The last hour’s ride was a silent misery. Both Camilla and Chloe were proficient riders, and had had plenty of practice on mule-back over the rough Portuguese roads, but neither of them had realised what an awkward addition little Edward would be to the party. Even asleep, he was a problem to carry; now that he was awake, crying and wriggling, it was all that they could do to hold him and still keep their beasts on the road. “Truly, my angel,” Chloe exclaimed as she handed him back to his mother, “if I did not adore you, I should be in a fair way to thinking you a little pest.”
She had spoken in English, and Camilla was beginning a reply in the same language when a warning exclamation from their guide silenced her. Absorbed in the handover of the baby, they had neither of them noticed that they had come to the outskirts of a village. It was an encouraging sight, for the crossroads at which they were to meet Mr. Smith was only a mile or so further. But just as Camilla and Chloe were exchanging glances of mutual congratulation, their guide’s hand on the knotted rope that served as bridle halted Camilla’s mule. Without a word he turned its head towards a filthy alleyway leading past a group of hovels and away from the Tagus. A fierce glance silenced the question that rose to Camilla’s lips, and she and Chloe followed him without a word down the stinking lane and into the untidy orange grove to which it led. There, at last, he let them come up with him. “You did not see them?” he asked.
“Who?”
“The French soldiers.” He spat expressively. “The village was full of them. I hope it does not mean they have caught Dom Smith. But it certainly means we must avoid the village. How long it will take to go round it, God knows. I only hope Dom Smith will wait—if he is not already in French hands.”
The next hour or so was pure nightmare. Camilla and Chloe had thought the riding over country roads bad enough, but now they were following mere goat tracks. Brambles slashed their faces; even the sure-footed mules slipped and slid on the rocky ground; carrying the baby was so difficult that when their guide, with an impatient exclamation, snatched him from Camilla, she was simply grateful. When they finally returned, down a precipitous slope, to the little road on the far side of the village, they were already two hours late for their rendezvous. Their guide’s face was a picture of gloom; Camilla and Chloe were both near tears and the baby, in Chloe’s arms now, wailed on the despondent note of exhaustion.
A sudden turning of the road showed them the crossroads—and a small group of French soldiers camped at it. They had been seen already; there was nothing for it but to go on, with sinking hearts and as bold an appearance as possible. The soldiers, they now saw, were grouped around a tattered figure and his dejected mule. Camilla and Chloe exchanged quick glances. Impossible that this vagabond, who was holding forth to a French officer in rapid Portuguese, could be Mr. Smith, the British agent. But he had seen them, and broke, all of a sudden, into a loud wail of thanksgiving to all his patron saints, whom he named in exhaustive catalogue, while the French officer listened impassively. “Mary, Mother of God, and all the saints be praised,” he concluded, when he was sure that Camilla and Chloe were within earshot, “here, at long last, are my beloved wife, my sister, my child.” He ran towards them, mule and Frenchmen alike following him closely, embraced Camilla in a cloud of garlic and salt cod, and then, to her utter amazement, gave her a resounding slap across the face. “And that,” he said, “is for keeping me waiting. As for you, neighbour Tomas, I’ll not ask you to escort my wife again! Two hours I have waited for you, here in the sun,” and he turned on their guide in such a threatening manner that the man kicked his mule into a gallop and disappeared around the corner in a cloud of dust.
The French soldiers found all this highly entertaining, and laughed still harder when their prisoner, for such he obviously was, fetched Chloe a box on the ears, and then snatched the baby from her and covered it with dirty kisses, calling it his lamb, his only son, his treasure, his hope in heaven. Handing little Edward back to Camilla, he turned to the French officer and broke into what seemed an endless tirade against the whole of womankind, describing their shortcomings in such a wealth of unprintable detail that Camilla and Chloe were grateful for the dirt that hid their blushes, and for their limited Portuguese, which spared them full comprehension of what he was saying.
At last, the officer grew impatient. “Enough,” he said. “I am sure your wife and sister are everything you say, and more so,” he spared them a quick, contemptuous glance, “but we have work to do. Away with you, and do not let me find you loitering about the highways again.” He gave him a push that sent him staggering into the filthy ditch, shouted an order to his men, and wheeled his horse back in the direction of the village.
The man lay in three inches of stinking water and watched them go, muttering a mixture of prayers and curses, while Camilla and Chloe sat speechless on their mules. Of their guide, there was no sign; he had taken his cue and vanished. At last, when all the Frenchmen were out of earshot, the man crawled out of the ditch, shook himself, and approached Camilla and Chloe with a smile that gave a sparkle to grey eyes and revealed startling white teeth in his filthy face. “Well,” he said, “what news, today, in Setubal?”
“None worth the hearing.” Camilla, who had noticed with fury that he had contrived to filthy the baby’s face all over, controlled her voice as best she might. “Is it really you?” she went on, still in Portuguese.
“Yes, and never more glad to see anyone. If you had not kept your tryst, I should have been a dead man. I apologise to you both,” he made an awkward peasant’s bob, “for the blows I gave you, but you must admit that they saved you questions I was afraid you might not be able to answer. There is nothing more husbandly than a few matrimonial slaps. And now, we must lose no more time.” And without more ado, he mounted his bedraggled mule and led them at a brisk pace away from the village. They exchanged despondent glances and followed. He might, despite appearances, be an Englishman, but he seemed no more considerate a guide than their Portuguese one. Too exhausted to make the effort of speech in Portuguese, they followed him as best they might, drooping in the saddle. But their mules, too, were tired. They found themselves dropping further and further behind their guide. At last he disappeared into a little wood and they exchanged a glance of mute despair. Could he have decided, already, that they were too much of a liability, and abandoned them? They did the best they could to kick their unresponsive mules into a trot and reached the wood with sinking hearts, only to find Mr. Smith lying full length at the side of the road, waiting for them.
“Good,” he said, “we are out of sight at last. But we will still speak Portuguese, I think. Now, tell me, have you the strength to ride another two miles—to safety? I have good friends in the next village, where you may rest in peace.”
After a glance at Chloe, Camilla assured him that they would manage. “Then let me take the baby,” he said. “I can see that he is an awkward burden,” and then, seeing Camilla hesitate, “I know you think me a brute for blacking his face, but it was touch and go with us, then, and when did you see a clean Portuguese baby? I am sure, when he grows up, he will thank me.”
There was such obvious good sense in this that Camilla handed him the child gratefully enough and settled down to concentrate all her energies on the exhausting problem of keeping her weary mule on the road. Chloe, too, was swaying with fatigue, and she and Camilla rode silently, side by side, some way behind Mr. Smith, who went steadily on ahead, hardly sparing them a glance. Added to their fatigue, there was something infuriating about this neglect, and by the time he finally dismounted outside a lonely hovel by the road and stood awaiting their approach they were both seething with silent fury.
When they drew level with him, he merely said, “Good, we are arrived at last,” and handed the baby to Camilla, who had lost no time in sliding to the ground. Chloe, who had fallen a little behind, now drew up, swaying with fatigue, and sat, for a moment, too tired even to make the effort of dismounting. When Mr. Smith made no ef
fort to help her, rage overcame her. “Pray,” she said in English, “do not trouble yourself to help me dismount.”
For a moment he looked as if he would strike her again, then answered in Portuguese. “I most certainly shall not. When did you see a Portuguese peasant help his women? It is far enough out of character that I should have been carrying the baby. I could not risk even that where there were people about. Most fortunately, here, we are among friends, but I warn you, if you speak English again, I shall leave you behind. The news I carry is too important to be jeopardised by a girl’s foolish tongue.” And he turned on his heel and began to lead his mule round to the back of the hut.
Following him in chastened if irritable silence, they were greeted by the hut’s ragged owner, who kissed Mr. Smith enthusiastically on both cheeks, greeting him in a flood of Portuguese so rapid and so strangely accented that neither Camilla nor Chloe could understand him. They followed the two men mutely into the hovel and then stopped to gaze in horror at its single, filthy, earth-floored room. But their host was bustling hospitably about, drawing stools up to a rickety table and fetching dirty bread and sinister dark sausage from a cupboard in a corner.
Mr. Smith eyed the two of them coolly. “I hope,” he still spoke Portuguese, “that Dom Fernando passed on my warning about the roughness of our trip.”
Camilla was too busy trying to soothe the now frantic Edward to reply, so it was Chloe who answered. “Naturally we are prepared for some discomfort, but the baby needs to be fed. Surely my sister should have some privacy.”
“Privacy? In a peasant’s hut? Are you mad? You should be grateful that my friend here has sent away his wife and children, for fear that contact with you should endanger their lives. Be thankful for the shelter he risks his life to give us, and spare me your complaints. As for the baby; why should he not be fed? I promise you, we have other things to think about.” And he drew up a stool beside their shabby host, who had just produced a bottle of local wine and filled two glasses. In a moment, the two men were deep in conversation and Camilla, who had, of course, heard everything, gave one defiant look round, opened her dress and put little Edward to suck. A contented silence replaced his previous wailings and was broken only by the murmur of the two men’s voices as they disposed of their wine, which they accompanied with great slices of greyish bread spread liberally with sausage. Mr. Smith turned once to invite Chloe to join them, but she indicated haughtily that she would wait for Camilla and busied herself with unpacking the bundle of provisions the Prioress had given them, of which a lavish quantity still remained for their supper. When the baby finally fell into a contented sleep, she handed Camilla her share and they fell to with a will. Mr. Smith after a quick and, Camilla thought, hostile glance in their direction turned back to his incomprehensible talk with their host, who was busy opening a second bottle.
The talk went on and on. Camilla and Chloe swayed on their stools and still the two talked and drank, drank and talked. At last, Chloe could bear it no more, but jumped to her feet. “We wish to sleep, my sister and I.”
Their host looked at her in puzzlement, and Mr. Smith merely answered, “Well, why not?”
The two girls exchanged glances, then, without a word, began to make their travelling shawls into the best approximation of beds they could manage in a dark corner of the little room. Seeing what they were about, their host leapt to his feet and produced two filthy blankets, which he pressed upon them. Chloe was about to refuse hers, when a warning glance from Camilla stopped her, and later, when the chill of midnight crept into the hut, she was glad that manners had forced its acceptance, and pulled it around her, dirt and all.
They were roused, far too early, by Mr. Smith. Even little Edward was still asleep, and Chloe, stiff and sore from exercise and the hard bed, awoke with a rebellious murmur. Mr. Smith was looking down at her with calm grey eyes. “Very well,” he said. “I will leave you behind to have out your sleep, if you prefer.”
She was up in a flash and began to make her morning toilet as best she might when a word from him stopped her, “No, no,” he said, “Leave it. You are much better as you are. I tell you, I trembled at every step we took yesterday. This morning, you are almost convincing if you will only remember to speak in Portuguese.”
Chloe turned from him with an angry moue, but nevertheless abandoned her efforts to tidy herself and set to work, instead, to prepare breakfast for herself and Camilla out of the remnants of the Prioress’s supplies. Mr. Smith had already sat down with their host to more of the inevitable bread and sausage and. as soon as Camilla had finished feeding the baby, the two girls made their own breakfast in peace. When they had done, Chloe began to pack the last fragments back into the bundle, but Mr. Smith intervened: “No, no,” he said, “you have insulted our host enough. If he had not been my very good friend, I do not like to think what would have happened when you refused his bread last night, but this morning, you shall make amends.” At that moment, their host, who had been out of the hut on some errand, returned, and Mr. Smith at once offered him the remains of the girls’ food “as some small token of their gratitude.” The man accepted with a sudden grace that pricked Chloe’s conscience far more than Mr. Smith’s rebuke had done and they set out on their day’s journey with many protestations of affection on their host’s part and gratitude on theirs—and some more of the stinking bread and sausage for their wayside luncheon.
Once more they rode through the long, hot day in silence, the two girls always some little distance behind Mr. Smith, who showed no sign of caring whether they followed him or not. When Chloe, who was very far from being in charity with him today, murmured about this to Camilla, the latter looked up from little Edward to say reasonably, “But, Chloe, look at the people we meet. The men always ride ahead. Mr. Smith is right and I beg you will do your best not to annoy him further. I only hope we are not being too great a burden for him as it is.” And she kicked her mule to make it keep up with Mr. Smith’s beast, which, despite its shabby appearance, seemed to be able to go steadily on forever.
When they stopped for lunch, Camilla asked Mr. Smith anxiously whether they were going fast enough, and, to her relief, his answer was reassuring. If they kept up the pace he had been setting, they would reach his friend’s hut at a reasonable hour in the evening. And tomorrow they would have an easy day’s ride. Their rendezvous with the frigate was not till after dark; they would have ample time to reach it. “You may catch up on your beauty sleep in the morning, if you wish,” he told Chloe, but she was too irritated with him to answer.
Their afternoon’s ride was uneventful and as Mr. Smith had promised they reached his friend’s house early in the evening. The two girls saw with pleasure that this house, which stood alone in its orange grove, was very much larger than the hovel in which they had spent the previous night. They dismounted and received the obsequious greetings of their new host with visions of some possible modicum of comfort dancing in their heads. He shouted to one of his sons, who were playing in the dust outside the house, to take their mules to the stable, and led them indoors with an extravagant speech of welcome which Chloe, at least, found almost comprehensible. She and Camilla were delighted to find that the house consisted of three rooms, one of which was to be put at the disposal of their little party. Of course, it would have been better still if Mr. Smith could have slept elsewhere, but this was too much to be hoped. Besides—alone, for a moment, in the room that was to be theirs, Chloe whispered to Camilla, in English, “Camilla, I do not like this place.”
“Not like it?” Camilla was feeding the baby. “Why not, Chloe?”
“There is something wrong here. I can feel it. Did you not hear how the man received us—as if we were honoured guests. It is absurd: we are fugitives; he endangers his life harbouring us. Remember that man last night, how frightened he was. He had even sent his family away, lest they be implicated ... What makes everything so different here? Listen to them.”
She was silent for a moment, l
istening to the chatter of female voices in the next room, then went on, “I tell you, I do not like it. There was something wrong in his tone as he greeted us. Do you know, I am glad Mr. Smith is to share our room. I shall feel safer so.”
She was interrupted by Mr. Smith himself, who entered at this moment with a look of controlled rage. “I believe I asked you not to speak in English,” he said, in furiously whispered Portuguese.
“I am sorry; I forgot.” Chloe refused to be cowed. “But, Mr. Smith,” she too was whispering, “I was telling my sister. Do you not feel something wrong here?”
“Wrong? What do you mean?”
“About our host. I do not like him. Do you think it is safe to stay here?”
He made an impatient gesture. “What nonsense is this? I thought you would be glad to spend a night of comparative comfort and instead you start refining at God knows what imaginary terrors. I see nothing wrong with the man. It is true, he is a stranger to me, not a close friend like last night’s host. Doubtless that accounts for any difference you may have noticed in his behaviour. But, come, leave these megrims and join the family at their supper. And, remember, you are to eat whatever is given you, and show your gratitude. If you do not value your life, I do mine, and both lie in our host’s hands.”
“Yes,” said Chloe mutinously, “that is exactly what troubles me.” But he had already turned to leave the room.
The evening dragged on interminably. There was the usual fierce sausage to be washed down with coarse red wine, and, tonight, doubtless as a hospitable gesture, there was salt cod, too, cooked with a lavish flavouring of garlic. But appetite was on the two girls’ side and they ate their way staunchly through everything they were offered, making what conversation they could with their hosts as they did so. But it was an enormous relief when a cry from Edward in the next room, and a confirmatory nod from Mr. Smith, gave them the signal to say good night.
Marry in Haste Page 17