An Act Of Courage

’

As he rose, she tried fixing him with her eyes as the others passed. But gallant – and manly – though the officer was, he was too well bred to ignore other gentlemen for the sparkle of fine eyes. He bowed again – ‘Senores!’ – and looked at each in turn.

They too bowed.

He looked again at Hervey, and his forehead creased into the inevitable question.

‘The English officer is taking his recreation with us, senor,’ tried Isabella.

Laming was astounded by her composure: she was so convincing!

But not entirely. The Spanish officer continued to look puzzled. ‘Senora, forgive me, but I know nothing of such an arrangement, and I am captain of the guard.’

‘It is by arrangement with the general,’ replied Isabella.

Laming was even more astounded: Isabella thought as nimbly on her feet as he had heard she could dance with a foil in her hand!

The officer smiled awkwardly. ‘Of course, senora, forgive me. But you will understand: it is my duty to see all these things are arranged perfectly. May I ask you to wait here for just a little time while I acquaint myself with these new orders. Please, be seated.’ He indicated the chairs by the wall.

Neither Laming nor Hervey could follow the exchange precisely, but the import was clear. Both began moving hands to their pistols.

But Isabella decided things. Her sword was out of its scabbard in an instant, the point at the officer’s neck. It made the merest crease in the flesh under his chin, but enough to convince him of her skill. Three pistols now pointed at him, too, so that he must know that death would come at once if he made the slightest sound.

And yet, if one pistol were to fire, the castle guard would be upon them before they could cross the courtyard. He may have been duped by fine eyes, but the captain of the guard was no coward – and he would not be disarmed by a woman! He jerked his head back and grabbed for the sword.

Isabella’s reflex was quicker. She lunged. Before he could let out a sound the point burst through his windpipe.

Laming sprang with his pistol, felling him with a single blow, the barrel drawing blood while the first drops ran yet an inch down Isabella’s blade.

She recovered her sword calmly, though when Hervey saw her face he knew what it had done. Her eyes were distant, her olive skin pale as ivory. He wanted to support her.

‘Get his body behind those chairs, Corporal!’ snapped Laming, his own hand shaking, though no one saw. ‘Hervey, what’s happening outside?’

Hervey, jolted, made for the open door. He saw Dom Mateo’s captain of dragoons and the four horses. ‘Your man’s there with the horses, but there’s no sign of Sanchez.’

‘Well, it’s too late now,’ rasped Laming. There was no profit, either, in wondering what would have happened if they had waited another two minutes above stairs. For all they knew, the Spanish officer might have been making his rounds.

Hervey did not demur. He looked anxiously at Isabella, but she was unfastening the swordbelt. He handed her a pistol, without speaking.

They walked out into the courtyard with no apparent haste, and the captain of dragoons nodded to say that all was well. Corporal Wainwright pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the fauxbaggage free from the ‘packhorse’. The courier came out of the despatch office, in ignorance still of his companions’ design, or even of the purpose, handed a piece of silver to the groom holding his horse, and mounted in anticipation of a leisured ride back to Elvas.

Laming helped Isabella into the saddle. She rode astride, as many a continental woman; he reckoned it might give her the advantage if she had to aim her pistol on the off-side. The thought amazed him.

He mounted, and beckoned urgently to the others to do the same. Corporal Wainwright, ever correct, waited by his horse as Hervey looked about for the man who had been accomplice to his escape.

He looked in vain. Laming, agitated in high degree now, beckoned furiously.

Hervey at last sprang into the saddle. Though despairing of leaving his friend, he felt keenly the sudden sense of liberation, the contact with leather again like a friendly voice welcoming him home.

Then, relief – the noise of iron on cobbles, and the sight of Sanchez and his cob . . .

‘Deo Gratias,’ muttered Laming, as he nodded to the courier to lead on.

Laming looked at his watch as they approached the Las Palmas gate again. It had taken less than half an hour from the time they had entered the alcazabar, yet it felt five times as long. They were making too slow a progress. The press of people was even greater than before, a sort of early-evening promenade before the light failed and the chill of the night air took hold.

There was another half an hour to dusk, perhaps three-quarters, but no more. And then it would be dark quickly, and they would have to ride the road a good way before the moon came up. Was that cause for worry? The courier knew the way, and the captain of dragoons knew the secret crossing. Laming would choose which when the time came. But for now, every step was the greatest trial, for at any moment the alarm might sound. How long could it be before two guards were discovered absent from their post, or an officer dead and only very partially concealed? If only he dared speak, dared share his thoughts; but to risk a word of English, even in this crowding babble, would be folly. No, they must ride for the bridge confident in their own daring, confident that the authorities could not expect there to be Englishmen in possession of both the parole and the means of passing themselves off as Spanish.

He trembled at the very audacity of it. Indeed, now, the plan looked not so much audacious as reckless – so many things to go wrong, so few alternatives but to press on. Perhaps, though, that was the very reason for their success so far – no opportunity for diversion, only the need for utter resolve. That, and Isabella Delgado! He could scarcely believe how much they owed to her. Without her, even if they had been able to overpower the guards, the cat would have been out of the bag by now, and a hue and cry that would have blocked every street in the city.

A bullock-cart full of wine butts creaked agonizingly slowly through the Las Palmas gate, blocking all traffic onto the bridge. Laming saw it was clear beyond, however: they could take it at the trot, make up a little time, without drawing undue attention to themselves. If only the alarm did not sound. If only . . .

One of the bullocks, lame, began bellowing in protest at its load, or at the goading of its driver and the sentries. In the confines of the gate-arch the noise was so bad that Laming’s horse – and then the others – became nervous, stamping and snorting, trampling several people in the press. The dragoon captain’s began rearing. He sat it well, though, calmly, letting his hands and weight forward rather than fighting her. But one of the bullocks strained so hard at the yoke that the one behind fell to its knees, terrifying the mare so much that she threw herself back wildly, hooves flying from under her on the smooth cobbles. The captain fell clear as his mare toppled onto her back, but his head hit the cobbles hard.

The sentries rushed to him, pulling him clear of the mare as she struggled to get to her feet. They opened his cloak and collar to give him air. Then one of them stood up, as if he had seen a ghost.

Laming saw it too. Not a ghost, but a red coat, the prideful dolman of the Corps of Guides. He cursed him for a fool beneath his breath.

In the instant the guards saw red, Laming saw his fence change from hurdle to palisade.

The guards drew back: who wore red but the British? And why did they wear it concealed? They raised their muskets, gesturing at the riders.

Isabella, brave as the lioness, saw where her duty lay. She urged her mare forward. ‘This man is a spy,’ she declared boldly, but keeping her voice low. ‘He is our most important spy and we must get him to Elvas as soon as may be!’

Neither Laming nor Hervey understood, though they knew the word ‘spy’ well enough, but the expressions on the faces of the guards told them that all was not yet lost.

‘Spy, senora?’

‘Yes! Spy! Look, he comes-to. Help him back into the saddle!’

Hervey held his breath. Why did they not challenge?

‘Senora, I must call the serjeant. We have no orders.’