CHAPTER XXVIII. A SPANISH INN THE EMPECINADO—AND A SURPRISE.
“True courage grows in proportion to the increase of danger.”
“This arm shall make a corpse of him who hesitates when danger calls, or retreats when it presses.”—The Robbers.
Having brought two or three letters of introduction to some veteran soldiers who served with my father in the Low Countries, the delivery of each ensured me a hospitable welcome at their respective cantonments. A month had nearly been consumed in rambling visits, when it was officially intimated, that as the armies were preparing for active operations, the presence of every officer would be expected at the head-quarters of his regiment. With deep regret I made all arrangements for a journey to Valençia; and having procured mules and a guide to secure the transport of the persons and property of my fosterbrother and myself, I set out at dawn of day, on the 7th of March, to pass through Toledo and Cuenca, and reach the head-quarters of the Anglo-Sicilian army, to which my regiment was attached.
The route lay between the French outposts on one side, and a hilly country on the other, infested by Partida bands; and, sooth to say, it would have been difficult to decide on which hand lay the greater danger. From the French scouting-parties it would be desirable to preserve a respectful distance; and for Guerilla civility, we should be mainly indebted to the protection afforded by a British uniform.
As the head-quarters of the south were established at Toledo, the enemy’s posts were extended over the country in front of that city, to keep open the communications, and enable their foragers to bring in any supplies they could obtain. Hence, these roads were rendered dangerous by the constant visits of French pickets and marauders; and, by the advice of our friend the muleteer, we leaned towards the mountains on our right, after we had crossed the Ibor by an unguarded ford below the Hospital del Obispo.
From the moment that we cleared the cantonments of the allies, our route assumed a dangerous character that gave it an additional interest. It ran through a debatable land, subject alike to flying visits from the allied cavalry, French scouting parties, and guerillas; while, here and there, a few disbanded men, of every country and calling, were occasionally encountered, who stopped the wayfarer, be he Trojan or Tyrian, with a lofty-minded impartiality worthy of the school and spirit of Jack Sheppard, easing him of life and purse together, without any impertinent inquiry of, “Under which king, Bezonian?” In plain English, from robbers of high and low degree, the routes connecting Estremadura with Valencia were rendered almost impassable; and it was nearly a toss-up to the traveller, whether the person who called “Stand and deliver,” was brigand, forager, or partida.
Though the roads were hewy and the rivers swollen, yet, as the weather was remarkably fine, for a few days the fosterer and I roughed it pretty comfortably. It was a new passage in the life of both—and full of youthful vigour, and eager for adventure, we got on gallantly.
On the fifth evening we reached a little hamlet pleasantly situated on the river Sedana. Here, the muleteer had several acquaintances, and the owner of the posada was his cousin. Our journey that day had been unusually long; and, therefore, the intelligence that a good supper and snug shake-down awaited us on our arrival at Villa Mora, was particularly gratifying. As we wound down the mountains, the sun set, the vesper-bell was heard, and the village lights sparkled through the haze of evening. We urged our mules forward to gain the halting-place, as the sky, for the last hour, had presented certain appearances, which the guide apprised us were always considered to be forerunners of a tempest.
We passed through the village street and alighted at the door of the posada, where we were hospitably received, and inducted to a large and lofty apartment, which answered the double purpose of kitchen and parlour. Fuel was added to the fire, and due preparations made for further entertainment. As the guide had predicted, the night became wild and wet; and, accounting ourselves to be most fortunate travellers in gaining our shelter before the storm burst, we took a position on a settle where we could enjoy the comfort of a blazing wood-fire; and, what was equally agreeable to hungry wayfarers, personally inspect culinary operations while supper was in progress.
An hour passed—the table was spread—and the muleteer, having stabled his long-eared charge, entered the kitchen, and seated himself at the foot of the board. The host deposited a huge leathern bottle in the centre of the table, which, as he avouched, contained wine of exquisite vintage, and the meal was about to commence, when a trampling of horses’ feet was heard without, and the landlord rose hastily, and, with every appearance of alarm, peeped suspiciously from the casement.
“Three travellers,” he exclaimed, “by San Marco. The Virgin be praised; I feared some of those French robbers had returned once more, and that we should be plundered by them for the hundredth time.”
I rose and looked out, but it was too dark to discover who the late visitors might be. One seemed superior to the others; for he flung the bridle of his horse to a companion with an air of authority, and quitting the court-yard, entered the kitchen of the posada.
He was evidently a gentleman of little ceremony; for he stalked direct to the fire—threw his sombrero carelessly to the attendant—desired the landlord to hang up his cloak to dry—unbuckled a belt, to which a long toledo was suspended—deposited a carbine and brace of pistols on a bench—and then took a seat at the head of the table, with as much indifference as if he had been the host himself.
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When disencumbered of hat and cloak, the very singular air and figure of the stranger fastened my attention. His face would have puzzled Lavater—it was one that you could not look upon without a nameless feeling of suspicion and alarm, and yet, take each alone, and the features were positively handsome. Hair, eyes, moustache and beard, were black as the raven’s wing; and the complexion, dark as a gypsy’s. The face was well-proportioned—the teeth white and regular—I never looked on an eye more lustrous, searching, and intelligent; and the forehead was nobly expanded. But the ensemble was the worst. It bespoke a stern determination, close akin to ferocity; and betrayed a disposition, stern of purpose—ardent in regard—immitigable in vengeance.
The stranger’s figure was athletic and commanding—sufficiently substantial for any feat of strength, and yet not too cumbrous in its proportions for light and active exercise. His under dress was plain. He wore a close green jacket and pantaloons, with tawny boots and a buff waist-belt, in which a weapon, like a highland dirk with a buck’s-horn handle, was secured. Such was the exterior of our new companion.
While I examined the stranger with deep attention, a hurried look, on his part, round the table, appeared to satisfy his curiosity touching the company to whom he had introduced himself. His assumption of superiority was at once apparent; and, with the easiest manner imaginable, he usurped a regular dictatorship of the venta. Raising the drinking-vessel that stood beside his platter, he signalled the landlord to fill it from the goat-skin, and at one strong draught emptied it to the bottom, and indulged, afterwards, in observations more remarkable for candour than compliment, touching the cellars of the posada.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, contemptuously, “call ye that thin liquid, true Carvallôs? Hast thou no conscience left thee, man? ’Tis well enough wherewithal to wash a supper down; but see, honest friend, that you find us something better for the evening. Ha!—this podrida’s passable; and these partridges seem tolerably roasted. On with more viands. Two friends of mine will presently be here. They have good appetites; have ridden twenty leagues, and fasted as many hours. Need I say more?”
Whoever the stranger was, his orders were not disregarded. The maritornes of the venta renewed her culinary labours; and the host voluntarily departed to see that the horses of the late guests had been properly accommodated, and make researches in his wine-stores, afterwards, to try whether a flask more congenial to the taste of the dark stranger might not be procurable. The latter, towards myself and foster-brother, evinced from the first, decided symptoms of civility; and among us three there appeared to be a friendly rivalship as to which of us should hold out longest at the podrida. Were the hostleries in the Peninsula frequently obnoxious to such visitors as we proved, I verily believe that half the innkeepers in Spain would have been insolvent in a twelvemonth.
“Faith, gentlemen,” observed the stranger, “to judge by the performances of each other, we seem all in excellent health. No sauce for supper after all, like a twelve hours’ ride through the mountains. What, ho! Sir landlord! Wine—I say; and none of that valuable vintage you keep for muleteers and travelling friars, who pay their scores in aves and credos. What news, gentlemen?” he said, addressing us, “What is the English Lord about; and will he soon be on the move again?”
I assured him that on these points I was in blessed ignorance—told the simple tale of my journey to Valencia, and its causes—and, in return, asked his advice touching which route I should adopt, as the one most likely to be free from the French.
“You could not have made that inquiry from a better person,” he replied. “I know the mountain country indifferently well; and if you place yourself under my guidance, I shall ensure your safety to Cuenca. Thence, to Valencia, I shall be able to obtain a passport that the partidas will respect. Ha! I see my companions have scented supper in the stable. Sit down, Jose; thou and Velasquez have seen more than a single cork-tree since you heard the matin-bell.”
Following the example of their chief, the strangers deposited their mantles and sombreros on a bench. Both were well armed; and each placed his weapons immediately contiguous to his seat, like men who dread and guard against surprise.
I thought nothing could have exceeded our late attack upon mine host’s partridges and podrida. Pshaw!—as trenchermen, we could not hold a candle to the worthy twain, who now went to work as if they had been steadfastly resolved to clear out the posada of every edible it contained.
At last they, too, were forced to cry, “enough” and we all united in a closer circle round the fire, while the wine-flask made a frequent circuit of the company. Dark and repulsive as the stranger’s countenance might be, as “sweetest nut has sourest rind,” he seemed at heart an excellent camarado. Indeed, we were no longer strangers. I spoke unreservedly—told him my objects and intentions—and, in return, obtained counsel and information. It struck me as being remarkable how very intimately the stranger seemed acquainted with the cantonments occupied by the allies, and the facility with which he named the strength and formation of every corps that occupied them. Touching the positions of the French armies, he was equally well informed—and, with the Spanish dispositions, perfectly familiar.
“Ho—ho!” he exclaimed, holding the empty flask between him and the lamp; “the bottle’s dry. More wine, there! Come, gentlemen,” he said, “I shall play host to-night. I felt it rather an uncertainty this morning, whether I should have found the posada tenanted by friends or enemies; but the doubt has been agreeably resolved.”
As he spoke, the landlord entered—placed a flask upon the table—and, having extracted the cork, was preparing to retire, when the dark stranger motioned him to sit down; an invitation, which it appeared to me “mine host” would rather have declined than accepted.
“Fill thy horn,” said the master of the revels; “I would ask a few questions. There are none present but those to whom a true Spaniard need never be afraid to unbosom himself. In that jacket lie honour and good faith.” He pointed to my uniform. “And for my friends, I will be their security.”
I never, in my life, saw a host less flattered with a guest’s civility. He took a seat—filled a cup—drank our good health—and appeared excessively uncomfortable.
“Your name, my friend, is, I think, Gonsalvez—and I would ask some questions touching some of your acquaintances in Villa Moro. Speak out; and—” the stranger lowered his voice to a deep tone, that made me shudder—“what is more to the purpose, speak truth!”
The landlord winced—while my dark-visaged friend, in a careless voice, continued—
“You had occasional visits from the French cwalry during the winter. There was a squadron of the 5th chasseurs à cheval here for a month. Where did their commandant reside?”
“He quartered himself at the alcade’s,” returned the host.
“Did he ever visit the postmaster?” asked the stranger.
“Frequently,” was the reply.
“What age is Jose de Toro?”
“Sixty—or more.” returned the host.
“And what the age of his wife”
“Younger by forty years,” was the reply.
“Then Jose de Toro was a fool to marry as he did. Was Captain Hillaire particularly intimate with the lady?”
“They said—but Lord! in a village they say many things that are not true—they said that the poor postmaster was almost jealous. After a little time the scandal wore away; and Jose de Toro and Captain Hillaire were the best friends imaginable.”
“Base villain!” muttered the dark stranger, between his clenched teeth. “Well, my friend, if the alcade and postmaster found the society of the French so agreeable, how did the Cura feel?’
“He never could disguise his hatred; and for some days he was kept in close arrest, until the pretty wife of Jose Toro pleaded to the handsome captain for her old confessor, and obtained his liberty.”
“Humph!” said the stranger.—“What is the nearest post that is at present occupied by the French cavalry?”
“The nearest!—praise to the Virgin!—I have heard from a traveller is at Areanza—some half score leagues from Toro.”
“‘Tis well,” muttered the stranger.—“Get me a trusty messenger; and mind that he be trusty—or—‘’ he looked the rest, the landlord perfectly understanding it. Egad! I never saw anything more expressive; it was a look that conveyed more than any language could express. One of his companions rose, and looked from the casement.
“How soon,” he said, “the storm has abated! The moon has risen; and a finer night to take a hurried march and surprise a sleeping outpost could not be found.”
“I wish it were otherwise,” returned he who seemed the leader. “And yet ten leagues from a French picket, methinks, is tolerable security. Go, Velasquez,—and see that this packet be sent forward, safely and swiftly. For his messenger’s fidelity I hold the landlord accountable. Tell him that;—and whisper in his ear, that the guest he entertains to-night is —————” His voice dropped, but a smile of sinister expression told the rest.
From a secret pocket the dark stranger drew out a splendid watch. “Past midnight. Come, gentlemen, one round more, and then for bed: we must all be astir by cock-crow.”
The bottle for the last time made its circuit. Velasquez returned after despatching the packet, accompanied by the host bearing a lamp. He conducted us to a long gallery, containing at least sleeping apartments for a dozen; but the only occupants that night were the strangers, the fosterer, and myself. Where the muleteer bestowed himself I knew not; but subsequent events sufficiently explained the reason why we were not favoured with his company.
No stronger proof of caution and insecurity could be required than the care with which each individual arranged his clothes and arms. Every weapon was placed in a position to be ready for the owner’s hand; while the business of the toilet was dispensed with altogether, as we all stretched ourselves on our woollen beds without undressing. The Spaniards crossed themselves devoutly; the fosterer repeated a short prayer; I cried “God bless us!” and in ten minutes all within the spacious chamber slept profoundly.
Several hours must have elapsed, and still my slumbers continued unbroken. Suddenly an uneasy dream disturbed me, and I started upright on the mattress. The lamp was burning gloomily; and the sleepers round the chamber were fast as watchmen. I listened—noises low and indistinct without excited my attention. The sounds were such as men make when they attempt to move unheard. I glided out of bed, and peeped cautiously from the lattice. By Heaven!—the court-yard was filled with dismounted dragoons, and one glance told me that they were enemies.
The elder Spaniard lay on the bed next to mine, and I laid my hand softly on his arm. In a moment his dark eyes were turned suspiciously on mine, as I stooped my head and whispered that we were betrayed. He heard the intelligence without any apparent emotion, slipped quietly from his couch, and looked for a moment on the court-yard. I heard him muttering to himself, “Ten—fifteen—twenty—forty in all: the odds are great, and we, too, cut off from the stables. Ha!—let me think—there’s but one hope—the gate first—the river afterwards—ay, there lies the only chance of our deliverance.”
Flitting from couch to couch, he awakened his sleeping companions. They seemed to be men accustomed to similar visitations, for not an exclamation escaped their lips, nor even by a word did they betray the least alarm. A finger, pointed towards the casement told its silent tale; and each, as he arose, peeped from the window on the moon-lit court-yard, and immediately comprehended the extent of his danger. In a minute every man was armed and ready for the coming struggle; and we looked to the dark guerilla for orders, as soldiers to their leader.
“In a position like ours, safety consists in daring. No matter how great the disparity in numbers, we must not wait to be attacked; but push, at the sword’s point, for the gate—reach the river if possible—spring boldly in, and trust to the Sedana for our freedom. One word more—if you can—escape;—but if the hour is come, fall sword in hand, and let the dying effort be vengeance on the oppressor.‘Tis time for action. Strike bravely, my friends: in every blow lies death or freedom. And now for the attempt: in five minutes the Empecinado will be a lifeless corpse, or free as the mountain eagle!”
“And are you that dreaded chief?” I inquired.
“I am indeed Juan Martin Diez: he whose dreaded by-name has carried terror with it to the boldest enemy of Spain; who lived the scourge of the oppressor, and will die, inflicting injury while his hand can hold a sword, and venting his last breath in curses upon those who would have enslaved him!”
We drew up silently behind the entrance of the posada; all the bolts save one were quietly withdrawn, and that one the Empecinado held. Presently a man approached, struck the door loudly, and in a haughty tone demanded instant admission. Never was order more promptly obeyed. The Spaniard removed the last fastening—the door was suddenly flung open; a discharge from the carbine of the Empecinado laid the nearest Frenchman dead upon the threshold where he stood; while bounding from his concealment like a tiger on his hunters, the guerilla chief sprang headlong among a group of the chasseurs, cutting down a trooper right and left, and shouting in a voice of thunder, “Guerra al Cuchillo!”
A sudden onslaught from desperate men is always formidable; and the enemy, never imagining that those whom they expected to surprise, would resist, still less attack, a numerous and well appointed detachment, were quite unprepared to oppose this unexpected irruption from the posada. The guerillas fought with the recklessness of men who feel that they must succeed or perish; while, as circumstances occasionally make heroes, the fosterer and I, considering that in a close and furious mêlée there is no respect for persons, imitated the example of our worthy confreres, and, as I was afterwards informed, made a very promising début. The atfair was short and sanguinary. Before the French could recover from the surprise, nearly a dozen were killed, wounded, or beaten down; the gate was gained, and for escape, the chances were decidedly in our favour.
But, as it unfortunately turned out, a part only of the French detachment had entered the court-yard of the posada, while an equal number remained mounted outside the gate. The sudden uproar from within put the outliers on the qui vive, and consequently they were ready to receive us. Surprised, but nothing daunted, the Empecinado and his companions fought with desperate ferocity; and the French cry of “Down with the brigands!” was fiercely answered by the Spanish slogan, “War to the knife!”
The conflict now was hopeless; each of us was engaged with three or four chasseurs, some mounted and some on foot. I had seen the commencement of the fray, but, as is the frequent fortune of war, I was not fated to witness its termination. A blow from the butt of a carbine stretched me upon mother earth—and when my senses returned, I found myself a prisoner, and in the same apartment of the Venta, where on the preceding night I had supped in perfect comfort and security.
I looked round—the room was filled with soldiers—and the only faces I could recall to memory, were the dark and sullen countenances of the two companions of the Empecinado, who were seated on a bench immediately in my front, closely hand-cuffed to each other. Both had received divers sword-cuts on the head; and their coal-black hair, matted with blood, added to a ferocious expression of the features, afforded a perfect picture of a captive brigand. Upon the wounded partidas, looks of deadly vengeance were directed by all who surrounded them. Many of the chasseurs had been wounded; and in the recent affair, five of their companions had fallen; and one, whom they all regarded, the second in command, and a young officer of great promise, had been stabbed to the heart by the Empecinado.
“Where am I? Where are my companions?” I muttered.
“Escaped!” returned one of the wounded guerillas, with swage exultation. “Escaped, my friend; to take ample vengeance for thee and me upon these murderers.”
“Silence!” dog exclaimed a chasseur, striking the captive a sharp blow upon the shoulder with the flat of his sabre-blade.
I never witnessed such a look as the insulted, but impotent guerilla directed at the Frenchman. Could rage, and hatred, and revenge, be concentrated in a glance, that look expressed them all.
“Oh, that this hand were free,” he murmured; “and that it clutched the knife that never failed it yet; and then, robber—.” He left the sentence incomplete; but none required further words to convey its purport.
A noise without, was heard. It was the measured step of marching men and in a few minutes the elite companies of the 16th Voltigeurs, entered and piled arms in the court-yard. Whatever was the cause of this military movement, its scale seemed far too extensive for the mere purpose of arresting two or three individuals who had made themselves obnoxious to the invaders; and this suspicion was confirmed, when it was announced that Colonel La Coste, the chief of General Laval’s staff, had arrived in person, to direct the promenade militaire, as the Frenchman termed this midnight expedition.