With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

by F. S. Brereton

"Just the sort of crib for such fellows. No one likely to come into the yard unless they had actual business here; and since these troubles started I expect few have been able to keep horses. The French cavalry, of whom there have been thousands swarming through the city, will have snapped up every atom of forage, and made horsekeeping an expensive and impossible thing for most inhabitants. So it's the place of all others for such a gang. Perhaps it'll suit me just as well too. Now I wonder."

Stretching his head out of the narrow window he looked thoughtfully about him, and, gazing upward, took stock of the stars, for the clear night sky was thickly sown with them. One of the advantages of campaigning, and commanding an irregular corps undertaking frequent detached duties, was that he had learned to read his direction by the stars, and now a little careful study told him that he was facing south, that the street into which the house looked and the yard actually emptied ran east and west.

"While the bulk of the city's to the north," he told himself. "That'll help once we get out of this hole."

It is to be remarked that he had already decided that escape was not only possible but certain. And he had used the word "we". Tom, in fact, never even dreamed of leaving Alfonso. Had he done so, he could have dropped from that window and gone clear away. It would be a squeeze to push his somewhat bulky figure through the frame; but it could be done, and below, outside, lay freedom; within lay death. For this gang of spies was not likely to spare a young fellow possessed of some of their secrets, and able to bring soldiers to arrest them. The fact that they had spoken so plainly was proof positive that they considered the two prisoners had no chance of escape, while so little were they in sympathy with the feelings of an Englishman that they, for the most part, had taken it for granted that both Tom and Alfonso would willingly sell any knowledge they happened to have for the sake of security. And the very act of doing so would, of course, make them part and parcel of the gang; for to return to the troops would be impossible.

"No use thinking at all," he grumbled, satisfied with his look out of the window. "Let's get to work. This room's empty, so I'll leave it. Now for the passage again. Ah! Stairs leading downward; others going up. Try those descending first of all."

There was a door at the bottom of the steps leading directly into the big yard. The huge paving stones, littered with unswept rubbish, seemed to call loudly to him, to invite him to come out; for across their surfaces he could step to freedom. Behind, upstairs, lay danger; but a friend, a cousin, lay there also. Clambering up again, Tom was about to ascend to the floor above his prison, when shouts came from the supper room and sent him darting back to his own. The door hiding those villains swung back with a crash and revealed a scene which, when he came to look more closely at it—for he was now only venturing to peep through the partly opened door of his prison—caused him to stare at the members of the gang, whose acquaintance he had so recently made, with eyes which were distinctly startled. What else could one expect with such people, the lowest of the low, traitors to their country, men who made profit out of the misfortunes of the nation, and who stooped even to do a mischief to the very people who had come at such risk, and at such cost in blood and money, to help the Spanish against the French? These ruffians had been making merry without a doubt. Secure in their retreat—for the house was so isolated and shut in that even their shouts and ribald laughter were hardly likely to attract attention from outsiders—they had been supping liberally, and the red wine of Spain had been flowing. The view through the open door discovered three of the wretches dancing hilariously with unsteady feet, while beyond them, separated by the table, on which stood a smoky lamp, was the fat individual who had been so free with his pistol. His ungainly cheeks hung flabbily. His pig-like eyes were hardly visible, while his lips were blown outward at every expiration. Nor had he ceased groaning. Evidently he found the chair in which he had been placed little to his liking, or he may have been more severely injured than Tom thought. In any case his wrinkled forehead, his sallow cheeks, and his anxious eyes showed that he was suffering.

But what cared the others? Not a jot. Those three danced right merrily, more than once being on the eve of upsetting the injured man. Comrades sprawled across the table, their heads buried in their hands, evidently sunk in sleep, while the picture was completed in so far as the contents of the room went, or so much of them as Tom could see, by a couple of the fellows sprawled motionless on the floor. Obviously it was not any of these who had caused the commotion. The centre of the scene, in fact, was occupied by two men half in and half out of the door, past whose figures Tom squinted to see the interior. One still clung to the latch, reeling unsteadily, while the other leaned against the post. It was clear that there had been an altercation between them, and as a matter of fact they had risen to go outside and fight the matter out. But Spanish tempers are quick and fiery. Shouts of anger came from both, while the man clinging to the door already had his stiletto drawn. Indeed Tom had hardly taken in all these particulars when the two threw themselves at one another like tigers, and, gripping wherever they could, fell to the ground, and there rolled from side to side as they struggled. Gasps and cries of hatred escaped them both, and then a shriek silenced every other sound within the building. It even stirred Alfonso to movement. He came to his door and beat his shoulders against it, for that shriek sent a horrible chill through him.

"It may be Tom they're murdering," he told himself, with a gasp.

But Tom was merely an onlooker, a horrified one, to be sure. That shriek told a tale there was no mistaking. Suddenly one of the men seemed to become flabby. The hand which had gripped his opponent's neck fell to the floor with a hollow bump. Then his head sank backward. The victor rose with difficulty, stood looking down at his victim, and, having wiped his stiletto on the tail of his coat, staggered back into the supper room and banged the door behind him. There was a hush about the building after that. Maybe those of the conspirators still able to understand were as disturbed as Tom at the occurrence. But we hardly think so. Quarrels were frequent enough; bloodletting was a common occupation.

"Well, they're brutes, the whole lot of 'em, that's true," Tom told himself; "and it seems to me that the majority are in such a condition that they are hardly likely to discover what's happening. I'll wait a little, and then just go tooth and nail for that door. It would take any one of them five minutes to stir his drunken wits, and by then the thing'll be open and Alfonso out. But that's not all that I want. My orders were to discover the gang and apprehend them. That's clear; so the job's not finished with Alfonso's release."