Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage (41 page)

They walked for a quarter of an hour, breaking into a trot once they were out of the east gate of the fortress. Dom Mateo’s captain led, then came Laming with Isabella at his side, then the courier – who did not know of the plan, but who would be recognized by the Spanish authorities and therefore assist their progress – and at the rear Corporal Wainwright led a packhorse, its burden less than it appeared, for the animal was the means by which Hervey was to escape. Laming worried that a suspicious sentry might think it too fine an animal to be bearing a load instead of a rider, and might remove the baggage and see a riding- rather than a packsaddle. But he worried too much, he told himself: why
should
a sentry be suspicious, for a party of travellers must be accompanied by some baggage, and if they could afford to engage a decent packhorse then why should they not? Indeed, he would tell them that it was a spare riding-horse! These were little things, he knew, but they were of the essence: they properly occupied the mind of a man charged with such an adventure – especially when it had been so many years since he had taken to the field.

But no one spoke. The captain of Dom Mateo’s own regiment had some French but little English, in spite of his proud lineage with the Corps of Guides. The courier had nothing but Portuguese and a little Spanish, and Wainwright waited only to be given an order. Isabella seemed wholly absorbed in thoughts of her own. Laming’s thoughts, left to themselves therefore, were becoming increasingly ill composed. What was troubling him now was moral not physical, and that he always found much the harder. He had considered the question before they set out, but now, alone on the road, the challenge of what had before been merely theoretical was all too concrete. What should be his priority if it came to a fight? Or rather,
who
should be his priority? The cold fact was that he himself, if he were to fall on the Spanish side, would be the cause of the greatest embarrassment to His Britannic Majesty’s government. But, now committed, he would put himself beyond that calculation: he could not spare himself for the loss of his old friend, and certainly not for the loss of Isabella Delgado. As for the others, the captain was important only until they had succeeded in crossing the border (he was certain he could find his own way back); the courier was of no importance once they had gained entrance to the castle; and Corporal Wainwright . . . a coverman was required not infrequently to cover with his life. Laming balked, however: it had all been so much easier on the battlefield. But, it was better that he had it out now than have to come to a judgement while wielding a sabre. He turned and looked at Isabella. Truly, she was a very handsome woman; and with pluck to admire as much, if not more. She was indispensable, at least until Hervey was sprung; but it was inconceivable that she could be left behind.

So, in their silence, they left the kingdom of Portugal and entered that of Spain. It was easy, save for a little stumbling in single file through a secret, wooded valley, and by four o’clock they had the walls of Badajoz in sight.

Laming was at once filled with dread. It had been nigh fifteen years, but still the walls spoke of death – and failure. Twenty feet high at least, thirty for much of the curtain, and even more in places, they had twice defeated Wellington’s men, and only by unleashing the very hounds of hell had the duke been able to overcome them the third time. He grimaced at the memory. He had played no great part, but he had been witness to it. And to what had followed.

He braced himself. ‘I recall it best from the other direction, Dona Isabella,’ he said, sounding, he hoped, matter-of-fact.

‘When it was in Spanish hands therefore?’ she replied, urging her horse up alongside his.

Laming was gratified by her attention at last. ‘Indeed. The next occasion was bestial. But I would not dwell on it.’

Isabella smiled. ‘Oh, I imagine I know more than you suppose, Colonel Laming.’

He supposed she did. ‘Hervey had to shoot a man, you know. One of our own men, I mean.’

Isabella looked pained. ‘I did not know that. What a terrible thing to have to do.’

Laming nodded, and he took note of her resolve. Isabella had not recoiled at the revelation: she had presumed it to be necessity – cruel necessity. Truly, she was a woman of uncommon mettle, a silver lining in the great black cloud that was this audacious adventure.

The air was cold and clear, and the prospect of the city now distinct. He recognized the tower of the cathedral, and the Tête du Pont, the fort guarding the bridge across the Guadiana; he could even see the gate at the other end, Las Palmas. He wanted to halt and take out his telescope, as he would have done in 1812, but he was not here as a soldier; he was a diplomatic traveller, said his papers – there was no cause for surveillance. It was perhaps as well, for as they joined the post road which connected Elvas and Badajoz, he saw the
alcázabar
quite plainly, the castle where Hervey was confined, and looking every bit as formidable as that night of the assault. It chilled him to the marrow, the sight as well as the recollection.

In half an hour more they were close enough to the bridge to make out its traffic. Laming saw that it flowed mainly towards the Las Palmas gate, as he had hoped, since the day was drawing to its close. That worked to their advantage, as he had calculated, but he hoped it would ease by the time they needed to recross. How he wished the approaches were not by bridge at all, or at least not by just the one: when it came to the escape it was this or nothing, for the Guadiana stood between them and Portugal for more miles south than they could ride. Fording it was impossible at this time of year, if at any, and swimming – three hundred yards at the very least – perilous beyond question. Perhaps without Isabella Delgado . . .
No
, he would not allow himself to think like that. When the time came, no matter if the alarm had been raised, one way or another they must get across that bridge.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

BRAVE HORATIUS

Later

The sun was beginning its evening descent behind them as the little party approached the Tête du Pont. General Phillipon had taken brief refuge nearby when Badajoz had fallen – the Sixth had been close when he surrendered his sword the next day – but Laming could give it barely a passing thought. They were approaching the first of the half-dozen certain occasions for challenge, and therefore exposure. For himself he felt no fear; for his ‘command’, and the enterprise, he was almost contorted by it.

But the guards at the bridge merely returned the courier’s wave as the party clattered onto the cobbled ramp. They recognized him well enough (his passage was as good as daily). Laming had brought him forward for just this purpose – to reassure if Dom Mateo’s man at point somehow aroused suspicion – but the ease of passing, with no check whatever, surprised him yet. It augured well for their recrossing.

At the other side, at the gate of Las Palmas, it was the same: a wave, no undue interest in any of them, even Isabella (there were several Spanish girls on foot happily distracting the soldiery). And then they were inside the fortress-city itself. No one would challenge them now unless they drew attention to themselves. All they had to do was make their way to the
alcázabar
, and once inside its walls they would follow the courier, and then Isabella would lead the way to Hervey’s quarters, dealing with the challenges which were sure to come. The courier had told them precisely where he was confined (the Spanish had made no secret of it); it would not be difficult – the third, top, floor of the building overlooking the garden. Laming wondered again if they might not have taken the courier into their confidence; but Dom Mateo had been insistent – he would trust no one but his own, and the man was not even a soldier.

In twenty minutes they were at the gates of the
alcázabar
. It might have been less, but there were a great many people in the streets. Laming was already worrying about making their way back: if the alarm was raised, there would be a signal, so that the bridges over the Guadiana and the Rivellas would be closed. With a press of people in the streets it could take a half-hour and more. But then, if it took them only
five
minutes, and the alarm was sounded, they would be just as hoist . . .

The sentry did not recognize the courier. He took his papers and studied them carefully. Then he called for his corporal.

Laming’s heart pounded.

Isabella threw back her hood and rode forward as the corporal came out of the guardhouse.

‘Tio Pepe!’ called the corporal, seeing the courier and slapping the sentry playfully on the back, assuring him that it was only old ‘Tio Pepe’ from Elvas.

Laming held in his sigh of relief as the corporal beckoned the party through. There were nods, smiles, waves: he was too relieved to despise the laxity which would have brought a swift court martial to any of the Sixth’s NCOs.

They dismounted in the middle of the great courtyard. A groom came to take the courier’s horse, as usual, but Isabella politely declined his offer to bring more holders. They would not stay long, she explained.

As the courier took the despatch bags to the post office, Laming, Isabella and Corporal Wainwright made for Hervey’s quarters, leaving Dom Mateo’s captain to guard the horses – and their retreat.

To Laming’s surprise and equal relief there was no sentry at the entrance to the building. It would be an even greater blessing on the way out, he reckoned, for if there was any mishap, a sentry at the entrance would be able to rouse the whole courtyard in an instant.

They climbed the spiral stone staircase quickly but quietly (better to give no warning of their approach, with or without the password). On the first floor there were three guards, all seated. They stood as Isabella appeared, but did not challenge.

Laming was too relieved to be suspicious.

As they reached the second floor, a door opened and an officer appeared in what looked like levee dress. He glanced at them, at Isabella principally, looked as if he would question them, and then instead bowed and said simply ‘Señora, señores’ before making his way past them and down the stairs. Laming wondered if his face betrayed anything of his thoughts: he had been certain the game was up. He looked at Isabella. She appeared as cool as if she had title to the place. He nodded, and they began the final flight of stairs.

The light on the upper floor was poorer, no window but a high lancet, and few candles, but Laming saw at once the pistols on the table next to the two guards, and the sword-bayonets in the crossbelts hanging over the backs of their chairs. The men, though clearly startled, made no attempt to recover them, relieved, perhaps, that it had not been their serjeant.

Isabella spoke. ‘I am come to question Major Hervey.’

The guards looked at each other.

‘It is authorized,’ said Isabella curtly. ‘
Napoleon
.’

They looked at each other again. Why should a woman come to question the prisoner? Why had they not been told before?

Laming saw he had but seconds only. His hand began moving to his pocket.

Then one of the guards, grumbling loudly, reached for the key which hung by a nail on the wall above the table. The other looked uncertain still, but the first guard put the key in the lock, hesitated a moment, then turned it and pulled open the door.

‘Wait here, please, señores,’ said Isabella.

If the guards had had a mind to search the party, Isabella confounded them utterly. She was not carrying anything, and they could hardly search her person. And the two men, of whom they might be rightly more suspicious, were not in any case going to enter the prisoner’s quarters. There was nothing they could do but trust they were doing right; here, very evidently, was a lady of rank. Who were they, mere private-men, to question her?

Isabella advanced. The guard held the door open, then closed it after her.

Laming and Wainwright each whipped out a brace of pistols. Wainwright’s were pressed to the turnkey’s neck before the door was locked. The second guard looked so frightened that Laming only had to gesture to get him on his knees.

Hervey flung the door open. It had been many years: unlike Corporal Wainwright, he had not seen Laming at Hounslow, and never had he imagined that circumstances such as these would reunite them. Laming’s eyes were wild, and his jaw set firm – as at Talavera when they had had to hack him out of the fight with the
chasseurs
. For his part, Laming saw only the uniform of the Sixth, and at that moment wished with all his heart that he wore it still.

There was no time for elaborate greeting: there were two guards to deal with. Hervey held out his hand, Laming indicated that both his were full, and the ice was broken with grim smiles.

Wainwright had brought lint and silk cord. The intention was not to do harm, simply to disable and confine. That way, Laming had calculated, the Spanish were least likely to make diplomatic complaint.

‘I’m glad to see you, Corporal Wainwright,’ said Hervey, nodding in return to the salute. Then, covered by Laming’s pistols, they began stuffing the lint into the guards’ mouths, binding it with cord, tying their hands behind their backs and pushing them into Hervey’s erstwhile cell.