and validarchaic spellings were retained.
All illustrations, except for frontispiece, were relocated to thetext describing their action.
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