The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware

by Dennis Wheatley

Q. What are they called?

  A. Napoleon, Murat and Manuel Godoy, the Prince of the Peace.

  Q. Which is the most wicked?

  A. They are all equally so.

  Q. What are the French?

  A. Apostate Christians, turned heretics.

  Q. What punishment does a Spaniard deserve who fails in his duty?

  A. The death and infamy of a traitor.

  Q. Is it a sin to kill a Frenchman?

  A. No, my father, heaven is gained by killing one of those heretical dogs.’

  The Marshal laid the paper down. ‘That shows you the hydra-headed monster to which we are opposed If once it was discovered that you are a Frenchman, these fiends would roast and eat you. No, Breuc. You must stay here as one of my A.D.C.s. Since you understand their infernal tongue, you can be of use to me interrogating prisoners and translating captured documents.’

  Roger agreed and thanked the Marshal. The interview being over, he then went off to find quarters and secure for himself a suitable uniform.

  In the next few days he learned from his brother officers how matters had been going in other parts of Spain. There were several large Spanish armies and, whenever they joined battle with the French, they were always defeated. But the survivors faded away into the mountains where they re-formed to attack again; and they showed great courage in defending their cities, often refusing to surender until half the citizens had been killed or wounded and a great part of the buildings reduced to rubble.

  The previous autumn, Soult had invaded Andalusia. He now had his headquarters in Seville and had subdued the whole of southern Spain except for Cadiz. The red-faced, self-opinionated, ex-drummer boy Victor was besieging it. But, as the city was situated at the end of a nine-mile-long spit of land, without the assistance of a fleet there was little hope of taking it.

  In the north-west Ney had earlier made a joint plan of campaign with Soult. When attacked by a large Spanish army, instead of coming to Ney’s assistance, Soult had marched off to the south. Declaring that he had been betrayed and abandoned, Ney had evacuated Galicia and withdrawn his army into the plain of Leon. Thereupon the Emperor had ordered him home. A heartrending scene had followed, when Ney had had to say farewell to his famous Sixth Corps, which had been formed in 1804 at Boulogne as part of the Grande Armée that was to invade England, and which he had commanded ever since. But Ney was now back in Spain, commanding a corps under Masséna, as also was Roger’s old friend Androche Junot, Duc d’Abrantès, who had failed so lamentably to hold Lisbon.

  In the north-west, St. Cyr had been sent to subdue Catalonia. He had defeated the Spanish armies in the field, then laid siege to Gerona, the great fortress that blocked the eastern road through the Pyrenees from France to Spain. With great gallantry it had held out for six months. To take it cost the French twenty thousand men and when it did fall they were still harassed by clouds of enemies.

  Angered by St. Cyr’s lack of success, the Emperor had recalled him and sent Augereau to take over his command. Augerau had hung every Spaniard he could lay his hands on, in the hope of intimidating that rebellious people. His ruthless measures had proved useless. The Catalans continued to fight on and so many of the Marshal’s enterprises failed that Napoleon had recalled him in disgrace and replaced him with Macdonald. But the Marshal who had recently won his baton at Wagram fared little better.

  Only further south in Aragon had the French done well. In that province General Suchet had reduced the people to obedience by initiating a policy entirely contrary to that of all the other French Generals. He cleared the country of brigands, who blackmailed the peasantry into maintaining them, paid a fair price for everything he commandeered, suppressed corruption, refused to allow King Joseph to steal works of art in that part of Spain, gave Spaniards a say in local government, began to rebuild Saragossa, restored its bullring and endowed hospitals and orphanages in the city.

  But in every other part of Spain French armies were cut off, bogged down, half-starving and unceasingly harassed. Over three hundred thousand men were locked up there and only their numbers prevented their annihilation.

  It was early on the morning of March 3rd that Masséna called his senior officers together and glumly informed them that they must now face the fact that their campaign had proved a failure. He said that he had appealed again and again for reinforcements, which would have given him sufficient strength to break through the lines of Torres Vedras; but the Emperor had not sent them. An alternative hope had been that Marshal Soult would bring his army up from the south, so that they might combine in an attack on Lisbon; but Soult also had failed them. Masséna then praised the extraordinary endurance his officers and men had shown all through the terrible winter months. Finally he said that, having been reduced to such straits, he could ask no further sacrifices of them, so he had decided to retreat and preparations were to be made to move in two days’ time.

  Roger had hoped to secure longer warning of the Marshal’s intentions. Now, with less than forty-eight hours before the retreat began, it was imperative that he should get the news to Wellington with the minimum of delay. But he could not simply mount a horse and ride off toward Lisbon. He had to have a pretext for leaving the headquarters, and he had already thought of one which might serve the purpose.

  After the meeting, Masséna returned to his office. Roger followed him, asked permission to make a proposal and, on receiving it, said, ‘Your Highness will naturally have foreseen that, as soon as milord Wellington learns that you are withdrawing, he will come out from Lisbon and fall upon our rearguard?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied the Marshal tartly. ‘The man is not a fool.’

  ‘No, and therefore, Marshal, he would not dare to throw his whole force into the pursuit if Marshal Soult was coming up from the south to take him in the rear.’

  ‘True. And I would to God it were so; but it is not.’

  ‘It might be, if you sent a despatch to him, telling him of your difficult situation and asking for his help.’

  Masséna shrugged. ‘The Duc de Dalmatia has no love for me; otherwise he would have come to my assistance weeks ago. That apart, to ensure a despatch reaching him I’d have to detach a whole regiment of cavalry as escort for my courier; and I’ve no mind to do that.’

  ‘It could be attempted in another way,’ Roger suggested. ‘If I put off this uniform that was found for me and instead put on the civilian clothes in which I arrived here, by passing myself off to the Portuguese as a Spaniard, I believe I could get through.’

  With his one eye, Masséna stared at him. ‘Then it is not without reason that people speak of you as le brave Breuc. Since you volunteer for this dangerous mission, I gladly accept your offer.’ Dipping his feather pen in the inkpot, the Marshal at once set about writing a despatch to Soult.

  As Roger watched him, he was smiling to himself. The countryside for many miles outside Lisbon was under the observation of the British and their allies; so he had little to fear and, while he had on occasion acted with great courage, it was largely through such deceptions, when he was believed to be facing danger that did not exist, that he had earned the soubriquet of le brave Breuc.

  Half an hour later he was on his way, riding hard through the deserted no-man’s-land. By midday, when he was within five miles of the lines of Torres Vedras he saw a vedette of British Lancers. Turning his horse toward them, he hailed their Captain and two minutes later said to him:

  ‘Sir, I have information of the highest importance for milord Wellington. Marshal Masséna is breaking camp and the day after tomorrow will begin his retreat. My horse is no longer in a state to travel fast. I pray you carry this news to Lisbon with all possible speed. Tell His Lordship that it comes from the man against whom the de Pombals threaten to bring an action. It is for that reason I do not want to enter the city. Be good enough also to tell him that I’ll be found at the church of Father Joao not far from here, and that I am anxious to hear as soon as possible from Mr. Lessor, the Legation
lawyer.’

  The young Captain instantly realised the importance of the news. Telling his sergeant to carry on with the patrol and taking only an orderly with him, he set off at a gallop.

  Now walking his horse, Roger covered the last mile to the church and, early in the afternoon, went through the ruin down into the crypt. Father Joao was there and made him welcome, producing a bottle of wine, bread and meat. Then, when Roger said that he would like to pass the night in the crypt, the chubby little priest took from a chest a palliasse for him to sleep on.

  Tired after his ride, he slept until the evening, then joined his host in another meal. Soon afterwards, the A.D.C. who had first brought Roger there arrived, and with him was Mr. Lessor. The A.D.C. conveyed Wellington’s warmest thanks for the valuable service Roger had rendered. Then Mr. Lessor took him apart and told him the result of his negotiations with the de Pombal lawyers.

  Dona Cristina had flatly rejected the offer of a bribe, but it was possible that an accommodation could be arrived at with the Senhora de Arahna. She was prepared to withdraw the accusation if Roger would forego his inheritance in favour of her son, the new Marquis.

  Roger did not hesitate for long. Until de Queircoz had drawn his attention to the fact that he was the heir to Lisala’s fortune, that had not even occurred to him. He had ample money for his needs, so was not being called upon to face a crippling loss and, in any case, he had meant to make over the de Pombal estates to the family.

  He therefore agreed. But, wary of falling into another trap, he said he would not enter Lisbon until the transaction had been concluded, and he wished to be present himself when the Senhora signed the document stating that she had now received proof that it was not he who had murdered her brother; so she and her lawyer must come out to the church and sign it there.

  As she would not be in any danger so close to the lines, Mr. Lessor said he saw no reason why she should not do as Roger wished. He and the A.D.C. then rode back to Lisbon.

  The following afternoon he returned, accompanied by the Senhora, de Queircoz and her lawyer. De Queircoz, having been robbed of his revenge, only bowed stiffly and regarded Roger with silent hostility; but the Senhora, having promised the duenna a handsome pension to lie, knew that Roger was innocent and she had succeeded in securing a great fortune for her son, so she greeted him very civilly.

  When the terms of the documents were discussed, the Senhora pointed out that it was not sufficient for Roger to renounce the inheritance, since Lisala had been carrying his child. He must also do so on the child’s behalf, as otherwise it would become the next heir.

  Roger had already thought of that, so he agreed and had the deed drawn up to read that he renounced his claim on behalf of himself and the heirs of his body.

  The papers were signed, witnessed and exchanged. Then, with a cynical little smile he bowed and said:

  ‘Now, Senhora, I have some information for you which will, I fear, somewhat distress you. Lisala’s child was duly born at Erfurt. It was a son. I took him and Lisala’s old nurse back to Paris and made arrangements for their support and wellbeing at a farm outside the city.

  ‘The boy was a fine, healthy infant so, no doubt, he still thrives there. As soon as it is possible to do so I will arrange for him and his nurse to come to you here in Lisbon. To spare you an unpleasant surprise at the child’s appearance, I must now tell you that he is a black piccaninny. And with the best will in the world I am incapable of begetting a Negro.

  ‘He is not my son. His father was your slave, Baob, to whom Lisala shamelessly gave herself when in Brazil. I have renounced the inheritance on behalf of myself and the heirs of my body. The boy is no heir of mine, but he is Lisala’s. So he, and not your son, will now get the de Pombal fortune.’

  13

  The Forwardness of Lady Mary Ware

  Furious at having been outwitted, the Senhora and her companions left the crypt. Shortly afterwards, having thanked Father Joao for his hospitality Roger, accompanied by Mr. Lessor, followed them back into Lisbon.

  Although the village was less than two miles outside the lines, it took the best part of half an hour to reach them, because Wellington’s army was at last leaving behind the great earthworks that, during the winter months, had served to protect it so well. Along the road advanced a steady stream of British and Portuguese infantry, guns, limbers, wagons and, behind each contingent, the little band of male and female camp-followers that all Generals detested, because they embarrassed troop movements, but could not get rid of without risking mutiny from their men.

  As, time after time, Roger had to turn his mount aside on to the verge of the road, he noted with pleasure the greatly superior appearance of these troops to the ones he had left on the morning of the previous day. The uniforms of the French were threadbare, many of them had been wearing patched coats, broken boots and battered shakos. Their faces were thin from insufficient food and their eyes lacked lustre; whereas Wellington’s men showed ample evidence of his care of them. Their uniforms were of good English cloth, with little sign of wear, their belts were pipe-clayed and their equipment brightly polished. They were ruddy-faced and in excellent health, owing to ample and regular rations. As they marched, they were singing or bandying jests.

  Arrived at last in the city, Roger parted cordially with Mr. Lessor and headed for the Legation. As he approached it he was thinking how pleasant it would be to see little Lady Mary again, and it was only then that it crossed his mind that, during many of his idle moments while at Masséna’s headquarters, his thoughts had turned to her.

  The Minister, his family and guests had just risen from dinner and were in the big salon. As Roger was announced, Mary was standing just inside the doorway. Her green eyes lighting up, she gave a cry of delight, impulsively ran forward, laid a hand on Roger’s arm, went up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.

  Lady Stuart was nearby, talking to General Picton. Raising her eyebrows, she exclaimed not unkindly, ‘Really, Mary! What unmaidenly behaviour.’

  Mary’s cheeks went scarlet. But Roger covered her confusion by crying gaily, ‘’Tis an occasion for kissing and rejoicing. I am now cleared of that false charge that was to have been brought against me.’ Then he stepped up to the Minister’s buxom wife and kissed her.

  Next moment Sir Charles was shaking him heartily by the hand and saying, ‘Mr. Lessor looked in on me this midday, to inform me that your affair was as good as settled. It must be a great relief and we are all delighted for you. But you were not in time for dinner, so must be hungry.’ Looking quickly round, his eye lit on his niece and he said to her:

  ‘Deborah, my dear, take Mr. Brook into the dining room and see that he is served with anything he fancies; then tell Smithson to have a room prepared for him for the night.’

  Mary joined Deborah and Roger as they moved away. In the dining room the table had just been cleared, but the footmen were setting out a cold buffet on the sideboard for later in the evening. With a girl on either side of him, Roger tucked into a game pie and slices of York ham. It was the first good meal he had had since leaving Lisbon, and he happily contrasted it with the meagre fare at Masséna’s headquarters.

  Between mouthfuls he answered the girls’ eager questions. They had no idea that he had been on a secret mission, but supposed he had been lying low outside the lines while Mr. Lessor did his best to prevent a charge of murder from being brought against him. When he told them how it had been settled to the discomfiture of the de Pombals, they both went into gales of laughter.

  On returning to the salon they found that Lord Wellington had come to take leave of the Minister, as on the following day he was to take the field against Masséna.

  On seeing Roger, he greeted him simply as an acquaintance whom he had not seen for some days. But ten minutes later, without being observed, he managed to wink at him, then turn his head in the direction of a small salon that led off the large one. Roger skilfully brought to an end a conversation he was having with a naval
Captain and sauntered into the small room. As on most occasion when there was not a large party at the Legation, it was empty. Wellington joined him there, closed the door and said:

  ‘Mr. Brook, I cannot thank you enough for the great service you have rendered us. Now I am anxious to have a long talk with you, as there must be much valuable information you can give me about the condition of Masséna’s army and other matters you must have become acquainted with while at his headquarters.’

  Roger bowed. ‘I had had it in mind, my lord, to write a full report tonight, and wait upon you with it in the morning.’

  The General shook his fine head. ‘Nay, I’d liefer have it from your own lips; for there are many questions I wish to ask you. I shall be leaving shortly. I pray you slip away soon after, and we’ll drink a bottle of port in my private quarters.’

  Three-quarters of an hour later, they were closeted in a small, map-lined study adjacent to Wellington’s bedroom, a decanter of port between them. For half an hour Roger passed on all he had seen and heard whilst at Santarém, and another half-hour went by answering the questions the keen-eyed General shot at him. At length, refilling their glasses for the third time, Wellington said:

  ‘The parlous condition to which Masséna’s troops are reduced makes it tempting to launch an all-out attack in the hope of overwhelming them. But his regiments must still contain many hard-bitten veterans of Bonaparte’s past campaigns. Even in adversity they can be counted on to put up a stiff resistance. Moreover, you tell me that Masséna has Ney and Junot with him. The first is one of the most able Marshals and the other at least a courageous leader. So, in this case, discretion may prove the better part of valour. Britain has only one army in the Peninsula, whereas the French have six. Should I be defeated and driven into the sea, we’d be back again where we were in 1807, and Bonaparte the master of the whole continent. By following Masséna up closely, we should be able to inflict heavy losses on him, with little loss to ourselves. That, I think, would be sounder than to risk facing him in a pitched battle.’