by Iain Gale
Keane looked at her, all the time being careful to maintain the stern expression he had adopted.
She was shaking her head, still sobbing, but now an anger mixed with the tears. At length she spoke again. ‘I don’t know how you doubted him or how you decided that he was a spy. Did you kill him then? Was the story about the horse just a lie? Why did you do that? Why did you kill him? Can’t you see that you got it wrong? Can’t you admit it? You know very well that my husband was a royalist agent. You must know his true identity. He couldn’t be further from Bonaparte; he was the son of one of King Louis’ closest intimates. We escaped the guillotine and fled to Austria. It was there that he assumed his new identity. How stupid you have been and how wasteful of a life which would have been given so readily in the service of the king.’
She began to sob again. Deeper this time. Keane knew the sound of real despair. It was enough. He knelt down beside her.
‘I’m sorry, madame.’
She turned away but he continued. ‘Sorry, because I lied to you.’
She looked at him. ‘Lied?’
‘About the colonel. Your husband is not dead.’
Fury blazed in her eyes. ‘Don’t be cruel, sir. Don’t be even more cruel than you have been. Don’t give me false hope. How can I believe you?’
‘I lied because I had to test you. I had to know if the colonel really was a royalist. I can see now that you are both genuine. I am so sorry to have put you through that.’
Madame Hulot stood up. Keane did not see her hand flash out, but he felt the pain cut through him as her hand made contact with his face.
‘You bastard. You callous English bastard.’
Keane rubbed at his jaw. There had been real force behind the blow. ‘I am truly sorry, madame. Please understand.’
She slapped him again, but when she raised her hand for a third time Keane blocked it, grabbing her wrist with a steely grip.
She tried to kick him, but he let go of her arm and she toppled backwards, almost unbalancing.
‘Madame, I am sorry, please understand. Your husband is alive. Please believe me.’
She stood in the corner of the room, shaking with rage. ‘Get out of here, you bastard. Get out.’
Keane backed towards the door, left and closed it behind himself. Turning, he began to walk into the courtyard where he saw a familiar figure coming towards him.
Colonel Hulot smiled. ‘Ah, Captain Keane. I don’t think I thanked you properly for saving my wife two nights ago. I am truly indebted to you.’ He paused. ‘What brings you here? Were you looking for me? I have been with your Major Scovell at Elvas. A most intelligent man. I hope that he found my information of some use. Perhaps I can help you with whatever it was you wanted?’
Keane smiled. ‘No, thank you, colonel. Madame Hulot was able to tell me everything that I needed to know. I’m sure that she’ll explain. Good day.’
*
Moving fast, Keane made his way back from San Cristobal through the redoubt to his bivouac.
There was now no alternative. He had been satisfied with Madame Hulot’s response to his deception. Grant would undoubtedly be furious with him when Hulot informed him of his tactics, but it was too bad. At least now he had his answer. He believed Hulot to indeed be genuine and, having set himself the question and obtained an answer, he would have to play the game by his own rules. He would have to go along with Grant and Wellington’s plan and have himself captured along with the other two. And then, Paris.
*
Silver was waiting among the tents.
‘We wondered where you’d gone, sir. We’ve got a brew on and Martin’s found some rabbits.’
Keane smiled. Martin, with his expert ability with a gun, was very adept at ‘finding’ rabbits. ‘That is good news. But I’ve some of my own which will be less than welcome, I suspect.’
‘What’s that, sir? Word is we’re off again.’
‘The word is right. But not all of us, Silver.’
‘That don’t sound good, sir.’
‘No, not good. Not good at all. But there’s nothing for it.’
‘Where are we going, sir? Those of us who are. With you, sir, is it?’
‘Yes, Silver, you’re coming with me, and Archer. The fact is we’re off on a bit of an adventure.’
He called Archer and the others together in front of his tent, and as they gathered he cast his eye over them. His men.
Of the nine under his command, he had led six of them through three years of this bloody war. From the victories of Oporto and Bussaco through the barren mountains of the Serra Grande, to Almeida and Torres Vedras. Together they had witnessed sights he had never thought to see, nor wanted to again. They had bluffed, lied and forced their way into French strongholds, played nursemaid to sadistic guerrillas, uncovered traitors and brought back to Wellington not only valuable intelligence but also secret codes, prisoners and above all the gold needed to pay the army.
The three new recruits aside, Keane knew every one of these men intimately now. Archer, the well-spoken Scottish doctor, forced into the army as punishment for grave-robbing; Horatio Silver, a London cat burglar, with his Portuguese wife, a brawler and teller of tall stories who had killed a Portuguese peasant in a bar fight and expected to be hanged for it; the expert shot and ladies’ man Will Martin, chosen by Keane from his old regiment, the Inniskillings; the huge-fisted prizefighter Garland; Jesus Heredia, the moody Portuguese dragoon; and not least his dependable sergeant Robert Ross, late of the Black Watch, rescued not from a jail, but from ignominy, having been reduced to the ranks and serving as a steward in the officers’ mess.
Of the original band he had assembled in June 1809, he had lost just three along the way: his old friend Tom Morris, Israel Leech and Sam Gilpin. Those who remained were now truly his men. He had found three new men too and he hoped he had chosen wisely. Apart from John Batty, the thief from Newcastle, there was Carson, chosen to replace Leech. He was an explosives man, a liberal socialist adept with gunpowder and convicted of destroying a mill in Lancashire. Keane would have to keep a watch on him and be sure that he channelled his talents against the French. Finally there was Lanyon, a Cornish smuggler who had succeeded in concealing a huge quantity of brandy from the excise men of which only a tenth had ever been recovered.
In truth now, he thought, they were all his men. And he was loathe to leave them, but as Martin’s rabbits stewed on the fire, he told them of the plan.
*
When he had finished, Ross swore. ‘Damn it. Sorry, sir, but it’s a damn bad idea this. To split the men.’
Martin shook his head. ‘No, sir. I won’t let you go without me. Nor will Garland. Isn’t that right, Sam?’
Garland nodded. ‘Yes, sir. We can’t stay here if you’re off.’
‘I’m afraid that’s just what you’ll have to do. And the rest of you. This is a job for three men. I can’t say that I’m enamoured with the idea, both as a plan in itself and because it means splitting the unit, but there’s no way out. I’ve tried everything. Sarn’t Ross, you’re in charge. You are now answerable directly to Major Grant. Understand?’
‘Sir.’
‘Good, that’s that then. Now, where are those rabbits, Martin? I’m starved.’
*
They were ready the following morning, and as dawn broke over the citadel the three figures, all clad in blue officers’ boat cloaks procured from Grant, rode out of the camp and made for the road that led from Badajoz out to the east, along the line of the Guadiana river. Their farewells the previous evening had been long and heightened by the emotion brought on by drink, and all three of them faced the new day in dampened spirits.
*
There was still no birdsong over the charnel house of Badajoz itself, as there had not been since the start of the siege. But as they drew away from the city, birds beg
an to soar and dive in the sky above them. The chill air of the morning caught Keane’s face and brought home the reality of the situation. They had taken, on Grant’s advice, the road east towards Toledo and Madrid. It was a good road, leading through Estremadura across the plains of the Tagus, over the river and through the mountains.
It was also the road that went the most direct route straight and deep into enemy territory. In Keane’s mind now was the idea that they might make for the French fortified stronghold of Almarez, and being taken in the area could explain their presence as being a reconnaissance force. Almarez was known to be a supply base for Soult’s attacks against British garrisons and two exploring officers being in the area sounded feasible. It depended of course upon their being taken prisoner before they reached Almarez itself. The last thing that Keane intended to do was find himself riding up to the gates of the fort demanding to be made captive.
He reasoned that it might just work, and that at least solved the problem of their ‘cover’ story. But that was only the start, and when considering the mission as a whole, Keane was far from comfortable.
As an exploring officer in Spain and Portugal these past few years, he had been able to rely on the fact that wherever he might be behind French lines, at least the population would be friendly. He had nurtured relations with the local people. He had developed his knowledge of their languages and their customs. He had even learnt some of their dances. He had also, to his surprise, developed a liking for some of the local cooking and with the swarthy looks that came with spending days out in the field thought that he might now easily pass as one of them. At least to the French.
He knew also that the great majority of the Spanish and Portuguese people, guerrillas and civilians alike, would shelter him and his men, hide them from the enemy and if necessary risk their own lives to come to their aid. Theirs was a country under the boot of oppressive enemy occupation and they had come to look on the British as their liberators. Now, however, Keane and the others were riding off into enemy territory. Into the heart of the empire where, whatever Colonel Hulot had told them, he was certain that most of the population were still avid Bonapartists. This was truly hostile territory, where they might be betrayed at any step or murdered in their sleep; where any civilian might turn on them.
He turned to Archer who rode alongside him with Silver behind. ‘You do realize that we’re in great danger, at least until we’re in enemy hands?’
‘Yes, sir, the thought had occurred to me. It’s quite amusing really.’
‘I fail to see the funny side of it. We really should make it our business to be captured as soon as we can. Whenever the opportunity presents itself. The problem is, we can’t appear to be presenting ourselves for capture. That would arouse suspicions. We might make it seem as if we have lost our way, but I suspect that before the French find us, the guerrillas will do so. We could use their information and find ourselves a French column to shadow. That would make it easier to expose ourselves to capture.’
He looked at Archer for a moment. ‘You know, you make quite a passable officer, Archer.’
For once, in an attempt to make themselves more conspicuous and not to be shot on sight as spies, but rather taken on parole, Keane had exchanged his brown, black-frogged uniform coat of the Corps of Guides for his old scarlet regimental tunic, that of the Inniskillings, with its brass buttons and yellow facings. Archer too was dressed in scarlet, the red tunic of an officer, this time with facings of dark blue, denoting a ‘Royal’ regiment of foot.
‘Lucky that Major Grant found you that uniform, wasn’t it? As a matter of fact, where did he find it?’
‘I’m not sure, sir. Said it was surplus to needs.’
‘Have you looked in the pocket? You might find the owner’s name. Be good to know at least.’
Archer pushed open his cloak and reached inside the pocket of the scarlet tunic.
‘It’s rather hard to make it out, sir. Begins with C, I think. Yes, that’s it. The tailor’s name’s quite clear, Dunmore and Locke, St James’s.’
‘That’s a good tailor. You’re lucky. See if you can read the name again.’
Archer squinted. ‘I think it looks like Cavendish or maybe Cavanagh.’
Keane laughed. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Grant’s given you one of Colonel Cavanagh’s coats. How’s that for impertinence?’
They trotted on along the road through the growing heat of the dry day and as they came to a pass in the mountains Keane became aware that they were being observed. He spoke quietly. ‘We’re being watched. Did you notice?’
‘No, can’t say that I did, sir. Where from?’
‘I’m not certain as yet, but I’m sure that we are. Let’s hope that they’re Spanish.’
They continued along the road, and the sides of the valley became gradually steeper and closer together. This, thought Keane, would make an excellent spot for an ambush.
At a bend in the pass, Keane saw that up ahead the road had been blocked by a fallen tree and congratulated himself. It was the perfect spot. Almost instantly, from behind rocks on either side of the road, men appeared, guerrillas, armed with an assortment of muskets, along with swords and spears. Keane smiled. ‘Thank God. For a moment I thought the French might have found us too soon.’
Two of the guerrillas stepped forward and spoke to Keane in Spanish. The one on the right was familiar. A heavy-set man with steely grey eyes, Keane recognized him as belonging to a group of the partisans that he had first run into three years ago.
‘Coronel Morillo.’ He spoke the words deliberately loud and was rewarded with a guffaw. From behind a large rock appeared a man whose face Keane knew at once.
Colonel Pablo Morillo was of medium height and had not changed in the past few years. His brown hair fell in a sweep over his tanned forehead and his eyes were just as black and piercing as Keane recalled them. His thick lips had the effect of making him appear as if he was forever pouting. His black bicorne with its tricolour Spanish cockade he wore fore and aft, and his uniform of a Spanish colonel looked as if it had seen better days but still bore the star of the Order of Charles III.
Morillo looked at Keane and shook his head. ‘Captain Keane, James Keane. How are you, my friend?’
This was the man whom three years ago Keane had been told to shadow and to ensure that he came into Wellington’s power. Morillo was more than a guerrilla leader; an ex-sailor and self-styled colonel, he was a warlord and a very rich and dangerous man. He had taken gold from the French and, rather than use it to buy arms, had kept a great deal for his own use. He would do almost anything for money or in the name of ‘honour’ and he was utterly ruthless to the point of cruelty. On their first meeting Keane had watched him torture a French prisoner to death and knew his methods well. His family had been slaughtered by the French early on in the war and Morillo hated them with a vengeance. It was reassuring that Morillo had found them. He for certain would know the whereabouts of the French columns and patrols. He would know where they would stand the best chance of being taken prisoner, though Keane wondered what on earth he would make of such a request.
Keane went to greet Morillo and the latter clapped him on the back. ‘Good to see you, captain. You have been busy, I hear.’
‘You do?’
‘You are famous, James. A legend even.’
‘You’re some way from your country, coronel, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose I am, yes. If you count my country as Galicia. Not if you count my country as Spain, which I do.’
Morillo was as pompous as ever, thought Keane.
The Spaniard looked puzzled. ‘I might ask you, James, what you are doing here and in such company? I would have thought you would travel with all your men or with just one. But to have two men with you? This is strange, no?’
‘Perhaps it might seem so, but we have a purpose.’
‘Ma
y I enquire as to what it might be?’
Keane laughed. ‘Naturally you may enquire, but I’m afraid I can’t comment.’
Morillo laughed too. ‘I knew that would be the case.’
Keane shook his head. ‘I am pleased that I found you.’
‘That we found you, James.’
‘It’s of no matter, but I need your help.’
‘I thought you might.’
‘We need to find the French.’
‘You’ve come to the right man. I know where they are, every unit in these parts. Who do you need to find? Which commander?’
‘No commander. In fact no specific unit. Any French patrol will do, a squadron or a battalion.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘We need to have ourselves made prisoner.’
Morillo laughed again. ‘Now you’ve really gone too far. You want to be taken prisoner by the French?’
Keane nodded. ‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘They’ll shoot you two as spies, and string up your sergeant.’
Keane shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. They know me, as you do, Morillo. As a legend. They are desperate to capture “le capitain anglais”. Besides, I’m not in disguise; none of us are.’
‘You’re mad. Quite mad.’
‘Quite possibly, but those are my orders.’
‘Very well, we’ll help you. But first let’s eat. Follow us to the camp. I’m sure that we must have much to discuss. I want you to tell me everything, James.’
4
They rode fast, following Morillo and his men up the course of the river and then off to the north-west. They climbed steadily and, passing through the little village of La Cueva, turned east and found themselves high on a ridge of the Guadulpe mountains, looking to their right across the wide plains and leftwards towards the Tagus. After what Keane reckoned might have been twenty miles, they came to a halt and were ordered to dismount. Then leading the horses they passed in single file through what was no more than a crack between two huge sides of a rock face and emerged in a hidden valley, lush, green and filled with olive groves.
