Devil to Pay (32 page)

“We wrote it for you, Colonel.”

Delancey's party now collected their weapons and luggage and went to the stables. Delancey followed at the commandant's heels and listened with approval to the verbal orders issued for seven good horses, saddled and bridled, and for two pack horses to carry their belongings. In the commandant's company they had no difficulty at the citadel or town gate and they came out as free men on the moonlit road to Santander. This they followed for about four miles, halting then on Delancey's word of command. Dismounting near a wayside chapel but far, it seemed, from any habitation, Delancey told the colonel that the time had come to part. With Rigault behind them and with pistol in hand he led the colonel into the chapel. It was evidently in use, with a light before the altar and the lingering smell of incense.

“Sit there, sir,” said Delancey, pointing to a chair near the altar. The colonel obeyed and Rigault tied him in position by the wrists and ankles, using cords and a cassock belt taken from the tiny vestry. Delancey apologized for these precautions.

“I leave you here, Colonel, reluctantly. You will be found in the morning and are meanwhile in a place of safety, sheltered at least from wind or rain. Your horse will go with us but will be left at Santander. I can do nothing about recovering your estate but who knows how the war will end? We may yet value your services as an ally.”

“Who knows, indeed? Next time we meet it may be with you again as prisoner. So leave me able to breathe!” Rigault then gagged him but with as little discomfort as might be consistent with an enforced silence. Delancey felt that they were five or six hours ahead of any possible pursuit. Soon after leaving the chapel he found a bridle path on the left. Taking this and circling southwards he and his party ended on the high road to Vittoria. There was no rest for them, though, for Delancey pressed on relentlessly. Having succeeded so far in his mission, he was impatient to finish it. If he could gain some useful piece of intelligence and re-embark safely, his reputation would be made. He might start to think then of a naval career and even of promotion.

Before daybreak Delancey called a halt, quitting the high road and finding shelter from the wind in a small wood. It was a cold night with a hint of autumn and both men and horses were glad to rest. Delancey called Rigault and Ramos into conference.

“I doubt whether there will be any effective pursuit but we are not in a position to take any chances. I propose to reach Vittoria by this evening and then, tomorrow, travel more openly towards Burgos and so to Madrid.”

That night Delancey's party was at the inn in Vittoria. Delancey himself and Rigault in French army uniform, Ramos and Manning in Spanish army uniform and the other two dressed as servants. It was at this point that Delancey decided against entering Madrid itself. It was one thing to pose as Frenchmen in Vittoria or Burgos, quite another to repeat this masquerade in a capital city. For one thing a French army officer visiting Madrid would be expected to visit the French Embassy, a failure to do so being enough to cause resentment and even arouse suspicion. It seemed likely, moreover, that the French ambassador would have some army officer attached to his staff, someone who would detect an imposter in five minutes. Delancey decided, therefore, that his own way should lie west of Madrid, the road via Medina and Avila. To Cadiz the distance by that route would actually be less, though bad roads might prevent any real gain in time. From Avila his party would have to make its way to Toledo in New Castile and so to Ciudad Real and so across the Sierra Morena into Andalusia.

It was there, in the valley of the Guadalquiver, that the drama would have to be enacted. If he was to intercept a courier on his way from Madrid to Cadiz, that would be the place for the ambush. From Madrid the main road, along which the courier must travel, seemed to pass through the country called La Mancha, made famous by Cervantes. Could Delancey find inspiration in the adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza? Would there be windmills to attack around Manjenares? Somewhere between there and Cordova there must, surely, be a place suitable for an ambush or diversion. But the courier, he thought, would not be too easily led astray. With most of the distance behind him, with Cadiz already named on the signposts, he would be eager to reach his destination and deliver his despatches. Assured at Madrid that the Spanish fleet was still in port, he would press on eagerly from Baylon, not even halting for lack of carriage or escort. The plan for an interception would need careful thought.

There was a chilly wind blowing across the high sierras that autumn and the landscape looked forbidding and bleak, stormy and dry. Days were spent in the saddle and nights in the scant comfort of the Spanish inns. These travellers were delayed by nothing, being regarded, as they passed, with cold indifference but certainly not with suspicion. At last, on September 4th they came to Andujar and glimpsed greener and more fertile land ahead. They were approaching the plain of Andalusia and Cordova would be the next town they would see.

Delancey was still without a plan but he had picked up a copy of Cervantes' masterpiece and had taken to reading it each evening. He remembered vaguely that Cervantes had served at sea and fought indeed at the Battle of Lepanto and yet his hero's adventures were all on land. As another sailor on horseback, Delancey hoped to find some inspiration in the old book, as also some practice in Spanish. All he found at first was amusement and the realization that Cervantes must have ridden the self-same roads and rested at the same flea-infested inns. He laboriously translated some of the stories for the benefit of Rigault, who thought them pointless and improbable. Ramos knew them, of course, but he had in fact little taste for literature, his bent being more political and perhaps criminal. Delancey ended by keeping the book to himself.

When the party reached Cordova on September 9th, Delancey was still without any fixed plan of campaign. He paced his room on the night of his arrival there, formulating and rejecting one scheme after another. Then there came a bitter complaint from the guest whose room was immediately beneath and Delancey had to apologize and sit still. From a habit formed at sea he usually did his thinking while at least mentally pacing his quarterdeck. He felt handicapped in a chair and so decided to defer further thought until the morning. He knew that he would be sleepless, however, if he went to bed immediately. His best remedy was to read and the only book he had to hand was his copy of
Don Quixote.
He turned the pages at random, finally opening the book at the beginning of Chapter IV.

“Aurora began to usher in the morn, when Don Quixote sallied out of the inn, so well pleased, so gay, and so overjoyed to find himself knighted, that he infused the same satisfaction into his horse, who seemed ready to burst his girths for joy. But calling to mind the admonitions which the innkeeper had given him, concerning the provision of necessary accommodation in his travels, particularly money and clean shirts, he resolved to return home to furnish himself with them, and likewise to get him a squire. . . . The knight had not travelled far when he fancied he heard an effeminate voice complaining in a thicket on his right hand. ‘I thank heaven,' said he, when he heard the cries . . . ‘. . . for these complaints are certainly the moans of some distressed creature who wants my present help.' Then turning to At this moment Delancey stopped reading with an exclamation of delight. “Of course!” he muttered. “Of course. Why didn't I think of it before?” that side with all the speed which Rozinante could make he no sooner came into the wood but he found a mare tied to an oak, and to another a young lad about fifteen years of age, naked from the waist upwards. This was he who made such a lamentable outcry; and not without cause, for a lusty country fellow was strapping him soundly with a girdle, at every stripe putting him in mind of a proverb, ‘Keep your mouth shut, and your eyes open, sirrah.'

‘Good master,' cried the boy, ‘I'll do so no more; as hope to be saved. I'll never do so again! Indeed, master, hereafter I'll take more care of your goods.'

“Don Quixote, seeing this, cried in an angry tone, ‘Discourteous knight, ‘tis an unworthy act to strike a person who is not able to defend himself. . . .'“

At this moment Delancey stopped reading with an exclamation of delight. “Of course!” he muttered. “Of course. Why didn't I think of it before?”

N
EMESIS HAD BEEN driven ashore on the day when Spain allied herself with France by a treaty which made war with Britain inevitable. For many practical purposes war had already begun in September, when Spanish ships were being detained in British ports. It took time, however, for news of this to reach Spain. All that was known in Cordova on September 9th, the day when Delancey's party arrived there, was that the treaty had been signed. It was assumed, however, locally, and Ramos was indeed assured, that war had—well, practically— begun. The result was a deputation, Rigault asking Delancey whether he would meet the others in the stable yard of the inn at which they were staying, the Santa Clara. It was Bisson who acted as spokesman and his demand was that they make for Portugal by the shortest route:

“In Portugal we should be among friends again. Your aim, we know, is to gain intelligence about the destination of the Spanish fleet—about its strength, maybe, and the like of that. When we landed your talk was of reaching Portugal, gaining some information on the way, but you haven't led us the shortest way to Portugal. The way we are going is more towards Seville and Cadiz. That was no concern of ours while Britain and Spain were at peace. But we shall soon be in peril and would rather be out of Spain by the shortest road. There is a road from here to Badajoz. With all due respect, sir, we should like to follow it.”

“Do you all agree about this?” asked Delancey, looking at each of them in turn.

“No, I don't,” said Hodder unexpectedly. “I think the captain knows best. We should gain some information like he says, and do that much for King George. And if we happened to make some—well, prize-money, shall we call it?—I wouldn't refuse to share in it.” The others shuffled and whispered and then Manning spoke up.

“I agree with Hodder that some prize-money would be welcome. No, sir, I wouldn't say ‘no' to my share, not by no means I wouldn't. But I shouldn't want to be caught in Spain with my pockets full of gold. I should want to be over the border before the gold was missed.”

“Has anyone else anything to say?” asked Delancey.

“The others agree with Bisson and Manning, sir,” said Rigault. “They would rather see Lisbon than the inside of a Spanish prison.”

“Very well, then. I shall draw you a map. Give me a whip, someone.” Delancey drew a map by scratching on the dirt floor with a whip handle.

“Here we are at Cordova. From here the road goes down the valley to Seville. There the road forks, this way to La Palma, to Huelva and Portugal; the other way, to the left, goes to Seville and Cadiz—or else to Cadiz (like
that)
without passing Seville. My plan has been to re-embark near Cadiz, where I am hoping that Sam Carter will call in for me. I agree that this is risky. War may have begun in the meanwhile and Sam may not be there. It won't surprise me, therefore, if some of you—or even all of you—choose to fork right at Seville. If that is your choice, I shall bid you farewell and go on to Cadiz, perhaps with some of you, perhaps alone.”

“But, begging your pardon, sir,” said Manning. “Our plan was to head for Portugal from here, taking the road to Badajoz.”

“I know that but it would make no sense. The distance that way to Portugal is very little less and the going is worse, with hills in between. It would take as long—in fact, it would take longer.” He illustrated this point by more scratches on the dirt floor. “Going down the valley we shall be on the flat.”

There was more muttering and scratching of heads and then Rigault spoke up: “So you think, sir, that we must in any case take the road for Seville?”

“I am certain of it. I also think it possible that we may have the chance to intercept a courier between here and Seville, perhaps with information, perhaps with gold; or even perhaps with both. We are on the direct road from Madrid to Cadiz. Mr Hodder and I would like to seize any opportunity that should offer. Others may be too wealthy to be interested but we are poor men. I am, moreover, a privateer commander without a ship!”

There was some laughter over this and a general agreement to work together for the time being. Some would clearly part company at Seville but Hodder was the exception and Delancey wondered why. He was soon informed, however, by Hodder himself. That unattractive and undersized cockney was loyal, apparently, to the death.

“I'll stick by you, sir,” said Hodder, “and you may wonder why. Well, the truth is that I should like to earn my pardon. If I had that— yes, with some money as well—I'd give up the game and have a locksmith's business in Cheapside. I'd be a churchwarden, too, as like as not. You'll help me, sir, afterwards, if I stick by you now?”

“That I shall and here's my hand on it!”

“Thank you, sir. It will be a great day for me when I can throw the tools of my present trade into the Thames—yes, and the opiates too!” “Opiates? Do you carry drugs as well?”

“Only a small quantity, sir. We don't, in my business, trust entirely to people sleeping soundly. We help them a little, sir. No harm in a small dose, sir, no harm at all. It helps to keep the peace, as you might say.”

“Mr Hodder, you have given me an idea. I think you have a good chance of becoming a respectable locksmith and yours will be a shop at which I shall do business. Opiates are the very thing to keep the peace and I shall hope to see you an alderman!”