Hervey 07 - An Act Of Courage (4 page)

Any pretext for a fight would do, just something to show resistance (show to
himself
, to begin with). His Prayer Book, for instance: he could not claim that he needed it, but he saw no reason why he should not have it back. How long could it take the authorities here to establish that Cranmer spelled no danger? What else was he supposed to read, for the books in his room were hardly diverting? Why should he test his Spanish? In any case, it had been too long. There was a Greek New Testament, but that would only exercise rather than engage him. The usual Articles of War required that the personal possessions of an officer were not to be denied him insofar as they did not aid him in escape; he would therefore demand his Prayer Book at once. They would have to give it to him, and he would be the victor.

The trouble was (he saw well enough) that the Spaniards were embarrassed by his capture. No Spanish officer had so far spoken directly to him, perhaps so as to be able to deny all knowledge of his nationality. The Miguelites, too, were treating their unexpected and unwelcome prisoner with a degree of circumspection. He was a Portuguese – a Miguelite – prisoner, but Badajoz was, after all, a
Spanish
fortress.

It was at least a comfortable confining, however, as he had conceded in Georgiana’s letter. That he could neither sleep nor eat well (even his sleep beyond first light yesterday had been fitful) was not the fault of his jailers. If
only
he could stop thinking of Colonel Norris and the prospect of that officer’s delight in the news of his capture, for Norris would, no doubt, see it as a vindication of his own prudent proposal to stand only as far east as the lines of Torres Vedras. No doubt, too, Norris would be reminding the chargé d’affaires in Lisbon of the grave embarrassment to His Majesty’s ministers. Would Lisbon know, yet, of his capture? How could they not? For hadn’t his last words to Dom Mateo de Braganza, as he surrendered his sword to the Miguelite general, been that he should inform the legation? He wished now they had been otherwise, but in that crucial moment his words had been instinctive, the duty of an officer to report the situation to his superior. Only now did he think in terms of his own best interests. But would not Dom Mateo, a brigadier-general, act on his own cognizance? Perhaps, in the security of the fortress of Elvas once more, Dom Mateo had judged it best
not
to alert Lisbon, sure in the knowledge that he could effect an escape soon enough. Corporal Wainwright might have acted on his own initiative, too. But his coverman had no access to the telegraph or a courier (was the telegraph even working yet?), and Wainwright would be strongly averse to galloping to Lisbon when his principal was captive in Badajoz, especially if Dom Mateo advised against it.

But early release, he had to conclude, did not look likely. The Spaniards might wish that he were not incarcerated at Badajoz, but that was not the same as wanting him let free with a story to tell in Lisbon, especially at such a difficult time in the affairs of their two countries. Certainly the Miguelites would have no wish to antagonize His Majesty’s ministers at the very moment parliament debated intervention. Opinion was divided in Britain: Whigs for Pedro, the infant-queen and the constitution; Tories for Miguel and the old order. This was no time to stir John Bull when he might otherwise be content to doze.

A manservant brought hot water, and breakfast, which Hervey tackled dutifully rather than with relish. Later he heard the bolt on his door being drawn again, and then a knock – a fine point of courtesy, he noted wryly. He turned, half rising, saw the same benevolent features of the day before, and of the day before that, and rested easy. Only the physician. But today he was unaccompanied, no guard to defend him against assault by the prisoner. What was to be gained in overpowering such a man, however, even if he had the inclination to? The physician carried no sword, and Hervey did not suppose a pistol was usual about his person either. He rose and acknowledged the bow. They spoke in French again.

‘Good morning, monsieur. May I enquire of your condition today?’

Hervey was mindful of the civilities, however hard it went with him. ‘Well enough, monsieur. But I should be much the better were my few necessaries returned to me.’

‘Oh? And what are these, monsieur?’

‘Merely the contents of my valise, the appurtenances of the toilet and such like. And a book. They were taken from me when I arrived.’

The physician frowned. ‘I am but the medical officer, monsieur. However, I will relay your request to the proper authority. It seems a perfectly reasonable one.’

Hervey wondered if the physician knew who that authority might be – Spanish or Miguelite? ‘I am obliged, monsieur.’

The physician inclined his head by return. ‘Now, monsieur, if you are in the same good health as yesterday, and have no further complaints that touch on it, I shall not detain you further. I am asked to give you this.’

Hervey took the envelope. The seal was already broken.

‘I enquired as to the broken seal, monsieur, and was informed that since the letter is from Elvas the authorities were obliged to search its contents for warlike sentiments. It is, I regret to say, an ignoble state of affairs to which we are come. I do not profess to understand it. Your country and mine have been worthy allies in the past.’

Hervey scarcely heard the regrets, intent as he was on learning what constituted the correspondence. The physician saw, and took his leave. Hervey opened the letter as soon as the door was closed, looked at once for the signature – Dom Mateo’s – then began to read.

18th December 1826

My dear friend
,

The Nation will soon have cause to honour your name, for so gallant an action as yours this day will not long remain unextolled. But for the mean time it must perforce be so until I myself have exhausted every prospect of securing your release
.

Hervey quickened. The English was as apposite and elegant as when the writer spoke it, an unusual accomplishment, in his experience, no matter how fluent a man in speech not native to him. And it brought a great measure of relief in the assurance that Lisbon would not yet know of his predicament. He read on.

Your friends, I may assure you, are all well and safe, and your design admirably accomplished
.

This latter surprised him – not the fact of the success, but that the censor had not thought it proper to excise. Perhaps the phrasing was equivocal, as no doubt the author intended. But three days ago, when their
ruse de guerre
had been tumbled, he had bought time for the little brigade to run for safety in the fortress at Elvas by his solitary walk, captive, to the enemy’s lines. He had had no idea since whether they had made that sanctuary or not, and it cheered him greatly, now, to learn that they had. The reference to ‘friends’ he took to mean Corporal Wainwright, and for that, too, he was greatly relieved.

I beg you would reply with indications of your own condition
.

Hervey wondered if he would be permitted to, or whether ‘the authorities’ would oblige Dom Mateo only with their own assurances. But allowing him to receive such a missive in the first place, and from the very man who stood astride their advance on Lisbon, was promising. He read on. There were more felicities but little of real consequence. He knew Dom Mateo not so very well, but enough to know that he was capable of checking his instinct, and that the words would be measured. Dom Mateo’s intention in this subterfuge would have been, first, to communicate his own advantageous situation in Elvas, then the safety of the admirable Wainwright, and finally that he himself regarded the incarceration of his friend as a matter for local resolution – hence the reference to ‘every prospect of securing your release’.

How Hervey prayed that it would be so! It was not merely the thought of Colonel Norris’s delight in his predicament; if the news reached Lisbon it would then reach London, and he had seen enough in his eighteen years’ service to know that bold tactics that were not successful were never admitted as bold, only reckless. He called the guard, outside, and asked in Spanish if he might be allowed writing paper and a pen.

It was an hour before his door reopened. Hervey was surprised to see the physician returned.

‘Monsieur, the authorities have consented to the return of your necessaries.’ The physician placed a valise on the table. ‘And to writing paper and ink.’

The guard placed these on the table, and three steel pens.

Hervey searched at once for his Prayer Book; the other items could be easily replaced.

‘And I have brought you this,’ continued the physician, giving him a small but new-looking volume. ‘I should not apologize for bringing you Holy Scripture, monsieur, but I wish there had been something more in English in our library.’

Hervey was unsure as to which library the physician referred, but he was grateful enough. He wondered, indeed, if the ‘authorities’, Spanish or Portuguese, found it expedient to use this medical man as go-between. ‘Monsieur, you are very kind. The letter you brought me is from Elvas. I would write by way of acknowledgement and assurance that I am well treated. I believe the authorities could have no objection?’

The physician shook his head slightly, sufficient to indicate his own agreement with Hervey’s proposition. ‘I will represent that to the authorities, monsieur.’

Hervey took careful note of the physician’s choice of words. The anonymity of ‘authorities’, repeated, was too convenient to be mere chance; there was evasion here. The physician had told him that the Spaniards had made much on his arrival at Badajoz of not being able to take him at his word: he might be a mercenary, an adventurer, a renegade – and of any nationality. There were formalities to go through to establish his credentials. That, at least, was what they had claimed.

The physician appeared to hesitate. ‘Monsieur, I have it on good authority . . . that is to say, I
believe
that if you were to give your parole, the authorities would conduct you without delay to England.’

Hervey did not doubt it. He had expected as much, though perhaps not quite so soon. If he gave his parole he would be taken to Madrid, likely as not, and there given over to the British ambassador, who would arrange for his transport northwards into France, to the consul in Bordeaux, perhaps, and thence to England by claret boat – a long journey, with plenty of opportunity to contemplate his situation, an age in which to imagine the opprobrium awaiting him at the Horse Guards, the Duke of York incandescent. And there would be no opportunity to redeem himself in arms against the Miguelistas if a British army were sent to Portugal, for those would be the terms of parole. No, it was insupportable.

‘You are very good, monsieur,’ he replied, and with a trace of a smile. ‘But I am not at liberty to give my parole.’

The physician looked pained. Hervey could not imagine why.

‘Then I wish you good day, monsieur,’ said the physician, with (thought Hervey) the merest touch of sadness. ‘When you have written your letter please give it to the guard, unsealed. He will know what to do.’

Hervey bowed. ‘I am obliged, monsieur.’

The physician hesitated again. ‘Monsieur, my name is Sanchez.’

Hervey bowed again. ‘Doctor Sanchez.’

How might a man escape Badajoz? Not by force of arms, reckoned Hervey. When he contemplated that night in April 1812, three whole divisions of the most determined men hurling themselves against the walls of this place, any such thought was absurd. It had taken three sieges and the lives of more men than the army could rightly spare to break in to Badajoz. The Duke of Wellington had not had Joshua’s spies, and in the end it had all been done in the old way – with brave men’s breasts. There was nothing new under the sun: a soldier appropriated the methods of his forebears, adapting them as circumstances and means changed, but if science and ruses failed, there was but one way left to fight! Joshua had been lucky. His spies had almost been discovered. Only Rahab the prostitute had saved them, hiding them in her house. And what luck there had been in that,
for her house was upon the town wall, and she dwelt upon the wall
. Could there be such a woman in Badajoz, to let him down by a cord through the window, as Rahab had let down Joshua’s men? Even if there was, how would he find her? Joshua’s spies had entered the city before the siege, to speak with whom they pleased. How might
he
meet with anyone but his jailers?

No; it was for Dom Mateo to find a Rahab. All he, Hervey, could do was communicate with him, so that when the time came they would be of the same mind. He might of course take every opportunity for exercise, for then he could spy things out, but he must have a care not to shackle himself thereby, perhaps unwitting, by any local parole, as Joshua had with the men of Gibeon. He must judge it finely. One thing was certain, however: he
must
escape this place. There could be no question of exchange, or even of unconditional release if it meant the Spaniards handing him over formally to the authorities in Lisbon. That way lay humiliation, and military oblivion thereafter. How long did he have? Days rather than weeks, for sure. Did Dom Mateo comprehend this too?

He opened his Prayer Book, turning routinely to the psalms appointed for the twentieth day, as had been his practice all those years ago. Psalm 102,
Domine exaudi
: it spoke his supplication perfectly, if only he had the faith.
Hear my prayer, O Lord: and let my crying come unto thee. Hide not thy face from me in the time of my trouble: incline thine ear unto me when I call; O hear me, and that right soon . . .

How aptly did God speak to him! What sound principle it had been all those years ago to read the psalms, day by day, as long as darkness or the enemy permitted. It had been a sustaining regimen, not mere duty, and even now, after all the late years of indifference, it could sustain (and, he imagined ruefully, it could keep him from trouble in the first place).