The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware

by Dennis Wheatley

  Roger smiled. ‘I am no General, my lord; but in you and your army are Britain’s one hope; so, had I your responsibility, that is certainly the course I would pursue.’

  Nodding, Wellington said, ‘And now, Mr. Brook, regarding yourself. You have been charged by Masséna to carry a despatch to Soult.’

  ‘Oh, come, milord,’ Roger laughed. ‘Surely you do not expect me to deliver it? ’Tis an appeal for help and, if responded to, could seriously jeopardise your own plans.’

  ‘True. But you tell me that Masséna and Soult are bitterly jealous of each other, so it is unlikely that the latter will come to his colleague’s aid. In any case, if it is not delivered for a week, it would be too late for him to intervene effectively.’

  ‘What, then, is to be gained by delivering it at all?’

  ‘It would provide a reason for your arriving at his headquarters.’

  ‘My lord,’ Roger said with a frown. ‘When we first talked of my former activities, I made it plain that I was most averse to risking my life again carrying out secret missions; so I pray you to excuse me.’

  Wellington leaned forward, his bright eyes held Roger’s and his voice was earnest. ‘Mr. Brook, you have already rendered me a great service. You have it in your power to do me another, and no-one else enjoys the unique dual personality that enables you to talk on intimate terms with French Army Commanders. By going to Soult you could, I am certain, find out his intentions. If he means to remain in Seville, well and good. But should he march north, even belatedly, although he would be too late to aid Masséna, he could cut my communications with Lisbon. Warned in time I could still pursue Masséna, but not with my whole force. I’d detach a division under Hill or Picton to guard my rear and hold off Soult until I had been able to retire to the safety of my base here. I ask this not only for myself, but for our country.’

  Roger sighed, then gave a pale smile. ‘How can I refuse, my lord? So be it, then. But last time I had a very adequate reason for leaving Lisbon. What excuse can I give to Sir Charles and others for again disappearing beyond the lines?’

  After a moment’s thought, Wellington replied, ‘Since you speak French, Portuguese and Spanish fluently, you could become a useful member of my staff. I will appoint you one of my civilian secretaries, have you given some work which will keep you employed for a week, and orders that, when it is completed, you should join me in the field. But instead, of course, you will proceed to Seville.’

  So once more the die was cast and, none too happily, Roger made his way back to the Legation.

  In the morning he told the Stuarts of his appointment. Mary was torn between pride that her cavalier should have elected to take an active part in the war, and disappointment that he would not be able to accompany her and Deborah again on their afternoon drives. But she was greatly cheered when Sir Charles insisted that Roger should continue to occupy a room at the Legation, which would enable her to see quite a lot of him.

  Roger then reported at Wellington’s headquarters. The General had already left, but before leaving he had briefed his chief secretary, who gave Roger a pile of Portuguese documents to translate. He found the work laborious and dull, but as the secretary was unaware of the secret reason for Roger’s appointment, there was no avoiding it; and he was somewhat consoled by being able to enjoy Mary’s vivacious company in the evenings.

  On Sunday the Stuarts made up a party with several friends to drive out and picnic at Cintra. Deborah was not well, so was unable to accompany them, with the result that, after the meal, Roger for once had Mary on her own for well over an hour. Together they strolled through the wood of cork trees that covered the big hill dominating the plain. Having come upon a mossy bank, they sat down on it. Presently she said in a low voice:

  ‘Mr. Brook, since you lost your wife, have you ever thought of marrying again?’

  For some time past he had sensed that she was falling in love with him, and instinct told him now that she had asked the question to give him an opening. Anxious to spare her feelings, he smiled at her, shook his head and lied:

  ‘No, my dear, I am too restless a type to settle down to a domestic life. Were I a much younger man, and not set in my ways, I’d propose to you; for you will make a sweet wife for some lucky fellow. But I am old enough to be your father and, after a few months, you would find me impossible to live with. So that is entirely out of the question.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she murmured a little sadly. ‘But I believe I could make you happy.’

  He took her hand and pressed it. ‘You could indeed, were I able to shed ten or fifteen years. But, since I cannot, we must just remain good friends.’

  For a moment she was silent. Suddenly she laughed, turned her face up to him and said, ‘Then that’s reason enough for you to kiss me.’

  Laughing in reply, he took her in his arms and put his lips to hers; but it was a very gentle kiss, quite unlike those he normally gave to women.

  Her arms went round his neck and she pressed herself against him. He could feel her heart pounding and her lips began to move under his. Greatly tempted as he was to respond, he quickly controlled himself. Taking his mouth from hers, he kissed her on the ear, the hair and the nose. Then he held her away from him, shook his head and said:

  ‘You are a wicked little baggage. Had I been a younger man, you might have led me to seduce you. Then there would have been tears and a sad ending to our friendship. Come now, put your pretty bonnet straight, and we’ll rejoin the others.’

  For a moment she looked chastened, then she pouted and said, ‘I think it horrid in you to have formed such an opinion of me.’

  Laughing, he pulled her to her feet, dusted off some fallen leaves that were clinging to her dress and took her by the arm. Within a few minutes she was smiling again and chattering away as merrily as ever.

  On the morning of March 11th, Roger said good-bye to her and the Stuarts and set off for Seville. For several days past, after the long months of stagnation, Lisbon had been in a fever of excitement as news from the front came in. The two armies were in close contact and Masséna was retreating; but his retreat showed no sign of becoming a rout. Under their veteran leaders, his divisions were taking advantage of every favourable piece of ground to fight rearguard actions. But they were severely hampered by having lost so many horses, and those that survived were too weak to charge; so the British cavalry were having a field day, cutting down small bodies of French, or taking them prisoner wherever they came upon them.

  As Roger crossed the few miles between Lisbon and the now abandoned lines of Torres Vedras, he encountered several small batches of these tattered, woebegone captives, who had hardly the strength left to continue marching, being brought in. While in the opposite direction, a constant stream of reinforcements and supply wagons was moving up toward the front. Beyond the lines the stream flowed on north-eastward, but he turned away to the south-east and, not long afterwards, was riding through deserted country.

  By road Seville was a good two hundred and fifty miles away and the greater part of the journey lay through mountainous regions. As he could not hope to secure remounts, he expected it to take him the best part of a week, and the possibility of his being able to buy meals was dubious, so he had with him a good supply of food.

  During the whole of the first day he was still in the great area of middle Portugal, where the earth had been scorched, so he saw only a few peasants in the distance. That night he slept in a deserted farmhouse. It was not until the evening of the second day that he entered a village which was still inhabited. There, to account for the foreign accent with which he spoke Portuguese, he said that he was a Spaniard from the Basque country in the far north. The man to whom he spoke accepted his statement without question and, in one of the few stone houses, he ate a meal of stew, then slept the night there.

  For some weeks past the weather had been mainly good, with many days of spring sunshine. But when he woke next morning, he found that it had broken. Rain
was teeming down, and he spent a miserable day alternately trotting and walking his horse up and down steep gradients, where the indifferent roads had become muddy rivers. Still worse, when twilight fell he was up in the mountains and, although he rode doggedly on until it was almost dark, he failed to come upon a village. Soaked to the skin, he spent a miserable night huddled in a cave.

  Next morning it was still raining, but by midday he entered a small town where he was able to get a hot meal. That evening he crossed the frontier into Spain. Again the country was mountainous and so sparsely inhabited that night came down before he could hope to reach a village; so he had to doss down in a charcoal burner’s hut.

  On his fifth day he entered another town, and there gave himself out to be a Portuguese from the region of the Douro. A good meal at an inn partially restored his spirits, and that night he was lucky, for he came upon a quite large country house surrounded by a sadly-neglected estate. Its owner, an old gentleman, received him courteously—accepted his statement that he was a Portuguese wine-shipper whose business had been ruined by Napoleon’s embargo on trading with England and that he was on his way to his sister who had married a citizen of Seville—then said he would be happy to have his company for supper.

  Roger then learned that his host had sent his family into Seville, and was living in the house with a few servants only to protect it from being looted and occupied by bandits. Over the meal they talked of the miseries brought about by the war and both drank to the eternal damnation of Napoleon. That night Roger again enjoyed the luxury of sleeping between sheets.

  Late on the afternoon of the sixth day he sighted a foraging party of French Hussars. All through his journey he had feared to encounter a band of brigands who would have robbed, stripped and probably killed him. Immensely relieved, he rode up to the troop and announced himself as Colonel le Comte de Breuc, carrying an urgent despatch from the Prince of Essling to the Duke of Dalmatia, and asked to be at once conducted to Soult’s headquarters. The officer detached his sergeant and two men as escort for him and, an hour later, Roger was riding into Seville.

  There he found Soult’s army in a very different state from Masséna’s. Groups of well-turned-out officers and men were strolling about the city, ogling the señoritas—who did not appear to share the almost universal hatred of the Spanish for the French—or sitting drinking in the wine shops. Their Commander-in-Chief had taken over the splendid Alcazar Palace, and Roger was led through its courtyards, with their beautifully-carved Moorish arches, grilles and fountains, to the room of one of Soult’s adjutants. An hour later, he was ushered in to the grey-haired Marshal.

  Roger explained his having arrived in Portugal by the same story he had told Masséna, adding that, after spending a few days at the Prince’s headquarters, he had volunteered to carry a despatch to Seville. He then gave the news that hunger had forced Masséna to fall back on country where his troops could obtain supplies, and handed the despatch over.

  Soult broke the seals, read the appeal for aid, casually tossed it on to a heap of papers and said, ‘His Highness of Essling has my sympathy, but I fear there is no way in which I can assist him. Some months ago I received an order from the Emperor to co-operate with him by moving against Lisbon from the south. But His Majesty had no idea of conditions here, and his order was quite impractical. You know his temper, Breuc. He would become berserk with rage if I abandoned southern Spain, and deprive me of my command. Holding it down is no small commitment, and it was as much as I dared do to spare Mortier’s corps for an advance into Estremadura. That, at least, was a valuable contribution, as we defeated a Spanish army there on February 19th, then laid siege to Badajoz, which fell a week ago today.’

  Badajoz was the most important city between Seville and the Portuguese frontier, but many miles north-east of the direct route to Lisbon. Knowing Soult and Masséna’s dislike of each other, Roger guessed that the former had deliberately selected this, diversion as an excuse not to go to the tatter’s assistance; but he smoothly remarked:

  ‘My congratulations on this fine achievement, Marshal. No doubt you felt it essential to reduce that great fortress, before permitting the Duc de Treviso to turn west and advance towards Lisbon.’

  ‘Exactly. It would have been most rash to allow Mortier to march direct into Portugal, leaving Badajoz untaken on his flank. The big garrison there might have made a sortie and severed his communications with my main army. And now, Breuc, I take it you will remain here with us.’

  It being impossible for Roger to reply that, having found out that Soult had no intention of going to Massérta’s aid, he himself wanted to get back to Lisbon as soon as he could, he appeared to hesitate as he said, ‘I hardly know, Marshal; but I suppose that having delivered His Highness of Essling’s despatch, I ought to endeavour to rejoin him.’

  Soult put up a protesting hand. ‘No, no, Breuc. I could not allow it. You have taken risk enough in making your way alone through hostile country all the way from Santarém. To expose yourself again to the risk of being killed and eaten by our barbarous enemies would be madness. And, if you did get back to the Prince, in his present plight you could do him no earthly good. Report to my Chief of Staff, du Maurier. He will have a uniform found for you and provide you with work suited to your considerable abilities. I shall be glad to have you on my staff.’

  Having expected that he would have to remain for some time at Soult’s headquarters, Roger reconciled himself to doing so and, after thanking the Marshal, went in search of his Chief of Staff. Du Maurier, a fat and pleasant man, took him to the Mess for a meal, then allocated to him a room on the upper floor of the Palace in which, tired out after his long day, he went early to bed.

  Next morning a suitable uniform was brought to him, and du Maurier told him that, as he spoke Spanish, he was to sit on a tribunal that Soult had set up to hear complaints by the citizens of Seville against abuses by the troops.

  His new work proved a revelation. Normally, all Napoleon’s Marshals treated the people of conquered cities extremely ill, looting their houses and allowing the troops the greatest licence in bullying the men and forcing the women. Soult was particularly notorious for this unscrupulous behaviour. He was known to be the greatest looter of them all, and had accumulated a collection of paintings, church ornaments and jewels said to be worth many millions. Yet, by his orders, the tribunal was heavily biased in favour of the Spaniards. Fines, imprisonment and demotions were freely inflicted on officers and men of his army.

  Roger no longer wondered at having found the people of Seville so well disposed toward their French rulers, and he soon learned from his brother officers the reason for this new policy of appeasement. Unlike that of Suchet in Valencia, it was no disinterested move aimed at restoring order and justice in conquered territory. Apparently, after having butchered half the inhabitants of Oporto, and taken that city, Soult had nurtured the dream of turning northern Portugal into a kingdom for himself; but Wellington had driven him out of it. Now that he had become the overlord of southern Spain, in spite of the fact that Napoleon’s brother, Joseph, was still in Madrid and, legally at least, King of Spain, the Marshal was planning to make himself King of Andalusia.

  On capturing Seville, he had set about the business of confiscating works of art—particularly Old Masters, which were his special delight—with his usual gusto. But, recently, he had had second thoughts, for he had decided that the most satisfactory way of becoming a permanent ruler was to induce the people to ask him to become their King. With this in view, he had returned to the churches all the gold plate, reliquaries and chalices he had stolen, and instituted the tribunal as a means of winning popularity at no cost to himself.

  Naturally, Roger derived considerable pleasure from righting the wrongs done to unfortunate Spaniards; and, although he had been in Seville before, he enjoyed visiting again the sights of interest and strolling in the beautiful garden of the Alcazar. One afternoon, when he was walking in it with a brother officer, bet
ween the trees proceeding down a cross-path he caught sight of a surprising figure.

  It was apparently a Captain of Hussars in a beautifully-tailored, sky-blue uniform; but the skin-tight smalls covered the plump bottom of a woman, the gold lace of the tunic protruded in a most suggestive curve, and beneath the busby dark ringlets fell to the epaulettes on the shoulders. Halting in his tracks, Roger exclaimed:

  ‘Sacré bleu! Just look at that. Am I seeing things, or are we now giving commissions to young women?’

  His companion laughed. ‘Have you not seen her about the headquarters before? She is Anita, a lovely young Spaniard. Our Marshal is a great one for the women, and summons a fine variety of them to his bed. But Anita is a special case. She is his permanent mistress, and accompanies him everywhere. By putting her into uniform he has saved her the inconvenience inseparable from wearing female clothes when she rides out with him on reconnaissance.’

  After a week in Seville, Roger decided that the time had come when he could disappear without arousing suspicion that he had left deliberately.

  For the sake of exercise most of his brother staff officers went for a ride outside the city, either early in the morning or in the evening, and there had been one occasion when one of them had failed to return, presumably through having ridden too far afield and fallen into the hands of the enemy or marauders.

  There was only one difficulty in carrying out a deception on these lines. The officers usually rode out in parties and rarely alone; but Roger had thought of a way in which he could rid himself of a single companion.

  On the afternoon of the 24th he asked a Major Theophile Simplon, with whom he had ridden out before, if he would care to go for a ride with him. Simplon accepted and it was agreed that they should meet in the stables in half an hour’s time. Roger got there well in advance of the Major, taking with him, wrapped up in paper, his civilian clothes. Telling the groom on duty that he would saddle his own horse, he spread the folded coat and breeches on the animal’s back and strapped the saddle over them. Thai he stuffed his soft-brimmed hat into one saddle holster and into the other a packet of cold meat that he had taken from the Mess side table when no-one was in the room.