Chapter XIX Palafox the Man
Night on the Ebro—Across the Boom—Heroines of the Siege—The Captain-General—An Interview—A Missing Letter—War to the Knife—An Interruption—Santiago Sass—First Impressions
So exciting an incident immediately on his entrance into Saragossa had engrossed Jack’s attention so thoroughly as to drive from his mind the matter which, until he turned the corner of the Casa Ximenez, had been giving him much concern. Where was Pepito? That mischievous but useful elf had been the life and soul of the sailors during their rapid voyage from Seville to the mouth of the Ebro. When they disembarked at Tortosa he had managed with great cleverness the hiring of horses on which to continue the journey overland, and had ridden with Jack across country until they reached the village of Mediana, some fifteen miles from Saragossa. There Jack learnt that Saragossa was closely invested on all sides by the French, and in particular that the Monte Torrero, an eminence on the south-west of the city, was in the hands of the enemy, who had made it the base of most vigorous and sustained operations.
It was clearly impossible to penetrate the French lines and enter the city on foot or horseback; the only other means was the river. Jack made anxious enquiry as to the chances of finding the waterway open. He learnt that in the early days of the siege several boats had eluded the vigilance of the French and come down the river, and that, only a fortnight before, Francisco Palafox, the brother of the captain-general in command, had escaped under cover of night and was now at large, endeavouring to raise a relief force. But the peasants of Mediana knew of no case of a boat going up-stream and passing the French batteries since Colonel Doyle had sent a number of new muskets into the city the day before the strict investment began. Further, in addition to a bridge of boats near the confluence of the tributary Huerba with the main stream, a boom had been thrown across the river a few hundred yards below this point, and it seemed most unlikely that now, in the seventh week of the siege, the French sentries would have so far relaxed their watchfulness as to allow the boom to be crossed or broken.
This was bad news, and Jack, for the moment, felt baffled. He discovered, however, that at this time of year Saragossa and the neighbouring district were covered at early morning with a thick mist from the river and the low-lying banks, and he felt that if he could take advantage of this fact he might slip into the city despite all the enemy’s vigilance. At any rate he determined to make the attempt. A bargain was soon struck at a riverside village for the loan of a boat. The oars were carefully muffled, and after dark, on the night of January 31st, Jack started with high hope on the last stage of his long journey.
All went well. It was a pitch-dark night, and the strain of rowing a heavy craft against the stream necessitated frequent pulls-in to the bank for rest. But steady progress was made mile by mile, until, about five o’clock in the morning, sounds ahead indicated that the boat was drawing very near to the French encampments.
Every stroke of the oars was now made with infinite precaution, and the boat crawled along at a snail’s pace. Pepito, in the bow, leant over to watch for the boom which blocked the waterway, and many times dipped his hands into the icy-cold water so that touch might not fail where sight was impossible. The air was raw and chilly, and Jack was delighted to learn, from his sensations in throat and eyes, that the mist of which his informant had spoken was an actuality.
It was drawing towards dawn. The darkness was yielding to a faint luminance that was not yet light, when suddenly, a few moments after Pepito had withdrawn his numbed hand from the water, the boat was pulled up with a jolt, and a harsh prolonged creak testified that its nose had come at last into contact with the boom—a heavy chain drawn across the river from bank to bank. Instantly there was a cry from the bank on their right: “Qui va la?” At that same moment, without the least hesitation, Pepito slipped noiselessly over the side of the boat into the water, caught the chain with one hand, and endeavoured to pull it down, whispering to his master to row over. But his puny strength was, of course, unavailing, and he crept back shivering into the bows. Jack, however, had at once divined the only possible solution of the problem. So heavy a chain must undoubtedly sag towards the middle of the stream. Was the middle to his right hand or his left? He pulled the boat sideways against the obstruction, and told Pepito to slip overboard and walk along the chain while he himself gently paddled. At a guess he moved to the right, and was soon gratified by Pepito’s whispered announcement that the chain seemed to be sinking. When the water reached the boy’s middle, Jack gently brought the boat’s head to the stream, and with two vigorous strokes drove the unwieldy vessel across the boom. The boat’s bottom scraped the massive links as it crossed; Pepito clambered in rather too hastily and slipped; the sounds caught the ears of the sentry on the bank, and another cry of “Qui va la?” penetrated the mist, followed by a shot. More voices were heard; more shots; and then from a point behind came the sound of a boat being run down the bank. Jack now plied his oars with might and main; cries, followed by shots, rang out from the other bank, and then, ahead and approaching him, he heard the straining of oars against rowlocks. There was no time for hesitation. Pulling hard on the left oar he headed for the bank, taking his chance, and in a few seconds grounded with a shock. In an instant he was out of the boat, and, followed closely by Pepito, started at a quick walk through the clinging fog in what he guessed must be the direction of the city.
They had not walked fifty yards when a terrific explosion rent the air, deafening their ears and almost knocking them backward. Immediately afterwards the thunder of heavy artillery broke out to their right, and the mist beyond them was fitfully illuminated by lurid flashes. Brought to a momentary stop, Jack again went forward, with eyes and ears painfully strained, every fantastic eddy of the mist presenting itself as a possible enemy. Suddenly he looked round to see that Pepito was with him. The boy was gone! Retracing his steps, he peered through the gloom, calling the gipsy’s name softly. There was no answer, no sign of him. Five minutes were spent in fruitless search; then, within a few yards of him, Jack heard the tramp of men marching rapidly in file. With a mixed feeling of annoyance and anxiety he turned and made off in the opposite direction, crossed the district known as the Tanneries, and after wandering about for nearly an hour, dodging footsteps, and seeing with concern the mist clearing, arrived at the turning of the Casa Ximenez just in time to assist the young lady then so urgently needing assistance.
Still anxious about the safety of the gipsy boy, Jack felt, after leaving the house in the Coso, that he could do nothing at the moment, and his first duty was to present his despatch to General Palafox. The sounds of combat hurtled in the air; behind him clouds of smoke and flame bore witness to the success of the French bombardment. The street was full of men, women, citizens, soldiers, priests, hastening from point to point, all armed, all with fury and grim determination printed on their worn features. Stopping a boy who was hauling along a barrow filled with powder, Jack asked him where General Palafox could be found.
“In the Palace of the Inquisition, by the Portillo Gate,” replied the boy in surprise, scarcely stopping to answer the question, and hurrying on again with his fatal load. Before he had gone fifty yards a bomb fell into the barrow, and, unknown to Jack, this little defender of Saragossa was blown into eternity.
Jack hastened along the street, climbing the barricades, shuddering as he saw the unburied corpses of the slain lying before every church door, wincing in spite of himself as the thunders of the cannonade resounded in his rear, and admiring the courage of the black-robed noble ladies, who went about the streets swiftly but quietly, some carrying aid to the wounded, others almost staggering beneath the weight of great bags of powder and ammunition tied to their waists. He hurried along the Coso, crossed the Calle del Hospital, pursued his way to the Portillo Gate, and at length, passing through a long covered approach, reached the Palace of the Inquisition—the Castle of Aljafferia, at the extreme north of the city, outside the walls. At the gate of the castle many people were going in and coming out. Jack joined the ingoing stream, and found himself within the stately halls of the old palace of the kings of Aragon, crowded with soldiers and people of all classes. Learning with some difficulty that the captain-general was in one of the smaller salons, he at length reached the room, and stood in presence of the man whom for months past he had been more than eager to see.
José Palafox was barely thirty years of age, a tall man with dark complexion, heavy brown moustache and whiskers, and kindling eyes—kindling now, alas! with the flame of disease as well as of patriotic ardour. He was seated at a table on which papers were outspread. Every now and then his frame was racked with coughing. At his right hand stood a grim-visaged priest, Don Basilio Bogiero, his chaplain, whose fiery zeal in the defence of the city was equal to his own. Around were others of the notable men of the place, whom Jack came to know before many days had passed—the parish priest Santiago Sass, the burly peasants known to the whole populace as Uncle George and Uncle Marin, who had already proved their valour at the first siege of Saragossa, six months before. Making his way through the throng, he came to the table, and, bowing to the general, presented him with the despatch he had run such risks to deliver.
“From the British minister, Señor?” said Palafox in surprise, looking keenly at Jack.
He broke the seal, and showed the handwriting to Don Basilio, who nodded in answer to his mute enquiry. The general then rapidly cast his eyes over the despatch; Jack, watching him, saw his features twitch as he read. Collecting himself, he folded it up and placed it in his pocket.
“My brothers,” he said aloud, “this is good news.”
A shout interrupted him.
“Good news! good news!” rang from lip to lip. Santiago Sass crossed himself and cried: “Praise to our Lady of the Pillar!” Don Basilio watched everything with his fierce eyes.
“Yes, my brothers, good news!” continued Palafox. “The great English general, Sir Moore, has smitten the hosts of the accursed French; an army three times his own he has smitten and scattered to the winds of heaven. The traitor, the regicide, Bonaparte, has fled to France, and our brethren in all parts of Spain are massing to march to our assistance. Praise to the noble English! Praise to our noble allies! Praise to the great and noble Moore!”
“Praise to Our Lady of the Pillar!” shouted Santiago Sass.
The room rang with exultant cries, some in praise of Moore and the English, others in adoring gratitude towards the patron saint of the city. The fervour of religious enthusiasm was all the intenser because of the general belief that the extraordinary failure of the first siege, six months before, had been due to the miraculous interposition of Our Lady.
While the exultation was at its height, Palafox whispered a few words in the ear of Don Basilio, rose from his chair, and beckoned Jack to follow him into a small inner room. There, having shut the door, he asked:
“Do you know the contents of the British minister’s despatch, Señor?”
“Not in precise terms, Señor Capitan, but I know the facts. I was myself with Sir John Moore’s army. I—”
“Pardon me, Señor. You see what I am compelled to do? The patriotic ardour of the Saragossans is so furious that I dare not as yet let them know all the truth. And, indeed, I do not yet give up hope. Though Mr. Frere tells me that I can no longer expect assistance from without, I do not know—I do not know. My brother is raising levies to the south; others are gathering forces. In any case, our brave countrymen will form guerrilla bands, and we shall give the accursed French no respite until they are all driven back across the mountains. And—but tell me; I do not understand why I have received so long and full a despatch from Mr. Frere and none from our own Junta. I should have expected that the Marquis del Villel would have given you a despatch that would have been of equal importance with the British minister’s.”
“That is easily explained, Señor Capitan. I carry Mr. Frere’s despatch because I am myself an Englishman. My name is Lumsden—Lieutenant Lumsden of the Rifles.” Jack watched the general’s face for a sign of recognition of the name.
“Indeed! you amaze me. You speak our tongue so—Lumsden! I remember; I had almost forgotten it; a friend of my old friend Don Fernan Alvarez—is it not so? Alas! Don Fernan could not survive the humiliation of his unhappy country. Are you the Señor Lumsden who was Don Fernan’s friend?”
“My father was his partner, Señor,” replied Jack.
“Yes, and I had a letter for you, addressed to you by Don Fernan, and left in my charge ere he died. As I understood, it was a duplicate of a letter sent to Mr. Lumsden in London—your father, no doubt, Señor—and Don Fernan asked me to retain it until I heard either from your father or yourself, and if I heard from neither within six months, I was to send it to an address in London that he gave me.”
Palafox was here overtaken by a fit of coughing, which shook his fever-worn frame. When the coughing ceased, and the general lay back panting, Jack said quietly:
“And the letter, Señor?”
“That is what troubles me, Señor. I regret to tell you—”
He was seized again with coughing; Jack waited anxiously for the paroxysm to cease.
“I regret to tell you the letter is gone.”
“Gone!” echoed Jack blankly.
“Gone, Señor.”
“But how—why—can it have been lost, mislaid?”
“It was locked in my cabinet. A fortnight ago my cabinet was rifled, and a box of papers was taken away, among them the letter addressed to your father.”
“But still I do not understand, Señor. Why should anyone wish to steal a letter addressed to an unknown Englishman?”
“No one wished that, I suspect,” said Palafox with a faint smile. “The box in which the letter was placed was exactly similar to another box containing papers of public importance, including plans for the defence of the city. That, as I surmise, was the box which the thief wished to secure. Luckily for Spain, unluckily for you, he stole the wrong box, and apart from your letter obtained nothing of any great importance.”
“I am glad of that,” said Jack instantly. “Of course I am disappointed and vexed about the letter, but a private loss like that does not matter half so much as the loss of your plans would have done; it’s no good crying over spilt milk, as we say, and I must put up with it.”
“It is good of you to take the matter with such noble resignation,” said the courtly Spaniard. “Believe me, I regret the circumstance exceedingly. I can only hope that the French spy who stole the box—he must have been a French spy; we have no afrancesados in Saragossa—I can only hope that there was nothing in the letter that will seriously affect your fortunes, and after all, it was a duplicate, and the original is probably safe with your father in London. And now tell me, Señor, how you succeeded in the daring and marvellous feat of entering our sorely invested city.”
Jack gave a brief account of his adventures, to which Palafox listened with an air of the keenest interest.
“It will be more difficult to get out than in,” he said at the conclusion of the story. “And yet to remain in the city will be to court death or disease. It cuts me to the heart to think of the thousands who are dying here week by week, not for want of food—we have provisions of a sort in plenty—but for want of air and space. We had too large a population, Señor, when the siege began. I should have sent away the townsfolk; I see it now. And yet no, for the townsfolk are our most ardent and staunch defenders; even when the courage of the soldiers flags, the brave citizens cry “Guerra al cuchillo”,4 and “Hasta la ultima tapia”,5 and when fell disease overtakes them in the fetid cellars where they now mostly live, still with pious resignation they cry: “Lo que ha de ser no puede faltar”.6 Such is their spirit, Señor, and hoping against hope I maintain my defences, and, if God wills, shall yet win the day.”
During this speech Palafox had worked himself up into a frenzy that brought on another fit of coughing; and Jack, observing his unnaturally bright eyes, could not but wonder whether the labours and responsibilities of the defence were not affecting his mind. In a moment Jack said quietly:
“My position need not give you concern at present, Señor Capitan. I must stay in Saragossa for at any rate a day, for I have to make enquiries after my old friend Don Fernan’s family. His daughter, Señor—is she well?”
“I believe so; I hope so. It is long since I saw her. I wished her to leave the city before the siege, but, like a true maiden of Spain, she preferred to remain and do what she could to help the noble Countess of Bureta and the thrice noble Maria Agustin, our heroic maid of Saragossa, in serving the soldiers and tending the sick and wounded. The Señorita is under the guardianship of her aunt, the Doña Teresa, and if you will seek the Padre Consolacion, he will give you all particulars of their welfare; he undertook to watch over their interests at my special request. If you stay with us for a time, then, Señor, you will want a residence. There is little choice; we are at the mercy of the French guns; no house is safe, but—”
“I have been thinking, Señor,” interposed Jack, as the general paused: “Will you accept me as a volunteer? I have some months’ leave. I not only have personal interests in your city, but I feel that the struggle in which you are engaged is one that I can throw myself into with a whole heart. The cause of Spain is the cause of England, and if I can do anything—”
“Señor, I thank you; I welcome you with eagerness. You are an officer; your experience with Sir Moore’s army will be of value to me. Many of my best officers are dead; many more have no experience. If you please, I will assign you a definite command on our defences; will you come to me to-morrow at this hour?”
Jack was on the point of replying when loud vociferations came through the door from the large room. “Palafox! Where is Palafox? The captain-general! Come! Help! Tio Jorge! Palafox!” The cries grew louder and louder; heavy fists, muskets, pikes battered on the door; Don Basilio’s powerful voice was heard endeavouring to quell the tumult. Gathering himself together, and bravely repressing the signs of weakness he had previously shown, Palafox walked to the door, opened it, and stood in the doorway.
“What is it, my children?” he said.
The noise was hushed; the crowd turned as one man and seemed to be looking for someone. Then a passage opened up among them, and a huge brawny figure, with capless, dishevelled head, torn clothes, and face and hands black with the smoke of battle, elbowed his way through till he came to the general.
“Viva Arcos! Viva el valiente Arcos!” cried several in the throng.
“Silencio!” in the stern, authoritative tone of Don Basilio.
“Señor Capitan,” said the big man, “the French are making towards the Coso! The Casa Ximenez block is in their hands. They are burning, butchering; they are beating down our men at the barricades! I come for the reserve, Señor; for Tio Jorge and Tio Marin, and all their men! At once, Señor; send them at once; for if time is lost, the accursed foe will swarm into the centre of the town, and all is lost.”
Before Palafox could say a word, the priest Santiago Sass seized a musket, and, raising his piercing voice, cried:
“Follow me! follow me! In the name of God and Our Lady of the Pillar! To the convent of San Agustin! Tio Jorge, Tio Marin, Jorge Arcos, follow me!”
He rushed out into the corridor, and the mob, in a frenzy of enthusiasm, poured pell-mell after him, carrying their heroes with them. The room was left almost empty. Don Basilio turned to Palafox and said quietly:
“They will recover any ground that is lost. Spare yourself, my son José.”
“But the madness of Santiago leading them to the convent! The walls were breached by the explosion this morning, and the French must now be in full possession of it.”
“If the Augustine convent is where the explosion took place,” cried Jack eagerly, “that is near where I came in this morning. I found out by accident something of the position there, Señor. I think I could help. Have I your leave?”
Palafox looked kindly into the boy’s shining eyes.
“Yes,” he said, “go, and bring me word of what befalls.”
Jack sprang instantly towards the door. As he passed out, Don Basilio turned with an enquiring look towards Palafox.
“An English youth, Padre,” said the general, in answer to his mute question.
“A leader of men,” said the priest, and sat down to write a proclamation.
Notes
4 “War to the knife.”
5 “To the last wall.”
6 “That which is to be cannot fail.”