The Marquis of Bolibar

by Leo Perutz

"Dead? Yes!" Saracho blurted out, and he laughed with such fierce and delighted abandon that the grisly sound reverberated among the trees of the forest. "Yes, and now he's racing the Devil to hell!"

  "I was there when his mother bore him," the Marquis said in a low, choking voice. "It was I that carried him to his christening, but he was as inconstant from his earliest childhood as a shadow on the wall. God grant him eternal rest."

  "May the Devil grant him eternal rest in Hades," cried Saracho with mingled anger and contempt.

  "Amen," said the British captain, but it was uncertain whether his amen related to Bolibar's prayer or Saracho's curse.

  The Marquis walked over to the shrine and bowed down before the Madonna. The Spaniards who had been praying there rose and made room for him.

  "For myself," Saracho remarked to the captain, "I cannot boast of any noble kinsmen. My mother was a maidservant and my father a cobbler, that is why I serve my king and Holy Mother Church. We cannot all be noblemen."

  "Lord," prayed the Marquis, kneeling before the image of the Mother of Heaven, "you know that we wretched mortals cannot live without sin."

  "And you should know, Captain," Saracho said with a scornful, bitter laugh, "that our high-born noblemen — the Duke of Infantado and the Marquis of Villafanca, the two Counts of Orgaz, father and son, and the Duke of Albuquerque — all went to Bayonne to pay homage to Joseph, the new king."

  "You cannot have forgotten, O Lord," the Marquis of Bolibar cried to the Madonna, "that one of your own twelve Apostles was a perjurer and a scoundrel!"

  "Yes," Saracho pursued, "our proud grandees were the first to go to Bayonne and sell their vows for money, and why not? Are French louis-d'or of baser gold than Spanish doubloons?"

  "St Augustine was a heretic, yet you forgave him," the Marquis cried with a fervour born of despair. "Do you hear me, Lord? Paul was a persecutor of the Church, Matthew a miser and a devotee of money, and Peter forswore himself, yet you forgave them one and all. Do you hear me, Lord?"

  "But they'll never escape eternal damnation!" Saracho roared triumphantly. "They're doomed, and hell awaits them. Flames, fire and sparks, fire above and below, fire on every side, fire in perpetuity!" And he stared enraptured into the nocturnal gloom as if he could see the flames of hell blazing far away beyond the dark woods.

  "Have mercy on him, have mercy, Lord, and let your everlasting light shine upon him!"

  Lieutenant von Röhn, listening to this strange prayer in his hiding place, was smitten with surprise and consternation, for the Marquis's tone was far from that of a humble suppliant. He bellowed at the Almighty, sometimes angrily, sometimes threateningly, and sometimes as if striving to bully Him into doing his, Bolibar's, will.

  At last the Marquis rose and went over to Saracho with knitted brow, twitching lips, and eyes alight with anger. The Tanner's Tub affected to be surprised to see him still there.

  "Señor Marques," he said, "the hour grows late, and if you wish to pay your respects to the French commander early in the morning —"

  "Enough!" cried the Marquis, and his face looked more fearsome than ever. Saracho broke off at once. The two men stood facing one another, mute and motionless. Only their shadows flitted back and forth in the fire's restless light, crouching and leaping, retreating and lunging, and it seemed to Röhn in the heat of his fever that their hatred and belligerence had silently entered into those darting shadows.

  All at once, however, the sentries shouted their challenge once more and a man came running out of the trees toward the fire. As soon as Saracho caught sight of him, he forgot his quarrel with the Marquis of Bolibar.

  "Ave Maria purissima!" panted the messenger, this being the customary Spanish greeting, and one that can be heard a hundred times a day in street or tavern.

  "Amen, she conceived without sin," Saracho replied impatiently. "You came alone? Where's the priest?"

  "His Reverence got the colic from a hot blood sausage —"

  "A curse on his soul, his body and eyes!" roared Saracho. "That man has less heart than a tripe-cook would sell you for half a quarto. Fear, that's his sickness!"

  "He's dead, I can swear to it," said the messenger. "I saw him laid out in his bedchamber."

  Saracho ran both hands through his hair and proceeded to curse roundly enough to bring the sky down about his ears. His face turned as red as a stone in a brick-kiln.

  "Dead?" he cried, struggling to catch his breath. "Did you hear that, Captain? The priest is dead!"

  The British officer stared silently into space. The guerrillas had jumped up and clustered around the fire, shivering under their cloaks.

  "What now?" asked the captain.

  "I swore on General Cuesta's sword that we would take the town or die. Our plans had been skilfully laid and set in train, and now this priest has to die an untimely death."

  "Your plans were worthless," the Marquis of Bolibar said suddenly. "Your plans would have earned you a bullet in the head, nothing more."

  Saracho glared at the Marquis indignantly. "What do you know of our plans?" he demanded. "I didn't shout them from the rooftops."

  "Father Ambrosius sent for me when he knew he was going to die," said the Marquis. "He asked me to perform the task with which you entrusted him, but your plans are ill-conceived. I tell you this to your face, Colonel Saracho: you know nothing of the art of war."

  "And you do, I suppose, Señor Marques?" Saracho was beside himself with rage. "The enemy will gobble up that town like cold apple sauce."

  "You buried a sack of gunpowder beneath the town wall, wedged between sandbags and provided with a fuse. The vicar was to light the fuse under cover of darkness and blow a breach in the wall."

  "Quite so," Saracho broke in, "that being the only way of taking the town. La Bisbal would withstand the heaviest of cannon, for the chronicles tell us that it was built more than five thousand years ago by King Hercules and St James."

  "Your knowledge of history is admirable, Colonel Saracho, but did it never occur to you that the French would round up all the monks and detain them as soon as they arrived? Tomorrow they'll shut them up, either in their monastery or in a church, post a cannon at the entrance with slow-match burning, and let none of them out. Did you think of that, Colonel Saracho? Even had the priest contrived to escape, you're confronted by the whole of the Nassau Regiment and part of the Hessian. All you have is a handful of ill-trained, indisciplined regulars, each of whom goes his own sweet way."

  "True, true," Saracho cried angrily, "but my men are adroit and courageous enough to trample the German colossus underfoot."

  "Are you so sure?" demanded the Marquis. "As soon as the charge explodes, the general alarm will sound in every street and the Germans will run to their guns. Two salvoes of grapeshot will put paid to your assault. Hadn't you thought of that, Colonel Saracho?"

  The Tanner's Tub, at a loss for a rejoinder, chewed his fingers and said nothing.

  "And even should a few of your men succeed in penetrating the town," the Marquis went on, "they'll come under fire from every nook and cranny, every barred window and cellar light, for La Bisbal's inhabitants are more than ever favourably disposed toward the French. Your guerrillas uprooted their vines and set their olive trees ablaze. Why, only lately you had two young men from La Bisbal shot because they refused to join you.

  "Yes, that's true," said one of the guerrillas. "The town is against us. The citizens scowl at us, the women turn their backs on us, the dogs bark at us—"

  "And the landlords serve us sour wine," grumbled another.

  "But for military reasons," said the captain, "the possession of La Bisbal is of the utmost importance to us. If the French hold the town, they can take General Cuesta in the flank and rear whenever his troops make a move."

  "Then General Cuesta must send us reinforcements," Saracho exclaimed. "He has the Princesa and Santa Fe Regiments and half the Santiago Cavalry. He must—"

  "He'll send us not a single man or cart-horse. He hims
elf is in difficulty, and you know full well that one cripple seldom helps another across the road. What's to be done, Colonel?"

  "How can I tell you when I myself have no idea?" Saracho said sullenly, staring at his fingers. The guerrillas around the fire set up a clamour when they saw how perplexed, irresolute and at odds their commanders were. Some cried out that the war was lost and they wanted to go home, others that they had no wish to go home and fetch firewood for their wives, and one man ran to his donkey and proceeded to saddle it as if he meant to set off for his village without delay.

  All at once, a voice made itself heard above the hubbub. It belonged to the Marquis of Bolibar.

  "If you're willing to obey me, Colonel, I know what to do."

  On hearing these words in his lair, Lieutenant von Röhn once more fell prey to the mysterious sense of dread inspired in him by his very first glimpse of the Marquis's face and eyes. Heedless of the danger that he might be discovered, he thrust his head through the skylight rather than miss a word. His thirst and pain had vanished: his one thought was that fate had ordained him to overhear and foil the schemes of the Marquis of Bolibar.

  Such were the clamour and commotion made by the guerrillas, who continued to argue whether it was better to fight on or disband, that Röhn could not at first catch what passed between the Marquis and the other two. After a short while, however, Saracho bade his men be silent, accompanying the order with oaths and imprecations, and the din ceased abruptly.

  "Please continue, Your Grace," the captain said, very courteously. Saracho's demeanour, too, had undergone a sudden and complete transformation. He betrayed no lingering trace of scorn, hatred or ill-will as he stood there in a respectful, almost subservient attitude. All three men - the British officer, the rebel commander, and Lieutenant von Röhn-bent an expectant gaze on the Marquis of Bolibar.

  THREE SIGNALS

  At this point in his narrative Lieutenant von Röhn gave a description of the sinister spectacle presented by this nocturnal conference, which had deeply imprinted itself upon his mind. He recalled how Saracho, squatting down like a goblin, stoked the fire with brushwood — for the night was cold — and looked up at the Marquis intently as he did so; how the British officer, whose impassive face belied his obvious excitement, paid no heed when his scarlet cloak slipped from his shoulders and fell to the ground; how the guerrillas crowded around the fire, in part so as to hear what was said, in part because of the chill night air; and how the cork oak bearing the Madonna, which had been uprooted and half toppled by the wind, seemed to lean toward the Marquis and hang upon his every word. Indeed, the lieutenant fancied in his fearful and feverish state of mind that Christ and the Virgin were in league with the guerrillas and privy to their conspiracy.

  Standing in their midst, the Marquis of Bolibar acquainted the others with his murderous plans.

  "You will send your men home, Colonel Saracho," he commanded. "You will order them home to their fields and vineyards, their fish ponds and mule stables. Your cannon and powder waggons you will hide in readiness for the time when we are stronger than the Germans."

  "And when will that time come?" Saracho inquired doubtfully, shaking his head and blowing on the fire.

  "It will come soon enough," the Marquis declared, "for I shall find you an ally. You will receive assistance from a quarter you now dismiss."

  Saracho stood up. "If you mean Empecinado and his guerrillas at Campillos," he growled, "that man is my enemy. He will not come when I need him."

  "Who spoke of Empecinado? It is the citizens of La Bisbal who will come to your aid. One fine night they will rebel and fall upon the Germans."

  "Those bloated, pot-bellied Judases of La Bisbal?" Saracho exclaimed, sinking to the ground again in rage and disappointment. "All they ever think of at night, when they lie alongside their wives, is how best to betray us and our native land."

  "I shall persuade them to quit their beds and rise in revolt!" cried the Marquis. He gestured with menace at the town slumbering in the valley far below. "The great insurrection will come, be assured of that. I have my plans ready-made in my head, and I'll stake my body and soul on their success."

  For a while the three men gazed silently into the fire, each engrossed in his own thoughts. The guerrillas whispered among themselves and the night wind rustled in the trees, shaking raindrops from branch and twig.

  "And what is our part in this venture?" the captain asked at length.

  "You will await my signals. I shall give three of them. At the first you will assemble your men, occupy the approaches to the town, place your cannon in position, and blow up both bridges over the Alhar - but not until I give the signal, for it is of prime importance that the Germans should feel secure until then."

  "Go on, go on!" Saracho said eagerly.

  "On receiving the second signal you will at once proceed to bombard the town with shot, shell, and fire-balls. At the same time, you will take the outer defences."

  "And then?"

  "By then the revolt will have broken out. While the Germans are busy defending themselves against insurgent townsfolk on every side, I shall give the third signal and you will order a general assault."

  "Very good," said Saracho.

  "And the signals?" The captain took out his slate.

  "Do you know my house in La Bisbal?" the Marquis asked Saracho.

  "The house beyond the walls or the one adorned with Saracens' heads in the Calle de los Carmelitas?"

  "The latter. You will see a column of thick black smoke ascending from its roof. Smoke from damp, smouldering straw, that will be the first signal."

  "Smoke from damp, smouldering straw," the captain repeated.

  "One night, when all is quiet in La Bisbal, you will hear the strains of the organ in St Daniel's Convent: that will be the second signal."

  "The organ in St Daniel's Convent," wrote the captain. "And the third?"

  The Marquis pondered for a moment. Then he said, "Give me your knife, Colonel Saracho."

  From under his coat the Tanner's Tub produced a broad- bladed dagger with a hilt of carved ivory — a weapon of the kind the Spaniards call an ox-tongue. The Marquis took it.

  "When a messenger brings you this knife, command your men to storm the town - but then and not before. The success of the whole undertaking depends on that, Colonel Saracho."

  Lieutenant von Röhn had caught every word from his vantage point beneath the chapel roof. His brow was on fire and the blood pounded in his temples. He now knew the three signals that were designed to bring down destruction upon the garrison of La Bisbal, and he also knew that the success or failure of the undertaking depended on himself, not Saracho.

  "There are one or two contingencies to be considered," the British officer said thoughtfully, replacing the slate in his pocket. "For instance, the Germans might deem it advantageous to take a personage such as the Marquis of Bolibar into custody. If they did so, our wait for the signals would doubtless be long and tedious."

  "The Germans will never find the Marquis of Bolibar. They may see a blind beggar offering his consecrated Agnus Dei candles for sale outside the church door, or a peasant transporting eggs, cheeses and chestnuts to market on donkeyback. Picture me as a sergeant posting sentries outside the powder magazine, or a dragoon leading the regimental commander's charger to the horse-pond."

  The captain laughed.

  "Yours is not the kind of face one readily forgets, My Lord Marquis. I could recognize you in any disguise, I feel sure."

  "Could you indeed?" said the Marquis, and pondered in silence for a while. "Are you acquainted with General Rowland Hill, Captain?"

  "I have been privileged to see General the Lord Hill of Hawkstone on many occasions, the last one being at Salamanca four months ago, when I was making some purchases in the neighbourhood of his headquarters." The captain broke off. "Have you lost something, My Lord Marquis?"

  The Marquis had bent down. When he straightened up, Lieutenant von Röhn saw that h
e had draped the captain's scarlet cloak around his shoulders. Röhn failed to perceive any other difference in him until his attention was aroused by the Britisher's look of boundless amazement.

  From one moment to the next, the Marquis's face had taken on a wholly strange and unfamiliar appearance. Röhn had never before set eyes on those gaunt,- furrowed cheeks, those mobile orbs that darted so restlessly in all directions, that hard, firm mouth, and that massive chin which gave evidence of vigour and grim determination. Then the unfamiliar face opened its mouth and a snarling, drawling voice emerged.

  "The next time your assault exposes you to such heavy fire, Captain —"

  The Britisher grasped the Marquis roughly by the shoulders and uttered an oath or imprecation whose meaning was lost on Lieutenant von Röhn. "What hell-hound of a playactor taught you that accursed trick?" he cried. "If I didn't happen to know that Lord Hill speaks no word of Spanish . . . Give me back my cloak, it's devilish cold!"

  The guerrillas laughed at his annoyance and astonishment, but one of them crossed himself and said, with a timid glance at the Marquis, "Our gracious lord the Señor Marques can do other things as well. Give him two measures of blood, twelve pounds of flesh and a sack of bones, and he'll make you a man - Christian or Moor, it's all the same to him."

  "Well, Captain," said the Marquis, who had reverted to his previous appearance, "do you still believe the Germans will arrest me if I decide to disappear? I shall pass through the Puerta del Sol at vespers this very day, and not a soul will prevent me from doing so."

  "I wish you would tell me your chosen disguise," the captain said anxiously. "Should my men fail to recognize you while storming La Bisbal, I fear they may do you harm."

  "My one desire," exclaimed the Marquis, "is to be buried unrecognized. In losing my life, I shall also lose a name that has for ever been stained with dishonour."

  The fire in their midst had dwindled and begun to go out. The wind blew cold and damp, and a pale dawn was rising beyond the gloomy woods. The captain stared into the dying embers.

  "The glory your exploit will bring you —" he ventured.