The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware (27 page)

But they were still a good way from the road when
O Diabo
said to him abruptly, ‘come now, Frenchie. You said you had buried the treasure about a mile from where the lines are now; and we're nearer to them than that already. Get your bearings, and be quick about it.'

Turning his horse a little to the left, Roger pointed to a gully about a hundred and fifty yards away, and replied, ‘It's somewhere in the far bank of that stream over there.'

The party trotted toward it and looked down at the slowly-flowing, shallow water. With a shake of his head, Roger said, ‘It is over two years since I hid the stuff, so it may take me a little time to find the place. It wasn't here anyway, but further downstream I think.'

O Diabo
grunted. ‘Then we'd better cross the stream and walk along under the far bank. Close to, you'll stand a better chance of recognising a mound or a bit of out-
crop that will guide you to it. We'll leave our horses here.'

That was a blow to Roger, as it deprived him of the chance to gallop off, crouched low over his saddle bow. But his nerves were so strung up that he could think of no reasonable objection. As he dismounted, he ruefully accepted the fact that, if he could raise the courage to break away, he would now have to run for it.

Francesco was left to hold the horses while
O Diabo
, Roger and Paolo scrambled down the near bank and splashed through the shallow water. On the far side Roger turned left. Every step he took would bring him nearer the road. But, on looking toward it, his heart sank. It was now empty.

Moving as slowly as he dared, he pretended to examine every hollow and protruberance in the four-foot-high bank, whenever he dared taking a quick look over it in the direction of the road. The light was now fading, but it would be an hour or more before darkness fell; so he could not hope that it would swallow him up should he escape the first shots fired at him as he made his dash for life and liberty.

They had made their way about two hundred yards along the gully, when Roger saw a small convoy emerge from the gateway in the lines. It consisted only of two wagons, with two men riding in front of them and two behind, and it was moving at a walk. For another five minutes Roger continued to scrutinise every inequality in the bank. The convoy advanced with maddening slowness, and
O Diabo
was becoming impatient. Halting, he growled:

‘From what you said, Frenchie, the place can't be as near the lines as this. We must have passed it. Or perhaps it's upstream from the place where we crossed. We'd better turn back.'

The convoy was still four hundred yards away. But
Roger felt that if he agreed to return upstream, he would be no better off. It was now or never. With sudden resolution he gave
O Diabo
a violent push that sent him reeling backward into the water. Then he bounded up the bank and ran for his life.

As Roger raced forward over the rough grass, he shouted with all the strength of his lungs, ‘Help! Help! I am an Englishman! Save me from these brigands.'

He saw the four mounted men and the drivers of the two wagons all turn their heads in his direction. Next moment he was flat on his face on the ground. He had not tripped and fallen; but, after covering the first twenty yards, deliberately flung himself down. Had he not done so, he would probably have got no further as, at that range, Paolo could hardly have failed to miss him. But his timing had been good. Only seconds after he hit the earth, a musket banged and the bullet whistled overhead.

Coming to his feet, he ran on again, his brain making frantic speculations. How long would it take for Paolo to reload? A minute perhaps. But by now
O Diabo
would have picked himself up. Had his musket fallen into the water with him? If so, the powder would be damp and the weapon useless until it had been dried and reprimed. But it might have fallen on the yard wide strip of sandy earth that ran alongside the stream. In that case, seething with rage, he would be taking aim at that very moment at the ‘Frenchie' who had cheated him.

The two wagons had halted. The four horsemen had left the road and were coming in Roger's direction, but
only at a cautious trot. ‘Help!' Roger yelled again. ‘Gallop, damn you. Gall …'

His last word ended in a choking gasp. A musket had banged behind him and the ball smashed into his right buttock. He staggered a couple of steps, then his leg gave under him and he hit the ground with a thump. At the same moment he heard
O Diabo
shout:

‘Come on, Paolo! Out with your knife. We'll get the lying dog yet!' Then came the sound of swift feet thudding heavily on the grass.

Roger's wound was not as painful as he would have expected. In fact, the place where he had been hit seemed to have gone numb. But evidently the bullet had penetrated his thigh and come out there, as the right leg of his breeches was becoming saturated with blood. With an effort he forced himself up on to his feet.

For a moment he glimpsed the two brigands running toward him. They both had their knives out and their faces were convulsed with rage and hate. Apparently they were so maddened with disappointment at the loss of the great fortune they had been visualising for the past twenty-four hours that they were willing to risk an encounter with the oncoming soldiers rather than allow Roger to escape.

His terror mounting afresh, Roger jerked himself round and made to run again. But it was the bone of his leg that had deflected the bullet. As he put his weight upon it, he was seized by an agonising pain. He staggered a few steps, then again fell to the ground. Rolling over, he sent a frantic glance in the direction of the approaching horsemen.

At his second shout, they had broken into a gallop. Now they were no more than forty paces from him. One of them pulled up and fired a carbine. The bullet got Paolo squarely in the chest. With a loud grunt, he threw up his arms and collapsed. But
O Diabo
still came on.

Seconds later he reached Roger. Holding his knife high, he slashed downward with it at Roger's heart. Roger jerked himself violently away, but could not avoid the knife. Nevertheless, his movement saved him. Instead of the point piercing his chest, it struck the buckle of his belt, driving the breath, out of his body, but snapping off short. By then the nearest horseman was right above
O Diabo
. The soldier's sword swished up, then down. The blade clove the giant's head from skull to jaw. Without a sound he collapsed on Roger, gushing blood and brains all over him.

Of what happened after that Roger had only a confused memory. Loss of blood had caused him to faint. When he came to, he realised vaguely that he was being carried on a stretcher and that his wounds had been roughly bound up. His next memory was of being put to bed and given a draught.

When he woke the following morning, English voices told him that he was in a ward of a military hospital. Soon becoming conscious that he had an urgent task to carry out he endeavoured to sit up, but fell back groaning. Pain flamed in his thigh and bruised stomach, causing him to gasp for breath. When he had recovered a little, he called to a passing orderly. Reluctantly the man went off in search of the surgeon-in-charge.

When the surgeon arrived, it took all the determination Roger could muster to persuade the man that his patient was not suffering from delirium, and to insist that the British Minister be fetched to receive from him a confidential message from Lord Wellington.

Late in the afternoon Sir Charles arrived. By then Roger was in a fever, but his mind was still clear enough to ask for screens to be put round the bed, then say to his visitor:

‘I have no message for Your Excellency from milord Wellington; but a most urgent one for him. Before he left
Lisbon he charged me with a special task. I succeeded in carrying it out, but I am anxious that my name should not be given in connection with my message. I pray you write to him as follows:

‘ “The man your brother recommended to you has been in Seville. He talked with Soult. Victor has made no progress with the siege of Cadiz. Mortier took Badajoz on March 10th, but will advance no further. Soult's ambition is to make himself King of Andalusia. You may therefore be certain that he will not leave Seville.” '

The Minister gave a slow smile. ‘From the interest Lord Wellington displayed in you when he was here, Mr. Brook, I suspected that you must be something more than a casual traveller. I realise that this very welcome information is of the first importance, since it will enable Wellington to use all his resources in pursuit of Masséna. It shall be despatched to him under double seal, with all possible speed, and I will arrange for the courier to be escorted by a troop of horse, to ensure that he reaches our General safely.'

Weakly, Roger returned the smile. ‘I thank you, Sir. That is a great weight off my mind. But I am in poor shape, so you will forgive me if I do not now talk further. You might, though, give my love to little Mary.'

Had Roger's mind been in a normal state, he would not have singled out Mary, much less used the word ‘love', when referring to her. He would simply have sent his respects to ‘the ladies'. But Sir Charles did not appear to notice that he had made what, in those times, could be taken as a declaration. Laying his hand lightly on Roger's shoulder, he said:

‘I was happy to learn from your surgeon, Mr. Brook, that apart from a bruising of your thigh bone, you have sustained only a flesh wound. So we may hope that you will be able to get about again before long. In the meantime,
it will be my pleasure to ensure that every care is taken of you.'

The strain of the interview caused Roger to have a relapse. For the greater part of the next forty-eight hours a succession of opium draughts kept him unconscious; but on his third day the fever left him and, for a short while that afternoon, he was allowed to see visitors. Enquiries had been made daily by the Legation about his progress, and now Mary and Deborah arrived with fruit, flowers and wine.

Screens had again been put round his bed and, unabashed by Deborah's presence, Mary kissed him lightly on the forehead. Sir Charles had, of course, kept to himself the fact that Roger had carried out a dangerous mission and penetrated the French headquarters in Seville, so the two girls assumed that he had been with Wellington until sent back for some reason to Lisbon.

He naturally confirmed their belief, but told them, as was only too true, how he had fallen into the hands of brigands a day's march from the city, induced them to accompany him there then, when they had come within sight of British troops, broken away from them.

Deborah told him that her uncle had asked for him to be given a private ward, but the hospital was now so full of wounded sent back from the front that this had not been possible. To his delight, she added that, as soon as he was well enough to be moved, he was to occupy his old room at the Legation.

Roger learned that Wellington's pursuit of Masséna was going well. The French were in a desperate plight, as they retreated across the mountains of central Beira. Nearly all their horses were dead, so they had had to abandon most of their wagons and many of their guns, while the men, demoralised by long privations, were deserting by the hundred or dying by the roadside.

Quite casually, as though it was of little importance,
just before the girls left, Mary gave him a piece of news that had reached Lisbon two days earlier. On the 20th, Marie Louise had presented the Emperor with a son, who was to be known as the King of Rome.

The event might be of no great significance to Napoleon's enemies, but Roger knew how much it would mean to the Bonapartes. At last the Emperor had achieved his dearest ambition—a son fathered on the daughter of an Imperial house that claimed its descent from the Emperors of Rome and Byzantium. He could imagine the fabulous jewels that Napoleon would shower on the young mother; the spate of honours poured out to friends and high officials of the Empire; the fireworks, fêtes, parades and balls that, regardless of expense, would celebrate the arrival of this little heir to territories stretching from the Baltic to the tip of Italy. He could also imagine the rage and bitter disappointment with which several members of the Bonaparte family would be filled by this royal birth. Joseph, as Napoleon's eldest brother, had always regarded himself as having the best claim to succeed him. While still believing himself incapable of begetting a child, Napoleon had as good as expressed his intention of nominating the son of Louis by Hortense as his heir. And Murat, spurred on by his ambitious wife, Caroline, had been led to believe that his immense popularity with the French Army and people would lead to their offering the crown to him rather than to any of the Bonaparte brothers.

During the next few days Roger made good progress. Except at the times when his wound was dressed, he was fairly free from pain. The healthy flesh of his buttock and thigh promised to heal well; so his badly bruised thigh bone was the only matter for concern, and his surgeon said he should be able to get about on crutches by the end of the week.

The girls came daily to see him, little Mary looking
quite ravishing in a simple pink dress and a new spring bonnet. On the morning of April 5th he tried walking with crutches and found that he could do so without straining his injured leg; so, on the following day he was moved in an ambulance to the Legation and there most kindly welcomed by Lady Stuart.

That evening the Minister came up to spend an hour with him and gave him more precise details of the progress of the war. Wellington had led five divisions in pursuit of Masséna and detached two under General Beresford to guard his rear against Soult, advancing into Estremadura and, if possible, relieve Badajoz. Unfortunately, Badajoz had fallen to Mortier much earlier than expected; but, now it was known that the French did not intend to move against Lisbon, a large part of Beresford's force had become available for other operations.