Conspiracy

by Iain Gale

  ‘Come on. I think I know where to find him.’

  *

  The little church of Saint Zenobius stood at the confluence of four streets in a small square. It was a modest building, typical of the area, with a single flat-roofed bell tower. The only distinguishing features were two Corinthian columns in the porch which had obviously once been part of an earlier Roman structure.

  Keane and the others entered the square, where a small market was taking place. But strangely, save for several abandoned stalls and tables, the place was deserted. It was as if all the inhabitants had been removed, leaving behind all their goods. Keane walked over to a fruit stall and picked up a half-drunk glass of wine. Another was sitting close by and on another table someone had left a hat and a pair of spectacles. He turned to Archer.

  ‘On your guard. Sophie, get behind me.’

  ‘Give me a sword, James, or a gun. Anything.’

  Keane reached into his belt, drew out his pistol and gave it to her before turning back to the church. According to his directions, this was meant to be the rendezvous for any meeting with Grant. But what had happened?

  Without warning the two church doors opened to reveal four men. They wore the blue of the French infantry and their muskets were levelled and pointing directly at Keane. From their rear an officer appeared.

  ‘Captain Keane, I presume. Or is it Captain Williams?’

  Keane nodded. ‘Keane will do nicely, thank you. And you are?’

  ‘Major Leflaive, 105th infantry. I would advise you not to think of running, captain. My men are very good shots. I would be obliged to you for your weapons.’

  Keane knew that he had no alternative but to comply. A good gambler always recognized the moment when his luck ran out, and for Keane clearly that moment had arrived.

  Drawing his sword, he walked across and held it by the blade to present it to the major, who took it. Archer and Sophie followed suit and within a few minutes the space between the major and the church had filled with half of the company.

  The major turned to them. ‘Captain Martel, one platoon to guard the prisoners while we form up. Oh, and bring out the other prisoner.’

  As Keane watched the French formed a line and presented their muskets at the three prisoners, and as they did, another man emerged from the church, flanked by two Frenchmen. Grant looked at Keane and smiled. ‘James, I knew you would come. But perhaps not so soon. Thank you.’

  Keane shook his head. ‘I told them, sir. That you would be here. But I hadn’t expected this.’

  Major Leflaive walked across to them. ‘Your friend, Captain Keane. An extra gift for the emperor. I smell promotion.’

  Keane looked at him. ‘What will you do with us? Back to Paris?’

  The major nodded. ‘Of course. And then, who knows what? Though your pretty friend we might keep here for our return. I’m sure she’d make entertaining company.’

  Keane stopped himself from giving the looked-for reaction. Sophie looked at him. ‘James?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you are not going anywhere that I’m not.’

  Leflaive shook his head and smiled. ‘We should get ready to move though. I want to get you back to the capital as quickly as possible. I’ve no room for any mistakes. While we keep you, we merely endanger ourselves.’

  Keane, who was now standing in between Archer and Grant, with Sophie close behind him, looked from the French major towards his men and as he did so something caught his eye, a face in the line. He paused and looked again. Just to make certain. But there was no mistaking the man. Sergeant O’Gara, a familiar face from the charnel house of Badajoz, last seen attempting to rape the colonel’s wife. O’Gara smiled back at Keane and he knew that the recognition was mutual. And then, to Keane’s surprise, O’Gara spoke, directly to Major Leflaive.

  ‘Sir, why do we need to take them back? Keep the girl, of course. But I think we should just shoot the others here and now. They’re spies, sir. Bloody spies. And spies are shot, sir. Ain’t that right? Whatever happens. And you said so yourself, sir, while they’re alive they put us all in danger. I say we shoot them, sir.’

  There were cries from the other infantrymen of ‘Shoot them’ and ‘Shoot the spies’.

  Keane stared at O’Gara and was rewarded with another smile. To his further horror, the French major appeared to be considering O’Gara’s request.

  ‘It is most irregular. We should take him back to the colonel. That is the protocol.’ He seemed to be weighing it up, calculating as to whether producing Keane, Grant and Archer alive or dead would further enhance his chance of promotion.

  O’Gara spoke, seeming to read the officer’s mind. ‘Won’t affect your promotion, sir. Dead or alive they’re wanted. That’s what we was told. All of them. Dead or alive. Price on their heads. That’s what it is. They’re dirty spies. British bloody officers.’ He spat. ‘They’re why I joined your army, sir. God save Ireland. I say we shoot them.’

  O’Gara levelled his musket and aimed it at Keane’s head. To Keane’s alarm, he was followed by eight other men in the line. The major wavered and said nothing. Instead he motioned to two men to take Sophie away from the three men. Struggling, she was pushed across the square behind the major. Keane was sweating now. He whispered to Grant, ‘Looks bad, sir. I’m sorry, my fault. Bloody Irishman.’

  He looked around the square for one last time, desperate to find some hidden means of escape, some magic trick worthy of the Church’s miracle-working saint. As if in answer his eye was caught by a glint of sunlight in one of the crenellations of a balustrade on an opposite rooftop. Sun on metal. The gleam of a musket barrel. He whispered again, first to Archer, ‘Get ready to drop’, then to Grant, ‘Sir, do exactly what I say and do. This might hurt.’

  Keane looked back at Leflaive, whose hand was now raised in the air, and judged that his moment had come. As Leflaive’s mouth opened to give the command to fire, Keane shoved hard at Grant’s back and also at that of Archer, sending both man and officer crashing to the ground and, an instant later, he followed them. At that moment Leflaive dropped his hand, but just as eight fingers squeezed the triggers of eight French muskets, the square exploded in noise and the crash of gunfire as a series of shots rang out from the rooftops. One of them hit the major in the hand and the others hit every one of the soldiers in the line of the guard who fell, two dead and the others wounded, onto the dusty ground.

  Keane looked up and saw smoke curling up from the balustrade and at the windows of houses on two sides of the square and then the space was suddenly filled with horsemen.

  Most of them wore civilian clothes, but all carried weapons, and Keane noticed at once that every one of them wore in his hat a white cockade. Royalists.

  The French, caught off guard, were helpless. Keane stood up and, helped by Archer, got Grant to his feet. ‘Thank you, dear boy. I wasn’t expecting that.’

  ‘My apologies, major. It was all I could do. I saw the muskets on the roof.’

  Leaving Grant to dust himself off, Keane walked across to the French major and, bending down, recovered his sword where the officer had dropped it, as the royalists disarmed the remaining French infantry in the square and encircled the entrance to the church.

  ‘How many, major? How many more men do you have in the church?’

  ‘A half company. Thirty men.’

  ‘Well, I suggest that you and your men out here go and join them.’

  He turned to find the leader of his rescuers and spotted a man with a sword, close to the entrance. Seeing Keane, the man walked towards him.

  ‘Captain Keane?’

  ‘Colonel Hulot. What a pleasant surprise to see you. Badajoz seems an eternity away.’

  ‘So it does, my dear Captain Keane. Always nice to be able to repay a favour. You know Major Grant, and Lieutenant Archer?’

  Grant nodded. ‘Thank you, colonel. I
thought it was all over for us.’

  ‘It very nearly was. Might still be, unless we move quickly. Can I suggest that we leave as soon as we can, gentlemen, we’ve a few miles to ride.’

  ‘Before we do, colonel, I’ve some business to attend to.’

  Keane walked across to the line of French soldiers who had formed his guard. But of O’Gara there was no sign. He turned to Hulot. ‘Colonel, did you see anyone get away?’

  The colonel shook his head and, on turning back, Keane noticed behind one of the buttresses of the church what looked like the tail of a blue coat. Walking across to it, he found the uniform of a French infantryman and beneath it the dead body of what he presumed must be one of Hulot’s men. He called Hulot over.

  ‘Yes, he’s one of mine. A pity.’

  Walking back, Keane found Sophie, Archer and Grant together.

  ‘That was close, sir.’

  ‘Close as we’ve ever been, James.’

  Sophie looked at Keane. ‘You’ve done this before?’

  Grant laughed. ‘Madame, you must understand that Major Keane is one of the Duke’s most valued soldiers.’

  Keane stopped him, ‘Major Keane?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? You’re promoted. Brevet of course, but it’ll only be a matter of time. Oh and Archer, almost forgot. A field commission for you, young man. Well done.’

  They mounted up and Hulot led the column through the back streets of the city and out through a breach in the wall into the open countryside.

  *

  Hulot drove them hard and Keane was pleased to see that Sophie was, as she had said, able to match them for speed. They rode along the cliffs above the ocean, leaving the city behind them. After some five miles Hulot called a halt and walked the horses down a narrow path that led to a sandy beach. It was as secluded a spot as any, thought Keane, as he rode up to join him.

  ‘May I ask where we’re going, colonel? I presumed that we were on our way to rejoin Wellington’s army.’

  Hulot shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, captain. At least not immediately. You have another army to meet first.’

  Hulot pointed towards a cave cut into the bottom of the cliff and as Keane rode across, followed by Archer, Sophie and Grant, he was met by a line of familiar faces.

  ‘Martin, Silver, Ross, all of you! Are you all here?’

  Sergeant Ross replied, ‘Yes, sir. We couldn’t wait you see. We’ve missed you that much. Besides – I thought they could do with a little jaunt. They’ve been sitting on their asses since you left.’

  Silver spoke. ‘Hardly, sir, you’ve had us run ragged.’

  ‘Not exactly, Silver, but you have been kept busy.’

  Keane and the others dismounted and the two men undressed and swapped the Irish coats in which they had lived so long for the red that felt like home.

  Keane smiled. ‘By God, that’s better. I’d had quite enough of that green rag.’

  ‘Yes, sir, you look better in red.’

  ‘You too, Archer.’

  Fastening his tunic, he turned to Grant. ‘How did they know about this? The French. And about us?’

  ‘Macpherson gave up the Zenobius code to Fouché.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that he’d betrayed us.’

  ‘He realized after my visit to you that his position was being usurped. I didn’t think he’d go so far, though, as to expose the whole group. Luckily Father Curtis managed to escape before they came for him. Fouché sent word by courier. It arrived yesterday.’

  ‘And what happened to Madame Duplessis, sir? There was no one at her house, but no sign of anything amiss. Our uniforms were exactly where we had left them.’

  Grant shook his head. ‘It’s a tragic story. The old lady took her own life. Just a week ago.’

  ‘She killed herself?’

  ‘Hanged herself in the house. I found her, with Silver, when we arrived to wait for you.’

  ‘But why? Her son?’

  Grant shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. She had lived with his loss for years. But perhaps coming on top of that . . . ?’

  ‘What? What happened?’

  ‘One of the royalist spies. The ones in Paris whom you delivered to Fouché. Rochambeau. He was her brother.’

  Keane shook his head. It was unthinkable. He had unwittingly caused the death of a sad old woman who might have lived out her days.

  ‘It’s my fault, sir. I killed her.’

  Grant shook his head. ‘No, James. The war killed her. It was almost bound to happen. One way or another, her time had come.’

  Keane looked around at his men. Silver, Garland, Martin, Heredia . . . the old guard and the newcomers too.

  ‘I seem to have been away rather a long time. It is good to see you. All of you. And looking so well. What have they been feeding you, Martin? They haven’t been working you hard enough.’

  ‘We thought you might have started talking French, sir.’

  Ross spoke. ‘You do look a bit, well, Frenchified, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Sarn’t Ross. Let’s hope it isn’t lasting.’

  Grant saw the joy on his face. ‘I did my best, James, to keep them all together. Cavanagh would have dispersed them to other regiments. But I stopped him. Took them away myself and hid them. One by one, didn’t I, lads?’

  Martin answered for all of them. ‘Major Grant was a bloody marvel, sir. The minute papers came for one of us, he would just spirit us away.’

  ‘And now you’re back with me, thank God. Thank you, sir.’

  Grant clapped him on the back. ‘It’s good to have you back, James. Let’s get you back to Spain and sanity.’

  ‘You’d best tell me what’s going on first, sir.’

  ‘Wellington’s got Marshal Marmont where he wants him. Outside Salamanca. He anticipates a victory.’

  ‘I wish I could report the same. I wonder how the commander will take it.’

  ‘Take it? How other than as a success? He can only be delighted. As I said, James, promotion. The coup was never meant to work.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We couldn’t tell you that, of course. It might have compromised the entire operation. But don’t you see? We’ve succeeded in our aim. We meant to sow seeds of doubt among the French high command. And that’s exactly what we have done. Savary’s arrest has left an indelible stain upon his record. Think about it. How did he react in the coup? He panicked. His position was not only embarrassing but it was dangerous. How on earth could it happen that the empire’s new chief of secret police could himself be arrested in his bed, by a certified lunatic, accompanied by a few unfit National Guardsmen?

  ‘Better than all that though, James, we have made Bonaparte doubt his own greatness. This Russian adventure may well be a disaster for him. His generals have been advising him, telling him not to invade. He should have looked at history, at Charles XII of Sweden. What happened to him will happen to Bonaparte. It wasn’t the Russian army that beat Karl. It was winter. “General Winter”, the Russians call it. Their invincible commander. Their secret weapon. Mark my words, James, by October Bonaparte will be in trouble. And if he stays there longer than that, his army will begin to die in its thousands, then in its hundreds of thousands. He doesn’t have a hope.’

  Keane nodded. He saw it all quite clearly. Grant was right. The Russians would defeat Boney in the field, using their own country as a weapon.

  He spoke. ‘Yes, of course. And in time Wellington will do the same to them in Spain. The French will be driven from the Peninsula and chased through their own country.’

  Grant nodded. ‘Yes, that will be Wellington’s victory. But we, James – you and I – we have already defeated him in a far more subtle way. We have done what no one else has ever done, James. We’ve got inside the emperor’s mind. We’ve sown a seed of self-doubt and it’s that seed that�
�s going to bring him down.’

  Keane smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, of course. So we have done what we were sent to do, sir, haven’t we? We’ve undermined the empire from within. But not just inside the state, inside Bonaparte’s own mind. And once Boney thinks that we can second-guess him, that with everything he plans we’re one step ahead, he’ll begin to doubt his every move. And when that starts to happen, that will really be the beginning of the end.’

  Historical Note

  The siege of Badajoz was one of the bloodiest episodes in the entire Peninsular War. It began on 17 March 1812 and lasted until 7 April.

  Close on 5,000 British and Portuguese soldiers were killed during the storming and in consequence, when the city fell, the enraged British soldiers broke into liquor stores and inns and, fuelled by alcohol, went on the rampage. Ignoring their officers and even, by accounts, killing several, they murdered some 4,000 Spanish civilians, butchered many of the French defenders and indulged in mass rape and looting.

  Having, uncharacteristically, allowed his men to assuage their fury for around eighteen hours, Wellington finally gave the command to bring the army to account. However, it apparently took around another seventy-two hours before order was completely restored. A good number of British rank and file were flogged as punishment and a gallows was erected, although no one was hanged.

  Fitzroy Somerset was, according to some accounts, the first man on top of the parapet and did in fact lead a party to secure the surrender of the city from the Governor. The episode with the Governor’s wife and the captive ladies is largely of my invention. Colonel Hulot is also fictional, although he is intended to stand as an example of certain of Napoleon’s officers who nurtured sentiments against the Emperor.

  Bonaparte had always of course had his enemies at home and the plots against him in 1800 and 1804 were very real.

  The plot of the rue Saint-Nicaise, also known as the ‘plot of the Machine Infernale’, took place in Paris on 24 December 1800. The work of seven Breton royalist Chouans, it involved the crude device of a barrel of gunpowder tied to a cart which was exploded near the Tuileries. Napoleon, passing in his carriage, was shaken but unhurt, although 52 other passers-by were killed and wounded.