Chapter X The Emperor’s Despatch
Spoils of War—Hard Cash—A Good Bargain—“To Command the World”—A Wigging—“Missing”—Through the Night—Dead Beat—Grumbling—A Late Breakfast—Mixed Metaphors—A Change of Route
Jack threw himself wearily into a chair. He was tired, famished, disappointed—above all, disappointed,—for he had set his heart on capturing the Frenchman as a crowning achievement for this crowded day. For a few moments he sat staring with downcast eyes at the floor; then he pulled himself together.
“It can’t be helped,” he thought. “I did my best.—Landlord, give me some food.”
The landlord put down on the table, between two smoking candles, the knife which he had retained up to this moment.
“Some food for the caballero,” he said to one of his men. “And you, Perez, go outside and bury that carrion Frenchman.”
Some minutes passed. Jack found that he had no appetite for the crude dishes set before him, and heard dully, with inattentive ears, the slow monotone of the landlord, who seemed to be anxious to justify to himself the act of murder he had committed. Presently two of the inn servants entered.
“We have buried him, master,” said the first. “And his clothes are rich; we thought maybe you would wish to have them.”
His companion came forward, and laid before the inn-keeper a heap of garments.
“He was a handsome man,” added the first.
“Fine feathers, fine feathers!” muttered the landlord. He took the garments up one by one, turning them over and commenting on them. There was a black cloth pelisse, a white dolman with gold braid and fur, and a shako of scarlet cloth, surmounted by an aigrette of white heron’s plumes. The uniform was ornate with gold braid, cord, and buttons; and a rich sash of black and gold silk, a small cartridge-pouch, a sabretache, and a long Damascene sabre completed the brilliant appointments. As Jack watched the landlord fingering the articles, he recognized vaguely that they could only have belonged to a soldier of high rank or position, and for the first time he wondered what had brought the Frenchman to this out-of-the-way village of Valdestillos. The landlord stroked the fur of the dolman caressingly.
“Worth some dollars, this,” he said, shaking it out to see its full extent. As he did so, a folded paper fell to the floor. Jack was up in an instant.
“I want that,” he said, fatigue, hunger, disappointment forgotten at once. He stepped forward, but the landlord put his foot on the paper.
“No, no, Señor,” he said quickly. “He was my prisoner; I killed him; all his things are mine.”
“But don’t you see,” said Jack, now hardly able to control his excitement; “don’t you see, the man was a despatch-rider! That explains his rich uniform. Perhaps he was one of Napoleon’s own aides-de-camp, and the fate of all Spain may lie in that simple paper. You must give it to me, landlord; I must take it to my general.”
Jack was too much agitated at the moment to perceive that his urgent manner was likely to defeat his ends. The probability that the paper had value had aroused the cupidity of the landlord, who stooped cautiously, picked up the despatch, and thrust it into his pocket.
“It is mine—mine,” he said gloatingly. The man’s attitude served to quiet Jack’s nerves.
“Very well,” he said. “Keep it. I wouldn’t be in your shoes for something. Your servants have seen the despatch. Look, there’s a crowd of peasants gaping at the door there. You can’t keep it quiet, even if anything happens to me; and when General Stewart finds out what a patriot you are, he’ll send you to the Marquis of La Romana, and then—”
Jack shrugged expressively. The servants cast uneasy glances at their master, who at first frowned at them, then himself looked uncomfortable.
“What does the Señor offer for it?” he said at length with a covetous leer.
“You sell your patriotism, eh? Well, I’ll give you five dollars.”
The landlord shook his head.
“I have lost many dollars of late through the war. It is worth more than five dollars.”
“Well, I won’t stick at a few dollars. Say ten.”
“No, no. The Marquis of La Romana would give more than ten.”
“I won’t haggle with you,” cried Jack. “I make you a last offer. If you accept it, you are so much to the good; if you refuse it, you not only won’t get a maravedi, but you’ll come pretty badly off when the authorities hear of it. I’ll give you twenty dollars, and not a peseta more.”
The landlord looked at him enquiringly, as though questioning whether he might not squeeze a few more dollars from the young officer. Jack eyed him firmly.
“That’s final,” he said. “Twenty dollars, or nothing, plus your country’s curse.”
“A paltry sum!” said the innkeeper. “In cash?” he asked cunningly.
“In cash. I have the money here.”
“Let me see it.”
Chafing at the man’s suspicion, Jack unbuckled his belt, and counted out from the pockets on the inside twenty small golden dollars of the old coinage of Spain. The landlord’s eye gleamed. He took out the despatch from his pocket, and held it doubtingly in his hand.
“Give me ten dollars first,” he said.
Angrier than ever, but outwardly calm, Jack handed over ten of the coins. The man bit each one between his teeth, and dropped them into his pouch.
“Take it, Señor,” he said.
It was the most exciting moment Jack remembered in his life when he took the folded paper in his hand, and paid the balance of the price. He turned it over; there was no writing on it; the flap was fastened with a great red seal; what if it was no despatch after all? Instantly he broke the seal, and, unfolding the stiff paper, read at the top:
“To the Marshal Duke of Dalmatia, commanding the Second Army Corps at Saldana, the Vice-Constable Major-General”.
His eyes swam, and he felt a rush of blood to his cheeks. The landlord was droning on to his servants, and Jack remembered afterwards, with infinite amusement, that, at this tense moment, he had heard as in a dream the land-lord directing his servant to put out one of the candles; one was enough: “’Tis a waste of good pork fat, and we have no pigs left in Spain—bar the French.”
He read on by the light of one guttering dip, running his eye rapidly down the closely-written page. Moment by moment his joy increased. The despatch was written from Chamartin by Marshal Berthier, Prince of Neufchatel, and Jack saw that it contained Napoleon’s plan of campaign, and gave information of the position of his armies which would be beyond price to Moore. Having read it hastily, he went through it again with more care, fixing the details in his mind in case by any mishap he should lose it before reaching head-quarters. What he read was as follows:—
“I read to the Emperor your letter of the 4th of December, which was brought by one of your officers. His Majesty approves of all you have done. The brigades of Generals Debelle and Franceschi are under your orders, and you can manoeuvre them as you think proper. The Emperor is of opinion that with the division of Merle and the division of Mouton, together with the four regiments of cavalry, nothing can resist you.
“What are you to do? Take possession of Leon, drive back the enemy into Galicia, make yourself master of Benavente and Zamora. You can have no English in your front, for some of their regiments came to the Escurial and Salamanca, and everything shows that they are in full retreat. Our advance-guard is this day at Talavera de la Reyna, upon the road to Badajos, which it will reach soon. It will be clear to you that this movement must compel the English to hasten immediately to Lisbon, if they have not gone there already. The moment you are sure that the English have retreated (of which there is every presumption), move forward with rapidity. There are no Spaniards who can resist your two divisions. Order shoes and greatcoats to be made at Leon, Santander, and Palencia. His Majesty grants every demand for improving your equipment. You may also require mules for your artillery, and horses to remount your cavalry; but let it all be done according to the regular forms of administration.
“It is possible that as soon as the dragoons of General Millet arrive in Spain, the Emperor will send them on to you. But his cannot happen for a fortnight. At the distance at which you are you must be guided by what you think best, and look upon all I write as only general instructions. His Majesty conceives that you will take measures to reduce the country between the Douro, Galicia, and the Asturias, always most carefully guarding Santander. The 5th Corps, commanded by the Marshal Duke of Treviso, has been ordered to advance on Saragossa; the 8th Corps, under the Duke of Abrantes, whose 1st Division arrived at Vittoria on the 12th, will probably receive orders to concentrate at Burgos. Gunboats and armoured vessels of any kind have orders to sail for Santander. Load them with confiscated English merchandise, cotton, wool, artillery, and send all to France.
“Five divisions of Castaños’ best troops have been routed with even less difficulty than you found in beating the Estremaduran army at Burgos. The wreck of Castaños’ army is being pursued by Marshal Bessières, who has cut them off the road to Estremadura, and is pursuing them towards Valencia, several marches beyond the Tagus. The Emperor’s headquarters are at Chamartin, a little country seat a league and a half from Madrid. His Majesty enjoys an excellent state of health.
“The city of Madrid is quite tranquil. The shops are all open, the public amusements are resumed, and there is not the least appearance of our first proposals having been emphasized by 4000 cannon balls.
“THE PRINCE OF NEUFCHATEL, “Major-General.
“I will send you to-morrow a proclamation and some decrees of the Emperor, in which you will recognize the style of him who was born to command the world.”
Every word was impressed on Jack’s memory as though burnt in with fire. He had been disappointed of catching a Frenchman! He almost laughed aloud, for here, surely, was a find worth a king’s ransom.
“Landlord, I ride back to Rueda.” His voice had the ring of authority. “My own horse is tired. I will ride the Frenchman’s horse. You will keep mine here until it is sent for, and a fair price shall be paid you for the other if mine is returned to me safe and sound. At once, if you please!”
It was not the Spaniard’s way to move with alacrity, and it took fifteen minutes to saddle the horse and bring it round from the stables. Then Jack mounted, his whole body tingling with joy; and, the despatch carefully buttoned up inside his tunic, he set off on the fine Arab gray for Rueda.
The horse was not too fresh, and went all too slowly for Jack’s eager haste. It was near midnight when he cantered into the open street of Rueda, and dismounted at the door of the posada. There was a light in this as in many other houses, and he guessed that here he would be most likely to find General Stewart. The sound of his horse’s hoofs had drawn an orderly to the door.
“Ah, Benson, catch hold of this nag, there’s a good fellow! Is the general up?”
“Yes, you’ll find him in the first room, sir.”
Jack waited to hear no more. He almost ran into the room, and found himself in the presence of General Stewart and a few other officers.
“Oh, it’s you!” said Stewart, turning on his chair to face the intruder. “Now, look here, Lumsden, this is all very well, but things may go too far, you know. ’Twas a mere fool’s trick to bolt off after a runaway vedette when, for all you knew, a whole army-corps was within a mile of us.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Jack, “but I understood that you wished to secure the whole party, and I went after the only one that had escaped.... There are no Frenchmen on the road; in fact, to the best of my belief there’s only one Frenchman between here and Valladolid, and he’s dead.”
“You got him after all, then?” said Stewart with a gleam of interest.
“Unluckily no, sir; he got off. It was another fellow, and he carried this despatch.”
The general took the paper without a word. He opened it, and began to read.
“Gad, what a find!” he exclaimed. “Look here, Seymour. ‘Born to command the world’, begad!”
The other officers got up and looked over his shoulder. Jack watched their faces, and noticed how their expression changed from an ordinary interest and amusement to an excitement rivalling his own.
“By George, Lumsden,” cried the general as he finished the document, “you’ve found a treasure here!”
“It cost me twenty dollars, sir.”
“Dirt cheap at twenty thousand! How did it happen?”
Jack briefly told the story.
“Boney was always too careless about his aides-de-camp,” said Seymour. “The idea of sending the poor chap off without an escort!”
“Spare your pity!” laughed Stewart. “This must go off to the commander-in-chief at once.” He looked at Jack, and added dryly: “I suppose you are too tired to take it yourself?”
“If you’ll give me a fresh horse I’ll start at once, sir.”
“Very well, though you look dog-tired. Have you got a flask you can give him, Seymour? That’s right. There’s a fellow half an hour ahead of you, with a despatch reporting our capture here—and I’ve put you down as missing, my boy. You’re sure you can do it? It’s a ride of nearly twenty miles.”
“I’ll go, sir,” said Jack simply. “May I mention two things? I left my horse at the posting inn at Valdestillos, and promised to send for it and buy the Frenchman’s gray. Will you look at it, sir, and offer a price? And there was a little gipsy boy with a few Spaniards in the watch-house here. The boy has been rather useful to me; will you order him and the rest to be released and looked after a bit?”
“Done to both. I’ll buy the horse myself if he’s fit; and as for the boy and those Spanish louts, they were released long ago, and the gipsy has kept the men in fits with his monkey antics. Now wait just a moment while I scribble a note to Sir John, and then be off, and think yourself a lucky young dog.”
When Jack, fortified with Captain Seymour’s flask, went to the door to mount his horse, he became for the first time thoroughly aware how tired he was. He had been in the saddle almost without intermission for more than twelve hours, and as he lifted his foot to the stirrup, he felt as though his thigh was weighted with lead, and on the point of snapping. But he would never have confessed his fatigue, much less have abnegated his right to carry the important despatch to the commander-in-chief; so, aching but cheerful, he cantered off into the night.
He had a ride of eighteen or twenty miles before him, and it was now past midnight. “Thank heaven!” he said to himself, “in three hours or so I shall be between the sheets.” Soon after he started, snow began to fall in scattered flakes, giving cold and gentle dabs to his face. The horse answered to his spur, and trotted rapidly along the solitary road, which grew whiter and whiter as he proceeded, past the cabin where the French outpost had been surprised, past the cross-road where the little tussle of the afternoon had taken place, over the bridge, up the hill, and thus on and on until he was within a couple of miles of the town of Alaejos.
At this point he overtook suddenly another horseman, whom the snow, driving now thick and fast, had hidden from his sight, while the carpeted road had deadened the sound of his own horse’s hoofs. Guessing at once that this must be the courier bearing General’s Stewart’s earlier despatch, the recollection that he had been reported missing made him chuckle. Throwing a word of salutation to the rider as he passed him, he urged his horse to a gallop, soon came to the advanced pickets of the British force, and in a few minutes arrived at the door of the house in which Sir John Moore had fixed his quarters. The general had not long arrived, and was still up, engaged in arranging with a few of his staff the details of the next day’s march. Jack was ushered to his room at once. Staggering in, white from head to heel, he drew Stewart’s letter and the intercepted despatch from his breast pocket, and, holding them out towards the general, he said:
“A despatch, sir, from General Stewart.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Sir John, rising in his chair. “I hardly expected—why, Colborne, the boy’s done up! See to him.”
Jack’s face had turned the colour of his snow-laden cloak, and he would have fallen had not Major Colborne, Moore’s secretary, hastily caught him and placed him on a seat, asking one of the aides-de-camp present to give him some cordial. Meanwhile Sir John had hurriedly run his eye over Stewart’s covering note, and was now eagerly perusing Berthier’s despatch.
“Gad, we have him at last!” he exclaimed, as he came to the end. The assembled officers looked expectant of an explanation, but at this moment the courier whom Jack had passed on the road entered, bearing the despatch announcing the capture of the French garrison at Rueda.
“Another despatch!” exclaimed the general; “Stewart appears to have been busy.”
Tearing it open, he said, with a jubilant note in his voice:
“First blood, gentlemen! The campaign has opened at last. General Stewart has captured fifty of Franceschi’s chasseurs and seventy of Lefebvre’s infantry at Rueda, and—why, what’s this? Lieutenant Lumsden missing!”
He looked across the room at Jack, who had now recovered, and was sitting, half-asleep, with his back to the wall.
“You’re Mr. Lumsden, surely?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought I could not be mistaken. How is it you are reported missing in the second despatch?”
“I was missing when the courier left, sir. I overtook him on the road.”
“I see. You’re dead beat, I’m afraid, but I should be glad to hear how you came by this despatch of yours, if you can manage to keep awake for a few minutes.”
Jack briefly gave an account of the circumstances.
“You did very well, uncommonly well, Mr. Lumsden,” said Sir John when he had concluded. “Colborne, be good enough to send someone to see Mr. Lumsden safely to the quarters of the 95th. Mr. Lumsden, you will hear from me to-morrow.”
Jack rose stiffly and saluted; then, accompanied by one of the aides-de-camp, he walked off to the quarters of his battalion. The officers had all gone to bed. Learning from Jack the name of his servant, the aide-de-camp roused the servants’ quarters, and, just as the church clock was striking three, Jack was put to bed in a cosy little room on the ground floor of the house by his man Giles Ogbourne.
“What I want to know is, when are we agoing to have a slap at the French? Here we’ve been tramping and camping for two months or more, and nothing to show for it—not a shot fired. And you call that sojering!”
The words and the grunt that followed came on Jack’s ears as it were out of a mist, along with the pungent fumes of strong tobacco. He had just awoke from a heavy sleep; the window of his room was open, and he could see the deep-blue sky of a fine December day.
“My friend Corporal Wilkes holding forth!” he said to himself with a smile, and, turning on his back, he listened for more.
“What are we here for?” went on the grumbler. “What’s the good of cleaning your rifle day after day when it’s had no chance of getting fouled? It’s nothing but walking, walking, walking; ’ang me if we ain’t out on a bloomin’ walking-match.”
“There’s been a bit of a scrum somewhere for’ard, so I heard,” put in another voice. “P’raps things is waking up, corp’ril.”
“Shut up, Bates! What’s the good o’ that to us? It was those long-legged dragoons, by all accounts. Why should they have it all? Where does the 95th come in?—that’s what I want to know. What’s the good o’ pickin’ out the Rifles from the whole army and then giving them cavalry chaps the only job that’s going? Besides, nothing’ll come of it. We shall only have a longer walk than ever, you see. A flick in the ear to the French, so to say, and then we skedaddles!”
“That ain’t fair, corp’ril. Who says we’re a-going to sheer off?”
“Nobody says we’re going to sheer off, but anyone with half an eye could see those blessed grub-carts over there cutting up the roads this morning, and anyone with an ounce of gumption would know what that means. That ain’t the road to Valladolid! What I want to know is, do the general mean to fight, or don’t he? If he do, let’s step off on shanks his mare and get to business; if he don’t—why, he’s only spoiling good sojers, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“Not so much noise, corp’ril,” said Giles Ogbourne; “you’ll wake Mr. Lumsden.”
“Spoil his beauty sleep, eh? Where’s he been, getting so dead tired that he ain’t up to take his rations? I don’t hold with such late hours. Not but what he’s a good plucked ’un mostly, and I don’t grudge him the—”
At this point Jack got out of bed, wincing as his aching muscles reminded him of the previous day’s hard work.
“You there, Giles?” he said, putting his head out of the window. “Get me some hot water, and then see about my breakfast while I dress.”
A guffaw broke from the soldiers below, and was instantly suppressed.
“Yes, sir,” said Giles, adding: “Beg pardon, sir, but it’s not breakfast, it’s dinner.”
Jack laughed.
“What! Have I been asleep so long? What’s the time?”
“Gone four, sir, and mess is at a quarter past.”
“Hurry up, then! There’s just time.”
“Mr. Pomeroy’s been twice to see if you was up, sir, but he wouldn’t let me disturb you. And he said I was on no account to say a word about—”
He caught himself up, with a blush that gave his honest round face a very boyish air.
“About what?”
“I wasn’t to say, sir.”
“Oh well, cut off and fetch the water! Been fighting any Spaniards lately, Wilkes?”
“No such luck, sir. Spaniards or French, it’s all one to me, and what I want to know is—”
Jack smiled and shut the window.
When he entered the mess-room he found the officers of his regiment already seated, Colonel Beckwith being at the head of the table.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Smith, who was opposite the door. His exclamation drew all eyes towards Jack, and as he passed down the table to take the place made for him beside Pomeroy, the subalterns rapped knives and glasses on the unstained deal, and gave a rousing welcome to the wanderer.
“Of all the lucky beggars!” said Pomeroy in Jack’s ear, when the general greetings had subsided. “And I can’t even punch your head!”
“You’re welcome to try,” retorted Jack, “but allow me to get some dinner first. I’ve had nothing but pucheros and gaspachos for days past, and there are heavy arrears to make up.”
“Well, I don’t want to take advantage of you, though you have played me rather a mean trick.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wine with you, Mr. Lumsden,” interjected Colonel Beckwith from the far end of the table; “a good ride, begad!”
“Thank you, sir! most happy,” said Jack, with a look of mingled pleasure and surprise. After the interchange of compliments, Jack, turning again to Pomeroy, said quietly: “What’s Sidney driving at? I’ve never been honoured in this way since I first joined.”
“Oh, he’s anxious!” returned Pomeroy carelessly.
“Anxious! About what?”
“About his job.”
“How? What?”
“’Fraid he’ll be superseded, you know.”
Jack was so much puzzled by the apparent inconsequence of the reply that he failed to remark the wide grin of amusement which all the subalterns within hearing were vainly endeavouring to dissemble.
“He’s trying to carry it off,” added Pomeroy.
“I say, Smith, what does this lunatic mean?”
“What! Haven’t you heard the rumour?” answered Smith.
“‘What great ones do the less will prattle of,’” quoted Shirley sotto voce.
“What rumour?” asked Jack, more mystified than ever.
“Well, there may be nothing in it, but for my own part I think it’s a shame to promote a raw sub like you over the heads of men like Colonel Beckwith and Captain O’Hare, to say nothing of Pomeroy.”
Jack, looking somewhat startled, appealed to Captain O’Hare, who was bubbling with amusement.
“Are they all mad, sir?”
“‘S mad’s hatters!” replied O’Hare with a chuckle. “’Tis a shame to keep ye in suspense. The fact is, my boy, as you’d have learnt if you’d only kept dacent hours, you’ve been growing in your sleep. You’re like the mushroom that blooms in the dark. You went to bed a second lieutenant and woke up a full-blown one. ’Tis most unusual, this promotion, and bedad, ’tis Peter O’Hare himself that’s glad, so he is, and so’s all the rest of us.”
“Except me,” said Pomeroy in a tone of regret; “for as my superior officer I can’t punch his head.”
There was a laugh, under which Jack was glad to hide his pleasure and embarrassment.
“And the worst is,” added Pomeroy, “that it’s another bet won for the Grampus.”
“By the way,” asked Jack, “what’s become of the Grampus?”
“Oh!” said Smith, “he went off a week ago. Said he came out to be at the front; bet me Baird would open the ball with Soult, and went to lend a hand.”
“He’ll be lucky if he isn’t made mincemeat of by the French, or else by Spanish bandits,” said O’Hare. “These amachures would be safer at home.”
At this moment an orderly entered and handed a note to Colonel Beckwith, who, having read it, crumpled it up and rapped on the table.
“Gentlemen, I may as well inform you, although of course it must go no further to-night, that a change has been made in our route. We march for Toro to-morrow.”
There was a dead silence, broken only by a half-audible growl from Captain O’Hare. The shadow of a smile flickered across the colonel’s face as he noticed the glum looks of his officers.
“This change, I may add, is due to some news lately received.” Here he glanced quizzingly at Jack. “It’s not so bad as it looks, and you may take my word for it that before the week’s out we shall be in the thick of it.”
“Thanks be!” said Captain O’Hare.