The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware (24 page)

Next morning it was still raining, but by midday he entered a small town where he was able to get a hot meal. That evening he crossed the frontier into Spain. Again the country was mountainous and so sparsely inhabited that night came down before he could hope to reach a village; so he had to doss down in a charcoal burner's hut.

On his fifth day he entered another town, and there gave himself out to be a Portuguese from the region of the Douro. A good meal at an inn partially restored his
spirits, and that night he was lucky, for he came upon a quite large country house surrounded by a sadly-neglected estate. Its owner, an old gentleman, received him courteously—accepted his statement that he was a Portuguese wine-shipper whose business had been ruined by Napoleon's embargo on trading with England and that he was on his way to his sister who had married a citizen of Seville—then said he would be happy to have his company for supper.

Roger then learned that his host had sent his family into Seville, and was living in the house with a few servants only to protect it from being looted and occupied by bandits. Over the meal they talked of the miseries brought about by the war and both drank to the eternal damnation of Napoleon. That night Roger again enjoyed the luxury of sleeping between sheets.

Late on the afternoon of the sixth day he sighted a foraging party of French Hussars. All through his journey he had feared to encounter a band of brigands who would have robbed, stripped and probably killed him. Immensely relieved, he rode up to the troop and announced himself as
Colonel le Comte de Breuc
, carrying an urgent despatch from the Prince of Essling to the Duke of Dalmatia, and asked to be at once conducted to Soult's headquarters. The officer detached his sergeant and two men as escort for him and, an hour later, Roger was riding into Seville.

There he found Soult's army in a very different state from Masséna's. Groups of well-turned-out officers and men were strolling about the city, ogling the
señoritas
—who did not appear to share the almost universal hatred of the Spanish for the French—or sitting drinking in the wine shops. Their Commander-in-Chief had taken over the splendid Alcazar Palace, and Roger was led through its courtyards, with their beautifully-carved Moorish arches, grilles and fountains, to the room of one of Soult's
adjutants. An hour later, he was ushered in to the grey-haired Marshal.

Roger explained his having arrived in Portugal by the same story he had told Masséna, adding that, after spending a few days at the Prince's headquarters, he had volunteered to carry a despatch to Seville. He then gave the news that hunger had forced Masséna to fall back on country where his troops could obtain supplies, and handed the despatch over.

Soult broke the seals, read the appeal for aid, casually tossed it on to a heap of papers and said, ‘His Highness of Essling has my sympathy, but I fear there is no way in which I can assist him. Some months ago I received an order from the Emperor to co-operate with him by moving against Lisbon from the south. But His Majesty had no idea of conditions here, and his order was quite impractical. You know his temper, Breuc. He would become berserk with rage if I abandoned southern Spain, and deprive me of my command. Holding it down is no small commitment, and it was as much as I dared do to spare Mortier's corps for an advance into Estremadura. That, at least, was a valuable contribution, as we defeated a Spanish army there on February 19th, then laid siege to Badajoz, which fell a week ago today.'

Badajoz was the most important city between Seville and the Portuguese frontier, but many miles north-east of the direct route to Lisbon. Knowing Soult and Masséna's dislike of each other, Roger guessed that the former had deliberately selected this, diversion as an excuse not to go to the tatter's assistance; but he smoothly remarked:

‘My congratulations on this fine achievement, Marshal. No doubt you felt it essential to reduce that great fortress, before permitting the Duc de Treviso to turn west and advance towards Lisbon.'

‘Exactly. It would have been most rash to allow Mortier
to march direct into Portugal, leaving Badajoz untaken on his flank. The big garrison there might have made a sortie and severed his communications with my main army. And now, Breuc, I take it you will remain here with us.'

It being impossible for Roger to reply that, having found out that Soult had no intention of going to Massérta's aid, he himself wanted to get back to Lisbon as soon as he could, he appeared to hesitate as he said, ‘I hardly know, Marshal; but I suppose that having delivered His Highness of Essling's despatch, I ought to endeavour to rejoin him.'

Soult put up a protesting hand. ‘No, no, Breuc. I could not allow it. You have taken risk enough in making your way alone through hostile country all the way from Santarém. To expose yourself again to the risk of being killed and eaten by our barbarous enemies would be madness. And, if you did get back to the Prince, in his present plight you could do him no earthly good. Report to my Chief of Staff, du Maurier. He will have a uniform found for you and provide you with work suited to your considerable abilities. I shall be glad to have you on my staff.'

Having expected that he would have to remain for some time at Soult's headquarters, Roger reconciled himself to doing so and, after thanking the Marshal, went in search of his Chief of Staff. Du Maurier, a fat and pleasant man, took him to the Mess for a meal, then allocated to him a room on the upper floor of the Palace in which, tired out after his long day, he went early to bed.

Next morning a suitable uniform was brought to him, and du Maurier told him that, as he spoke Spanish, he was to sit on a tribunal that Soult had set up to hear complaints by the citizens of Seville against abuses by the troops.

His new work proved a revelation. Normally, all Napoleon's Marshals treated the people of conquered
cities extremely ill, looting their houses and allowing the troops the greatest licence in bullying the men and forcing the women. Soult was particularly notorious for this unscrupulous behaviour. He was known to be the greatest looter of them all, and had accumulated a collection of paintings, church ornaments and jewels said to be worth many millions. Yet, by his orders, the tribunal was heavily biased in favour of the Spaniards. Fines, imprisonment and demotions were freely inflicted on officers and men of his army.

Roger no longer wondered at having found the people of Seville so well disposed toward their French rulers, and he soon learned from his brother officers the reason for this new policy of appeasement. Unlike that of Suchet in Valencia, it was no disinterested move aimed at restoring order and justice in conquered territory. Apparently, after having butchered half the inhabitants of Oporto, and taken that city, Soult had nurtured the dream of turning northern Portugal into a kingdom for himself; but Wellington had driven him out of it. Now that he had become the overlord of southern Spain, in spite of the fact that Napoleon's brother, Joseph, was still in Madrid and, legally at least, King of Spain, the Marshal was planning to make himself King of Andalusia.

On capturing Seville, he had set about the business of confiscating works of art—particularly Old Masters, which were his special delight—with his usual gusto. But, recently, he had had second thoughts, for he had decided that the most satisfactory way of becoming a permanent ruler was to induce the people to ask him to become their King. With this in view, he had returned to the churches all the gold plate, reliquaries and chalices he had stolen, and instituted the tribunal as a means of winning popularity at no cost to himself.

Naturally, Roger derived considerable pleasure from
righting the wrongs done to unfortunate Spaniards; and, although he had been in Seville before, he enjoyed visiting again the sights of interest and strolling in the beautiful garden of the Alcazar. One afternoon, when he was walking in it with a brother officer, between the trees proceeding down a cross-path he caught sight of a surprising figure.

It was apparently a Captain of Hussars in a beautifully-tailored, sky-blue uniform; but the skin-tight smalls covered the plump bottom of a woman, the gold lace of the tunic protruded in a most suggestive curve, and beneath the busby dark ringlets fell to the epaulettes on the shoulders. Halting in his tracks, Roger exclaimed:

‘
Sacré bleu
! Just look at that. Am I seeing things, or are we now giving commissions to young women?'

His companion laughed. ‘Have you not seen her about the headquarters before? She is Anita, a lovely young Spaniard. Our Marshal is a great one for the women, and summons a fine variety of them to his bed. But Anita is a special case. She is his permanent mistress, and accompanies him everywhere. By putting her into uniform he has saved her the inconvenience inseparable from wearing female clothes when she rides out with him on reconnaissance.'

After a week in Seville, Roger decided that the time had come when he could disappear without arousing suspicion that he had left deliberately.

For the sake of exercise most of his brother staff officers went for a ride outside the city, either early in the morning or in the evening, and there had been one occasion when one of them had failed to return, presumably through having ridden too far afield and fallen into the hands of the enemy or marauders.

There was only one difficulty in carrying out a deception on these lines. The officers usually rode out in parties and rarely alone; but Roger had thought of a way in
which he could rid himself of a single companion.

On the afternoon of the 24th he asked a Major Theophile Simplon, with whom he had ridden out before, if he would care to go for a ride with him. Simplon accepted and it was agreed that they should meet in the stables in half an hour's time. Roger got there well in advance of the Major, taking with him, wrapped up in paper, his civilian clothes. Telling the groom on duty that he would saddle his own horse, he spread the folded coat and breeches on the animal's back and strapped the saddle over them. Thai he stuffed his soft-brimmed hat into one saddle holster and into the other a packet of cold meat that he had taken from the Mess side table when no-one was in the room.

Simplon, little suspecting the trick that was to be played on him, joined him shortly afterwards and, side by side, they rode out of the city. When they were some two miles from the walls, they came to wooded country, which suited Roger's purpose. They had turned down a ride where no-one could see them even from a distance, and were walking their horses. Roger dropped half a length behind his companion, then took a stiletto from under his jacket and dug the point sharply into the rump of the Major's mount.

With a spasmodic jerk, the animal reared, gave a loud neigh and bolted with the unfortunate Simplon. Roger had estimated that, the Major having had no warning of what would befall, his horse would cover the best part of half a mile before he could bring it under control. When, with flying hooves, it had sped a hundred yards, Roger turned off into another ride and put his own horse into a gallop.

Having ridden on for an hour, he pulled up at a place where some big boulders had rolled down a mountain to the side of the road. Among them he changed into his civilian clothes and left his uniform and befeathered hat.
Then he pressed forward at the best pace he could expect from his mount, heading for the house in which he had spent his last night before reaching Seville.

Night fell long before he arrived there. The moon gave sufficient light for him to keep to the right road, but he had some difficulty in finding the house and it was close on midnight when he entered the short, overgrown drive that led to it.

The place was in darkness, but he hammered with his riding crop on the door until a flickering light appeared and a servant, opening a grille in the door, asked suspiciously what he wanted. On his giving the name he had used on his previous visit, the man remembered him and went to rouse his master.

When the old gentleman appeared, Roger told him that, on reaching Seville, he had learned that his sister and her husband had been killed by their house collapsing on them, as a result of the bombardment during the siege of the city. As he knew no-one there and had very little money, he had decided that his best course was to make his way back to his native Oporto, where he at least had other relatives and numerous friends. The old man then commiserated with him, gave him a bed for the night and saw to it that he had a good breakfast before setting off again in the morning.

He spent his second night at a wayside inn, his third in a mountain cave and his fourth in a deserted farmhouse. On the fifth day he was riding again through the scorched-earth country, with the cheerful prospect that, if his luck held, by the following night he would be back in Lisbon. But, alas for those happy thoughts, his luck did not hold.

Both on his outward journey and during his return, he had taken every possible precaution to avoid other people, however innocent-looking. A score of times, on seeing vehicles, horsemen or peasants approaching along the
road, he had quickly turned off into a wood or down a bridle path, where he could remain concealed until any likelihood of danger was past. But on this afternoon he was caught unawares.

The road he was on wound through a rocky gully. As he rounded a sharp bend in it, two ragged, bearded men with muskets rose from among the rocks, pointed their weapons at him and called on him to halt.

Had he been in open country, he would have set spurs to his horse and risked being hit as he galloped off. But the two men were no more than fifteen paces from him, so he did not stand a dog's chance of getting away without being seriously wounded. Cursing below his breath, he pulled up and, at a gruff order, dismounted.

As he did so, in Spanish mingled with enough Portuguese for the man to understand him, he declared himself to be a Spanish patriot carrying a message from General the Marquis de la Romana to Lord Wellington.

One of the men was a little runt, but it was he who had spoken for both, and he said, ‘Maybe, comrade, maybe not. We'll soon find out. You are coming with us.'