All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) (25 page)

There seemed to be even more soldiers in Salamanca today: the wide square was packed, so that it was difficult to move through the crowd. Being jostled became normal, and then someone punched him heavily in the stomach.

‘Sorry, Father,’ said a voice, and as Hanley gasped for breath he saw that it was Ramón. A bundle was pressed into his hands as they clutched at his belly. ‘So sorry, Father.’ The last words were in a whisper. ‘Get out!’ Then the man was gone.

Hanley slipped the bundle into his robes and walked on, still aching. A couple of men in French-style coats that were red rather than blue grinned at the sight of a priest almost being knocked over and joked with each other in German. Hanley bit back the urge to snarl at them in the same language.

Everything now seemed more sinister, but the officer did his best to walk at a pace that was steady, without being unnaturally slow. He made himself stop and give his approximation of a blessing to an old woman who implored him to pray for her granddaughter. Part of him wondered whether even this was a trap. Ramón had said yesterday that the message would be delivered in the usual manner, and so Hanley had been on his way to pick it up from a little covered niche in a spot they knew in an out-of-the-way cloister. That Ramón had come to him was as big a warning as the man’s words.

Hanley walked in no particular direction for twenty minutes, in the vague hope that this might be confusing to anyone following. He trusted that Langer was back in place, but somehow he did not feel the man watching him. Perhaps it was simply his growing nervousness. Then he headed towards their room. If time permitted he would scan the contents of the package before gathering his things for the journey.

The door of his little room above the potter’s shop creaked with appalling loudness as Hanley edged it open. It had always done this, but today it seemed unnecessarily sinister. He peered in and saw no one, and then his tension seemed to deflate, for there was no need to fear an immediate threat.

Ramón’s package was well worth the risk of the extra day. There were lists of the numbers and the weights of the heavy siege train rolling towards Ciudad Rodrigo – almost fifty pieces in total. Better yet, La Doña Margarita had been as good as her word, and gained some insight into the Emperor’s orders. Masséna had been told to move slowly, taking both Ciudad Rodrigo and Almeida. He was not to aim to be in Lisbon before the end of August, the Emperor ‘not choosing’ to go there any earlier, since it would be difficult to feed the captured town before the local harvest. Hanley marvelled at the complacency, and knew from all Murray and Baynes had said that this would be very pleasing to Lord Wellington.

There was one note, in Jenny Dobson’s sprawling letters.

HAVE THE NEWS YOU WANTED. BRING MONEY. SAME PLACE AT 6. He smiled when he saw there was another message from the girl in with La Doña Margarita’s papers.

It was now a quarter to five. Langer had not appeared, and the man had never before taken so long. Hanley took off his priest’s robes. He donned plain boots, drab trousers and a thin shirt and then buttoned on his uniform jacket and sash. Over the top went a long brown overcoat like the ones worn by coachmen, and a broad straw hat.

Before five Hanley slipped out of the door, made his way to the busy street where Jenny lived and waited. There were enough loafers as well as passers-by to make it easy to blend in, and he stayed a few hundred yards further along the street, where a tavern spilled out its customers, and so he drank, surrounded by as many soldiers as townsfolk. No one paid him particular attention.

He almost missed Jenny as she left, and if her hood had not fallen for a brief moment and given a flash of movement and bleached hair, he suspected that he would have missed her as he tried not to watch too obviously.

Hanley swallowed the rest of his wine, grimaced because it was not good and then followed the girl through the streets, keeping as far back as he could. Jenny was alone, and he saw no one following her. For five minutes they stayed on the main street, Hanley finding the girl’s slow progress frustrating. Then they were into ever smaller and less frequented roads and narrow alleys. There was still no sign of anything wrong.

Jenny turned a corner, and Hanley hurried after the young woman because he knew this place was a maze and did not want to lose her. Just before the turn he stopped and then peered cautiously around.

‘Hello.’

Hanley gave a start, yelping in surprise.

Jenny laughed. ‘Like following girls, do you?’ She turned so that her back was to him again and gave an exaggerated wiggle of her hips.

As usual with Jenny, Hanley felt there was little choice but to laugh with her, even though his heart was still pounding. He came around the corner.

‘What do you have for me?’

The girl leered and gave another shake of her hips, before feigning enlightenment. ‘Oh, you mean news. Seen that fellow again. He’s …’ Jenny’s eyes suddenly widened. ‘Look out!’

Hanley spun around. A figure emerged from the mouth of a lane on the opposite side of the alley, a pistol aimed at the British officer.

The shot was sudden, and numbingly loud as it echoed off the high walls, and Hanley threw himself at Jenny, knowing it was too late, but hoping perhaps he could save her. They rolled in the mud, the girl struggling and cursing.

‘You English are so romantic,’ said a voice.

Hanley was on top of the girl, his face pressed against her chest and feeling the bare skin above her dress because Jenny’s cloak had come undone. He knew the voice and the style. He pushed with his hands against the mud of the alleyway to raise himself; there was something in his mouth until he spat out one of the draw-strings of the girl’s cloak.

Jenny was silent, and that was unusual for her. She said nothing in response to Hanley’s apologies as he got to his feet and helped her up. No more shots had come. Langer lay in the mud and dung, the back of his head missing. Jenny saw the corpse and bit back a scream.

‘I have just saved your life, Guillermo,’ said Luiz Velarde as he emerged fully into the alley. A still smoking pistol was in his right hand, and one that was surely loaded now held out in his left.

‘To kill me yourself?’ Hanley asked.

‘The pistol? Merely a precaution. I intend to live to enjoy a fine and debauched old age.’

Hanley said nothing. The muzzle of the pistol looked very big, and was pointing straight at him.

‘That man had orders to kill you. Do you believe that?’

The British officer did suspect Baynes had told the man not to let the French capture him alive, but saw no point in honesty. ‘No,’ he said.

‘It’s true. And since I was the one who ordered him to kill you, I do feel that I should know.’ Velarde spotted the flicker of reaction. ‘Ah, at last some surprise. This may not be a complete waste of effort after all.’ He tossed the empty pistol aside and reached with his free hand for something. ‘Langer’s desertion last year was at my encouragement. He was to make himself useful to the British, and I believe he did that rather well for so unimaginative a brute.

‘However, such stories can wait. At the place you were supposed to meet with your charming companion, a French officer named Dalmas is waiting with several men. They will most certainly kill you. Eventually.’

‘I am a British officer, wearing uniform.’ Hanley reached up to unbutton his coat, saw Velarde stiffen and so stopped, spreading his hands wide and then keeping his gestures very slow. Pulling back the top of the coat, he revealed his scarlet jacket.

Velarde was unimpressed. ‘You would not be wearing that when they hang you, and who would ever know the truth. Dalmas is very capable.’ The Spaniard took a pace closer and undid his own long coat. Beneath was a tunic cut in the French pattern, but from brown cloth. ‘Do you like it? I am a colonel these days, in the new army of Spain.
Viva tío Pepe!
’ he added, using one of the kindlier nicknames given by the Spanish to Joseph Napoleon.

Hanley watched him closely, looking for an opportunity. If Velarde came within reach and relaxed his guard for a moment, Hanley could lunge and … and perhaps get a lead bullet driven through his brain or belly, he thought chillingly. Jenny’s father would know what to do. So too would Williams, but Hanley thought back to the duel all those months ago and how Billy had so suddenly said that he had never killed anyone. Nor had Hanley, and there must be better alternatives than trying to find out whether he was capable of such a thing in so unfavourable a situation.

‘Thank you, Molly – or should I say Jenny,’ Velarde said, without looking away from Hanley. ‘You played your part admirably. I hope the French have already paid you, but here is the same amount again, from me.’ He produced a jingling purse from his jacket pocket.

‘You slut!’ Hanley spat the words at the girl, stepping away from her in disgust. ‘You treacherous slut!’

For once Jenny Dobson was neither defiant nor mocking. She looked down as she took the purse and avoided Hanley’s gaze.

‘Perhaps, but she is such a lovely and clever slut that the whole world should be glad. She wants to be rich, and you cannot blame her for that. And you should be thankful that she betrayed you not simply to Dalmas, but to me as well.

‘Jenny, you had better go. You still have time to appear at the meeting place.’

‘Yes,’ she said softly. Jenny glanced at the British officer, but the intended words died on her lips and she walked away.

‘What is the point?’ Hanley asked. ‘You already have me.’

‘But Dalmas and the French do not.’

‘There is a difference.’ Hanley wanted to unsettle Velarde, but past experience suggested that would not be easy.

‘All the difference in the world, and for that, too, you should be grateful. Do not worry, friend Dalmas will have his catch. Or are you still worried for the woman you so gallantly protected with your body just a short while ago? No. Well, it does not matter, for Jenny is safe. A messenger will come to meet her, bringing information. I know because I sent one. The French will have someone to interrogate.

‘But we should not linger.’ Velarde stepped closer and used his free hand to pat Hanley’s coat until he found a pistol. The weapon went into the Spaniard’s own pocket. ‘That was the moment to jump me, if you had a mind to do so,’ he said, taking a pace back.

‘Would it have worked?’

‘No, and I might regretfully have had to kill you when I have no desire to do that. You look sceptical?’

Hanley spat, showing his contempt in the local way.

‘Very impressive. I am a loyal Spaniard whatever you think – and loyal to a Spain without the French before you say that. Why do you doubt this? We were on the same side last year, and you helped me pretend to desert to the enemy.’

‘Espinosa.’

‘He was betrayed, but not by me. Should I have died merely to give him company?’ Velarde lowered the pistol. ‘Know that I will kill you if you give me no choice,’ he said. ‘It may take you some time to believe me, and so you must know that I will do this thing. Now you have a choice. You can wait here and after a while the French will come and you will be asked many uncomfortable questions. Or you can come with me and help me.’

‘Help you?’

‘Yes, and Spain, and your own Lord Wellington. I need to get inside Ciudad Rodrigo.’

‘Marshal Masséna feels the same way,’ Hanley said.

‘That is why I need to go there. King Joseph has agents inside the city, whispering to powerful men that the war is his and they should join him to share in the rewards of victory. Some of them are planning to seize power once the siege is advanced, and then surrender to the French. I do not want this to happen, and so I must go there to stop them.’

‘Give me their names. I can get word into the city and have them arrested.’

‘On what evidence – the word of a French agent?’ Velarde threw back his head and laughed, shaking his head. Then his look was pitying. ‘I do not trust you enough to trust me that far. Not yet. So I must go, and since it is important to get there, I need your help.’

‘I have a choice?’

‘Between this and capture, certainly.’

‘Then I shall be delighted,’ said Hanley.

They left the city openly, riding past long lines of ox-carts piled with food, unoiled axles screaming piercingly, and the drivers jabbing with their goads to keep the poor beasts plodding on. The mud was dreadful, both from the rain and the churning of so many heavily laden wheels over so many days. Velarde kept his uniform covered, but his pass and orders took them past every sentry and questioning officer.

Not long after they left the main road and cut across country to meet with the guide Hanley promised, Velarde told him more of the agent’s purpose.

‘It is not just Ciudad Rodrigo that is at stake. When that hands itself over to the French and the leaders are praised and rewarded, it will be a gesture to others. The same man is working in Spain, and even, with some assistance, in Portugal.’

‘Almeida?’

‘The plan is bigger than that. They are in touch with people near the Regency Council in Lisbon. King Joseph wants to give his brother a victory greater even than he expects. Portugal will fall, but it will happen so quickly that cities will be closed to the British. Lord Wellington may have trouble getting his army away. And if the British lost thirty or forty thousand men, would they ever dare to come back to Europe? So he pours out gold like water, and not far from the top in any country there are always plenty of greedy men. Ciudad Rodrigo is meant to be the start. That is why we must make sure it is really the finish.’

Hanley made no comment on that, but pulled his horse up.

Velarde looked puzzled. ‘This would not be a good time to jump me.’

‘Not that. Espinosa?’

‘That poor fat fool.’ Velarde sighed. ‘I have already explained. I do not know who betrayed him. I did not.’

‘What about his people?’ Many of Espinosa’s sources and messengers had been arrested, tortured and killed.

‘I named no one the French did not already know – presumably from whoever betrayed Espinosa himself. Those were dead already, regardless of what I did, and so I informed on them like a good little
afrancesados
and was rewarded with a commission and a good deal of money by King Joseph. What would you have had me do?’