Feed the Crow

By Tony Masero

Captain John Page and his Portuguese translator Adelino, are on a vital mission of political importance. The Peninsular War of 1812 rages around them and their way is fraught with danger; it is a mysterious path that leads them down into the depraved sexual underworld of Lisbon high society, where they discover a devious predator is on the loose, a murderous killer who takes shocking mementoes from the victims.
Page finds romance and peril as he braves the bloody fields of Badajoz and Salamanca in search of his prey. But the deadly trail does not end there; he must suffer both loss and hardship and cross war-torn Europe before he can come to grips with the evil force that threatens everything he owns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Masero
• Release date: Sep 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301283507

Tony Masero

It’s not such a big step from pictures to writing.And that’s how it started out for me. I’ve illustrated more Western book covers than I care to mention and been doing it for a long time. No hardship, I hasten to add, I love the genre and have since a kid, although originally I made my name painting the cover art for other people, now at least, I manage to create covers for my own books.A long-term closet writer, only comparatively recently, with a family grown and the availability of self-publishing have I managed to be able to write and get my stories out there.As I did when illustrating, research counts a lot and has inspired many of my Westerns and Thrillers to have a basis in historical fact or at least weave their tale around the seeds of factual content.Having such a visual background, mostly it’s a matter of describing the pictures I see in my head and translating them to the written page. I guess that’s why one of my early four-star reviewers described the book like a ‘Western movie, fast paced and full of action.’I enjoy writing them; I hope folks enjoy reading the results.

Book preview

Feed the Crow

Tony Masero

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events other than historical are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real person, places, or events is coincidental.

Cover artwork: Tony Masero

Courtesy of the British Historical Society of Portugal

Copyright 2015 © Tony Masero

Smashwords Edition

…. The Foe, the Victim, and the fond Ally

That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,

Are met, as if at home they could not die,

To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,

And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

George Gordon, Lord Byron

Chapter One

How was it he came to be adrift on this river?

It was a country at war, although you would never have known it, here on the broad waters of the tranquil River Tejo. The cumbersome transport sloughed peacefully downriver following the tidal ebb. At her helm a squat ferryman leant dreamily against the tiller whilst the canvas above him bowed lethargically in the warm evening air.

Standing in the distant starboard shallows, a lone fisherman cast a circle of net, shedding droplets of gold that sparkled in the beams of setting sunlight angling through the forested slopes. He stopped to stare at them for moment standing as still as a hunting heron, poised between curiosity and flight. There was a flutter of slow black shadows about him as crows settled in the trees above, cawing hoarsely as they swooped in. The barge moved on and the figure and his gloomy harbingers diminished in the soft swirl of their wake.

John Page lay in the belly of the boat savouring the moment of peace. His tunic was undone and his arm hung languidly across the rail, fingers inches from the passing water. He felt the coolness of the water born air trickling about his fingertips like an invisible liquid balm. It moved through his body and caressed the soreness that lurked at the troubled edges of his mind. The fingers above the water began to tremble. He watched them vibrate distantly for a moment, then with a frown moved them inside, close to his chest, as if a sudden heat has risen from the waves and was about to burn him.

Page had received permission from the Commissariat at Abrantes to take passage to Lisbon on this returning supply vessel and after the winter months spent north at the siege of Cuidad Rodrigo the capital city held for him all the promise of a comfort so sorely missed during those months of freezing billets and damp warfare.

A lonely figure of a man. Of medium height, stocky and unremarkable in facial features, his face framed by dark side-whiskers that curled fashionably to his jawline.

The army, he had at first been pleased to discover, afforded opportunities not found in civilian life. A strange dichotomy of liberty and responsibility both of which he enjoyed, but then there were also, he discovered, the less comfortable social rituals that applied in army life. His fellow officers, who tended to avoid him, not through any particular fault of his own, more that amongst any group there must be one who does not fit the pattern mysteriously laid down by the many. In this, John Page was not overly disturbed, but the atmosphere prevalent in the mess had created in him a cautious selectivity in his company.

As an officer Page demonstrated neither weakness nor indifference, he had been mentioned more than once in dispatches and Wellington himself had taken note of his name. The very reason he was now ordered on this solitary mission.

At the siege of Cuidad the positioning of English artillery had called for trench building under heavy fire from the castle ramparts no more than a few hundred yards away. It was Page, by his example, who had urged his men to work on beneath the murderous sniper fire and raise the guns into position within a single night. So cold that night, Page remembered, the water freezing in the men´s canteen, so cold and yet so alive, the dark air above bursting with searing fireballs cast from the French positions. The intense passing shot shrieking by and striking cold mud or solid flesh with a not dissimilar sound; corrugating both the soil and splitting the skin. Breath, he recalled, hung in the still air like discharges from a musket.

That final assault upon the rubble of the broken walls haunted him still, the smell of burning buildings rich with the taint of singed flesh and the iron taste of blood against his teeth. There had been a madness in it, a chaos of shot, waves of glinting bayonets and falling men, and upon the rocks the shattered bodies where French mines had exploded beneath the fallen Forlorn Hope, that wildly courageous or foolhardy band who were first into the breach in their search for recognition.

The stones of the breach were slippery with their blood under his feet. He had fallen more times than he could count but once through the cracked breach a deeper wasteland of devastation awaited. The deserted civilian inhabitants crying in collective howls of anguish as the ruined city flickered with their trapped shadows and the pitiless troops fell upon them.

The city was taken and all that went with the victory. An orgy of drunkenness and rape. It was said that Wellington had permitted the excess.

The offer of surrender being refused by the French, it was permissible under the unspoken articles of war, yet more likely the British commander saw this as an example to be made for future offensives. Like the rest of life, war is never fair.

Page moved restlessly, awakened from his placid moment by the nightmare memory, he turned his thoughts to another consideration for distraction. His mission.

There had been a death, that much he knew already. Not unremarkable in war, but this was different, this had been a lady, a lady of some substance....

Some wine, senhor Capitão?

Adelino hovered at his shoulder, a flask offered tentatively.

A chubby faced, red-cheeked man of the countryside with an explosion of curly black hair that extended around his jaw and ended in a narrow beard under his chin. The Portuguese had been seconded to him as interpreter and manservant. Somehow the fellow had attached himself to Headquarters and picked up enough English to make himself useful.

He wore the battered and patched, murky brown tunic of the 5th Caçadores, the dented black shako at a rakish angle barely balanced on his overlong bush of hair. It was a ragged and ill fitting uniform with sagging pockets and gaiter-less boots whose soles flapped loosely. Page observed dryly that in all probability the entire ensemble has been stripped from a variety of fallen soldiers.

Thank you, Adelino. Page accepted the flask and took from his pocket a leather wallet with the thin cheroots he favoured. Striking tinder he lit the cigar, sipped the wine and sighed contentedly.

I have it from the boatman, this wine, explained Adelino, ever willing to please. Not in any obsequious or servile way but more as it was merely the manner of the man.

Perhaps it is a national trait, this polite consideration, Page wonders, or is it merely the natural humility of a peasant who accepts his lot without quibble? Though, he knew that whilst on the one hand appearing apparently subservient, on the other there was a sharpness to Adelino, he was no fool, although his attitude may give some that impression. For whilst his lack of education might imply stupidity any natural intelligence would naturally rise and express itself.

"He is not of the river, you know? He is a fisherman from the coast. They fish there in the meio lua´s the big boats with a high... How do you say?" He indicated the front end of the barge.

The prow, Page obliged distractedly. At this moment he would rather be left with his own thoughts. Daydreams that were as slow as the passing water and involved shedding the memory of those grim days of siege and concentrating on the simple luxury of a good cigar and a taste of wine.

Yes, the prow. It will interest you, Capitão. The boat is curved like a half moon, his hands shaped the pattern in the air. Movement, each phrase accompanied by a descriptive gesture amplifying the words, always supported his language. The sea is very strong there and they must have this form to break through the waves. Every winter when the sea is too violent to fish the people must leave their homes and travel over the land by foot to the Tejo to fish. The whole family comes. Mothers, wives even little children. But this one, he waves a finger at the boatman. He stays here now. There is more money to be made working for the British.

He is not alone, Page thinks cynically, only too well aware of the duplicity of camp followers.

Vultures always gather in the path of any army.

Tell me, senhor Capitão Page, if I may ask. What is it we do on this journey to Lisboa?

Page considered for a moment, looking at the dishevelled figure standing before him. Objectively, he realised that he did not look much better himself. His tunic was stained and worn after months in the field. The once proud red, bleached by sun and rain, holed and patched and frayed at the cuffs. He is not a man though; who feels exaltation in his rank and unlike some of his peers takes no offense at the intrusive question, which was no more than simple curiosity. It occurred to him that certain guidelines should be laid out if they are to be in each other’s company.

Adelino, firstly you and I have to come to an understanding. We shall be together much over the next few days. I fear it may be, that we shall see or hear things of a sensitive nature. In this you must remember that what you see or hear shall stay most private between us and no word must be breathed to another. Do you understand? He used a severe tone, as one might speak to a child, for as yet he had not discovered more in Adelino than his simple guile.

Of course, senhor. My lip is locked, in affirmation he imitated a turning key across his mouth.

Then I shall tell you what I know. There has been a foul murder in Lisbon that I am sent to examine.

A murder! Adelino´s attention is instantly captured. A chicken has been killed, but why...

Not a chicken. A lady. A lady of high office.

But the senhor Capitão said a fowl murder....

Ah, Page smiled at the misunderstanding. Adelino there is a confusion of words here. A difference of spelling and not of pronunciation. I meant `foul´ as in a bad act, an evil crime.

Adelino pursed his lips and nodded seriously to disguise his lack of understanding. This is your lady who has suffered this terrible thing, senhor Capitão?

Page snorted in amusement and flicked ash from his cheroot. No, I do not know the woman. My information is sketchy as yet, she is, or was, a Portuguese lady of standing and it would appear that there may be a member of the British military involved. But more of these details I have yet to discover when I see the Consul in Lisbon. I am charged to uncover the facts and make report direct to my commander. It would seem there may be some political overtones involved and he would know the facts to avoid any difficulties between the military and the Portuguese Junta.

So... breathed Adelino. A murder foul. It is important, no?

Important, yes. Now, Adelino, Page shrugged out of his uniform jacket. If you would be so kind, my tunic could do with a brush. Will you let me know when Lisbon is near at hand?

Adelino nodded obediently, took the jacket and wandered to the stern to resume his conversation with the boatman.

They stood silently together, out of earshot as Adelino desultorily flapped the jacket against the bulwark. Before long natural curiosity would prompt the ferryman, Adelino knew this and waited expectantly.

How is it with this one? the boatman asked finally, jerking his head in Page´s direction.

Adelino shrugged, laying aside the jacket and taking an empty clay pipe from one of his bulging pockets.

Who can say, he is one of the English.... they are different.

All the same to me. Soldiers. They are of the devil. The ferryman crossed himself. I have seen what they did at Leiria.

That was the French soldiers, cut in Adelino with all the superior air of military insight.

"Who cares which side? There was not a roof left standing, everything was burnt. They even dug up the dead in the graveyards and scattered the bodies and then, meu Deus, they killed a priest at the altar. Bad. Bad and crazy."

This one though is important. We are on a mission. Without giving a single thought to his earlier promise to Page, the words fall easily from Adelino´s unlocked lips. Because, as everyone knows, knowledge is power and for Adelino this momentary power is more important than the promise.

The Capitão and I have most secret business to attend to.

He watched with pleasure as the boatman´s body tensed, saw the gleam of interest in the shadowed eyes beneath the wide brimmed hat. Oho, a mission. What is this mission?

Murder, Adelino whispered confidentially. A senhora murdered.

"Epa! Tell me, man. What is the story?"

Now Adelino had him, he relished his moment of power and completed the victory with a shake of the head. Airily, he said, That I cannot tell, it is a matter of military secrecy.

Was it the girl at the docks? I heard of this, some poor whore dismembered with a knife.

No, no. This is a great lady, no whore.

But this girl, it was indeed terrible... The boatman continued with a protracted report amplifying each ghastly detail with melodramatic horror.

Amongst the illiterate the word is law and every detail must be remembered and nourished even though a little exaggeration is permissible, for the sake of a good story.

Adelino sucked on his empty pipe and nodded vaguely, losing interest, as he was now no longer the centre of attention. He wondered instead how he might relieve the senhor Capitão of one or two of those rather fine looking cheroots. Adelino, as will be seen, is a man of opportunity. A man raised barefoot in the mountains of the Serra dos Candeeiros, where his only covering was a straw cloak against the cold and there was never enough to fill a belly, life there was a hard schoolmaster and he has learnt his lessons well. One never misses an opportunity.

It was near the cathedral town of Batalha in 1808 he had first seen the massed ranks of the red-coated British army. An amazement to a man who had only known the bleakness of the mountains, the conversation of a handful of neighbours and the company of the sheep he watched over.

From a hilltop viewpoint he had heard a distant bugle call and had looked around searching for its origin, then another call and a thousand tents were raised as one. All perfectly positioned in alignment as if by magic.

He knew then that there must be something to be gained from such an organisation. And he had found it to be true. They had bread there and meat and wine in plenty, and also dollars to be earned. With a little cunning and a winning way he had slowly integrated himself into the life of the camp. Now, four years on he found himself in an honoured position, a manservant to a gentleman. Not a bad thing for a lowly shepherd. Who could want for anything more?

Well.... there was always more.

********

They arrived at the Cais do Sodré docks late.

Even in the darkness the place was a hive of activity, the masts of anchored cargo vessels silhouetted by torchlight and roaring braziers, quivered like a forest of lances as dockworkers swung crane loads of goods to and from the ships. Ropes crisscrossed the night sky, ships rigging hanging like a network of cobwebs and tense lines thick as a man’s arm strung taught against bollards set in the wooden decks of the piers.

Amongst the huge warehouses overlooking the gloomy dock, wild dogs roamed freely like wolf packs. Bone thin they sloped through shadows cast by hanging lanterns, their eyes glowing ominously with refracted light in the darkness.

The boatman downed the sail and brought the barge close against the massive wooden piers of the dock with a muffled thud. Loudly he called to men waiting above as he quickly threw them a line. The water churned beneath his steering oar and the ugliest stench Page had ever known rose up from the disturbed water.

Dear Lord! he choked; covering nose and mouth with his sleeve.

Adelino noticed his discomfort and chuckled. Don´t worry, Senhor Capitão. It will get worse in the city.

Worse! The charnel house of the devil could get no worse. What in heavens name is it that smells so foul?

That word again. Adelino fumbled mentally for a moment. This must be the `bad´ foul. "It is the waste of the city, Senhor Capitão. When the night carts collect the shit from the streets it is dropped in the river here. So you must remember when you walk the street and hear the cry `Agua vai! ´ Then beware, because somebody empties his chamber pot."

Visions of a pleasant stay in the city began to slip rapidly from Page´s mind.

Warned by the boatmen it was unsafe to travel by foot through the area of Cais do Sodré at night they hailed a two-wheeled carriage at the Praça do Comércio.

Once clear of the gloomy docklands, the city blossomed to life in the warm night air. Torches lit the broad avenues, which were alive with activity.

As they made their way through the busy streets of the Baixa Pombalina their driver, who sat astride one of the two horses pulling the carriage, gestured dramatically left and right, keeping up a continuous tour-guide babble with the occasional word of crippled English thrown in for good measure.

At first Adelino attempted to translate this rapid monologue but Page soon tired of it and waved him to silence, preferring to observe the city for himself.

The sounds of guitars and castanets, coupled with the scent of grilling meat and fish drifted around him, it overlaid the odious smell of waste that lay everywhere and pressed like an invisible mist into the nostrils. Lemonade sellers hawked their wares amongst a throng of painted litters and hurrying sedan chairs. Dark eyed women, wearing white headscarves, walked arm in arm and idly flirted with men in tricorne hats bedecked with ribbons. Peasants, garbed in their country attire of white shirts, straw cloaks and shovel hats gawped at the imposing architecture of buildings raised from the ashes of the great earthquake of 1755 only fifty seven years before by the determination of the dictatorial Marquis of Pombal. Beggars jostled with mendicant friars and ballad singers, each preying like scavengers along the fringes of the parading evening paséo around the Praça do Rossio.

Finally they escaped the crowd and it was in the quieter suburbs near the lush exotica of the Botanical Gardens that they found the Consul´s house.

The Consul, Mr Jeffries, a tubby, bucolic little man who had formerly been a Member of Parliament still bore some traces of the past orator in his voice and carried the agitation of his present office in his movements.

Abruptly he greeted Page in his office, a large tapestry hung room with dark, lugubrious wooden furniture and panelling that spoke to Page of old beeswax and un-swept dust. The sound of dinner plates clattering and raised voices came from a dining room nearby. It was obvious the Consul was entertaining and a little miffed at the interruption.

You come late, sir. Could this not have waited until the morning?

Mr Jeffries avuncular outlook belied a sharp mind and his piercing blue eyes that were never still betrayed this. They took in everything, darting here and there as if pulled by invisible and mischievous strings. He appraised Page´s worn uniform with a withering once-over from head to toe.

Forgive the intrusion, Mr Jeffries. My orders were to present myself immediately upon arrival.

Page bowed courteously and offered the folded packet containing his signed orders to the Consul. Jeffries busy eyes jumped momentarily across the written page and back up at Page.

Is it common, Captain, for officers of the His Royal Highness´ Army to appear for interview in such a state?

Page bit his lip, realising that he was now in the rear of the army where different attitudes would apply

Your pardon, sir. I came direct from the front. There has been no time to change. Even if he could have, Page thought, the three shirts he had brought with him were long ago worn out and all his baggage, including his dress uniform had been lost somewhere along the extended supply lines weeks before.

Jeffries arched a disapproving eyebrow and turned again to the orders. A clumsy hand, he remarked critically, What is this though? he asked with a frown, holding the paper by a disdainful corner. This is no original.

No, sir. His Lordship has taken to making carbon copies of all his orders.

Indeed, harrumphed Jeffries, continuing his reading. Finally satisfied, he folded the paper and handed it back to Page.

Very well, Captain, as `Old Nosey´ commands so we must obey, heh? What do you know of this matter?

No more than those orders, Mr Jeffries, to examine this murder of the lady of standing and see if there is truly the involvement of one of our men. After that, take whatever action is appropriate and report back direct to Lord Wellington.

Jeffries walked slowly behind his large carved mahogany desk and sat in a high backed chair, indicating that Page should also be seated.

The lady in question, he began. Is a certain Dona Maria Christina de Vascelos, wife to a high nobleman. She was a beauty, a woman of wit in society but of a wild nature. I met the lady on a number of occasions at various functions and she always impressed herself upon me with her bearing. However, since her death I have made several enquiries and it seems she was, how can I put it.... prone to adventure. Jeffries steepled his fingers and observed the ceiling momentarily, deciding on his next words with care. "There is beach along the coast here, just beyond the area of Paredes, the farm lands there are divided by many walls, hence the name, paredes the word means ‘walls’, appropriately enough, he added in indifferent explanation. The place is called Praia de Engate, The Beach of Coupling. A known rendezvous for meetings of an illicit carnal nature. Ladies and gentlemen of class, will often go there incognito, masked if the fancy so takes them, to dally with each other or even with those of a lower order. It would appear, unfortunately, that Dona Maria frequented the area on many occasions."

May I ask, sir, interrupted Page. The lady´s husband, what is his position?

Rather than answer him directly the Consul chose to educate Page. My situation here is difficult, Captain Page. Dealing with the complicated machinations of the Portuguese Junta is tantamount to a daily battle with the French, I can assure you.

Page wondered with momentary cynicism at the impact of political verbiage over a two-ounce miniball from a musket.

As if we had not enough on our hands here,’ the Consul continued. There is much infighting and intrigue within the Junta since most of the Royal Family and Government fled to the Brazils. The Count of Vascelos is related to the Queen and powerful within this Junta and for that reason it is in our best interests to see that this matter is cleared up and our sheets shown to be clean. `Old Nosey´ will want his rear kept in order, y´know?"

Page ignored the implicit directive. And was the body discovered at this beach?

Jeffries shook his head, a puff of powder escaping his wig and drifting onto his shoulders.

No, it was in a lodging house. A poor place, I believe. But all of these finer details are best enquired of the Intendant of Police.

There is no Provost here then?

Lisbon policing is now in the care of the Portuguese military, and I must say the recent advent of their guard posts and patrols have had a great impact on crime in the city, thank God. Before that there were eight to ten murders a night and one could hire assassins for the price of a bottle of Port wine.

Sounds from the dining room increased in volume