The Snare
by Rafael Sabatini
(first published in 1917)
Chapter XXI
Sanctuary
"I will withdraw, sir," said Terence.
But Wellington detained him. "Since Dom Miguel asked for you, you
had better remain, perhaps."
"It is the adjutant-general Dom Miguel desires to see, and I am
adjutant-general no longer."
"Still, the matter may concern you. I have a notion that it may
be concerned with the death of Count Samoval, since I have
acquainted the Council of Regency with the treason practised by
the Count. You had better remain."
Gloomy and downcast, Sir Terence remained as he was bidden.
The sleek and supple Secretary of State was ushered in. He came
forward quickly, clicked his heels together and bowed to the three
men present.
"Sirs, your obedient servant," he announced himself, with a
courtliness almost out of fashion, speaking in his extraordinarily
fluent English. His sallow countenance was extremely grave. He
seemed even a little ill at ease.
"I am fortunate to find you here, my lord. The matter upon which
I seek your adjutant-general is of considerable gravity—so much
that of himself he might be unable to resolve it. I feared you
might already have departed for the north."
"Since you suggest that my presence may be of service to you, I
am happy that circumstances should have delayed my departure,"
was his lordship's courteous answer. "A chair, Dom Miguel."
Dom Miguel Forjas accepted the proffered chair, whilst Wellington
seated himself at Sir Terence's desk. Sir Terence himself remained
standing with his shoulders to the overmantel, whence he faced
them both as well as Grant, who, according to his self-effacing
habit, remained in the background by the window.
"I have sought you," began Dom Miguel, stroking his square chin,
"on a matter concerned with the late Count Samoval, immediately
upon hearing that the court-martial pronounced the acquittal of
Captain Tremayne."
His lordship frowned, and his eagle glance fastened upon the
Secretary's face.
"I trust, sir, you have not come to question the finding of the
court-martial."
"Oh, on the contrary—on the contrary!" Dom Miguel was emphatic.
"I represent not only the Council, but the Samoval family as well.
Both realise that it is perhaps fortunate for all concerned that
in arresting Captain Tremayne the military authorities arrested
the wrong man, and both have reason to dread the arrest of the
right one."
He paused, and the frown deepened between Wellington's brows.
"I am afraid," he said slowly, "that I do not quite perceive their
concern in this matter."
"But is it not clear?" cried Dom Miguel.
"If it were I should perceive it," said his lordship dryly.
"Ah, but let me explain, then. A further investigation of the
manner in which Count Samoval met his death can hardly fail to
bring to light the deplorable practices in which he was engaged;
for no doubt Colonel Grant, here, would consider it his duty in
the interests of justice to place before the court the documents
found upon the Count's dead body. If I may permit myself an
observation," he continued, looking round at Colonel Grant, "it
is that I do not quite understand how this has not already
happened."
There was a pause in which Grant looked at Wellington as if for
direction. But his lordship himself assumed the burden of the
answer.
"It was not considered expedient in the public interest to do so
at present," he said. "And the circumstances did not place us
under the necessity of divulging the matter."
"There, my lord, if you will allow me to say so, you acted with
a delicacy and wisdom which the circumstances may not again permit.
Indeed any further investigation must almost inevitably bring these
matters to light, and the effect of such revelation would be
deplorable."
"Deplorable to whom?" asked his lordship.
"To the Count's family and to the Council of Regency."
"I can sympathise with the Count's family, but not with the
Council."
"Surely, my lord, the Council as a body deserves your sympathy in
that it is in danger of being utterly discredited by the treason
of one or two of its members."
Wellington manifested impatience. "The Council has been warned
time and again. I am weary of warning, and even of threatening,
the Council with the consequences of resisting my policy. I think
that exposure is not only what it deserves, but the surest means
of providing a healthier government in the future. I am weary of
picking my way through the web of intrigue with which the Council
entangles my movements and my dispositions. Public sympathy has
enabled it to hamper me in this fashion. That sympathy will be
lost to it by the disclosures which you fear."
"My lord, I must confess that there is much reason in what you say."
He was smoothly conciliatory. "I understand your exasperation.
But may I be permitted to assure you that it is not the Council as
a body that has withstood you, but certain self-seeking members,
one or two friends of Principal Souza, in whose interests the
unfortunate and misguided Count Samoval was acting. Your lordship
will perceive that the moment is not one in which to stir up public
indignation against the Portuguese Government. Once the passions
of the mob are inflamed, who can say to what lengths they may not
go, who can say what disastrous consequences may not follow? It
is desirable to apply the cautery, but not to burn up the whole
body."
Lord Wellington considered a moment, fingering an ivory paper-knife.
He was partly convinced.
"When I last suggested the cautery, to use your own very apt figure,
the Council did not keep faith with me."
"My lord!"
"It did not, sir. It removed Antonio de Souza, but it did not take
the trouble to go further and remove his friends at the same time.
They remained to carry on his subversive treacherous intrigues.
What guarantees have I that the Council will behave better on this
occasion?"
"You have our solemn assurances, my lord, that all those members
suspected of complicity in this business or of attachment to the
Souza faction, shall be compelled to resign, and you may depend
upon the reconstituted Council loyally to support your measures."
"You give me assurances, sir, and I ask for guarantees."
"Your lordship is in possession of the documents found upon Count
Samoval. The Council knows this, and this knowledge will compel
it to guard against further intrigues on the part of any of its
members which might naturally exasperate you into publishing those
documents. Is not that some guarantee?"
His lordship considered, and nodded slowly. "I admit that it is.
Yet I do not see how this publicity is to be avoided in the course
of the further investigations into the manner in which Count
Samoval came by his death."
"My lord, that is the pivot of the whole matter. All further
investigation must be suspended."
Sir Terence trembled, and his eyes turned in eager anxiety upon
the inscrutable, stern face of Lord Wellington.
"Must!" cried his lordship sharply.
"What else, my lord, in all our interests?" exclaimed the Secretary,
and he rose in his agitation.
"And what of British justice, sir?" demanded his lordship in a
forbidding tone.
"British justice has reason to consider itself satisfied. British
justice may assume that Count Samoval met his death in the pursuit
of his treachery. He was a spy caught in the act, and there and
then destroyed—a very proper fate. Had he been taken, British
justice would have demanded no less. It has been anticipated.
Cannot British justice, for the sake of British interests as well
as Portuguese interests, be content to leave the matter there?"
"An argument of expediency, eh?" said Wellington. "Why not, my
lord! Does not expediency govern politicians?"
"I am not a politician."
"But a wise soldier, my lord, does not lose sight of the political
consequences of his acts." And he sat down again.
"Your Excellency may be right," said his lordship. "Let us be
quite clear, then. You suggest, speaking in the name of the Council
of Regency, that I should suppress all further investigations into
the manner in which Count Samoval met his death, so as to save his
family the shame and the Council of Regency the discredit which must
overtake one and the other if the facts are disclosed—as disclosed
they would be that Samoval was a traitor and a spy in the pay of the
French. That is what you ask me to do. In return your Council
undertakes that there shall be no further opposition to my plans for
the military defence of Portugal, and that all my measures however
harsh and however heavily they may weigh upon the landowners, shall
be punctually and faithfully carried out. That is your Excellency's
proposal, is it not?"
"Not so much my proposal, my lord, as my most earnest intercession.
We desire to spare the innocent the consequences of the sins of a
man who is dead, and well dead." He turned to O'Moy, standing there
tense and anxious. It was not for Dom Miguel to know that it was
the adjutant's fate that was being decided. "Sir Terence," he cried,
"you have been here for a year, and all matters connected with the
Council have been treated through you. You cannot fail to see the
wisdom of my recommendation."
His lordship's eyes flashed round upon O'Moy. "Ah yes!" he said.
"What is your feeling in this matter, 'O'Moy?" he inquired, his
tone and manner void of all expression.
Sir Terence faltered; then stiffened. "I—The matter is one that
only your lordship can decide. I have no wish to influence your
decision."
"I see. Ha! And you, Grant? No doubt you agree with Dom Miguel?"
"Most emphatically—upon every count, sir," replied the intelligence
officer without hesitation. "I think Dom Miguel offers an excellent
bargain. And, as he says, we hold a guarantee of its fulfilment."
"The bargain might be improved," said Wellington slowly.
"If your lordship will tell me how, the Council, I am sure, will
be ready to do all that lies in its power to satisfy you."
Wellington shifted his chair round a little, and crossed his legs.
He brought his finger-tips together, and over the top of them his
eyes considered the Secretary of State.
"Your Excellency has spoken of expediency—political expediency.
Sometimes political expediency can overreach itself and perpetrate
the most grave injustices. Individuals at times are unnecessarily
called upon to suffer in the interests of a cause. Your Excellency
will remember a certain affair at Tavora some two months ago—the
invasion of a convent by a British officer with rather disastrous
consequences and the loss of some lives."
"I remember it perfectly, my lord. I had the honour of entertaining
Sir Terence upon that subject on the occasion of my last visit here."
"Quite so," said his lordship. "And on the grounds of political
expediency you made a bargain then with Sir Terence, I understand,
a bargain which entailed the perpetration of an injustice."
"I am not aware of it, my lord."
"Then let me refresh your Excellency's memory upon the facts. To
appease the Council of Regency, or rather to enable me to have my
way with the Council and remove the Principal Souza, you stipulated
for the assurance—so that you might lay it before your Council
—that the offending officer should be shot when taken."
"I could not help myself in the matter, and—"
"A moment, sir. That is not the way of British justice, and Sir
Terence was wrong to have permitted himself to consent; though I
profoundly appreciate the loyalty to me, the earnest desire to
assist me, which led him into an act the cost of which to himself
your Excellency can hardly appreciate. But the wrong lay in that
by virtue of this bargain a British officer was prejudged. He
was to be made a scapegoat. He was to be sent to his death when
taken, as a peace-offering to the people, demanded by the Council
of Regency.
"Since all this happened I have had the facts of the case placed
before me. I will go so far as to tell you, sir, that the officer
in question has been in my hands for the past hour, that I have
closely questioned him, and that I am satisfied that whilst he has
been guilty of conduct which might compel me to deprive him of his
Majesty's commission and dismiss him from the army, yet that conduct
is not such as to merit death. He has chiefly sinned in folly and
want of judgment. I reprove it in the sternest terms, and I
deplore the consequences it had. But for those consequences the
nuns of Tavora are almost as much to blame as he is himself. His
invasion of their convent was a pure error, committed in the belief
that it was a monastery and as a result of the porter's foolish
conduct.
"Now, Sir Terence's word, given in response to your absolute
demands, has committed us to an unjust course, which I have no
intention of following. I will stipulate, sir, that your Council,
in addition to the matters undertaken, shall relieve us of all
obligation in this matter, leaving it to our discretion to punish
Mr. Butler in such manner as we may consider condign. In return,
your Excellency, I will undertake that there shall be no further
investigation into the manner in which Count Samoval came by his
death, and consequently, no disclosures of the shameful trade in
which he was engaged. If your Excellency will give yourself the
trouble of taking the sense of your Council upon this, we may then
reach a settlement."
The grave anxiety of Dom Miguel's countenance was instantly
dispelled. In his relief he permitted himself a smile.
"My lord, there is not the need to take the sense of the Council.
The Council has given me carte blanche to obtain your consent to a
suppression of the Samoval affair. And without hesitation I accept
the further condition that you make. Sir Terence may consider
himself relieved of his parole in the matter of Lieutenant Butler."
"Then we may look upon the matter as concluded."
"As happily concluded, my lord." Dom Miguel rose to make his
valedictory oration. "It remains for me only to thank your lordship
in the name of the Council for the courtesy and consideration with
which you have received my proposal and granted our petition.
Acquainted as I am with the crystalline course of British justice,
knowing as I do how it seeks ever to act in the full light of day,
I am profoundly sensible of the cost to your lordship of the
concession you make to the feelings of the Samoval family and the
Portuguese Government, and I can assure you that they will be
accordingly grateful."
"That is very gracefully said, Dom Miguel," replied his lordship,
rising also.
The Secretary placed a hand upon his heart, bowing. "It is but
the poor expression of what I think and feel." And so he took his
leave of them, escorted by Colonel Grant, who discreetly
volunteered for the office.
Left alone with Wellington, Sir Terence heaved a great sigh of
supreme relief.
"In my wife's name, sir, I should like to thank you. But she
shall thank you herself for what you have done for me."
"What I have done for you, O'Moy?" Wellington's slight figure
stiffened perceptibly, his face and glance were cold and haughty.
"You mistake, I think, or else you did not hear. What I have done,
I have done solely upon grounds of political expediency. I had
no choice in the matter, and it was not to favour you, or out of
disregard for my duty, as you seem to imagine, that I acted as
I did."
O'Moy bowed his head, crushed under that rebuff. He clasped
and unclasped his hands a moment in his desperate anguish.
"I understand," he muttered in a broken voice, "I—I beg your
pardon, sir."
And then Wellington's slender, firm fingers took him by the arm.
"But I am glad, O'Moy, that I had no choice," he added more gently.
"As a man, I suppose I may be glad that my duty as
Commander-in-Chief placed me under the necessity of acting as I
have done."
Sir Terence clutched the hand in both his own and wrung it
fiercely, obeying an overmastering impulse.
"Thank you," he cried. "Thank you for that!"
"Tush!" said Wellington, and then abruptly: "What are you going
to do, O'Moy?" he asked.
"Do?" said O'Moy, and his blue eyes looked pleadingly down into
the sternly handsome face of his chief, "I am in your hands, sir."
"Your resignation is, and there it must remain, O'Moy. You
understand?"
"Of course, sir. Naturally you could not after this—" He
shrugged and broke off. "But must I go home?" he pleaded.
"What else? And, by God, sir, you should be thankful, I think."
"Very well," was the dull answer, and then he flared out. "Faith,
it's your own fault for giving me a job of this kind. You knew
me. You know that I am just a blunt, simple soldier—that my
place is at the head of a regiment, not at the head of an
administration. You should have known that by putting me out of
my proper element I was bound to get into trouble sooner or later."
"Perhaps I do," said Wellington. "But what am I to do with you
now?" He shrugged, and strode towards the window. "You had better
go home, O'Moy. Your health has suffered out here, and you are not
equal to the heat of summer that is now increasing. That is the
reason of this resignation. You understand?"
"I shall be shamed for ever," said O'Moy. "To go home when the
army is about to take the field!"
But Wellington did not hear him, or did not seem to hear him.
He had reached the window and his eye was caught by something that
he saw in the courtyard.
"What the devil's this now?" he rapped out. "That is one of Sir
Robert Craufurd's aides."
He turned and went quickly to the door. He opened it as rapid
steps approached along the passage, accompanied by the jingle of
spurs and the clatter of sabretache and trailing sabre. Colonel
Grant appeared, followed by a young officer of Light Dragoons who
was powdered from head to foot with dust. The youth—he was
little more—lurched forward wearily, yet at sight of Wellington
he braced himself to attention and saluted.
"You appear to have ridden hard, sir," the Commander greeted him.
"From Almeida in forty-seven hours, my lord," was the answer.
"With these from Sir Robert." And he proffered a sealed letter.
"What is your name?" Wellington inquired, as he took the package.
"Hamilton, my lord," was the answer; "Hamilton of the Sixteenth,
aide-de-camp to Sir Robert Craufurd."
Wellington nodded. "That was great horsemanship, Mr. Hamilton,"
he commended him; and a faint tinge in the lad's haggard cheeks
responded to that rare praise.
"The urgency was great, my lord," replied Mr. Hamilton.
"The French columns are in movement. Ney and Junot advanced to
the investment of Ciudad Rodrigo on the first of the month."
"Already!" exclaimed Wellington, and his countenance set.
"The commander, General Herrasti, has sent an urgent appeal to Sir
Robert for assistance."
"And Sir Robert?" The question came on a sharp note of apprehension,
for his lordship was fully aware that valour was the better part
of Sir Robert Craufurd's discretion.
"Sir Robert asks for orders in this dispatch, and refuses to stir
from Almeida without instructions from your lordship."
"Ah!" It was a sigh of relief. He broke the seal and spread the
dispatch. He read swiftly. "Very well," was all he said, when he
had reached the end of Sir Robert's letter. "I shall reply to
this in person and at once. You will be in need of rest, Mr.
Hamilton. You had best take a day to recuperate, then follow me
to Almeida. Sir Terence no doubt will see to your immediate needs."
"With pleasure, Mr. Hamilton," replied Sir Terence mechanically—
for his own concerns weighed upon him at this moment more heavily
than the French advance. He pulled the bell-rope, and into the
fatherly hands of Mullins, who came in response to the summons,
the young officer was delivered.
Lord Wellington took up his hat and riding-crop from Sir Terence's
desk. "I shall leave for the frontier at once," he announced.
"Sir Robert will need the encouragement of my presence to keep him
within the prudent bounds I have imposed. And I do not know how
long Ciudad Rodrigo may be able to hold out. At any moment we may
have the French upon the Agueda, and the invasion may begin. As
for you, O'Moy, this has changed everything. The French and the
needs of the case have decided. For the present no change is
possible in the administration here in Lisbon. You hold the
threads of your office and the moment is not one in which to
appoint another adjutant to take them over. Such a thing
might be fatal to the success of the British arms. You must
withdraw this resignation." And he proffered the document.
Sir Terence recoiled. He went deathly white.
"I cannot," he stammered. "After what has happened, I—"
Lord Wellington's face became set and stern. His eyes blazed
upon the adjutant.
"O'Moy," he said, and the concentrated anger of his voice was
terrifying, "if you suggest that any considerations but those of
this campaign have the least weight with me in what I now do, you
insult me. I yield to no man in my sense of duty, and I allow no
private considerations to override it. You are saved from going
home in disgrace by the urgency of the circumstances, as I have
told you. By that and by nothing else. Be thankful, then; and
in loyally remaining at your post efface what is past. You know
what is doing at Torres Vedras. The works have been under your
direction from the commencement. See that they are vigorously
pushed forward and that the lines are ready to receive the army
in a month's time from now if necessary. I depend upon you—the army and England's honour depend upon you. I bow to the inevitable and so shall you." Then his sternness relaxed. "So
much as your commanding officer. Now as your friend," and he
held out his hand, "I congratulate you upon your luck. After
this morning's manifestations of it, it should pass into a proverb.
Goodbye, O'Moy. I trust you, remember."
"And I shall not fail you," gulped O'Moy, who, strong man that he
was, found himself almost on the verge of tears. He clutched the
extended hand.
"I shall fix my headquarters for the present at Celorico.
Communicate with me there. And now one other matter: the Council
of Regency will no doubt pester you with representations that I
should—if time still remains—advance to the relief of Ciudad
Rodrigo. Understand, that is no part of my plan of campaign. I
do not stir across the frontier of Portugal. Here let the French
come and find me, and I shall be ready to receive them. Let the
Portuguese Government have no illusions on that point, and
stimulate the Council into doing all possible to carry out the
destruction of mills and the laying waste of the country in the
valley of the Mondego and wherever else I have required.
"Oh, and by the way, you will find your brother-in-law, Mr. Butler,
in the guard-room yonder, awaiting my orders. Provide him with a
uniform and bid him rejoin his regiment at once. Recommend him
to be more prudent in future if he wishes me to forget his
escapade at Tavora. And in future, O'Moy, trust your wife. Again,
good-bye. Come, Grant! I have instructions for you too. But you
must take them as we ride."
And thus Sir Terence O'Moy found sanctuary at the altar of his
country's need. They left him incredulously to marvel at the luck
which had so enlisted circumstances to save him where all had seemed
so surely lost an hour ago.
He sent a servant to fetch Mr. Butler, the prime cause of all this
bother—for all of it can be traced to Mr. Butler's invasion of the
Tavora nunnery—and with him went to bear the incredible tidings of
their joint absolution to the three who waited so anxiously in the
dining-room.
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