“Two have information we already know, but the third gives a full description of one of Massena’s spies,” said Sanchez with a wolfish grin.
“Then he won’t get very far in his information gathering, will he?” said the captain with a smile. “I’ll make a copy and you can take the original back to Captain Grant, Lieutenant. I am parched. Can I offer you a drink, Aston?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Belden’s tent was only two down from Sanchez’s, and when they entered, Belden gestured Val to sit down.
“I have some local wine, Lieutenant. Not quite as nice as a glass of ale, but it will help quench your thirst, especially since it has been mixed with a little fruit juice.”
Val took a small sip and then a grateful swallow. He wasn’t a heavy drinker, but the sweet wine with its hint of orange and lemon was delicious.
“I’d better be careful, sir,” he said with a grin as the captain offered to top off his glass.
“ ‘Tis delightful after a long day in the saddle, isn’t it?”
Val could feel his spine soften as the wine began to have its effect on him and as he relaxed, he asked the question that was uppermost in his mind.
“Just how did an Englishman end up with a band of guerrilleros? You speak Spanish like a native. Sir,” he added as an afterthought.
“You must be fluent also, or Colquhoun wouldn’t have sent you.”
“Ah, I may speak the language fluently, sir, but I still have a slight accent. You have none.”
“My grandfather married the daughter of a Spanish count, Lieutenant. She made sure her children and grandchildren spoke the language. That is one of the reasons Wellington sent me to Spain. The other is that I look as well as sound like a native. I must say, it was the first time my foreign appearance put me at any advantage. If you call joining the guerrilleros an advantage, that is,” he added humorously.
“It is certainly an advantage for us, sir, if not for you.”
“Oh, yes, I have been able to ease communications with our allies. Now tell me, what is Massena doing?”
“Nothing, sir. He seems to have dug in for the winter.”
“Waiting for Percival’s government to fall, I’ll be bound. Does Captain Grant still suspect an informer?”
“He is convinced of it.”
“It will be hard to smoke him out, if he is highly placed. These damn Whigs…and I am one, mind you…” the viscount said with a grin, “have no faith Wellington can hold Portugal, much less take Spain. If they get into power, Europe is doomed. But what is your opinion on the political situation, Lieutenant?”
“I have none, sir,” Val answered stiffly. “I’ve spent the last twelve years as a common soldier and I have been much more interested in the competence of my officers than in that of the politicians.”
“So you came up from the ranks, did you? I am surprised that you don’t profess any republican sympathy.”
“Oh, I am against tyranny in any form, sir, and that includes Bonaparte. It seems to me that anyone who has himself proclaimed emperor is no real friend of the working man, no matter what his origins.”
“I agree with you, Lieutenant Aston, but I am afraid many of my peers wish for his defeat only out of fear that republicanism might spread to England. Thank God Wellington is a soldier and not a politician!”
“I have not served under him for very long, sir. Do you think he is capable of beating Bonaparte?”
“Old Hooky can if anyone can,” Belden replied with a smile. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that. I don’t think any of us has yet seen what he can do, for so far he has been on the defensive. But the time will come when he will start to push back and then the world will see what he is made of. And what the Spanish people will do to take back Spain!” Belden took a deep breath. “I tend to wax long and eloquent at times, Lieutenant,” he said, the passionate fire in his eyes dying down to a humorous warmth. “I believe those dispatches should be ready for you by now. Give my best to Captain Grant.”
“I will, and thank you for the wine, sir.”
“You are welcome, Lieutenant.” He pulled a watch out of his pocket. “I have only a quarter hour to dress for my appointment with a most charming senora,” he added, with a mischievous look in his eyes.
“I wish you a most enjoyable evening, then.”
After he had placed the dispatches in the hidden pocket sewn into his saddle pad, Val mounted and set off. As he sat huddled under his cloak that night watching the glowing coals of his campfire die down, he thought back to his meeting with Captain Belden. He was obviously passionate about the fate of his grandmother’s homeland. His dark and brooding countenance coupled with that mercurial temperament was sure to attract the ladies, Val thought with a grin. It was not surprising that he had a Spanish senora waiting for him!
* * * *
Val reached the encampment mid-afternoon the next day and, after delivering the papers to Captain Grant, sought out his own tent. He had just fallen back on his cot when he heard a call at the tent flap.
“Lieutenant Aston?”
Val groaned and sat up. “Who is it?”
“Private Ryan, sor, with a message from Mrs. Gordon.”
“Come in, then, Private.”
“Sorry to be disturbing ye, sor,” said the private, holding out a piece of vellum.
“Thank you, Private Ryan.”
The man just stood there and Val looked up at him sharply.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sor, but I’m to stay for an answer.”
It was a dinner invitation for that evening. “Bloody hell,” Val whispered, running his hand over his stubbled chin.
“Does that mean ye won’t be comin’, sor?”
“It means I’d better start getting ready now, Private Ryan. Tell Mrs. Gordon I am delighted and will see her at six sharp.”
“Yes, sor.”
Val flopped back on his cot. Oh, God, he was beyond exhaustion after the past few days. All he wanted was his bed, but now he would have to clean himself up for polite company, not to mention summon the energy for making conversation. If it wasn’t for Captain Grant’s orders, he would have refused. Well, perhaps not, he admitted to himself, for not only would he be doing his duty, he’d also be seeing Miss Gordon again.
* * * *
The Gordon family had been lucky to be billeted in a small whitewashed house in the nearby village. As Val walked down the road an hour later, washed, shaved, and in a clean uniform, he wondered who else would be present at the Gordons’ table and how he would begin to ferret out information that might lead to discovering who was selling information to the French.
The door was opened by Private Ryan, an apron wrapped around his waist. He acted as an orderly to the major and helped out with household chores when necessary.
“Come in, sor. Ye’re the first to arrive.”
Damn. He was familiar enough with polite society to know that it was not done to appear too eager, but his aunt Martha had drilled the importance of punctuality into him when he was young and it was a lesson hard to unlearn. He sat down on a small bench near the fire and was so fascinated by the green and blue flames that he didn’t hear anyone enter the room.
“Good evening, Lieutenant Aston.”
He jumped up, knocking over the bench, and cursed himself for a damned fool. “Good evening, Miss Gordon.” If she hadn’t already known he wasn’t born a gentleman, his early arrival and clumsiness would have alerted her!
Elspeth took a seat opposite him. “Do sit down, Lieutenant,” she said and he realized he was just standing there, turning his shako in his hand.
“We used apple wood tonight, Lieutenant.”
“Apple wood?”
“That is why the flames are green,” she explained politely.
“Oh, yes. Quite.”
“Mother will be right out and father is on his way.”
“I am a little early. I apologize.”
“Not at all, Lieutenant, you
were right on time. Ah, Private Ryan.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss, but ye’re needed in the kitchen.”
“Fetch the lieutenant a sherry, would you, Private? That is one good thing about being here, Lieutenant,” she said with a smile. “There is no difficulty obtaining good sherry and port. Would you excuse me for a moment?”
“Of course, Miss Gordon.”
* * * *
The sherry was excellent. Val was just beginning to feel more comfortable when he heard voices at the door.
“Could you get the door, Lieutenant?” Elspeth asked, poking her head in from the kitchen. “We are having a small crisis here!”
He opened it and there stood Lucas Stanton and George Trowbridge.
“I was sure this was the Gordons’, George,” said Stanton.
“Clearly not, if the riffraff are opening the door.”
Val, who was still holding his glass of sherry, was tempted to dash the liquor in Stanton’s face. He was able to restrain himself only with the greatest effort.
“Miss Gordon asked me to greet whoever was at the door, gentlemen,” he said coldly.
Both men gave him a look of distaste and, after scraping their boots, entered the room.
“Let me get you some sherry,” Val offered quickly, eager to be out of the room, and praying that by the time he got back, someone from the Gordon family would have arrived.
* * * *
“No, no, Lieutenant. Patrick will serve the drinks,” said Elspeth when he appeared in the kitchen. “It was bad enough you had to act the doorman. I’ll be out in a minute.” So Val returned empty-handed to find the men standing in front of the fire.
“Private Ryan will be out with the sherry in a moment, gentlemen.”
Stanton just looked at him with one eyebrow arrogantly raised. Thank God, just then Major Gordon came in, with James right behind.
“So, you’ve all had a chance to get acquainted, eh, lads?” the major said heartily, rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet. “It is getting damn cold out there. I don’t blame you for seeking out the fire, Stanton. But where are Elspeth and Peggy?”
“Here, Ian,” said Mrs. Gordon, who had just emerged from the back bedroom. She tucked her hand into her husband’s arm and led him over to the fire. “I am sorry, gentlemen, but my errands this afternoon took longer than I thought. I only got home just before you arrived, Lieutenant Aston,” she added with a warm smile at Val. “Now, where is Private Ryan with the sherry?”
“Here I am, marm.”
“Thank you, Private. And please send Elspeth out to us.”
“Yes, marm.”
Elspeth was patting her hair into place as she came into the parlor. “Well, now, we are all here, then,” said her father. “Let us have a toast. James, will you do the honors?”
“To Lord Wellington and the liberation of Portugal.”
“Hear, hear.”
* * * *
There was only time for one glass of sherry before they were summoned into the adjoining room for dinner, a fact for which Val was grateful. At least at the table there was something to do with one’s hands and Stanton’s and Trowbridge’s attitudes were not as noticeable.
There was little conversation during the first course, but as Private Ryan cleared the soup, he managed to spill some of the leftovers on Elspeth’s gown.
“Damned Paddy! Here, let me, Miss Gordon,” said George as he wet his napkin in his water glass and sponged awkwardly at her dress.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Elspeth said coolly. “Never mind, Patrick,” she reassured the private, who was standing there stammering out an apology. “It will not stain.”
“I don’t know how anyone expects us to win this war with almost half the troops damned bog-trotters,” said Stanton.
“I wouldn’t say that in front of Alex Wallace,” said James in deceptively mild tones. “His Connaught Rangers have proved themselves more than once in battle.”
“That may be, but most of them only know enough English to get by on the parade ground,” complained Trowbridge.
“Lieutenant Aston, I hear you have just returned from a visit to the guerrilleros,” said Major Gordon, neatly turning the subject. “What did you think of them?”
“I was very impressed by General Sanchez, Major.”
“Indeed, and so is Lord Wellington. I’ve seen the two of them cheek by jowl many’s the time at Freneida.”
“Did you run into Jack Belden?” asked James.
Val was silent for a moment and then replied, “I met no one who appeared to be English, James.”
“A good answer,” murmured James.
“It is all right, Lieutenant Aston,” the major reassured him. “All of us here know that Belden is with Sanchez.”
Val smiled. “I did meet a gentleman called Juan, sir, who spoke both English and Spanish fluently.”
“That’s Jack, all right. Looks like a Spanish don, all melancholy-like, but could charm the birds out of the trees.”
“They called him Jack of Hearts in London, didn’t they, Major Gordon?” commented George.
“Indeed they did, for he was as lucky at cards as he was playing at love,” replied the major with an appreciative chuckle.
“I don’t imagine the young ladies whose hearts he collected were that amused, Father,” chided Elspeth.
“And how did you hear of him, lassie?”
“Oh, his reputation reached us at school, Father,” she replied, her eyes twinkling. “Polly Ewing’s older sister was one of the young ladies he amused himself with. She was heartbroken when he turned his attentions elsewhere. Did you like him, Lieutenant?” Elspeth asked Val.
“I must confess I found him quite charming, Miss Gordon,” Val admitted with a grin.
“I must compliment you on this dinner,” James said to Mrs. Gordon, turning the subject.
“Why, thank you, James. Between Private and Mrs. Ryan helping us, we manage very well, don’t we, Ian?”
“Yes, and since we are here in the heart of Portugal, I have managed to obtain some very good port. Shall we return to the parlor, gentlemen?”
“I warn you, Elspeth and I will join you momentarily,” teased his wife.
* * * *
The port was everything the major had promised and between a full stomach, the warmth of the fire, and the wine, the atmosphere in the parlor was considerably more relaxed than at the beginning of the evening. Val, who was finding it hard to stay awake, did more listening than speaking as the conversation ranged from the superiority of the Ordenanza over Spanish troops to the French army’s ability to survive on practically nothing.
“It isn’t quite nothing, of course,” said James. “They pillage and steal whatever they can.”
“Surely our men would be better off if they were able to do the same,” George Trowbridge complained. “Lord Wellington’s orders sometimes seem unreasonable, especially when supplies from home are always delayed and, when they arrive, are always less than we need. What harm can stealing a chicken or two do?”
“We are here to liberate the people, not deprive them of what little they have,” said Val, joining the conversation.
“Well, I am not here to liberate bloody Papists and garlic eaters, I can assure you, Lieutenant Aston. I’m here to keep the Jacobins out of England.”
“Hear, hear, George,” said Stanton. “Only in a civilized country does everyone know his place.”
“Ah, but Wellington is nothing if not practical,” interjected Major Gordon smoothly. “To keep Boney out of England, we must have the support of our allies. They are hardly likely to support us if we are raping their women and stealing food out of their children’s mouths, don’t you agree? Now, George, I hear you just received a letter from your sister. How are things on our civilized little island?”
“Percival is hanging on by his fingernails, Major Gordon, from what my sister tells me. Though that is merely a postscript, don’t you know,” he added with a laugh.
“Her letters tend to be full of the latest gossip: who is bedding whom, that sort of thing. There was quite a scandal last month, she tells me.”
“Someone run off with another of Old Hooky’s sisters-in-law?” joked Stanton.
They were all silent for a moment, embarrassed for Lord Wellington, whose sister-in-law had caused such a scandal and kept him from summoning one of his best officers to the Peninsula.
“No, she says they finally raided some of those iniquitous clubs on Vere Street. It was the talk of the ton for a week. No one was caught in flagrante, unfortunately, but the damned mollies will not be flaunting themselves so openly.”
“Too bad we can’t press them all into the navy, eh, George? ‘Tis a hanging offense on board ship.”
“It is a hanging offense on land also,” James offered quietly.
“So it is, so it is, but it is harder to detect a catamite who mixes in Society, isn’t it, James?”
“Indeed, some are even married,” he commented with a tinge of sarcasm. “But here are the ladies, George. I think we should change our topic of conversation, don’t you?”
Val, who had been fighting a losing battle to keep from yawning every other breath, excused himself early. He made his way back to his tent slowly, in a fog of fatigue and port. When he reached his quarters, he fell into his cot fully dressed except for his boots, which had taken him forever to get off. He tried to reconstruct the conversations of the evening, but the talk was not that different from most soldiers’, whatever their rank: what were the French doing or planning to do, Wellington and his damned regulations, and what was the news from home. George and Lucas were fierce Tories, although that was no surprise, and would, of course, be a good cover to use. James acted as a sort of mediator, his even temper enabling him to stay cool no matter what the argument. Major Gordon hadn’t said much. But it would be ridiculous to suspect him, wouldn’t it? Val fell asleep thinking it would take a few more dinners before he gathered any useful information that would help in his investigation.
Chapter 7
Mrs. Margaret Casey was collecting dirty laundry from her officers’ tents. It was her favorite part of the job, for dirty laundry gave one almost as much information about a person as good gossip. “Which is why we have the expression about airing dirty laundry, Mags,” she told herself as she stripped Lieutenant Trowbridge’s cot. There were telltale stains on the bottom sheet, she noticed with a grin. She knew the lieutenant’s current favorite among the women had been with Corporal Biggins the last few nights, so it appeared the lieutenant had fallen into the habit of relieving his own desire. “Now, then, Mags,” she clucked to herself, “so does many a man or woman alone.” But she heartily disliked the lieutenant and it gave her a sense of satisfaction to know something that private about him.
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