by Iain Gale
Curtis spoke again. ‘Can you tell me, captain, who you are, and then tell me why I should believe you?’
It was what Keane had expected, and Grant had equipped him for it.
‘I’m Captain James Keane of the 27th and the word that you need is Zenobius.’
Curtis smiled and nodded. Zenobius, thought Keane, the code word given to him by Grant. He had explained that it referred to the Catholic Florentine saint of that name who was venerated for several miracles of restoring the dead to life. It seemed appropriate enough for a man who among his accomplishments had managed to engineer the escape of several of Wellington’s spies from certain death at the hands of the French.
‘Zenobius, indeed. So, Captain Keane, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. Your fame precedes you. And your companion here, lieutenant . . . ?’
‘Archer, sir.’
‘This is Mister Archer, Don Curtis, one of our more recently made-up officers.’ He smiled as he said this and Curtis nodded.
‘Very good. Now, what can I do to help? I believe that you have the names you need for your ultimate destination?’
‘Yes, I believe so. Although any other information would be most welcome. I knew our destination as a boy but I’m sure that it has changed beyond my recognition and at Bonaparte’s hands.’
‘I will see what I can give you. I’m sure that I can help. Is there anything else?’
‘Yes. I have certain things to pass on. Can this be done through you?’
Curtis nodded. ‘Yes, but I will show you how to do it.’
He had just finished speaking when the door opened and Dupont entered.
‘Ah, father. Good to see you here. You see, captain, I am good to my word.’
Keane smiled at the French officer. ‘Indeed you are, lieutenant. Thank you. I now feel at one with God once again. You might say that I have been afforded a small glimpse of salvation.’
He turned to Curtis. ‘Until tomorrow, father?’
‘Until tomorrow, my son.’
*
The following day Curtis came again, at the same time, when Dupont was absent at his lunch. Keane and Curtis were less cautious now, but still careful not to use any particular proper names of places or people, lest the guard outside the door should hear them and report them to a higher authority.
Curtis began to speak of religious matters, and for a moment Keane wondered what he intended. But then he realized that as he was doing so his hands were showing Keane something very different. He took a pen from his pocket and a small scrap of paper, then, writing on the paper, finished and took the scrap and twisted it into a thin spill, the sort of taper one might use for lighting a candle. He took the paper and rolled around it a piece of brown leaf, which looked to Keane like the wrapping of a cigarillo. Curtis finished by tucking in the ends and then licked the open edge to seal it. He then presented it to Keane.
‘You like these, I believe. The finest cigarillos. I find them a great aid to thought. It is surprising what comes into the mind. Perhaps you would like me to bring some to you. Make sure that Lieutenant Dupont is aware of this.’
Curtis placed the roll into the pocket of his cloak and from the other produced a handful of cigarillos. Then handing all but one to Keane, he took the remaining one and gently slit it up one side with his fingernail. Rolling it open, he removed the tobacco inside and then reached into his pocket and brought out another piece of paper. He performed the earlier operation again, inserting the rolled paper into the leaf, but this time placed some of the tobacco inside before licking it shut.
‘There you have it. I cannot vouch for its construction but I’m sure in your hands its content will improve.’
Keane smiled. ‘Ingenious, father. Truly enlightened.’
Over the next two days Keane took delivery of dozens of ‘cigarillos’ from Curtis and although he smoked a few, to give the illusion to Dupont, most of them he opened and filled with the information he had gained from Marmont. Everything about the infighting among the high command, about Soult’s intentions, Napoleon’s character and plans and even the fact that they might at some point expect Marmont to turn.
And all of these he passed back to Curtis to give it to his network of agents, who between them would inform Grant.
*
It was two more days before Curtis appeared again and Keane duly passed on the latest cigarillos. He had just done so when it struck him that now might be the time to ask the priest the question which had been on his mind since their first meeting.
‘Father, there was something that Colonel Trant told me in Coimbra. Something about yourself.’
Curtis looked interested. ‘Indeed? Now what would that be?’
‘To do with me, in fact. A matter of some personal importance.’
Curtis looked at Keane and smiled. ‘The matter of your father? Yes, I do know something of that.’
‘You are able to tell me his identity? Good heavens. How long has this day been in coming. You will tell me?’
‘I don’t know the half of it. But I’ll tell you some things I do know. If you’re sure that’s what you want.’
‘Why should I not? I want it more than anything in the world.’
‘Firstly, I do not know his name. I do know that he was a British general of some fame in the American War and that he might be one of two people. One of my brothers in the Church had some dealings with him, I believe, on his return from the Americas, at the time of your birth. They were together in Ireland, and when your mother fell pregnant, my friend looked after her when your father was unable to do so.’
‘Unable?’
‘You understand, Keane, that it could not be admitted that he had begotten you. It would have brought shame on your two families.’
‘Shame on my mother?’
‘Yes, and on her family, themselves a noble line.’
Keane paused. ‘My mother’s family? But they’re mere farmers. We have no great lands. We are not a noble line.’
Curtis shook his head. ‘No, you are wrong there, my boy. Your mother comes from one of the noblest lines in the land. In fact it was she who had most to lose.’
‘But what of our position now? We need for money. Always have done. I worked the farm myself.’
‘Yes, I dare say so. But her family has no need for money. None at all. It was they who cut her off.’
This was a revelation to Keane. He had come to Curtis hoping for news of his father’s identity and now had been given quite different news. His mother disinherited by a noble family. But why? he wondered. True, she had sinned, but to cut her off utterly, when other steps might have been taken. Why would his grandparents have done such a thing? Far from shedding light on his origins, Curtis’s words had merely made his roots all the more mysterious.
‘I’m afraid I can offer no more. My friend knew the whole story. Indeed he knew you. But I lost touch with him some years ago. I believe that he like me, and like so many of my fellow priests, became involved in this business. He may still be, if he has not already been caught and shot as a spy. I am sorry, captain. I hope that you were not building your hopes too high.’
‘No, father. Not at all. Anything I can learn about my family is a bonus. Thank you.’
But both men knew that not only had what Keane had heard not been of any help to him, but that among so many lies and counter-lies it had only compounded the facts about his origins and that his own great mystery had now become even deeper.
*
He was pondering this and at the same time wondering how long they would stay in Salamanca and what plans Marmont had for him when, on the sixth day, Curtis produced a letter. He held it out to Keane under cover of his cloak.
‘What’s this?’
‘A letter, to Clarke, the Duce de Feltre, Bonaparte’s minister of war, in Paris. Look at the signatory
– you might recognize his name.’
The letter was written on thin grey paper and bore the stamp of an Imperial crown. Keane scanned to the bottom of the page and saw that the author of the letter was one Colonel Charles de la Martinière. He nodded. ‘Ah, yes. I do indeed.’
‘Then I think you had better read the contents.’
Keane cast his eye more closely over the letter. It was headed:
‘Armée de Portugal, Salamanca, 28th April 1812.’
It read:
His Excellency the Duke of Ragusa has ordered an officer of his army to accompany as far as Bayonne the English captain James Keane, of the 27th regiment of foot. This officer was found with two companions close to the headquarters of our army. On him were found papers which indicate his importance to the English army. He was captured in the uniform of an English officer and the marshal has treated him with great consideration and has received his parole of honour. I enclose a copy of this undertaking. But His Excellency thinks now that he should be watched closely and be brought to the attention of the police.
*
It seemed simple enough. A note from de la Martinière to the minister of war explaining Keane’s presence on French soil.
Don Patrick spoke. ‘Do you understand what it means, captain?’
‘I think so.’
‘Read it again. Read the final sentence.’
Keane read it again. ‘Yes? Am I missing something?’
Curtis nodded. ‘Do you detect the actual meaning of those words? What they actually imply concerning your fate? Try this.
‘“Captain Keane is a spy and a dangerous one. We could not hang him because he was wearing uniform when caught. We will escort him just as far as Bayonne. Then let the police arrest him there and dispose of him and his two accomplices.”’
Keane gasped. It was plain now. It was as good as his death warrant. De la Martinière and Marmont were washing their hands of him. Handing him and the other two over to Napoleon’s notorious secret police, the organization by which Bonaparte kept internal control of his subjects.
Keane shook his head. ‘But that’s impossible. I gave my word.’
‘Not impossible, captain, no. Because, you see, it has been done.’
‘Where did you get this letter?’
‘It was intercepted by one of my agents. A guerrilla leader, Don Ramon Sanchez – I believe you are acquainted with him.’
‘Yes, of course, I know Sanchez well. So there is no doubting its authenticity?’
‘None at all. They undoubtedly intend to kill you. All of you.’
*
The news to Keane of his own impending execution was alarming but in a way strangely welcome. It was useful, he thought, since, assuming that Don Patrick’s interpretation was correct, its existence absolutely and instantly released him from his promise to keep his parole. The French had broken their part of the bargain and had arranged to have him and the others ‘disappeared’ at the hands of Napoleon’s police thugs. On the other hand, it meant that when it was discovered that they had not been disposed of as intended, Keane and the two others would possibly be the most wanted men in France.
*
Keane put down the letter and, rising from the chair, began to pace the floor before turning to Curtis. ‘What do you advise, father?’
‘I would suggest that it is imperative you do not give any indication that you suspect anything. Go with the escorting officer on the road to Bayonne and then you must somehow contrive to escape. Major Grant had hoped that you might receive safe passage all the way to Paris, but he was clearly optimistic. This is the best you can now manage. You must go to Bayonne, playing along with their game, and then, before you are handed over, somehow make your escape. After that I can help. I have contacts at Bayonne, royalists who can assist you and get you to Paris.’
He reached into his cloak and produced what looked like two small pieces of paper. On one were written three names and addresses. Keane noticed references to Bayonne. The other, which on closer inspection was a piece of silk, opened out to a considerable size and proved to be a map, tiny but meticulously drawn, of the centre of Paris. ‘This might help. I would advise you to cut a slit in the seam of your coat and hide them in there. You can never be too careful with the French.’
6
The main road to France from Salamanca ran by way of Valladolid and Burgos to Vitoria and San Sebastian.
Keane and Archer travelled inside a military coach, facing their guard of two armed infantrymen and an officer. Silver travelled up on the roof, alongside the driver, with his hands shackled to the bar at the side of his seat. Two further guards rode at the rear of the coach and they had been given an escort of forty dragoons.
Whether or not their guard knew what their intended fate might be was unclear. It seemed to him likely, however, that their commanding officer must know, as it would be he who would be handing them over to the police when they reached their destination. Perhaps, thought Keane, he might be able to work the same trick upon him as he had with Captain Dupont. He would, he reasoned, certainly have time to try.
Curtis had told him that it was some 320 miles from Salamanca to Bayonne by coach, and he had calculated by experience that in a coach this would take them some forty hours. It was customary to arrange changes of horses after every forty miles, and Keane reckoned that travelling at between eight and ten miles an hour, they would make six stops. One every four or five hours, the first for perhaps two hours, the second overnight at Valladolid, and then at Burgos, at Vitoria and at San Sebastian. He had just two and a half days in which to arrange their escape from certain death.
*
As dawn broke over Salamanca, the coach rattled out of the north gate of the old city and began to trundle up the road to Valladolid. No sooner were they clear of the environs than Keane began his attempt on the officer. He began with simple introductions. The man, a captain of infantry, was called Wenger and was originally Swiss, having joined the French army in 1809. He was clearly in awe of Keane, of whom he had heard much, and this provided the perfect opportunity. Over the next few hours, pausing occasionally to sleep or simply be silent, Keane entertained him with tales of his adventures, heartily embellished of course and in some cases entirely fabricated. He drew in Archer, who began to tell something of his own exploits, and soon the officer was staring at both of them, his attention and imagination held in their grasp.
As Keane had predicted, they halted after five hours, at a small inn at Alaijas, near Tordesillas, and having posted sentries went inside and ate, the two captive redcoats sitting apart from the others and Silver on his own, massaging his wrists which were chafing from the irons. Keane managed to persuade Captain Wenger to change the irons for a rope, and after an hour and a half they were on the road once more.
As they pulled away, Keane decided on his tactic. He would not be so forthcoming now as he had been before, but, having whet the Frenchman’s appetite, would feed him just one more story and get him to ask for more. It worked. By the time they came within sight of Valladolid, two hours later, the captain was hanging on Keane’s every word.
‘And there I was, standing in Marshal Massena’s own quarters in Almeida. I tell you, even I was terrified. But the only thing to do was bluff it out. So then I approached Marshal Massena and, still maintaining my dignity, refused point blank his invitation to take on my services as a spy. And of course he had to capitulate.’
‘And his mistress? What of the lovely Henriette?’
‘Well, of course we became lovers. And she left Massena. But this was not to be the last time that I would see her. Oh no.’
‘No?’
‘No, not by a long mile. But that of course is another story.’
The captain looked crestfallen. ‘Oh, I say, come on. Carry on, Keane. You can’t leave us there.’
The ‘us’ referre
d to one of the guards, who had been listening all the while and was now almost as captivated by the tales as his commander.
‘I’m afraid that I shall have to. Look, we are arriving at our halt for the night.’
They rolled into the courtyard of a small coaching inn on the north side of the town and within minutes the French had posted sentries.
Keane and Archer found themselves sharing a room for the night with Captain Wenger, but despite his entreaties Keane was obstinate and would not tell any more tales that evening, claiming that he was far too tired. So far his plan was working perfectly.
The following morning an early start brought them to the third stage of their journey. Now, thought Keane, now was the time at which to deal his masterstroke.
As they drove along the road that flanked the Pisuerga river, rising from the plains around Valladolid to the foothills of the Cantabrian mountains, he began.
‘I can tell you now, captain, that I have it on good authority that once you have turned us over to the police at Bayonne, we shall never be seen again.’
Captain Wenger stared at the floor. ‘Yes, it was my fear. How do you come to know this?’
‘I’m not an idiot, captain, as I would have thought would be evident from the tales with which I have been entertaining you. I have my means, as you will now be aware.’
Wenger looked troubled. It was exactly the reaction Keane had wanted.
‘I have to say, I am a little surprised. I had reckoned Marshal Marmont above such things. De la Martinière? Well, I’m sure that you know his character as well as I do. It must be his doing. But to murder in cold blood officers who have given you their parole, their solemn word of honour, it’s unthinkable. Wouldn’t you say so, captain?’
‘Yes, Captain Keane. If you must know, I am wholly in agreement with you and when I saw the order I was appalled. Worse than that, sickened. Surely such a plan is not necessary. But I’m afraid that I think there is nothing I can do to help you. Your fate has been decided.’
