Devil to Pay

by C. Northcote Parkinson

  “Good!” said Delancey. “Now, all of you listen carefully. Manning, stand with your back to the door so that nobody can see properly into the cell. Hodder, set to work on the door lock but without making a sound. Monsieur Rigault and Mr Bisson, talk to each other loudly enough to cover any noise that Hodder may chance to make. Ramos, make out an order in Spanish for our release and for our being provided with fast horses. I shall word the order and you will translate and write.”

  Working quickly but carefully, Delancey and Ramos produced the necessary orders in what they hoped was the proper form. Then Delancey replaced Bisson as conversationalist, leaving that expert to copy the heading and signatures from the notice on the door. When the orders were ready, Ramos and Bisson did the talking while Delancey and Rigault went to the table. Between them they drafted and wrote the letter from Barras, explaining that the captain, Rochambeau, was in the French Secret Service and would be deserving of Spanish help. Then they changed roles again, Bisson forging the signature as he had done before and Rigault resuming his argument but now with Ramos. It was dark before they had finished these several documents and then it was that Hodder stood back from the door and confessed his failure. “I’ve done my best,” he said in a whisper, “and there was one moment when I thought the job was done. But I couldn’t get it again. I could have sworn that it was shifting. . . . No, I can’t do it. It’s not the sort of lock I am familiar with.”

  Delancey thought quickly and came to his decision. “Manning and Bisson, I want you to quarrel, shout at each other and then fight, making noise enough for the sentries to hear but not so much as to be heard in the guardroom. Ramos will then call out to the sentries that murder is being committed. Call for help—quickly—quickly! Is that understood? Right then—quarrel!”

  A realistic dispute began and turned into combat while Delancey and Rigault placed themselves on either side of the door. A sentry looked through the grill and told the combatants to be quiet. He then saw, to his dismay, that Bisson was apparently being choked to death. “Murder!” shouted Ramos in Spanish. “Murder! Quick!” The sentry hesitated, knowing that he should summon the sergeant but fearing that murder might have happened in the meanwhile. Then, taking the fatal decision, he opened the door and presented his musket at Manning, the other sentry doing the same. Before they knew what was happening their muskets were snatched from them. They were overpowered in a second and knocked on the head with chairs, their uniforms removed and their wrists and ankles tied together with luggage straps. A tense minute followed as they all waited for the alarm to be given. There was silence, however, and they remembered, hopefully, that the walls were thick. “Look!” whispered Hodder in a tone of grievance, “that hellish door was bolted on the outside!”

  In five minutes Ramos and Manning were in military uniform, properly equipped and armed. Delancey then told Ramos to go and fetch the adjutant, reporting as from the sergeant that the prisoners had finished their task and that the senior of them was ready to report to the commandant. There was some little risk of Ramos being recognized but he actually met the adjutant in the semi-darkness of the corridor, returning from the commandant’s office. He delivered his message, holding the lantern in front of him, and then followed the adjutant back to Cell No 6. That officer was annoyed to find that the prison corridor, save for the other sentry, was deserted.

  “Where is the sergeant?” he snapped. “Where is the guard?” At that instant he was knocked senseless with the butt of a musket and dragged into Cell No 6, where his uniform was stripped off in turn. Ramos was now promoted from private soldier to captain, the sentry’s uniform being given to Bisson. When the adjutant had been tied up and gagged, like the other two soldiers, the procession formed in the corridor. Ramos led as adjutant, escorting Delancey. The other prisoners followed, Rigault and Hodder. Two soldiers, Manning and Bisson, brought up the rear. When Cell No 6 had been locked and bolted, Delancey pocketed the key and the whole party marched off towards the commandant’s room. Ramos knocked and was told to enter. It was Delancey who went in first, however, and Ramos remained in the doorway, turning to give an order to the two soldiers who formed the escort.

  “Come in, Captain. Pray be seated. You and your friends have worked quickly, finishing at an earlier hour than I had expected. I hope you will join me presently in a glass of wine. In the meanwhile, allow me to see the letter from Paris.”

  “Here it is, Colonel,” said Delancey, handing the document over. “I have not sealed it, of course, but will do so later.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Yes, this has the right appearance . . . let’s see now. . . . Yes, that reads quite well . . . Good! Quite a work of art! It might not deceive everyone but I think it could deceive me. I am merely a soldier, of course, not an expert in handwriting. I incline to accept this as genuine.”

  “I am relieved to hear it, Colonel. I should have hated to begin our little discussion on a note of disagreement.”

  Something in Delancey’s tone made the commandant look up sharply. He found himself looking into the muzzle of a pistol, aimed very steadily at his throat. Glancing from Delancey towards the door, he recognized Ramos in his adjutant’s uniform and guessed the rest.

  “The plan we discussed is still possible,” said Delancey, “on the basis that we are both men of honour. With the situation reversed, however, you will not expect to gain the same terms. I am sure, incidentally, that you will not make a false move and so compel me to shoot you. Your death would not add to the risks I run but I deplore pointless bloodshed and would prefer to have you as a friend; as my host, indeed, some day, at your castle near Seville. You have only to accept this letter as genuine and order our release, giving me your word that there will be no pursuit. My offer still holds but the alternative is now less pleasant. You have to choose between the possible recovery of your estate and the certain loss of your life. The choice is not one over which you should hesitate.”

  The commandant shook his head slowly. “You forget, my friend, that you have overpowered my adjutant and his guard. What will these men say when they are released? If you have killed them the situation is worse.”

  “No, Colonel, nobody has been killed.”

  “What is our story to be, then? You expect me to report that you are French agents. I have then to add that you disarmed my soldiers, stunned my adjutant and made your escape! Who will believe that story? And what will my other officers say?”

  “In that case, Colonel, you will have to come with us to a point on the road to Santander. From here to the stables, from there to the citadel and town gates you will be covered by my pistol, hidden under my cloak. Any false move will result in your instant death, shot through the heart. If you don’t force me to shoot, your story afterwards will be simply the truth—that we used you as hostage to aid our escape.”

  “Not a good story to explain to a court martial.”

  “No, but these things take time. If you receive a reprimand it will be next year when the whole incident is all but forgotten.”

  “You know our old proverb then: ‘If death came from Madrid, we should all live for a very long time’?”

  “I never heard that. But your death, if it should take place during the next few hours, will not have to come so far.”

  “No. Very well, then. I accept your terms, Captain. I won’t tempt you to shoot.”

  “Excellent. If I were to kill you it would be with real regret.”

  “And now perhaps you will seal this letter from the Directory? While you do that I shall write you a safe conduct. You will need it to leave the town.”

  “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 ou
t 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?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  INTELLIGENCE OF VALUE

  NEMESIS 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.