02 - Keane's Challenge

by Iain Gale

  Going against his own advice, Keane found himself answering, ‘Yes, I know; we were watching you also.’ Why, he wondered by all that was holy, had he said that?

  Sanchez smiled. ‘Really, captain? You surprise me. My men are masters of disguise and fieldcraft. Where did you first see them?’

  Keane was thinking on his feet. ‘I have been aware of their presence, colonel. My general sends his best wishes, sir, and offers his sincere congratulations on your escape from the city.’

  ‘Your general Wellington is kind. It was in truth the hardest thing I have ever done. But we managed it. Me and twelve others. The men you see here.’ He indicated the louche young men who seemed to Keane an unlikely group to have escaped in such a daring exercise. But perhaps their looks belied their worth.

  Keane chose his words with care. ‘How on earth did you manage it? It must have been almost impossible to evade their sentries.’

  ‘We have our ways, captain. The garrotte and the knife are our friends.’ He made a gesture with his hands as if pulling on an invisible rope held taut between them. ‘We stole some horses and here we are. Not like those poor devils we left behind.’

  ‘Have you had any word from the city?’

  Sanchez shook his head. ‘Nothing. It is not good. We know what has happened to them. And so do you, captain. You know the French as well as we do.’ Keane knew what was coming. ‘Perhaps your general Wellington should have helped them. It would have been better for the way the people of this country feel about him, and all of you.’

  ‘He did it for the greater good.’

  ‘Tell that to the innocent women and children in Ciudad. He swore that he was coming back to save Portugal, and to send the French from my homeland also. And what has he done? First he destroys all the crops and ruins people’s lives, and now he refuses to come to the aid of five thousand innocent people and leaves them to their fate.’

  ‘As I said, colonel, it was for the greater good.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you. You and I understand that. But not the peasants.’ Sanchez paused and, extracting a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end and spat it on the ground before lighting it by striking a long match upon a nearby stone. Then he spoke again. ‘I think I will make a unit of men like yours. But maybe without those hats. I will have my own explorers as Wellington has his. Then I will know all the movements of the inglêses. Just as you know all of the French, and then we will know where we are. No?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A splendid idea. You must have a great many men here if you are able to make a corps of guides such as ours.’

  ‘I have many men. Horse and foot. Many men.’

  ‘How many would you say. Two hundred? More?’

  ‘You are clever, Captain Keane. Perhaps I will tell you, soon. Just how many men I have. Perhaps I myself do not know.’

  A rider, dressed like a French lancer in what was mostly captured uniform, came galloping up to Sanchez and spoke fast, gasping for breath. ‘Don Sanchez, sir, French infantry and artillery have been seen at the Quinta Buralda. Their cavalry are at Barquillos.’

  Keane took out his map and opened it. Don Sanchez looked down with the others and Keane spoke, pointing to the villages.

  ‘Craufurd was right to move back across the river. The French have made some ground.’ He traced a line to Quinta and the road from it that led south across the river Turonnes. ‘This is dangerous. He might well be heading for Almeida, but Marshal Massena believes that there is a sizeable force of British and our allies here and he is not inclined to let it go.’

  Sanchez spoke. ‘Stay with us. You must stay with us if you want to discover how well we know the French. I would have you return to Wellington with a good impression. I am anxious that we should become friends and allies. I am sure that there is much that we will be able to do for one another.’ He paused. ‘I did hear tell that you had succeeded in liberating a great deal of silver coin from Marshal Soult’s train last year. You were in the company of one of my brethren?’

  ‘We worked with a guerrilla leader, yes.’

  ‘Name of Morillo, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. You are well informed, Don Sanchez.’

  ‘I make it my business to be nothing less. How shall I put it? Should a similar possibility arise again, we would be only too pleased to work alongside you. For a consideration, of course. I’m sure that you would do no less.’

  Keane let the insinuation drop. He had not come here to pick a fight. But he recognized it for what it was. So, he thought, Sanchez is against the French but on his terms. He wants money from us. A straight deal.

  He smiled. ‘Of course, Don Sanchez, if I ever have the opportunity again, I will think of you first.’

  ‘Till then we wait. Always we wait. What do you do to pass the time, captain? I hear you play cards.’

  ‘Yes, but not today, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But we still have time for some fun, yes? Something to take our minds off the horrors of this war.’ He thought for a moment or two and then smiled at Keane.

  ‘We will have a contest. A contest of marksmanship, no? You will put in the man who is your best shot and I will do the same. The prize will be… what? The pretty girl in your party?’ Keane could sense Silver bristle. Sanchez went on, laughing. ‘No, of course, I was joking. The prize will be ten silver pieces. Yes?’

  Keane smiled and nodded. ‘It seems fair.’

  It did indeed seem a harmless enough wager and one that he was guaranteed to win. On past performance, Keane suspected that Will Martin could outshoot anyone in the army and carrying Keane’s own gun, as he did, he would have more than a good chance of trouncing Sanchez’s man.

  *

  Sanchez’s man shot first. The targets were to be two French infantrymen’s shakos, thrown into the air by one of Sanchez’s men, a giant, with huge hands and muscles to match. The marksman by contrast was a wiry fellow. Thin and gaunt, with taut skin the colour of a walnut, he walked towards the two men and shot them a grin that slit his face with a flash of yellowed teeth. Sanchez introduced him. ‘This is Ramon Garcia. Surely he is one of the finest shots in all of Spain. He will go first. Show your man what he has to beat. Where is your man, captain?’

  Keane beckoned Martin towards them. As he approached, Sanchez raised an eyebrow.

  ‘But he’s hardly more than a boy. Are you sure of this, captain?’

  ‘Never been more certain.’

  Garcia squared up and held his gun before him at the ready. Keane could see now that it was a Baker rifle, clearly appropriated from some poor rifleman who no longer had need of it. Its owner fondled it with the care one would accord a woman, rubbing his hand over the polished stock. It was already loaded and as he cradled it against his thigh, Garcia pulled back the lock to cock the weapon. He looked across at the big man and nodded. With a huge throw, the Spaniard sent the shako soaring up beyond the trees into the blue sky. Garcia brought up the rifle to his shoulder and fired just as the target reached the apex of its climb. The shako came tumbling to earth like a wounded game bird and landed close to his feet. Sanchez walked over and picked it up. Keane could see that the shot had gone through the front of the hat, just where the eagle had been attached, and exited at the rear. Had a Frenchman been wearing it his brains would have been blown away.

  Sanchez smiled in triumph. ‘There. What do you think of that? A kill, wouldn’t you say, captain?’

  Keane nodded. ‘Yes, without a doubt a kill. Very nice shooting.’

  Garcia smiled and nodded and patted his gun with affection.

  The big man had found the second hat by now and stood ready and waiting for the command.

  Martin let the gun hang loose in his hands, although it had been loaded and was already primed and cocked. At a signal from Sanchez, the second shako flew high in the air and in what seemed almost like slow motion, but was the work of an instant, the boy raised the fowling piece to his cheek and pulled the trigger. The cap seemed to stop in mid-air, like a felled cock pheasant
. Then it fell to ground, hard-hit and as the smoke cleared, Martin walked across to see the damage. ‘A hit, sir. I hit it.’

  Keane nodded. ‘Well done, Martin.’

  Sanchez walked across to where they stood and stooped to pick up the cap. The shot had taken out the crown completely. Somehow, against all odds, Martin had contrived to get his shot to travel up through the hat. It was as central as anyone could have hoped.

  Sanchez stood staring at it. He smiled at Martin. ‘Good shooting, boy. Very nice. I will have to admit defeat.’ Then he looked at the gun. ‘Now that is a remarkable weapon. A truly magnificent gun, captain.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Keane. ‘It was my father’s, so I’m told.’ It was in fact one of the few things he owned which had come to him from his father.

  Keane still remained unaware of his identity. It was his father who had purchased him his ensign’s commission those twenty years ago, and his mother had told him that he had been a high-ranking military man, but more than that she would not say. The mystery of his father’s identity troubled him. It was Keane’s burning ambition to learn who his father might be. But for the moment, all that he had to link him was the gun, mysteriously sent to his mother before his fifteenth birthday, along with a lock of hair in a locket, a silver snuffbox and an ivory-backed hairbrush.

  Sanchez held out his hand to Martin. ‘May I hold it?’ The boy handed it over and the Spaniard ran his fingers along the walnut stock. ‘It is something any man would be proud to own.’

  Keane smiled, with a little apprehension, wondering where this was going. ‘Yes, indeed it is.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I could make you an offer… ?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid the gun is most definitely not for sale.’

  Sanchez looked at it again in his hands, raised it to his shoulder and placed his cheek against the stock. ‘Truly wonderful. Such a weapon.’ He thought for a moment and then turned to Keane. ‘Another wager, captain?’

  ‘By all means, Don Sanchez. New targets?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He clapped his hands and a man brought two small leather cartridge boxes and gave them to the giant.

  ‘And another stake, captain.’

  ‘Shall we say twenty livres, colonel?’

  Sanchez shook his head. ‘No, I have something else in mind. Your gun, captain. We shall play for your gun. Double or quits. If I win, then it is mine. If you win, then I will give you one tenth of all the gold I hold in this camp. And let me tell you that is not a little.’

  Keane went suddenly cold. He would do all that he could not to lose that gun. But how to keep the friendship of Sanchez without agreeing to the wager?

  Sanchez clapped his hands and two men appeared dragging a handcart. Looking at it, Keane could see that it was piled high with gold ornaments of every kind. Looted, he presumed, from French and Portuguese alike. It was clear that Sanchez had been planning this since their first wager. The gun had ever been his objective.

  He answered. ‘Very well. I accept your wager. One tenth of all the gold.’

  Then walking across to Martin, he spoke quietly. ‘You must lose.’

  Martin looked at him incredulously. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I said, you must lose. You have to lose if we are to keep Sanchez on our side. He has to win the gun. Don’t worry, I’ll get it back somehow. And it shan’t be your fault. But for now, you have to lose.’

  ‘Don’t know if I can, sir. I just shoot and it works.’

  ‘Martin, listen to me, you have to lose.’

  Sanchez called across to them. ‘Captain Keane, are you ready?’

  ‘Quite ready, colonel. I was just offering Martin some advice.’

  They walked over to where the thrower was standing. Sanchez spoke. ‘You may shoot first this time, captain.’

  Keane shook his head. ‘No, why don’t you? We prefer to follow on.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Sanchez looked at Garcia, who had loaded his gun. Once again the man took up his position and the thrower made ready. On the given signal the big man hurled one of the cases high into the air. Garcia brought up the weapon and squeezed the trigger. The gun spat flame and shot and the box stopped short in mid-flight and fell to ground. Keane watched it fall and saw the hole neatly drilled through the centre.

  ‘Good shot, colonel.’

  ‘Now you.’

  Martin took up his post and gave a nod to Keane. Once again Sanchez nodded his head and the giant threw the second box up into the air. Martin brought the gun up and followed through the trajectory of the fall, then pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the box on the top lid and spun it around. Keane gasped as the box fell. And Martin let out a low curse.

  It hit the ground and Sanchez ran across to pick it up. There was a small nick taken out of the flap, but apart from that it was intact.

  ‘Captain Keane, I claim the victory. Fair?’

  Keane walked over and took the box from Sanchez, staring at it intently in disbelief. ‘Good God. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Martin, what’s this? You missed.’

  He looked across at the boy who was standing a little way off, his head down. ‘Sir. Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  Keane looked back to Sanchez. ‘Yes, colonel, quite fair. The gun, it seems, is yours. Martin, give it to the colonel.’

  Martin surrendered Keane’s gun and the Spaniard took it, his face suffused by a look of pure, almost childish joy. ‘Thank you. What a prize. I am a lucky man, captain, am I not?’

  ‘Indeed you are, colonel, and fortune is evidently not with me today.’

  Sanchez clapped him on the back. ‘That is the way of life, as we soldiers know. It is perhaps fortunate that today did not find you on the battlefield. A lack of luck there can mean something far worse than losing a gun. Now come and eat with us and console yourself in fine wine and good company.’

  They ate together in the shadow of the old fortress and, while Keane dined with the colonel and his officers, the men, as they had been instructed, contrived to socialize with Sanchez’s guerrillas.

  Silver took Martin to task over his poor marksmanship. ‘How the deuce did you do that? You’re a dead shot any day. You couldn’t have missed that if you’d tried.’

  Martin said nothing.

  Silver narrowed his eyes and stared at him. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You did try. You missed on purpose.’

  Martin remained silent. Silver shook his head. ‘Was that the captain’s doing? I’ll be bound it was. He lost his own gun to keep Sanchez on our side.’ He looked across to where Keane was sitting drinking wine with Sanchez. ‘He’s a clever man, our captain, and no mistake. Sell his own mother to trick the Spanish into our hands or bugger the French.’

  Martin smiled. ‘I really thought he was angry with me, Silver.’

  ‘No, lad. It was his doing. He told you to pull the shot. He’d not be angry with you for that. He’s just a good play-actor. Decent man he is. Might be a sharp one otherwise, but not with us, his own men. He won’t do us wrong, lad. Loves you too, he does. Specially, like his own son, if he had one.’

  Martin shook his head and smiled. ‘You’re talking twaddle, Silver, and you know it.’

  Now Silver shook his head. ‘Ask Gabby. She sees it. Sees it all. Mister Keane looks after you, lad. You mind that. And he’ll get that gun back. You’ll see. After he’s used Sanchez, or got him by other means.’

  Keane listened to Don Sanchez’s tales of his career as a soldier. How he had come from humble origins and risen to fame and fortune and how he had sworn to drive the last Frenchman from his country or die doing it with the last drop of his life’s blood. As more wine flowed, they drank toasts. To Spain. To the death of the French. To Lord Wellington. To Sanchez. To Keane. And by the time they finally crawled away to sleep, where there had been suspicion there was friendship, and where there had been fear there was trust. And Keane, who had been making sure that he drank half of what the Spaniard put away, knew that in Sanchez’
s command there were a hundred and fifty horsemen in two squadrons and a troop of lancers, along with three hundred foot soldiers split into five companies of sixty apiece. This private army was well organized. Far better so than those he had encountered in the hills last year. Officers and NCOs were aplenty and Sanchez had told him that he was careful to promote on merit where it was due. Of course some of his officers owed their position to purchase. But that did not mean he thought them any worse. They had come with him from Ciudad. He had seen them murder the French. Lying awake in his blanket, by daybreak Keane had gained a good impression of Sanchez’s strengths and weaknesses. He also reckoned that, in the gift of the gun, he had won him over. That and the promise of silver that he had felt obliged to make in the course of their evening. Now perhaps, he thought, he might be able to return to Celorico.

  Of course, it was not that simple.

  They were compelled, by courtesy as much as anything else, and by a semblance of duty, to pass another two days in Sanchez’s camp. It was, though, time well spent. Keane observed his daily routine and instructed his men to do likewise. In the early morning after the night-watch had stood down, Sanchez would send out scouts into the hills and others down into the plains. At around midday these men would report back, sometimes with news of the French, and would be replaced by others who would remain on patrol until evening. On the second day two of the parties did not return. Keane quizzed Sanchez. ‘Are they in trouble?’

  ‘No, they are merely making camp further out.’

  ‘Advance positions.’

  ‘Is that what you would call them? They will lie low and then in the night will creep into the French camp and take one or two Frenchmen and bring them here.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then we find out what we need to know.’

  The following morning, as predicted, the two parties returned and with them three French prisoners. Two of them were of little value and Sanchez berated his men for their poor choice. The third man, though, was as good a prisoner as they might have taken. A French major of artillery.