I had presented my report to Lord Wellington, who happened to be in Lisbon quarrelling with the Portuguese Government and re-embarking (apparently for Cadiz) a battering train of guns and mortars which had just arrived from England: and after two days' holiday I was spending an idle morning in a wine-shop by the quay, where the proprietor, a fervid politician, kept on file his copies of the Government newspaper, the Lisbon Gazette. A week at sea had sharpened my appetite for news; and I was wrapped in study of the Gazette when an orderly arrived from headquarters with word that Lord Wellington requested my attendance there at once.
I found him in conference with a handsome, slightly built man—a Spaniard by his face—who stepped back as I entered, but without offering to retire. Instead, he took up his stand with his back to one of the three windows overlooking the street, and so continued to observe me, all the while keeping his own face in shade.
The General, as his habit was, came to business at once.
"I have sent for you," said he, "on a serious affair. Our correspondents in Salamanca have suddenly ceased to write."
"If your Excellency's correspondents are the same as the Government's," said I, "'tis small wonder," and I glanced at the newspaper in his hand—a copy of the same Gazette I had been reading.
"Then you also think this is the explanation?" He held out the paper with the face of a man handling vermin.
"The Government publishes its reports, the English newspapers copy them: these in turn reach Paris; the Emperor reads them: and," concluded I, with a shrug, "your correspondents cease to write, probably for the good reason that they are dead."
"That is just what I want you to find out," said he.
"Your Excellency wishes me to go to Salamanca? Very good. And, supposing these correspondents to be dead?"
"You will find others."