Mr. Fortescue by William Westall

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"Yes. I have a letter of introduction to him."

"Oh, you have a letter of introduction to Don Simon! if you will come into
the street I will show you the way."

Whereupon we went outside, and the _posadero_, pointing out the church of
San Ildefonso, told me that the large house over against the eastern door
was the house I sought.

"_Gracias, senor_," I said, as I started on my errand, taking the shady
side of the street and walking slowly, for the day was warm.

I walked slowly and thought deeply, trying to make out what could be the
meaning of the glances which the mention of Senor Ulloa's name had evoked,
and there was a nameless something in the _posadero's_ manner I did not
like. Besides being cringing, as usual, it was half mocking, half
menacing, as if I had said, or he had heard, something that placed me in
his power.

Yet what could he have heard? What could there be in the name of Ulloa to
either excite his enmity or rouse his suspicion? As a man in authority,
and the particular friend of an ex-president of the _Audiencia Real_, Don
Simon must needs be above reproach.

Should I turn back and ask the _posadero_ what he meant? No, that were
both weak and impolitic. He would either answer me with a lie, or refuse
to answer at all, _qui s'excuse s'accuse_. I resolved to go on, and see
what came of it. Don Simon would no doubt be able to enlighten me.

I found the place without difficulty. There could be no mistaking it--a
large house over against the eastern door of the church of San Ildefonso,
built round a _patio_, or courtyard, after the fashion of Spanish and
South American mansions. Like the church, it seemed to have been much
damaged by the earthquake; the outer walls were cracked, and the gateway
was encumbered with fallen stones.

This surprised me less than may be supposed. Creoles are not remarkable
for energy, and it was quite possible that Senor Ulloa's fortunes might
have suffered as severely from the war as his house had suffered from the
earthquake. But when I entered the _patio_ I was more than surprised. The
only visible signs of life were lizards, darting in and out of their
holes, and a huge rattlesnake sunning himself on the ledge of a broken
fountain. Grass was growing between the stones; rotten doors hung on rusty
hinges; there were great gaps in the roof and huge fissures in the walls,
and when I called no one answered.

"Surely," I thought, "I have made some mistake. This house is both
deserted and ruined."

I returned to the street and accosted a passer-by.

"Is this the house of Don Simon Ulloa?" I asked him.

"_Si, Senor_," he said; and then hurried on as if my question had
half-frightened him out of his wits.

I could not tell what to make of this; but my first idea was that Senor
Ulloa was dead, and the house had the reputation of being haunted. In any
case, the innkeeper had evidently played me a scurvy trick, and I went
back to the _posada_ with the full intention of having it out with him.

"Did you find the house of Don Simon, Senor Fortescue?" he asked when he
saw me.

"Yes, but I did not find him. The house is empty and deserted. What do you
mean by sending me on such a fool's errand?"

"I beg your pardon, senor. You asked me to direct you to Senor Ulloa's
house, and I did so. What could I do more?" And the fellow cringed and
smirked, as if it were all a capital joke, till I could hardly refrain
from pulling his long nose first and kicking him afterwards, but I
listened to the voice of prudence and resisted the impulse.

"You know quite well that I sought Senor Ulloa. Did I not tell you that I
had a letter for him? If you were a caballero instead of a wretched
_posadero_, I would chastise your trickery as it deserves. What has become
of Senor Ulloa, and how comes it that his house is deserted?"

"Senor Ulloa is dead. He was garroted."

"Garroted! What for?"

"Treason. There was discovered a compromising correspondence between him
and Bolivar. But why ask me? As a friend of Senor Ulloa, you surely know
all this?"

"I never was a friend of his--never even saw him! I had merely a letter to
him from a common friend. But how happened it that Senor Ulloa, who, I
believe, was a _correjidor_, entered into a correspondence with the
arch-traitor?"

"That made it all the worse. He richly deserved his fate. His eldest son,
who was privy to the affair, was strangled at the same time as his father;
his other children fled, and Senora Ulloa died of grief."

"Poor woman! No wonder the house is deserted. What a frightful state of
things!"

And then, feeling that I had said enough, and fearing that I might say
more, I turned on my heel, lighted a cigar, and, while I paced to and fro
in the _patio_, seriously considered my position, which, as I clearly
perceived, was beginning to be rather precarious.

As likely as not the innkeeper would denounce me, and then it would, of
course, be very absurd, for I was utterly ignorant, and Zamorra, a
Royalist to the bone, must have been equally ignorant that his friend
Ulloa had any hand in the rebellion. The mere fact of carrying a harmless
letter of introduction from a well-known loyalist to a friend whom he
believed to be still a loyalist, could surely not be construed as an
offense. At any rate it ought not to be. But when I recalled all I had
heard from Morena, and the stories told me but an hour before by Carera, I
thought it extremely probable that it would be, and bitterly regretted
that I had not mentioned to the latter Ulloa's name. He would have put me
on my guard, and I should not have so fatally committed myself with the
_posadero_.

But regrets are useless and worse. They waste time and weaken resolve. The
question of the moment was, What should I do? How avoid the danger which I
felt sure was impending? There seemed only one way--immediate flight. I
would go to Carera, tell him all that had happened, and ask him to arrange
for my departure from Caracas that very night. I could steal away unseen
when all was quiet.

"At once," I said to myself--"at once. If I exaggerate, if the danger be
not so pressing as I fear, he is just the man to tell me; but, first of
all, I will go into my room and destroy this confounded letter. The
_posadero_ did not see it. All that he can say is--"

"In the king's name!" exclaimed a rough voice behind me; and a heavy hand
was laid on my arm.

Turning sharply round, I found myself confronted by an officer of police
and four alguazils, all armed to the teeth.

"I arrest you in the king's name," repeated the officer.

"On what charge?" I asked.

"Treason. Giving aid and comfort to the king's enemies, and acting as a
medium of communication between rebels against his authority."

"Very well; I am ready to accompany you," I said, seeing that, for the
moment at least, resistance and escape were equally out of the question;
"but the charge is false."

"That I have nothing to do with. The case is one for the military
tribunal. Before we go I must search your room."

He did so, and, except my passport, found nothing whatever of a
documentary, much less of a compromising character. He then searched me,
and took possession of Zamorra's unlucky letter to Ulloa and my
memorandum-book, in which, however, there were merely a few commonplace
notes and scientific jottings.

This done he placed two of his alguazils on either side of me, telling
them to run me through with their bayonets if I attempted to escape, and
then, drawing his sword and bringing up the rear, gave the order to march.

As we passed through the gateway I caught sight of the _posadero_,
laughing consumedly, and pointing at me the finger of scorn and triumph.
How sorry I felt that I had not kicked him when I was in the humor and had
the opportunity!

CHAPTER IX.

DOOMED TO DIE.

My captors conducted me to a dilapidated building near the Plaza Major,
which did duty as a temporary jail, the principal prison of Caracas having
been destroyed by the earthquake and left as it fell. Nevertheless, the
room to which I was taken seemed quite strong enough to hold anybody
unsupplied with housebreaking implements or less ingenious than Jack
Sheppard. The door was thick and well bolted, the window or grating (for
it was, of course, destitute of glass) high and heavily barred, yet not
too high to be reached with a little contrivance. Mounting the single
chair (beside a hammock the only furniture the room contained), I gripped
the bars with my hands, raised myself up, and looked out. Below me was a
narrow, and, as it might appear, a little-frequented street, at the end of
which a sentry was doing his monotonous spell of duty.

The place was evidently well guarded, and from the number of soldiers whom
I had seen about the gateway and in the _patio_, I concluded that, besides
serving as a jail, it was used also as a military post. Even though I
might get out, I should not find it very easy to get away. And what were
my chances of getting out? As yet they seemed exceedingly remote. The only
possible exits were the door and the window. The door was both locked and
bolted, and either to open or make an opening in it I should want a brace
and bit and a saw, and several hours freedom from intrusion. It would be
easier to cut the bars--if I possessed a file or a suitable saw. I had my
knife, and with time and patience I might possibly fashion a tool that
would answer the purpose.

But time was just what I might not be able to command. I had heard that
the sole merit of the military tribunal was its promptitude; it never kept
its victims long in suspense; they were either quickly released or as
quickly despatched--the latter being the alternative most generally
adopted. It was for this reason that, the moment I was arrested, I began
to think how I could escape. As neither opening the door nor breaking the
bars seemed immediately feasible, the idea of bribing the turnkey
naturally occurred to me. Thanks to the precaution suggested by Mr. Van
Voorst, I had several gold pieces in my belt. But though the fellow would
no doubt accept my money, what security had I that he would keep his word?
And how, even if he were to leave the door open, should I evade the
vigilance of the sentries and the soldiers who were always loitering in
the _patio_?

On the whole, I thought the best thing I could do was to wait quietly
until the morrow. The night is often fruitful in ideas. I might be
acquitted, after all, and if I attempted to bribe the turnkey before my
examination, and he should betray me to his superiors, my condemnation
would be a foregone conclusion. The mere attempt would be regarded as an
admission of guilt.

A while later, the zambo turnkey (half Indian, half negro) brought me my
evening meal--a loaf of bread and a small bottle of wine--and I studied
his countenance closely. It was both treacherous and truculent, and I felt
that if I trusted him he would be sure to play me false.

As it was near sunset I asked for a light, and tried to engage him in
conversation. But the attempt failed. He answered surlily, that a dark
room was quite good enough for a damned rebel, and left me to myself.

When it became too dark to walk about, I lay down in the hammock and was
soon in the land of dreams; for I was young and sanguine, and though I
could not help feeling somewhat anxious, it was not the sort of anxiety
which kills sleep. Only once in my life have I tasted the agony of
despair. That time was not yet.

When I awoke the clock of a neighboring church was striking three, and the
rays of a brilliant tropical moon were streaming through the barred window
of my room, making it hardly less light than day.

As the echo of the last stroke dies away, I fancy that I hear something
strike against the grating.

I rise up in my hammock, listening intently, and at the same instant a
small shower of pebbles, flung by an unseen hand, falls into the room.

A signal!

Yes, and a signal that demands an answer. In less time than it takes to
tell I slip from my hammock, gather up the pebbles, climb up to the
window, and drop them into the street. Then, looking out, I can just
discern, deep in the shadow of the building opposite, the figure of a man.
He raises his arm; something white flies over my head and falls on the
floor. Dropping hurriedly from the grating, I pick up the message-bearing
missile--a pebble to which is tied a piece of paper. I can see that the
paper contains writing, and climbing a second time up to the grating, I
make out by the light of the moonbeams the words:

"_If you are condemned, ask for a priest._"

My first feeling was one of bitter disappointment. Why should I ask for a
priest? I was not a Roman Catholic; I did not want to confess. If the
author of the missive was Carera--and who else could it be?--why had he
given himself so much trouble to make so unpleasantly suggestive a
recommendation? A priest, forsooth! A file and a cord would be much more
to the purpose.... But might not the words mean more than appeared? Could
it be that Carera desired to give me a friendly hint to prepare for the
worst?... Or was it possible that the ghostly man would bring me a further
message and help me in some way to escape? At any rate, it was a more
encouraging theory than the other, and I resolved to act on it. If the
priest did me no good, he could, at least, do me no harm.

After tearing up the bit of paper and chewing the fragments, I returned to
my hammock and lay awake--sleep being now out of the question--until the
turnkey brought me a cup of chocolate, of which, with the remains of the
loaf, I made my first breakfast. About the middle of the day he brought me
something more substantial. On both occasions I pressed him with questions
as to when I was to be examined, and what they were going to do with me,
to all of which he answered "_No se_" ("I don't know"), and, probably
enough, he told the truth. However, I was not kept long in suspense. Later
on in the afternoon the door opened for the third time, and the officer
who had arrested me, followed by his alguazils, appeared at the threshold
and announced that he had been ordered to escort me to the tribunal.

We went in the same order as before; and a walk of less than fifteen
minutes brought us to another tumble-down building, which appeared to have
been once a court-house. Only the lower rooms were habitable, and at a
door, on either side of which stood a sentry, my conductor respectfully
knocked.

"_Adelante!_" said a rough voice; and we entered accordingly.

Before a long table at the upper end of a large, barely-furnished room,
with rough walls and a cracked ceiling, sat three men in uniform. The one
who occupied the chief seat, and seemed to be the president, was old and
gray, with hard, suspicious eyes, and a long, typical Spanish face, in
every line of which I read cruelty and ruthless determination. His
colleagues, who called him "marquis," treated him with great deference,
and his breast was covered with orders.

It was evident that on this man would depend my fate. The others were
there merely to register his decrees.

After leading me to the table and saluting the tribunal, the officer of
police, whose sword was still drawn, placed himself in a convenient
position for running me through, in the event of my behaving
disrespectfully to the tribunal or attempting to escape.

The president, who had before him the letter to Senor Ulloa, my passport,
and a document that looked like a brief, demanded my name and quality.

I told him.

"What was your purpose in coming to Caracas?" he asked.

"Simply to see the country."

He laughed scornfully.

"To see the country! What nonsense is this? How can anybody see a country
which is ravaged by brigands and convulsed with civil war? And where is
your authority?"

"My passport."

"A passport such as this is only available in a time of peace. No stranger
unprovided with a safe conduct from the _capitan-general_ is allowed to
travel in the province of Caracas. It is useless trying to deceive us,
senor. Your purpose is to carry information to the rebels, probably to
join them, as is proved by your possession of a letter to so base a
traitor as Senor Ulloa."

On this I explained how I had obtained the letter, and pointed out that
the very fact of my asking the _posadero_ to direct me to Ulloa's house,
and going thither openly, was proof positive of my innocence. Had my
purpose been that which he imputed to me, I should have shown more
caution.

"That does not at all follow," rejoined the president. "You may have
intended to disarm suspicion by a pretence of ignorance. Moreover, you
expressed to the _senor posadero_ sentiments hostile to the Government of
his Majesty the King."

"It is untrue. I did nothing of the sort," I exclaimed, impetuously.

"Mind what you say, prisoner. Unless you treat the tribunal with due
respect you shall be sent back to the _carcel_ and tried in your absence."

"Do you call this a trial?" I exclaimed, indignantly. "I am a British
subject. I have committed no offence; but if I must be tried I demand the
right of being tried by a civil tribunal."

"British subjects who venture into a city under martial law must take the
consequences. We can show them no more consideration than we show Spanish
subjects. They deserve much less, indeed. At this moment a force is being
organized in England, with the sanction and encouragement of the British
Government, to serve against our troops in these colonies. This is an act
of war, and if the king, my master, were of my mind, he would declare war
against England. Better an open foe than a treacherous friend. Do you hold
a commission in the Legion, senor?"

"No."

"Know you anybody who does?"

"Yes; I believe that several men with whom I served in Spain have accepted
commissions. But you will surely not hold me responsible for the doings of
others?"

"Not at all. You have quite enough sins of your own to answer for. You may
not actually hold a commission in this force of filibusters, but you are
acquainted with people who do; and from your own admission and facts that
have come to our knowledge, we believe that you are acting as an
intermediary between the rebels in this country and their agents in
England. It is an insult to our understanding to tell us that you have
come here out of idle curiosity. You have come to spy out the nakedness of
the land, and being a soldier you know how spies are dealt with."

Here the president held a whispered consultation with his colleagues. Then
he turned to me, and continued:

"We are of opinion that the charges against you have been fully made out,
and the sentence of the court is that you be strangled on the Plaza Major
to-morrow morning at seven by the clock."

"Strangled! Surely, senores, you will not commit so great an infamy? This
is a mere mockery of a trial. I have neither seen an indictment nor been
confronted by witnesses. Call this a sentence! I call it murder."

"If you do not moderate your language, prisoner, you will be strangled
to-night instead of to-morrow. Remove him, _capitan_"--to the officer of
police. "Let this be your warrant"--writing.

"Grant me at least one favor," I asked, smothering my indignation, and
trying to speak calmly. "I have fought and bled for Spain. Let me at least
die a soldier's death, and allow me before I die to see a priest."

"So you are a Christian!" returned the president, almost graciously. "I
thought all Englishmen were heretics. I think senores, we may grant Senor
Fortescue's request. Instead of being strangled, you shall be shot by a
firing party of the regiment of Cordova, and you may see a priest. We
would not have you die unshriven, and I will myself see that your body is
laid in consecrated ground. When would you like the priest to visit you?"

"This evening, senor president. There will not be much time to-morrow
morning."

"That is true. See to it, _capitan_. Tell them at the _carcel_ that Senor
Fortescue may see a priest in his own room this evening. _Adios senor!_"

And with that my three judges rose from their seats and bowed as politely
as if they were parting with an honored guest. Though this proceeding
struck me as being both ghastly and grotesque, I returned the greeting in
due form, and made my best bow. I learned afterward that I had really been
treated with exceptional consideration, and might esteem myself fortunate
in not being condemned without trial and strangled without notice.

CHAPTER X.

SALVADOR.

Now that I knew beyond a doubt what would be my fate unless I could escape
before morning, I became decidedly anxious as to the outcome of my
approaching interview with the ghostly comforter for whom I had asked. It
was my last chance. If it failed me, or the man turned out to be a priest
and nothing more, my hours were numbered. The time was too short to
arrange any other plan. Would he bring with him a file and a cord? Even if
he did, we could hardly hope to cut through the bars before daylight. And,
most important consideration of all, how would Carera contrive to send me
the right man?

The mystery was solved more quickly than I expected.

After leaving the tribunal, my escort took me back by the way we had come,
the police captain, who was showing himself much more friendly (probably
because he looked on me as a good "Christian" and a dying man), walking
beside instead of behind me; and when we were within a hundred yards or so
of the _carcel_ I observed a Franciscan friar pacing slowly toward us.

I felt intuitively that this was my man; and when he drew nearer a slight
movement of his eyebrows and a quick look of intelligence told me that I
was right.

"I have no acquaintance among the clergy of Caracas," I said to my
conductor. "This friar will serve my purpose as well as a regular priest."

"As you like, senor. Shall I ask him to see you?"

"_Gracias senor capitan_, if you please."

Whereupon the officer respectfully accosted the friar, and after telling
him that I had been condemned to die at sunrise on the morrow, asked if he
would receive my confession and give me such religious consolation as my
case required.

"_Con mucho gusto, capitan_," answered the friar. "When would the senor
like me to visit him?"

"At once, father. My hours are numbered, and I would fain spend the night
in meditation and prayer."

"Come with us, father," said the captain. "The senor has the permission of
the tribunal to see a priest in his own room."

So we entered the prison together, and the captain, having given the
necessary instructions to the turnkey, we were conducted to my room.

"When you have done," he said, "knock at the door, and I will come and let
you out."

"Good! But you need not wait. I shall not be ready for half an hour or
more."

As the key turned in the lock, the _soi-disant_ friar threw back his cowl.
"Now, Senor Fortescue," he said, with a laugh, "I am ready to hear your
confession."

"I confess that I feel as if I were in purgatory already, and I shall be
uncommonly glad if you can get me out of it."

"Well, purgatory is not the pleasantest of places by all accounts, and I
am quite willing to do whatever I can for you. By way of beginning, take
this ointment and smear your face and hands therewith."

"Why?"

"To make you look swart and ugly, like the zambo."

"And then?"

"And then? When the turnkey comes back we shall overpower, bind, and gag
him--if he resists, strangle him. Then you will put on his clothes and don
his sombrero, and as the moon rises late, and the prison is badly lighted,
I have no doubt we shall run the gauntlet of the guard without
difficulty.... That is a splendid ointment. You are almost as dark as a
negro. Now for your feet."

"My feet! I see! I must go out barefoot."

"Of course. Who ever heard of a zambo turnkey wearing shoes? I will hide
yours under my habit, and you can put them on afterward."

"You are a friend of Carera's, of course?"

"Yes; I am Salvador Carmen, the _teniente_ of Colonel Mejia, at your
service."

"Salvador Carmen! A name of good omen. You are saving me."

"I will either save you or perish with you. Take this dagger. Better to
die fighting than be strangled on the plaza."

"Is this your plan or Carera's?" I asked, as I put the dagger in my belt.

"Partly his and partly mine, I think. When he heard of your arrest, he
said that it concerned our honor to effect your rescue. The idea of
throwing a stone through the window was Carera's; that of personating a
priest was mine."

"But how did Carera find out where I was? and what assurance had you that
when I asked for a priest they would bring you?"

"That was easy enough. This is a small military post as well as an
occasional prison, some of the soldiers are always drinking at the
_pulperia_ round the corner, and they talk in their cups. I even know the
countersign for to-night. It is 'Baylen.' I saw them take you to the
tribunal, and as I knew that when you asked for a priest they would call
in the first whom they saw, just to save themselves the trouble of going
farther, I took care to be hereabout in this guise as you returned. I was
fortunate enough to meet you face to face, and you were sharp enough to
detect my true character at a glance."

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