by Iain Gale
The colonel stepped back in astonishment, stuck for speech. Keane smiled. ‘Thank you, Silver. Right, lads, you’d better follow me.’ He turned and looked up at the colonel. ‘Colonel, I think you might be as well to follow your own advice and General Craufurd’s orders and retire before the French arrive. They have a division on its way, you know.’ He turned before the officer could reply and led the way at the head of his men, knowing the air behind him would be blue with oaths.
Once they were out of earshot, Ross laughed. ‘You’re a danger to yourself, sir. One of these days you’ll go too far.’
‘But not today, Ross, eh?’
‘Even so, sir, you’d be better not to do the same to Black Bob.’
They found Craufurd standing on a large rock which gave a view out over the plain below them. He was raking the landscape with the telescope and it seemed at first as if he had not noticed them. But after a few moments, still with the glass to his eye, he looked down at them and spoke.
‘You’re Keane?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The face was instantly familiar and yet at the same time not that of anyone he could call friend. General Sir Robert Craufurd was a legend in the army, as feared as he was loved. Black Bob, along with the late Sir John Moore, had created the Light Division as it now existed.
The Light Division. A division of light infantry. A relatively new concept of units which fought using the tactics that had been developed in America during the revolution with such devastating results. There was something more. The individual intelligence of each and every one of the men was far above that of the rank and file. It took them, it was said, a mere seven minutes to get themselves under arms at night-time and just a quarter of an hour to form line of battle, day or night. The Light Division was Crawford’s child and he used it with care and good judgement. Wellington trusted him completely.
Craufurd stared at Keane. Seemed to be judging him, as if he could read into his soul. ‘Good. Perhaps you can be of more use to me than this damned glass. How many of them are there? Exactly.’
‘As I understand it, sir, there is the best part of a division, but with support. Five thousand men, of all arms.’
‘Who commands?’
‘Général de Brigade Sainte-Croix, sir.’
Craufurd nodded. ‘Sainte-Croix. Yes. I see.’ He climbed down from the rock and stood facing Keane. He was a little shorter, with straight dark hair parted in the centre, heavy eyebrows and a deeply furrowed forehead that seemed to warn of his quick temper. ‘Go on, Keane. How many cannon?’
‘Only some light guns as far as we could see, sir. Perhaps a half horse battery.’
Craufurd nodded and thought for a moment. ‘That’s good work, Keane. Major Grant spoke well of you and he was as good as his word.’
‘Do you have any further orders for me, sir? Anything from Major Grant?’
Craufurd shook his head. ‘No, nothing. Were you expecting something?’
‘I had hoped that I might return to headquarters at Celorico. I have some unfinished business there.’
‘No, Keane. I have received no such order. What will you do now? Your post is driven in. You cannot return. Sainte-Croix will be there already. I presume that, failing any new instruction, your orders were to remain with us?’
Keane nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Just that.’
‘Then that is what you must do, captain. We will stand here against General Sainte-Croix and you alongside us. I need every good officer I can muster and in battle as in the work of a scout your name precedes you, Captain Keane. You did well at Oporto.’
‘You are kind, sir.’
‘Kind, man? Kindness has nothing to do with it, dammit. Praise where it’s due, Keane. Only where it’s due. You did well.’
Keane nodded. Had he done well at Oporto? He had defended a half-built monastery for the best part of a day against a French division with no more than his own men and two companies of redcoats. And in doing so, they had bought just enough time for Wellington to cross the Douro and take the city. Yes, he supposed that he had done well.
Craufurd spoke again. ‘It’s a damned shame we can do nothing for the city. But there it is. We can hardly take on the entire French army. But the Spaniards see my force here and presume I will attack. It’s what a Spanish general would do, isn’t it, Keane? Go and save his people. But my orders expressly forbid it. Look at this.’
He held out a note, written in a scrawl on a piece of parchment. ‘Sent from General Herrasti in Ciudad, two days ago. You read Spanish?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Keane took it and looked at the paper. It bore few words: ‘O venir, luego! luego! a secorrer esta plaza.’
It was beyond doubt the last desperate plea of a doomed man and it seemed to Keane that it must have been written in the full knowledge that all it asked was in vain. He handed it back to Craufurd.
‘Is there really nothing we can do, sir? Surely to allow the palace to fall will be unbearably grievous a dishonour for the army.’
‘It is, I would guess, one of the hardest decisions that our commander has ever been forced to take. The world looks on and wonders if his promise to protect Portugal is a hollow sham. It wants an indication of our earnestness. But this we cannot give. The duke cannot go to help Ciudad. You realize that, captain, as well as I do.’
Keane nodded. ‘Yes, sir, in truth I do. But I have seldom felt so sick at heart.’
Craufurd nodded solemnly. ‘And I share your sentiment. But five thousand ill-disciplined and useless Spanish brought off from Ciudad will not recompense the duke for the same number or more of our own good troops who would certainly be lost in the taking of it.’
It was sound sense and Keane knew it. The soldier in him asserted its truth and, as was always the way, it was the soldier who won against the man of humanity. And it was clear, he thought, that Craufurd was not in Cavanagh’s camp, in favour of an all-or-nothing battle. He was Wellington’s man.
Craufurd spoke. ‘God knows when Sainte-Croix will reach us. His dragoons will have told him of our presence. I only hope that he will believe we are the vanguard of the army, come to raise the siege. That is the impression we must aim to give. I’d be glad to have you and your men here.’
Keane wondered if the general would have had the same enthusiasm had he found Heredia as he discovered him a few minutes later. He was apart from the others. The man was sitting on a rock and staring into the distance while puffing on a cheroot. He seemed preoccupied.
Keane stood beside him. ‘Heredia, you are very thoughtful.’
The Portuguese trooper was not exactly insubordinate but he was not now accustomed to rising in the presence of an officer. He looked up at Keane before replying. Again Keane chose to ignore the fact. ‘I have cause to be, captain. As you well know.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Colonel Pritchard.’
‘Colonel Pritchard is dead, man. Blown to atoms, well, almost. Dead for certain in the ruins of his house.’
‘Yes, I know. That is what troubles me.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Now I can never be completely clear of the crime of which I was accused. He takes his secret to his grave.’
‘But Major Grant attests for you. And Captain Morris assured me that he would undertake paperwork that would prove your acquittal.’
‘Is that enough? When Major Grant is gone, as he may be, then who will plead my case. It might be forgotten that I was innocent.’
‘For your information, Heredia, the Duke of Wellington believes Major Grant.’
‘Are you sure? I think he would rather have believed Colonel Pritchard.’
‘You’re a free man. Isn’t that all that matters?’
‘Am I truly free? It’s a question of honour, captain.’
‘There is nothing that can be done to that end. Pritchard is dead.’
‘Unless Pritchard was not working alone.’
Keane paused. ‘Do you think that might be the case?’
&n
bsp; ‘I don’t know. Just something I noticed. Captain Morris mentioned it to me. Pritchard always took two copies of everything.’
‘That’s standard practice on the duke’s staff, isn’t it?’
‘Perhaps, but he paid more attention to detail than most. Did Captain Morris not tell you about this?’
‘No, actually, he did not.’
‘In that case perhaps it is not important. Perhaps I should not think so hard.’
But Keane knew that Heredia had an agile mind. It was one of the qualities that he valued most in him. There must be something to Morris’s having noticed Pritchard’s modus operandi.
But if so, then why, if it were something so fundamental, should Morris not have mentioned it to him? He did not doubt his friend for a moment and half wondered whether this might be a ploy by Heredia to drive some barrier between them. It occurred to him that the Portuguese was adept at playing off one man against another. He had seen it with Silver and Gabriella. Heredia would get into an argument with the girl and it would end in a screaming match between Silver and his common-law wife. Quite how Heredia achieved it was beyond him. As was the reason for it. Perhaps the man was jealous. Perhaps he just disliked one, or the other. But he knew that he should be on his guard.
Heredia shot him a glance, almost as if he could read his thoughts, and again Keane felt uneasy.
‘What are we doing, sir?’
Keane was slightly caught off guard by the word from a man who was not as inclined to use it as perhaps he should.
‘We’re staying here. For the moment at least.’
‘Staying to fight? That’s a waste. That’s not our job, is it? We are scouts, captain, not cannon fodder.’
‘I have given my word to General Craufurd that we will lend our support to his defence. Would you have me go back on it?’
Heredia smiled and took a puff of the cheroot. ‘Just an opinion, sir. Nothing more.’
Keane almost found himself coming out with the time-worn riposte that other ranks were not intended to have opinions, least of all express them, when he realized that in this unit, in his company, such a response was absurd. What bound them together was their ability to act independently, to use their intellect or their particular skills to their best ability. They were unique in the army. That was why he tolerated their ways: Heredia’s rudeness and Silver’s lack of punctuality. Garland’s ham-fisted bouts of temper and Gilpin’s wry, sarcastic wit.
His encounter with Heredia had filled his mind with misgivings. He thought back to the ruins at Celorico. To the shattered, dismembered body of the officer. It had to be Pritchard. Of that there was no doubt. But the question still remained as to who had planted the bomb. Why would anyone want him dead? The obvious answer was that he had an enemy.
Of course, it might have been a personal grievance. God knew there were enough in the army. Hadn’t Keane himself aroused one such passion by killing a brother officer in a duel? But a bomb seemed an unlikely means of taking revenge and, besides, Pritchard was a spy. A traitor. And, hadn’t the duke told him, a fellow Irishman to boot. It occurred to him now that that might have been his motive. There were many in the south of his homeland who would drive the British out. United Irishmen, they called themselves. Catholic and Protestant alike. Hadn’t they risen up in ’98? He recalled the militia officers’ heads impaled on pikes at Wexford and wondered if Pritchard had seen them too. Or indeed if he had given the order.
Morris had suggested that the bomb must have been the work of another French spy. It had seemed likely to him at the time that the French might have learnt that Pritchard had been discovered and sent in someone under orders to eliminate the risk. But why a bomb? he wondered. Something so very destructive.
What, he asked himself, in passing, if the bomber had been Morris himself? But not to trust a man who had been his friend for years and with whom he had seen service? How could he even begin to think in such a way? He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come to him.
Perhaps, he thought, the assassin had been Heredia, intent on killing the man who had done him such harm. Keane had guessed that he had sworn to manage such a thing.
And, there again, how did they know for certain that the bomb had been intended for Pritchard? Perhaps it had been meant for himself and Morris. Perhaps it had been Pritchard who had made it, and had been killed by mistake. The ideas buzzed inside his head, addling his mind.
Then another thought came to him. Perhaps the bomb had been intended to accomplish something other than merely killing Pritchard. Perhaps its purpose was to destroy some fabric of evidence or material which might be damaging to the French should it fall into the hands of the allies. The more that he considered it, the more this last cause seemed the most likely. He knew the answer must lie in the ruins of the house. How, though, was he to return there when his orders confined him to keeping a watch on Ciudad?
He wondered if, in the absence of Morris, he should confide in any of the men. But Heredia could be ruled out, and Silver, given the animosity between the two men. Ross perhaps might offer an opinion. But there again, he thought, another opinion was the last thing he wanted. So Keane kept his silence and dwelt on the options and waited for the moment when he might have the chance to get back to Morris at Celorico, make sure of his friend and not least have a chance to investigate the ruins. He hoped it would not be too late and that he would live through the French attack.
But the French did not come. For four days they waited at Alameda as June drifted into July and still Sainte-Croix did not appear.
The men were nervous and hard-pressed to find something to do. Ross had them cleaning their weapons every day, but the usual tasks of the camp were not theirs. There were no white belts to chalk, no buttons to polish. They sat around and played dice and talked and thought about the French and the fire they were raining down upon the people of Ciudad.
At length, Craufurd summoned Keane. ‘You’re restless, captain. Your men too.’
‘Restless, sir?’ Was it so obvious?
‘It isn’t hard to see. But at least you’re mobile. You might do me a service. Take your men. Not the hussars – just your own men – and carry out a reconnaissance as far as you can, until you see the French. I need to know what has happened. I’ve heard nothing from Herrasti since that last note. We need to know if Ciudad has fallen. The minute that you know anything, you must return. Are you clear on that? Do not on any account engage the enemy.’
‘Yes, sir. Quite clear.’
Leaving Gabriella behind, with Craufurd, they rode back down the road along which they had come in such haste, retracing their steps in silence, keeping a careful watch for any sign of the French.
But there was none. At length they came within sight of Gallegos, but the little village appeared to be unoccupied. Silver, who was riding close to Keane, spoke in a whisper. ‘They’ve vanished, sir. Thought they’d be here at least, getting ready to attack us again. Finish the job.’
‘So did I, Silver. It seems very strange.’
Perhaps, he thought, the dragoons had reported that Craufurd’s command was greater than it actually was. Panic could affect a man’s perception. In that case it seemed likely that Sainte-Croix might have decided it would be prudent not to follow up. There was little evidence of the fight. The French had taken their dead, and only a few bullet holes in the white plaster and some patches of brown dried blood told the story.
Riding on through the village, they carried on into the country and reached a piece of rising ground.
As soon as they did, Keane pulled up and patted his horse on the mane. He did not require an eyeglass to tell him what he needed to know. The pall of black smoke said it all. Ciudad was in flames. So that was why Sainte-Croix had not come again. He and his men had been called back to the siege, or gone voluntarily, to take part in the rape of the city.
Flames leapt up from the walls and from deep within. It seemed that even at this distance he could detect the smell of burning
. A sweet, sickly scent that he knew from experience meant that people had died, were dying, in the flames.
It had been his worst fear.
He knew, though, that as soon as the French were done with that, their orders would be to engage Craufurd as quickly as possible to gauge the strength of his force.
Ross stared at the smoke. ‘Poor buggers. And we did nothing to help them, sir. Not a bloody thing.’
‘We could do nothing, sarn’t. What could we have done?’
He turned and looked back at the others, all of whose faces wore the same blank stare of unforgiving despair and bitterness and he knew that somehow they must blame him.
Heredia cursed. ‘Look, look there. The flames. You know what is happening, don’t you? This is your general’s idea of saving a nation. Can you see?’
Ross tried to calm him, but even his words were not in earnest.
Martin spoke quietly as he looked. ‘How many people did you say were in there?’
Keane spoke, still staring at the city. ‘I didn’t.’
Silver provided the answer. ‘Ten thousand souls, God help them.’
They stood there for what seemed like hours but was in fact but a few minutes, until at last Keane spoke and there was a coldness in his voice. ‘Well, there’s fewer than that now. There’s nothing to be done. We need to get back and warn General Craufurd. The French won’t waste any time. As soon as they’ve had their fill in there, they’ll come for us.’
He turned his horse, thankful not to have to look any longer at the burning city, and rode down the hill fast and back to the road, followed by the others. No one spoke for the entire journey back to the bridge, and on entering the camp, past the green-jacketed sentries of the 95th, who presented arms, Keane made straight for the general’s tent.
He found Craufurd writing a report.
The general looked up. ‘Keane. Well? What news?’
Keane shook his head. The gesture and his expression would have been enough, but he replied nevertheless. ‘Ciudad is lost, sir. In flames. Taken this morning, I’d guess. And all within it.’
