Chapter XXVI Wanted: Don Miguel Priego
Circumstantial Evidence—A Council of War—Miguel’s Despatch—A Statement of Facts—The Inevitable Inference—Shambles—In the Belfry—Without Guile—The People’s Curse
Jack had had so many evidences of Pepito’s sagacity that he could not doubt the accuracy of the boy’s report. The shoe buckles almost certainly belonged to Don Miguel. From this one seed of fact sprang a whole sheaf of problems. Miguel had been in the room when the guerrillero was murdered; he may not have dealt the blow himself, but certainly he was there. Then why was he there? Had he learnt that the man was an afrancesado and gone personally to serve him as every good Spaniard would wish to serve a traitor? That was improbable, for the murder had been committed in secret, no report had been made of it, and Miguel was not the man to let slip the chance of adding to his popularity by ridding the city of a domestic foe. No, he had not gone to the house as an enemy; could he have gone to it as a friend? What bond of union could there be between Don Miguel Priego, in civil life a well-to-do merchant and now also major in Palafox’s hussars, and a poor obscure peasant who had no standing whatever as a citizen or a soldier?
Suddenly the idea came to him: could Miguel have visited the man because he was an afrancesado? The suggestion was like the letting out of a flood. Jack recalled the suspicious entry of Miguel and his man into Saragossa; the strange tale about an overpowered sentry; the curious reappearance of a sentinel in the French trenches almost immediately afterwards. Had Miguel got in, not in spite of the French, but with their connivance? His rapid journey across country from Seville: how could that be accounted for unless he had been helped through the districts in French occupation, and provided with relays of post-horses at every stage? The inevitable conclusion was that Miguel was himself an afrancesado, and had come into the city on some traitorous errand. Knowing that the guerrillero was of the same kidney, he had visited him for some purpose of his own. A quarrel had arisen; during the struggle one of his buckles had been wrenched off, and it lay unnoticed on the floor. It was improbable that Miguel himself had dealt Quintanar the fatal blow; but, remembering Perez, the one-eyed man, Jack was in little doubt where to look for the assassin.
There was only one thing wanted to complete his assurance of Miguel’s treachery. Miguel had certainly brought to Palafox a despatch from the Supreme Junta at Seville. If he were a true Spaniard, and had really gained admittance to the city by a hazardous feat of arms, the despatch must have been intact when Palafox received it. On the other hand, if Miguel was a spy, in the pay of the French, it was little likely that they would have allowed a despatch to pass through their lines without mastering its contents. In that case they must have found means to open and read it, without leaving anything to arouse suspicion in the mind of Palafox when he received it. How was that possible? Palafox would certainly have remarked any sign of tampering with the seal; the despatch could not have been opened without tampering with the seal, and that— Stay! Jack vaguely remembered having read somewhere that a seal could be removed by dexterously slipping a thin hot blade between it and the paper. Had that been done with Miguel’s despatch? The question had no sooner formed itself in Jack’s mind than conviction flashed upon him; he felt absolutely sure that the man he had always so much disliked on personal grounds was a renegade and a traitor.
Next morning he rose from his bed unrefreshed, but with a plan of action formed. He made his dispositions for the continued defence of his district with keenness and care. Then, somewhat after one o’clock, he left the work in charge of Don Cristobal, and made his way by narrow lanes towards the other end of the city. The streets were almost entirely deserted now; only a few brave women and ministering priests went about fearlessly on errands of mercy. All the men were engaged on the ramparts or in the houses, striving with dogged energy to hinder the creeping advance of the French. He had crossed the part of the city most in danger from bombardment or mines when he met Tio Jorge, whom he had not seen for a few days.
“Tio,” he said, “can you come with me? I am going to see the general, and I should like you to be with me.”
“Assuredly, Señor. And in truth, I think it well you should have a friend with you, for the murmurs against you are growing stronger. It is whispered that an afrancesado was lately slain in your quarter, and men are saying that he was not the only one there. They are puzzled, for if you are an afrancesado, as some think, why are you fighting the French so desperately every day? I only tell you what they think and say, Señor; it is well I am your friend.”
Jack set his lips; he traced this to Miguel’s inveterate malice. Hurrying along with the big peasant, he arrived at the Aljafferia Castle, and was admitted after some delay to Palafox’s room. The general had now taken to his bed; the fever had gained a terrible hold upon him, and but for his indomitable spirit he would probably ere this have died. He was surrounded by a group of his advisers, among them Don Basilio, Santiago Sass, Padre Consolacion, and General San March, who, having failed to hold the Monte Torrero against the French in the early days of the siege, had since been under a cloud. The priests scowled at Jack as he approached; the lean Santiago Sass and the rotund Padre Consolacion looked at him with equal distrust.
“Come, Tio Jorge,” said General San March, “you are in time to support me. I have been asking the captain-general to allow me to lead a sortie across the Ebro, now that the French are weakened there by the withdrawal of so many men.”
“Useless, useless!” cried Palafox from his bed.
“Useless, Señores!” echoed Tio Jorge. “What men have we now for sorties? Three weeks ago, yes; but now—most of our men can hardly stagger under the weight of their muskets. The time for sorties is past; but let us hope the French are withdrawn from San Lazaro by news of our brothers coming to aid us—”
“And we will never give in, never give in!” cried Santiago Sass. “No, not even though traitors within our walls give the gates to the enemy.”
Tio Jorge was on the point of resenting, on Jack’s behalf, the glare with which the priest accompanied these words; but Jack laid his hand on the man’s arm, and, advancing to the bedside, spoke to the worn figure lying there.
“You remember, Señor, the despatch that was brought to you from the Supreme Junta, little more than a week ago, by one of your officers who made his way by night through the French lines?”
“I remember it.”
“You have that despatch still?”
“I have. Why do you ask?”
“Pardon me, Señor, you will see in a few moments. You observed nothing unusual about the seal?”
“Nothing.”
“It was the usual seal of the Junta,” put in Don Basilio. “I have the despatch.”
“Will you allow me to look at it?”
The chaplain hesitated; he appeared to be about to ask a question, but Tio Jorge interposed.
“The despatch, Señor Padre! The Señor has a reason; I know it not, but he fought with me by the Casa Ximenez, and what he says, por Dios! there is sense in it.”
“Produce the despatch, Padre,” said Palafox.
Don Basilio went to a cabinet, and after a little search found the despatch and handed it to Jack. The seal was broken across the middle. Jack examined the edges carefully, lifting the wax slightly with his thumb nail. He looked up.
“It is as I thought,” he said. “Will Don Basilio look?”
The priest took the paper and looked at it with an air of puzzlement and surprise.
“I see red wax and paper,” he said coldly. “What of that?”
“Do you not see, Señor Padre, a slight browning of the paper beneath, as though it had been scorched?”
The chaplain scrutinized the seal again. The other priests watched him in silence; Palafox kept his burning eyes fixed on Jack; and Tio Jorge stood with his lips parted as though wondering what deep mystery was concerned here.
“I do see a faint coloration,” said Don Basilio at length; “a light tinge at the edge of the wax, becoming a little darker beneath the seal. What then?”
“This, Señor. The paper, I suggest, was scorched by the passage of a hot keen blade beneath the seal.”
There was a painful silence. Then Tio Jorge cried, “Por Dios! that explains everything. It is all clear. The man that brought it is a villain, an afrancesado, Señores! And ’tis he who has sought to harm the brave English Señor here! Death to all traitors! Death to Don Miguel Priego!”
“Stay, stay!” said Padre Consolacion, his round face wearing a look of concern. “This is a terrible charge to bring against a reputable citizen of Saragossa.”
“One of my own hussars,” murmured Palafox.
“He was my pupil,” continued the padre. “I have known him since he was an infant. I knew his father, an estimable man; he cannot be a traitor. If the despatch was opened, it must have been without his knowledge. Of that I am sure.”
“The evidence is not sufficient—not sufficient,” said Palafox. “You must be mistaken, Señor Lumsden.”
“I am sorry, Señores,” returned Jack; “but will you bear with me while I put certain facts before you? You remember how strangely Don Miguel made his entrance into the city some days ago? He had overcome a sentinel, he and his man, and came by night across the Huerba, scaling our ramparts by the aid of muskets held out to him by two of Don Casimir’s men. I was present, Señores, at the time. I had just gone to take over the command with which the Señor Capitan-general honoured me, and was walking along the ramparts with Don Casimir Ulloa, who told me how amazed he was to see no sentinel in the French trenches, where for many nights before a sentinel had never failed to be. Even as he spoke we saw two figures creep down the slope and approach the walls. They, as you know, were Don Miguel Priego and his man. They forded the river, clambered up the slope on our side, and were assisted over our ramparts, and we heard from Don Miguel’s lips the story he told the general afterwards.”
“It was a bold feat,” interjected Padre Consolacion. “Don Miguel was ever a man of daring.”
“But, Señores,” continued Jack, “no sooner was Don Miguel safely within our walls than, in the French lines opposite, a sentinel suddenly reappeared. Had the Frenchman, slain by Don Miguel, come to life again? Why had Don Casimir heard no sound? Would the discovery of their dead sentinel have been regarded by the French as an ordinary accident, of no more account than the finding of a dead rat? And now we find that the despatch brought by Don Miguel had been opened. Is it not natural to conclude that it was opened by the French, and that the temporary absence of the sentinel was part of an arrangement between them and Don Miguel to give colour to his story?”
“Surmise! All baseless surmise!” said Padre Consolacion.
“One thing more,” went on Jack quietly. “The other night a man was murdered in my quarter of the city. He was assassinated in his room at the top of a lofty house. In that room was found this pass through the French lines, and this drawing of our defences.”
Everyone started as Jack produced the papers.
“Besides these, there was found this shoe-buckle, that had been torn off in the man’s scuffle with his assailant. Two days afterwards the fellow-buckle was brought to me, and Don Miguel Priego was seen in the streets with shoes which had both lost their buckles. It was this that convinced me. Had Don Miguel reason to dispute with an afrancesado unless—”
“Enough!” cried Santiago Sass. “It is clear he is a proved villain! To the gallows with him! Where is he? With my own hand will I hang him in the midst of the Coso! To the gallows! To the gallows!”
And, gathering his cassock about him, the priest rushed madly from the room. Almost before the door was closed behind him a tremendous explosion set the whole building vibrating, and caused Palafox almost to jump from his bed.
“My convent!” cried Padre Consolacion. “It is my convent at last! Tio Jorge, come; they will have need of us.”
“And of me!” cried Palafox, springing up.
“Stay, José,” said Don Basilio, “you are not fit to go out.”
“Do not stay me, Padre,” answered Palafox, clasping his cloak, and with trembling fingers buckling on his sword. “I must go; I must share the dangers of my people.”
The chaplain made no further protest, and soon Palafox, accompanied by San March, Tio Jorge, and Jack, was hastening towards the scene of one of the most awful catastrophes that ever befell a beleaguered city. The French, undetected by the defenders, had driven a mine beneath the great Franciscan convent, and charged it with 3000 pounds of powder. The convent was at the moment full of fighting-men; the cellars were occupied by many families of citizens; and one part of the building was crammed with 400 workpeople, men and women, who were there engaged in making clothes for the soldiers. All these perished when the mine was fired; and when Palafox arrived on the scene, the whole district for many yards around was strewn not merely with broken masonry, but with mutilated human remains.
All thought of Don Miguel’s treason was for the moment banished by the hideous spectacle. Yet, awful as the damage was, the Spaniards had not awaited the arrival of their leaders before attempting reprisals. A wide opening had been made by the explosion, in the wall near the porch; the pavement of the church of San Francisco had been torn up; altars, pulpits, columns, arches, lay in shattered fragments; but Spaniards had rushed in from the streets, and, barricading themselves behind the ruins, were showering bullets upon the incoming French. Some had climbed into the galleries; others had mounted by a narrow spiral staircase into the belfry, which had strangely withstood the shock; and from these elevated positions they poured murderous volleys upon the invaders. As the rays of sunlight streamed through the broken stained-glass windows, they fell upon groups of furious combatants, imparting varied tints to the clouds of smoke and dust that rolled through the shattered nave, and glinting on the bayonets of the French infantry as they pressed desperately forward. The Spaniards fought with the fury of despair. Inspirited by the presence of their idolized general, by the heroic efforts of Tio Jorge, and the fiery exhortations of Padre Consolacion and Santiago Sass, who had soon appeared on the scene, they defended every nook and corner with obstinate tenacity, and when night put an end to the terrible conflict, had succeeded, at a huge cost, in driving the French from a portion of the building.
Jack had climbed into the belfry along with a body of peasants under the command of a French émigré, the Comte de Fleury. He was almost overcome by the sickening sight. All around, the roofs of the neighbouring houses were covered with dismembered limbs; the gutters, through which for eight centuries nothing but rain had streamed, now ran red with blood, that poured into the street as if from the mouths of the dragons, vultures, and winged monsters that decorated the Gothic walls. He could not help exclaiming at the folly of maintaining a resistance against such heavy odds. It was terrible enough that soldiers, whose duty brought them face to face with sudden death, should fall by hundreds to the French arms; but innocent and helpless citizens, young boys and girls, were all included in this late carnage, and Jack shuddered at the dire results of what he could now only regard as sheer obstinacy and blind rage.
Creeping down when the din was over, and French and Spaniards alike were resting from the fray, he found that Palafox, in a complete state of collapse, was being carried back to his bed. Along with Tio Jorge, Jack accompanied the sad group. The halls of the Aljafferia Castle were thronged with some of the more substantial merchants who were yet left alive. They had come to plead with the general to ask for terms from the French. But at the first suggestion there arose such an outcry from the peasants and the poorer citizens, incited by their priests, that the merchants were in danger of being torn limb from limb. No voice was louder than that of Santiago Sass in demanding that the defence should be still continued. The French who had withdrawn from the eastern suburbs had not yet reappeared, and the priest vehemently declared that the catastrophe at the Franciscan convent was the turning-point of the siege, and that from that moment the hand of Our Lady of the Pillar would work wonders on behalf of her city. Backed up by him, the people clamoured for a proclamation to be issued, enjoining still more strenuous resistance, and not till this had been drawn up by Don Basilio, and Palafox had affixed his tremulous signature, did the crowd disperse.
Jack remained for some time in the castle. He wished he was older and more experienced. He then might have pointed out to some of the bitterest of the Junta what fearful hardship they were bringing on the city by their insensate resistance. But he saw that they were in no temper to listen to expostulations from anyone, and he dared not speak his thoughts even to his friend Tio Jorge. He was about to return to his own district when he saw Padre Consolacion enter with a brisker step than was usual with him. The priest came straight towards him.
“Señor, Señor,” he said, with a mingled look of regret and indignation, “he that backbiteth not with his tongue, nor endureth a reproach against his neighbour, he shall never be moved. I knew it could not be true; I knew the boy I taught at my knee could not be a traitor; I knew—”
“Señor Padre,” interrupted Jack, “you don’t mean to say you have told him?”
“Indeed, and what more natural? Is it right to condemn unheard? Should I not ask of the man himself what—”
“Come to the general!” shouted Tio Jorge, catching the priest by the arm. “Come to the general! He must know of what you have done.”
They made their way to Palafox’s room, where none but Don Basilio remained with him.
“Don José needs sleep,” said the chaplain, meeting them at the door. “What do you want with him?”
“Caramba, Padre!” cried Tio Jorge, “he must know whether the man be a traitor or not. Listen to Padre Consolacion!”
The priest seemed amazed at the fuss Tio Jorge was making.
“I went, Señores, to find Don Miguel Priego, to ask him, on his honour, whether there was a word of truth in the English Señor’s story. He was indignant, as I knew he would be. He demanded to know why he, a loyal son of Spain, should be suspected on such flimsy grounds. He scoffed when I spoke of the scorched paper, and—”
“You told him that, Padre?” said Palafox, raising himself on his elbow.
“I did, of course, and he flew into a passion, and said that with morning light he would come and meet his accuser and give him the lie to his face.”
“Send for him now; bring him here instantly. Shall there be treason in our midst? Tio Jorge, do you go and command Don Miguel Priego instantly to my presence.”
It was an hour before Tio Jorge returned.
“Proof! Proof of treason!” he cried furiously. “He is gone; he and his man. See what your meddling did, Señor Padre! No sooner was your back turned than the accursed afrancesado fled.”
“Fled!” echoed the priest in consternation.
“‘Meet his accuser—give him the lie to his face’, you said,” exclaimed Tio Jorge with bitter mockery, “‘with morning light’! He is gone, and even now, I doubt not, is making merry with the French who have hired him. A curse light on him! May he die by a traitor’s hand, even as he is a traitor!”
“Write, Don Basilio,” said Palafox, “write a proclamation! Proclaim Miguel Priego to all men a traitor, and call upon all true men to seize upon him and bring him before us to suffer the penalty of his crime. My unhappy country! Let me die, let me die!”
He turned his face to the wall. The stern chaplain wrote a proclamation; within an hour printed copies were distributed throughout the town, and the name of Miguel Priego, hitherto lauded to the skies, was now hissed with venomous hate by every loyal citizen of Saragossa.