An Act Of Courage h-7

by Allan Mallinson

  It was a calculation requiring more time than they had. But Sanchez feared staying more than fleeing. ‘I will come with you.’

  Laming shook his head. ‘We do not have a horse.’

  Sanchez understood. ‘I have a horse. But it will take me time to fetch and saddle it.’

  Laming nodded. ‘It is better that he goes now. The guards will know him. It should be easy.’

  Hervey gripped Sanchez’s arm reassuringly. ‘Go, my friend. We will wait here five minutes, and then we must all leave.’

  Laming watched him go, and uneasily. This was something he had not foreseen. Would he have let him go if he had been able to consider it thoroughly? But what could he do, for Hervey would not have him bound against his will?

  The minutes crept by. At least the guards made no sound. But Laming grew more uneasy. It had ever been the cavalry rule that no gain repaid delay. He had lived by the precept long enough, and Hervey even more. He would not have believed that any cornet – let alone a colonel and a major – would have settled for such a thing. Why, indeed, did he defer to Hervey now? ‘We must go. The guard commander might come at any moment. It’s fatal to delay further.’

  ‘I said we would wait five minutes, Laming. There are two more. In truth he needs fifteen.’

  ‘Then let us at least descend the stairs. Better to wait at the door. There was no sentry.’

  Hervey frowned, and began putting on the coat which Wainwright had brought. ‘Very well. But let me lead.’

  ‘I shall lead, Major Hervey,’ said Isabella emphatically.

  Laming cursed silently; was this his ‘command’ or not? But Isabella spoke sense: the password and imperious Spanish were needed, not brawn and pistols. ‘Dona Isabella shall lead. I shall follow, then you, Hervey, and Corporal Wainwright.’

  Wainwright locked the door behind them as Hervey picked up two pistols from the table, checked they were primed, and seized one of the swordbelts.

  Laming shook his head. ‘It is too conspicuous.’

  Isabella took it from him, slung it over her shoulder and pulled her cloak about her to conceal it. ‘Come,’ she said.

  Laming stifled his protest. ‘Very well.’

  They began their exit as quietly as they had come. Laming now realized that the staircase, although square rather than circular, descended (unusually) clockwise, giving the advantage to the man below, pistol or sword in-hand, rather than to the one above. He wished he had gone first.

  But then, Isabella knew she would have the advantage of surprise, for who would imagine a woman to have any fighting intent?

  The floor below was empty, as before, and they passed quickly along it to the other end.

  They descended to the first floor, where the guards had let them pass without challenge on the way up. Laming saw they were not the same. But that was good: they would not count an extra man, if they counted at all.

  The guards rose, as the others had, and looked at Isabella, curious.

  ‘Thank you, we are leaving now,’ she said, assuredly.

  The older of the two guards touched his peak. ‘Sí, señora. Contraseña?’

  ‘Napoleon!’

  The man touched his peak again and stepped aside. Laming, Hervey and Wainwright each looked him in the eye as they passed, and nodded.

  Laming was still anxious. They must have taken ten minutes already to come this far, he reckoned: he wanted to quicken the pace.

  Isabella would not be hurried, however. She took each step as if she were descending to a carriage in front of her household.

  As they turned the final corner, the door into the courtyard now but a couple of dozen strides away, Laming saw the same officer in his levee dress as on the way in. He reached for his pocket, certain they would be discovered.

  Isabella, too, hesitated a moment, then thought better of it, curtsied, lowered then raised her eyes to what she prayed was her best advantage, and continued walking.

  The officer, hatless (a bicorn under his left arm), halted and made a low bow. ‘Señora!’

  As he rose, she tried fixing him with her eyes as the others passed. But gallant – and manly – though the officer was, he was too well bred to ignore other gentlemen for the sparkle of fine eyes. He bowed again – ‘Señores!’ – and looked at each in turn.

  They too bowed.

  He looked again at Hervey, and his forehead creased into the inevitable question.

  ‘The English officer is taking his recreation with us, señor,’ tried Isabella.

  Laming was astounded by her composure: she was so convincing!

  But not entirely. The Spanish officer continued to look puzzled. ‘Señora, forgive me, but I know nothing of such an arrangement, and I am captain of the guard.’

  ‘It is by arrangement with the general,’ replied Isabella.

  Laming was even more astounded: Isabella thought as nimbly on her feet as he had heard she could dance with a foil in her hand!

  The officer smiled awkwardly. ‘Of course, señora, forgive me. But you will understand: it is my duty to see all these things are arranged perfectly. May I ask you to wait here for just a little time while I acquaint myself with these new orders. Please, be seated.’ He indicated the chairs by the wall.

  Neither Laming nor Hervey could follow the exchange precisely, but the import was clear. Both began moving hands to their pistols.

  But Isabella decided things. Her sword was out of its scabbard in an instant, the point at the officer’s neck. It made the merest crease in the flesh under his chin, but enough to convince him of her skill. Three pistols now pointed at him, too, so that he must know that death would come at once if he made the slightest sound.

  And yet, if one pistol were to fire, the castle guard would be upon them before they could cross the courtyard. He may have been duped by fine eyes, but the captain of the guard was no coward – and he would not be disarmed by a woman! He jerked his head back and grabbed for the sword.

  Isabella’s reflex was quicker. She lunged. Before he could let out a sound the point burst through his windpipe.

  Laming sprang with his pistol, felling him with a single blow, the barrel drawing blood while the first drops ran yet an inch down Isabella’s blade.

  She recovered her sword calmly, though when Hervey saw her face he knew what it had done. Her eyes were distant, her olive skin pale as ivory. He wanted to support her.

  ‘Get his body behind those chairs, Corporal!’ snapped Laming, his own hand shaking, though no one saw. ‘Hervey, what’s happening outside?’

  Hervey, jolted, made for the open door. He saw Dom Mateo’s captain of dragoons and the four horses. ‘Your man’s there with the horses, but there’s no sign of Sanchez.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late now,’ rasped Laming. There was no profit, either, in wondering what would have happened if they had waited another two minutes above stairs. For all they knew, the Spanish officer might have been making his rounds.

  Hervey did not demur. He looked anxiously at Isabella, but she was unfastening the swordbelt. He handed her a pistol, without speaking.

  They walked out into the courtyard with no apparent haste, and the captain of dragoons nodded to say that all was well. Corporal Wainwright pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the fauxbaggage free from the ‘packhorse’. The courier came out of the despatch office, in ignorance still of his companions’ design, or even of the purpose, handed a piece of silver to the groom holding his horse, and mounted in anticipation of a leisured ride back to Elvas.

  Laming helped Isabella into the saddle. She rode astride, as many a continental woman; he reckoned it might give her the advantage if she had to aim her pistol on the off-side. The thought amazed him.

  He mounted, and beckoned urgently to the others to do the same. Corporal Wainwright, ever correct, waited by his horse as Hervey looked about for the man who had been accomplice to his escape.

  He looked in vain. Laming, agitated in high degree now, beckoned furiously.

&n
bsp; Hervey at last sprang into the saddle. Though despairing of leaving his friend, he felt keenly the sudden sense of liberation, the contact with leather again like a friendly voice welcoming him home.

  Then, relief – the noise of iron on cobbles, and the sight of Sanchez and his cob . . .

  ‘Deo Gratias,’ muttered Laming, as he nodded to the courier to lead on.

  Laming looked at his watch as they approached the Las Palmas gate again. It had taken less than half an hour from the time they had entered the alcázabar, yet it felt five times as long. They were making too slow a progress. The press of people was even greater than before, a sort of early-evening promenade before the light failed and the chill of the night air took hold.

  There was another half an hour to dusk, perhaps three-quarters, but no more. And then it would be dark quickly, and they would have to ride the road a good way before the moon came up. Was that cause for worry? The courier knew the way, and the captain of dragoons knew the secret crossing. Laming would choose which when the time came. But for now, every step was the greatest trial, for at any moment the alarm might sound. How long could it be before two guards were discovered absent from their post, or an officer dead and only very partially concealed? If only he dared speak, dared share his thoughts; but to risk a word of English, even in this crowding babble, would be folly. No, they must ride for the bridge confident in their own daring, confident that the authorities could not expect there to be Englishmen in possession of both the parole and the means of passing themselves off as Spanish.

  He trembled at the very audacity of it. Indeed, now, the plan looked not so much audacious as reckless – so many things to go wrong, so few alternatives but to press on. Perhaps, though, that was the very reason for their success so far – no opportunity for diversion, only the need for utter resolve. That, and Isabella Delgado! He could scarcely believe how much they owed to her. Without her, even if they had been able to overpower the guards, the cat would have been out of the bag by now, and a hue and cry that would have blocked every street in the city.

  A bullock-cart full of wine butts creaked agonizingly slowly through the Las Palmas gate, blocking all traffic onto the bridge. Laming saw it was clear beyond, however: they could take it at the trot, make up a little time, without drawing undue attention to themselves. If only the alarm did not sound. If only . . .

  One of the bullocks, lame, began bellowing in protest at its load, or at the goading of its driver and the sentries. In the confines of the gate-arch the noise was so bad that Laming’s horse – and then the others – became nervous, stamping and snorting, trampling several people in the press. The dragoon captain’s began rearing. He sat it well, though, calmly, letting his hands and weight forward rather than fighting her. But one of the bullocks strained so hard at the yoke that the one behind fell to its knees, terrifying the mare so much that she threw herself back wildly, hooves flying from under her on the smooth cobbles. The captain fell clear as his mare toppled onto her back, but his head hit the cobbles hard.

  The sentries rushed to him, pulling him clear of the mare as she struggled to get to her feet. They opened his cloak and collar to give him air. Then one of them stood up, as if he had seen a ghost.

  Laming saw it too. Not a ghost, but a red coat, the prideful dolman of the Corps of Guides. He cursed him for a fool beneath his breath.

  In the instant the guards saw red, Laming saw his fence change from hurdle to palisade.

  The guards drew back: who wore red but the British? And why did they wear it concealed? They raised their muskets, gesturing at the riders.

  Isabella, brave as the lioness, saw where her duty lay. She urged her mare forward. ‘This man is a spy,’ she declared boldly, but keeping her voice low. ‘He is our most important spy and we must get him to Elvas as soon as may be!’

  Neither Laming nor Hervey understood, though they knew the word ‘spy’ well enough, but the expressions on the faces of the guards told them that all was not yet lost.

  ‘Spy, señora?’

  ‘Yes! Spy! Look, he comes-to. Help him back into the saddle!’

  Hervey held his breath. Why did they not challenge?

  ‘Señora, I must call the serjeant. We have no orders.’

  Laming began moving his hand slowly to his pistol, Hervey likewise: the guards evidently accepted Isabella as a woman of rank, but were wary still. Could they know of ‘the English prisoner’, that there might be an attempt to rescue him? It was possible: there was but the one bridge over the Guadiana, and only the one way onto it. This would be the way the prisoner would bolt if he was able to break out of the alcázabar.

  A crack like thunder braced the guards, as if bellowed at by their corporal.

  Laming’s heart fell: the signal gun! He gripped his pistol, but he stayed his hand yet. What would the gun compel the guards to do?

  A second gun fired from the walls of the alcázabar. The guards rushed to close the gates, heaving on them as if their lives depended on it. Men came tumbling from the guardhouse across the square.

  Hervey leapt from the saddle, reins in-hand, Wainwright following. ‘Go!’ he shouted at Isabella. ‘Go, doctor!’

  They dragged the half-conscious captain through the arch despite the protests of the guards backing away, wary of the unsettled horses. Laming grabbed the fractious mare’s reins and pulled her after them, barging aside one of the guards just in time to slip through as the gates slammed shut.

  They were safe for the moment, long enough at least to get the captain back into the saddle. He had come-to: he was well, he protested; it was nothing, they need have no fear, they should make at once for the other side.

  Hervey and Wainwright heaved him astride his mare. She settled at last as he gathered the reins, though a stirrup evaded him. He looked dazed still as the rest of them remounted and kicked for the other side.

  This was the way General Phillipon had galloped to freedom the day after Badajoz, and it had been a short liberty, gone to ground in Fort San Cristobal until Wellington’s men found him the following morning. Could they now get as far as the fort, even? Hervey, too, was beginning to doubt it. At the other end of the bridge was the Tête du Pont – not a gate, but a strongpoint nevertheless. It straddled their line of escape; except that its purpose was to guard the bridge from assault, not command what passed on it. But there would be soldiers there. How many, he couldn’t know: perhaps they only garrisoned the place at times of danger? But if it were garrisoned, the signal gun must have told them to do something. He dearly hoped it would be to take post facing the approaches rather than the bridge itself.

  ‘Kick on!’ snapped Laming. ‘We take the bridge at the trot, and at the other end we wheel sharp left for the road to Elvas. No looking back!’

  Hervey marked his old friend’s determination. If any fell there would be no going back for them.

  ‘Major Hervey, sir: look!’

  Hervey turned to see the gatehouse walls alive with men. He was thankful that Wainwright, at least, took more notice of his duty than Laming’s commands.

  They had not gone fifty yards before a volley sent musket balls whistling about their ears. Laming at once pressed to a faster trot, though the cobbles were treacherous. Hervey looked back again and saw the gates opening. He expected cavalry to burst out after them like hounds in full cry.

  There was cavalry, all right, but they seemed loathe to follow.

  Hervey saw why. At the far side the guards were mustering, not with cavalry but a cannon. Would they sweep the bridge with grape when they knew there was a woman with them – and an English officer? He could scarce believe it. But how would they know who they fired at? The signal gun told them there were fugitives, and evidently the drill was to rake the bridge.

  Laming would not surrender, however. ‘We must ride them down before they’re ready!’ he shouted, pistol aloft and spurring into a canter.

  Hervey kicked hard after him. If only they had sabres: the mere promise of steel could
make a guncrew panic!

  There was another volley from the Las Palmas gate. Hervey looked round to make sure Wainwright and the captain were with him still.

  They weren’t. The captain’s mare lay sprawled on the cobbles, her quarters crimson, her rider under her. Hervey cursed and reined hard round.

  ‘No, sir! Go on, I can do it,’ shouted Wainwright.

  But Hervey had left a man behind a dozen years ago, at Waterloo. He would not do it again.

  ‘Go on, sir!’ insisted Wainwright. ‘There’s Mrs Delgado!’

  What was he thinking? It was Isabella they must get away. The rest, himself included, must take their chance. He turned the gelding even sharper and kicked hard for the far end.

  In seconds it was a desperate, close-quarter business. The gunners cowered, but a line of bayonets was doubling from the Tête du Pont. Laming, reins looped and both pistols cocked, rode straight at the gun. ‘Go on!’ he shouted to the others. ‘See her safe!’

  Isabella, Sanchez and the bewildered courier raced past him, but Hervey pulled up and thrust his pistol at one of the gunners. ‘Espada! Espada! Presto!’

  The terrified gunner gave it him, expecting a ball in the chest at any moment.

  ‘Espada!’ demanded Hervey again, and another of them gave up his sword, to Laming.

  Now they felt as if they could fight rather than just fire and run. But two dozen bayonets were no odds to sport with.

  ‘Come on, Hervey, we’ve got to get her away!’

  Hervey looked back across the bridge: Wainwright had the captain astride his own mare. He was determined. ‘We’ve got to hold those bayonets off the bridge, Laming! Leave these: let’s front them!’

  Laming didn’t hesitate. They rode straight at the line, breaking it in two places, then turning and charging back to break it in another two. That was what dismayed infantry – spoiling ‘the touch of cloth’! Another go and Hervey was certain they would scatter them.

  He looked back at the bridge. The gunners hadn’t given up. They were already ramming. The gun would soon be loadedprimed. He saw Wainwright struggling to lead his mare, saw the puffs of smoke from the ragged musketry at the far end of the bridge, and then the captain bowled from the saddle like a running hare to buckshot. At two hundred yards it could only have been luck, but a ball in the back at that range was the end. He saw Wainwright crouching by him – it seemed an age – until he was certain of what Hervey could only suppose. Then Wainwright sprang back into the saddle and spurred for the Tête du Pont.