"The nocturnal music of the streets of Madrid" (February 9, 1814)

Justin never does reveal what happened in Madrid. I wrote the scene in which he does, but it was too much of a digression at that point, so I threw it out. Here it is:

“We were betrayed,” he began. “Madrid was back in enemy hands and Pepe and I had slunk into the city to meet with one of the guerrilla there. But it wasn’t he who was waiting for us at the meeting place.”

The stench and blackness of Madrid’s back streets on a rainy night, the familiar smell of damp uniform, Pepe’s reassuring presence; the tense expectation, suddenly fulfilled. Pepe had flung himself into the melee, and suddenly they had found themselves free and ran for their lives. “We didn’t get far, however, because I was wounded. We could hear our pursuers catching up.” Oddly enough he had felt no pain, just the wet warmth of the bloodstained jacket underneath his hand, and a rawness in his throat.

“Did it hurt very much?”

He shook his head. “I was mostly thirsty from running so hard. That gave me the idea of hiding in the bar across the road.” He had covered his bloody uniform with his cloak, grabbed Pepe’s arm and steered him through the entrance. Soon they were leaning against the wall with bumpers of red wine in their hands, inconspicuous among the drunken throng. All would have gone well had not one strapping, flash-eyed wench begun to make up to him, slipping her hand under his cloak in what was either a caress or an attempt to steal his purse. He snatched for her wrist but too late, she started to screech, raising up her bloody hand for all too see. “Run,” he had told Pepe, and hesitating only briefly Pepe ran, leaving Justin to his pursuers but in confident hope that Pepe would reach their friends. He had been less confident about his own prospects.

“They took me prisoner, but Pepe got away.”

He had not known what a thorn in the side of the enemy he had been until he was told that he would be tried and executed in Paris – for espionage, despite his uniform. “I was put en route to France by and by, so Pepe and our friends ambushed the transport and got me out.” His wound broke open in the struggle, festered and brought on a fever. When they joined headquarters Pepe and he had been missing for seven months.

“A picnic,” Stella said with a gentle irony that was lost on Percy, who regarded him with suspicion. “So you weren’t badly wounded?”

He was shaking his head but Claire broke in, “When people ask your history, Percy, do you always tell the absolute truth? Justin was very badly wounded. I’ve seen the scars. It’s a miracle that he survived to tell the tale.”

“Was that your worst wound?”

Surprised by Claire’s intervention he had turned to look at her. A faint blush tinged her cheeks, as though she were equally startled. “No,” he said. “The worst wounds I received were in London.”

“In London?” The little ones turned puzzled eyes on their elders.

Stella grinned. “I suppose he means Claire,” she suggested, adding mischievously, “A dart from her eyes slew him.”

“Stella! Where did you pick up such a vulgar phrase?”

“From one of your novels, Alba, dear.”

    During the burst of bickering that followed, Claire kept so still and silent that it was a shock when she turned her head to meet his gaze. Again he was transported back in time, a little further back, to the day on the frozen Thames when the world dissolved into a meaningless babble and her grey eyes were his only anchorage. His confusion and fatigue, her assurance and poise; all the changes that time could bring . . .

 

This etching by Sir John Charles Robinson in the National Gallery of Art inWashington, entitled October Rain: Posuclos in the Guardarramas, Near Madrid and created in or after 1876 gives a sense of the landscape into which Pepe escaped, as well as his state of mind after having to leave Justin, wounded and bleeding, in the hands of the enemy.