by Iain Gale
5
The following morning Archer and Keane were summoned by Marmont to his office in the fortress. The mood, Keane gauged as they entered, was somewhat changed from that of the night before. This he thought would be the time for Marmont to ask questions. The marshal might have realized just how garrulous he had become the previous evening, what he had revealed of himself, and by way of recompense would want something from them. Keane fully expected to see de la Martinière sitting with Marmont and was surprised that he was not.
Marmont looked Keane in the eye. ‘You slept well, I trust, captain?’
‘As well as might be expected, in the circumstances.’
‘It was a pleasant evening, was it not? I suspect though that I spoke too long. I hope that I did not bore you.’
‘No, sir, not in the slightest. I found everything that you said most interesting.’
They were playing a cat-and-mouse game and Keane knew now that Marmont must regret all that he had said. How, he wondered, would he begin their interview? They were, in effect, at his mercy, and de la Martinière had hinted at the fact that it would not be hard to find an excuse to hang or shoot all three of them. Keane hoped that Silver was safe. They had not seen him since their arrival and he could only presume that he was being held under guard, without recourse to the level of hospitality he and Archer had been fortunate enough to enjoy at the marshal’s table.
Marmont began, ‘You learnt much of me last night, captain. But sadly I still know so little of you. I don’t suppose that there is any way we might be able to remedy the imbalance in the situation?’
‘Sir, I very much regret that I am quite unable to give you any information. You spoke last night of honour, and I believe that we share a code which allows us to conduct ourselves in time of war in an honourable manner. You mentioned the idea of the spy and how abhorrent it is to you, and I find myself in agreement. This might seem curious, for, as you say, I am such a person, although I have never acknowledged the fact. I have never adopted disguise –’ a lie here, he thought – ‘and it rankles with me to win a war by any such clandestine means. But if I acknowledge the fact that I am somehow involved in such a business, then at the same time I must apply to it my own code of honour. Thus I hope that you see it is impossible for me to impart any information.’
‘Well put, captain. Very well put. Certain of my subordinates would choose to use other means to extract such information from you. You have encountered Colonel de la Martinière. This is not my way. I tried my best last night, and now I see that you are a man of your word. So that is how I will treat you. I ask you, gentlemen, both of you, to give me your parole. Your word of honour as officers and gentlemen that you will not attempt to escape when in French custody. Will you give me that assurance?’
Keane was pleasantly surprised but not entirely shocked. Grant had led him to expect that he might be offered parole. Certainly such a request would not be made to men about to be hanged as spies. He was also well aware that should he and Archer refuse Marmont’s offer, they would in effect be signing their own death warrants. The French were inclined to be especially harsh with British officers who refused to give their word not to escape. He was quick to take up the offer before it was withdrawn.
‘Yes, sir, of course, we would both be happy to give you our word as officers in His Majesty’s army.’ He looked at Archer. ‘Won’t we, lieutenant?’
Archer smiled back. ‘Yes, of course, sir. Only too happy.’
Keane felt an enormous sense of relief but with his natural sense of suspicion began to wonder whether this might not be some new plan of Marmont’s to catch him out. Thinking quickly, he supposed that the two of them, hopefully along with Silver as their servant, would be taken to the French headquarters in Salamanca. Here, as officers on parole, they would be allowed to walk the streets. Keane knew that one of Grant’s agents, Patrick Curtis, was in Salamanca, where he was a professor at the great university, and he needed somehow to pass him the information that Marmont had unwittingly imparted the previous evening, regarding the division that clearly existed between the marshals, along with Marmont’s own tenuous relationship with Bonaparte and his potential royalist sympathies. It was too good an opportunity to miss, and also it was the best that Grant had hoped for in their journey to their eventual destination of Paris.
Marmont smiled, evidently similarly pleased now that he would not have to hand over this man to his less than savoury associates. He passed Keane a sheet of paper, which Keane read. It was a draft letter of parole, with spaces left for his full name, rank, regiment, the date and other details. Marmont handed him a pen across the table and Keane filled it out:
*
I, the undersigned, James Keane, captain in the 27th regiment of English foot, taken prisoner by the French army on the 1812, undertake on my word of honour not to seek to escape or to remove myself from my place of captivity without permission; nor to consent to be released by the guerrillistas in the course of any journey through Spain or France. I also undertake not to pass any intelligence to the English army and its allies. In fact, not to deviate in any way from the duties which an officer prisoner of war on parole is in honour bound to perform; and not to serve against the French army and its allies until I have been exchanged, rank for rank.
*
The words rang in his head ‘. . . not to pass any intelligence . . . in honour bound to perform’ . . . ‘in honour bound’.
He pressed the pen to the paper and signed the document, and as he was signing, the door opened and de la Martinière appeared. For a moment Keane panicked, thinking that they had in some way been tricked. But then Marmont spoke. ‘The colonel here will act as your witness, captain. Yours too, lieutenant.’
De la Martinière said nothing, but leaning over Keane took the pen from him and appended his own signature below his.
Marmont handed a second piece of paper to Archer and the process was repeated. Keane prayed that Archer would remember his new rank and not sign as a private soldier. De la Martinière took the second document and as he had done with the first held it up to his face. But his purpose was not to scrutinize any given-away mistakes of Archer’s, but merely to blow the ink dry. The colonel turned to Marmont and spoke in a low tone of acceptance which betrayed his obvious disapproval of the offer made by his commander to two men he considered should be shot as spies. ‘All in order, sir.’
Marmont turned to Keane. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I had planned to remove you to Salamanca tomorrow, but we have a slight setback in that the Agueda is flooded and the waters have carried away our bridge at La Caridad.’
Keane smiled. ‘You’re stranded?’
‘Yes, captain. That amuses you?’
‘What if Lord Wellington is on his way?’
Marmont shrugged and grinned. ‘Then of course we stand and fight. With losses of 12,000 at Badajoz, how many effectives can he have now? 30,000 men? He would need double that to attack my 20,000 in a fortified position.’
‘How do you know we lost so many?’
‘Because you told me, captain.’
‘I most certainly did not.’
‘But you did, Captain Keane. When you said . . . let me remember, how did you put it? “I really couldn’t say. There were many, certainly, but nothing like that number.” Do you really think that I would be fooled by such a reply. It’s obvious that your army was horribly cut about. I will hold off Wellington here and then Marshal Soult will take him in the rear. His army will be crushed, like an insect between two rocks.’
So, thought Keane, Soult was coming up to join forces. It was what they had feared. The necessity of getting word to Wellington had now become crucial.
Marmont continued. ‘As soon as the river is once again fordable you will be taken to Salamanca and thereafter to France. I shall remain with the army.’
Keane was relieved. If they could reach Salaman
ca and Don Patrick, then there was a chance of getting the news to Wellington. There was something else on his mind too. ‘Might I enquire as to what is to become of my servant?’
‘The soldier? Yes, at present he is a prisoner. Of course we cannot accept the parole of a man who is not an officer. He will have to remain here and share the fate of the other prisoners.’
‘If I vouch for his good conduct, surely you might permit him to travel with us. He is one of my soldiers and my responsibility, as well as a servant. I should hate to lose him.’
Marmont thought for a moment. ‘Very well. But I am surprised at you, captain. I would not have expected an English officer to speak up for his servant in such a way. You are truly quite unique.’
‘I told you, sir, I am not an Englishman; I’m Irish. It makes a difference.’
*
The room was comfortable enough as a cell and the two men managed to share the wooden bed quite easily sleeping head to toe. On the third day there was a commotion at the door. The staff officer entered. ‘You are to come at once. We’re leaving.’
Keane turned as he threw on his red coat. ‘Why, may I ask?’
‘The English are coming. Come on.’
This had not been in the plan. The last thing that Keane wanted was for them to be rescued by Wellington’s advance guard. He had known of course that the commander would not allow Marmont’s army to escape. The British and Portuguese would be closing all the time, exhausted as they were.
Keane spoke to the officer. ‘But I thought the river was too swollen to cross. And the bridge had broken.’
‘The waters have gone down enough to allow us to get across.’
‘Marshal Marmont said that he would stand and fight.’
‘That was when we did not know the size of Wellington’s army.’
‘I could have told you. In fact, it seems that I did.’
The man said nothing but ushered them out into the courtyard. They found Marmont mounted on his Arab stallion and surrounded by his staff. The marshal called to them, ‘So it seems that you were right, captain. Your army did not lose too many at Badajoz. Wellington is approaching and he will not take me, or you. I shall see you no doubt in Salamanca.’ He turned and swept with a flourish from the courtyard, followed by his staff in a clatter of hooves on cobbles.
The staff officer pointed Keane and Archer towards an under-strength half-troop of dragoons who were standing mounted a little distance away. Keane, noticing several riderless horses with the dragoons, looked about the place and spoke to the staff officer. ‘Where is my servant? Have you seen him?’
The man shook his head, and at that moment Silver emerged from a door in the great keep. He looked as white as a sheet, but his face brightened on seeing Keane.
‘Blimey, sir. I’d given up on seeing you again.’
‘I might say the same about you, Silver. You remember Lieutenant Archer?’
Keane pointed to Archer, and Silver smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’
‘How did they treat you?’
‘Passable. Place was damp and right old. Didn’t sleep that well, sir. Food wasn’t bad though. Do themselves well, the French, don’t they, sir?’
Keane looked at Archer. ‘Indeed they do, Silver. There’s no denying that. Wouldn’t you agree, lieutenant?’
He looked back to Silver. ‘The good news, Silver, is that you’re to come with us.’
‘That is a relief, sir. I didn’t know what they’d do with me and I feared the worst.’
‘Well, you’re quite safe, for the moment at least. We’re bound for Salamanca, on our parole, and then up and into France.’
*
They mounted up and left a few minutes later, riding in close formation out of the great gate of the fortress. Each of the three men rode in the midst of four troopers, their horses tethered by a rope to that of one of the troopers riding in front. The escort consisted of some fifty troopers with their three officers riding in front, and slowly the party began to make its way from the hillside town back onto the road that led to Salamanca.
*
It took them five days to reach the city. They rode throughout the day, with pickets posted on their flanks to watch out for guerrillas, and at night made camp quickly and silently. Keane and the others sat on their own around a fire, close to that of the officers and guarded by eight of the troopers. There was no opportunity for Keane to speak with any of the officers, let alone attempt to strike up some sort of a rapport with any of them. They nodded to each other and exchanged pleasantries, and although the officers seemed amiable enough they were taciturn to say the least and hardly repaid his attempts at conversation.
At length Salamanca came into view and as they rolled in through the old gate of the ancient city Keane felt relieved that no attempt had been made to rescue them and supposed that word must have been sent out in advance by Grant to the guerrillas not to make any effort to do so.
They quickly found themselves billeted in a room in the Fort San Vicente in the south-west of the city. Here they were completely secluded from the rest of the city. But, to Keane’s delight, the fort was no more than five hundred yards from the Irish College in which Don Patrick Curtis had his base. Their rooms themselves were if anything less salubrious than those in which they had been held in Almarez, although Silver found himself on his own in relative comfort.
As before, an officer was stationed permanently in Keane and Archer’s room as well as a guard outside. On the first night Keane, determined to act fast, struck up a conversation with the man, a young infantry officer from Nantes named Dupont, who shared his knowledge of farming. It was interesting, Keane said to Archer, when Dupont went outside to relieve himself, where a common interest in the best soil required for growing beans could get you.
By the second night they were on good terms. Keane suggested that perhaps on the third day the two captives might be allowed to promenade in the area outside the fort.
‘No, sir. I’m afraid that is expressly against Marshal Marmont’s orders. You are not to have any intercourse with the outside world.’
‘But that’s inhuman.’ Keane frowned. ‘You know, Dupont, that I signed my parole. I have given the marshal my word as an officer that I will not attempt to escape.’
‘Yes, sir. I am aware of that. But it is the marshal’s order.’
‘And what do you think of it? You’re an intelligent young chap, as good an officer as any in the emperor’s army. What is your opinion of the marshal’s order?’
Dupont hesitated for a moment, then, ‘For my part, it would not be the way I would handle the situation. I should respect your parole, sir.’
‘I thought as much. You see, Archer, here is a fellow with true decency. It is just what you and I surmised. French officers are no different from our own. We are all decent sorts. It is the few, an unfortunate few, who while they might have admirable characters otherwise, give the bad impression we have of the French officer.’
Dupont became interested. ‘You have a bad impression of us?’
‘Yes, didn’t you know? The word among the British officers is that French officers are cruel, without principle and without our sense of honour. I will ensure, as soon as I arrive back in England once I am exchanged, that this impression is reversed. Assuming you are typical of your kind.’
‘Thank you, sir. That is most considerate. In truth I am very much against the order to confine you here. But I think there is little I can do about it. If you were to take the air even, outside the fort, I should be put on a charge.’
‘No, no. I should not want to put you in danger, lieutenant. It is a pity too that we cannot receive any visitors. In particular for me as I am a religious man and I have not seen a priest these past two months.’
The officer shrugged. ‘Let me see what I can do. Perhaps it might be simpler if I were j
ust to have to take a break from my duties at certain times. I am not a monster, sir, and I would not want to be considered as such. To treat you as prisoners when you have both given your parole must be seen as a stain on my own honour as an officer. Leave it with me, gentlemen.’
*
And so it was on the fifth day of their incarceration in Salamanca, while Lieutenant Dupont was taking his lunch, the door to the cell was opened by the guard and a man entered, wearing the dress of a Spanish priest: a long dark brown cape and a huge, flat black tricorne hat.
He was tall, with a slightly swarthy complexion, and looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies yet in good condition for his age. He said nothing as he entered but looked hard at both Keane and Archer before closing the door behind himself. When he spoke it was in a soft Irish accent. ‘I am told that there is an officer here who requires the services of a priest. Is that correct?’
Keane knew him in an instant, but said nothing except, ‘Yes, father, I imagine that would be me. How did you find me?’
‘Oh, I have my means, captain. There are many people in this city who are great admirers of everything you have done. Your fame does not travel only to the French authorities. I was told by one of my friends that your custodian was happy to allow visitors. Unlike his commanding officer.’
*
Don Patrick Curtis was by any accounts an extraordinary man. A polymath, a priest, a linguist, able to converse fluently in many languages, he was also professor of astronomy at the University of Salamanca, a philosopher and not least a spy. What was more, he had never aroused the suspicions of the French authorities.
Of course Keane had heard of him many times before, and the account given to him by the Irish Portuguese brigadier, Nicholas Trant, in particular stuck in his mind. Trant had told Keane that Curtis, or as the Spanish called him Patrizio Cortes, held some valuable clues to the identity of his father. A question which had long troubled him and which this war gradually seemed to be revealing. It was hard, however, looking at this quiet, elderly man, to believe that he was one of Wellington’s most adept agents. And did he really know the truth about Keane’s father? But that of course would have to wait.
