by Iain Gale
He knew that there would be no cover from now on, as for around a mile around the ramparts which surrounded the town the trees had been cleared in all directions centuries earlier, another defensive measure.
The second support post was the deserted convent at Barca and here Archer and Silver settled themselves in the bell tower, from where they could survey the surrounding countryside without fear of being seen. The horses they hid with Keane’s own mare in the old refectory and barred the door from within before climbing the tower. Silver watched the little cart shudder off down the road towards Almeida, which lay before them like some star that had fallen to earth, illuminated by the first rays of the morning sun.
He spoke low, though no one could have heard them in their eyrie.
‘I hope Mister Keane knows what he’s doing. Right into the lion’s lair he’s going. He’s a bold one.’
Now Keane and Gilpin sat together on the long seat at the front of the cart as Gilpin urged the horse on with his whip and spoke gently to her in Spanish.
*
They were coming in from the west side of the town and Gilpin turned to Keane. ‘Sir, just a thought, if I may. Shouldn’t we go round the ramparts and come in from the north. We’re meant to be travelling down from Madrid. Won’t they think it strange, sir?’
Keane shook his head. ‘I had thought that, but the fact of the matter is, if we come in from this side, where the explosion did its worst, then we probably won’t encounter much of a sentry post. Once we’re in it won’t matter which direction we’ve come from.’
To their right and left lay the French army, the occasional campfire lit for the sentries, stretched out across the plain, awaiting the order to advance. Keane felt their brooding presence like a great leviathan ready to spring from sleep and strike.
Almeida loomed before them, huge and forbidding. As they approached the ramparts Keane looked up at their sheer scale and thanked God that he would not be leading a forlorn hope or a storming party up their steeply angled stone walls. A voice inside him, though, reminded him that this was a foolish thought. That if they survived this mad undertaking it would certainly be to fight again, and that part of that fighting, if they were to finally push the French from Spain, would surely involve just such an attack on such a fortress. He shuddered.
He was aware too now of the debris surrounding the ramparts that had been thrown from the citadel by the force of the explosion. Gun carriages lay strewn like children’s toys, with their great bronze cannon ripped from their mountings. Huge blocks of stone lay everywhere, blackened with scorch marks and among them piles of nameless, shapeless things which might just once have been parts of a human being.
The French, however, had improvised road blocks at the places where gates and guard posts had been blown away.
As they came within sight of any watchers on the walls, Keane turned to Gilpin. ‘Just act naturally.’ Their story was simple. They were two wine sellers. Keane the boss, delivering wine for the marshal, sent from Madrid by King Joseph, the brother of the emperor himself. They were also, though, searching for a loved one who had met his end in the explosion. Keane’s character’s brother a servant for the British when they had been here. In Keane’s mind his character had no love for the British, blamed them for all that was wrong in the peninsula and would offer his services to the French if they paid him.
Gilpin nodded, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And for heavens sake don’t call me sir again. I’m Alfonso. Remember, you’re Manuel? And you are my assistant in the wine trade.’
They arrived at the outer ravelins and made their way up the scarred and pockmarked entrance drive which only a few weeks before would have been impassable for being under cannon fire. Now it was silent and all around it was evidence of the effect of the huge blast. They passed more of the wreckage of huge siege guns that had been tossed from their bastions, the metal of the barrels twisted by the force into unimaginable shapes. The earth was cracked and burnt and raw, and stones of all sizes and varieties lay scattered at random. Trotting the cart slowly up the incline, they found themselves rising until they were on top of the outer bastions. Before them they saw all that remained of the west gate. Two ragged stumps of stone. As Keane had predicted, the old permanent guard house had gone with the gate, but the French had rigged a temporary structure with trees and stones and at this stood two infantrymen, their muskets at the high porte.
Keane whispered to Gilpin, ‘Steady. Remember: Manuel and Alfonso. From Madrid.’
They reached the sentries and Keane went first, explaining in his best Spanish that they were wine sellers from Madrid and came with a present for the marshal, from His Highness King Joseph himself.
The sentries walked round to the rear of the cart and looked at the boxes. He prodded one and pointed to it. ‘Open up. Let us see.’
Keane jumped down from the cart and, using a bar that was in the cart for this purpose, levered off the lid of one of the boxes. To his relief inside was a layer of three bottles of wine. The sentry picked up one of the bottles and looked at it. He shouted to his colleague, ‘Looks like the right stuff. He’s telling the truth. Let them in.’
Gilpin had said nothing but now, in impeccable Spanish muttered a thank you. The guard smiled at him and nodded him on his way as Keane leapt back up on to the seat. The little cart rattled over the grille that was all that remained of the gate and into the town.
Keane turned to Gilpin once they were out of earshot of the sentries. ‘Well done. Nice touch. We should be on the London stage.’
‘At least we’re in, sir.’
They continued along the main street from the west, just as if they knew exactly where they were headed, an old escape technique that Gilpin had taught Keane, learned in his days as a petty thief and housebreaker in London.
They found themselves on a wide street which before the blast would have been the main thoroughfare at the west end of the town and a fashionable district. Now, though, it was no more than two rows of empty and shattered single-storey houses, their upper floors having been sliced off like the top layer of a cake. Looking in as they rumbled past, Keane was aware of the poignant rubbish, a tumbled jumble of desks and wardrobes, beds, chairs, clothes, papers and ornaments. It was the stuff of life. The possessions that had once meant something to someone. And occasionally he would glimpse something more horrific. Some physical trace of the people who had owned them. An arm or a leg, seared to the bone, an immolated carcass and, once at least, a grinning skull. Nothing or very little seemed to have been done to get rid of the corpses and as they walked on further the stench became oppressive.
Gilpin turned to Keane. ‘Blimey, sir – sorry, Alfonso. This place gives me the willies. I don’t like it.’
Keane could not help but agree. The town was far worse than he had imagined it might be. Although the terrible explosion had happened more than two weeks before, the place still held the stench of death. ‘Yes, I know. It’s not good. You would have thought that the French would have buried the dead. It will breed disease ere long.’
They were passing the castle now or all that remained of it. The foundations were still there in the plan of the towers that had stood for so long. But of the rest of it there was nothing. Here surely must have been the epicentre of the blast. And he realized that the powder had been stored in the crypts beneath the cathedral. It must have been as Leech had said. In carrying powder out of the magazine, something, perhaps a lucky shot, had ignited a barrel and that had sparked the chain reaction which had resulted in the explosion. Simple and deadly.
As they drew closer to the centre of the town and away from the blast zone, they began to see more evidence of human life. There were people on the streets and shops and cantinas. But there was little of the gaiety or bonhomie they had come to expect from a Spanish town. The townspeople looked sullen and preoccupied, as if something was preying upon their minds. The place was full of French soldiers. All types, from hussars to common infantrymen,
had been admitted on passes from the surrounding camps to drink and whore. As Keane and Gilpin drove the cart further into the town they tried to avoid eye contact with anyone, but soon, Keane knew, some drunken private or sergeant would spot them and cut up rough.
He spoke quietly to Gilpin. ‘We need to find Massena’s headquarters. Any bright ideas?’
‘If I was a French marshal, I’d make my billet where the British general had his.’ He was about to add ‘sir’ but managed to bite his tongue.
‘Good thinking. And Governor Cox’s house would be where, do you suppose?’
‘Somewhere salubrious. Keep driving, as if we know where we’re going.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I suppose we could follow some of the French. I’ll look for the highest-ranking officers I can see.’
Gilpin shook his head. ‘Yes, but what then? What do we do to get in and then to get to him?’
‘Something will present itself.’
They took the cart further in, constantly changing direction as the road became too narrow. Generally, though, they managed to head to what they took to be the direction of the centre and eventually found themselves in a large plaza.
This surely, thought Keane, would be their opportunity to find the calibre of officer he wanted. He searched for a French staff officer and eventually found what he was looking for.
Two French officers, both of them with long moustaches and smoking cheroots, stood talking outside a cantina. Keane recognized the uniform of the general staff. Navy blue coats with a light blue front.
He muttered to Gilpin, ‘There, over there, look.’ They both stared. ‘Staff officers. They’re sure to be heading towards the HQ, eventually.’
They stopped the cart and Keane prayed that the officers would move off before anyone came to ask what was in the cart and what they were doing there. Keane jumped down, bought a piece of meat from a passing vendor and ate it, pretending to pass the time in much the same way as a number of other peasants who were in the square. Secretly, of course, he was keeping an eye on the officers.
At length, when they had finished their cigars, they left, by the north corner of the square, and he and Gilpin followed. The men walked fast and with some purpose and eventually emerged into another plaza. An entire side of the square was occupied by a single building, a huge palace of a place which had been hung with tricolour flags. Keane took it to be the headquarters building. When the two officers entered, it confirmed his hunch.
The next question was, how could they get inside?
‘That it, then, sir?’
‘What did I tell you?’
‘Sorry. How are we going to get in?’
‘Bold as brass. Shoulders back. That’s how we get in. Bluff and balls.’
Keane had Gilpin take the cart round to the rear of the headquarters, and sure enough there they found a service entrance, an archway in seven-foot-high walls enclosing a courtyard. The place was alive with servants, scrubbing, washing, cleaning and attending to a dozen other duties. As luck would have it, a fruit supplier had just made a delivery and was pushing his handcart away from the archway as they rolled up.
Keane jumped down and ran through the arch across to the man he had just seen take delivery. ‘Excuse me, señor.’
The man turned and Keane could see he was not a local. He was elegantly dressed in a green coat with gold trim and white breeches. ‘Yes. Can I help you?’ He spoke with a distinct French accent.
‘We have a delivery, your honour.’ It was always better to flatter them with an inflated title, thought Keane.
‘A delivery. Do we know about this?’
‘Not sure, your honour. Bit of a surprise, you might say.’
‘What is it you have?’
‘Wine. For the marshal. From Madrid.
‘From Madrid? How do you come from Madrid?’
‘The wine is a gift from King Joseph, the emperor’s own brother. We have travelled far, sir.’
‘Indeed you have. And you are… exactly?’
‘My name is Alfonso Jesus Maria Dominguez, wine merchant of Madrid. This is my assistant, Manuel Ibanez.’
While they had been talking, Gilpin had driven the cart through the archway and stopped beside Keane. The steward looked them both up and down and Keane kept his nerve as he walked round to the back of the cart. The steward had seen the boxes and the one which had been opened.
‘You have an open box here.’
‘Yes, sir. The guard at the gate.’
The steward reached in and picked out one of the bottles. He handled it gently and looked at it carefully, the label, the seal, with the eye of a man who knew what it was he was examining.
‘This is the good stuff. Very nice. The marshal is a lucky man. And not for the first time. You may proceed, Dominguez. Take it to the kitchens. The large door on the left of the courtyard. I will tell the marshal’s valet to expect you. Take one bottle and go alone.’
Keane remounted the cart and they drove on through the arch and stopped outside the kitchen door. He turned to Gilpin. ‘You’ll have to wait down here while I see him. Wish me luck.’
They entered the kitchen and unloaded the wine under the direction of another servant. As they finished, a French officer appeared at the doorway leading from the kitchens to the rest of the house. His moustache, plaited side whiskers and pigtail identified him as a hussar.
‘Which one of you is Dominguez?’
Keane walked over to him. ‘I am Alfonso Dominguez.’
‘You’re to come with me. And bring one of those bottles.’
Keane followed the officer into the house and along an empty corridor to a staircase. They ascended two floors and emerged into another corridor, hung with tapestries, at the end of which were two tall doors. The officer knocked and a voice from within called to enter.
Massena was standing with his back to them, gazing out of the window at the town below.
‘So tragic. Such destruction. So unnecessary.’ He turned and saw Keane. ‘Who’s this?’
The officer spoke. ‘This man has come from Madrid with wine. A gift from the emperor’s brother.’
‘Ah, yes. The wine merchant.’
Turning to Keane, the Marshal spoke in Spanish, fluent but with a southern French twang. ‘Show me what you have.’
Keane walked across to him. Massena was less imposing than he had expected. He was of medium height with a shock of greying dark brown hair and a tanned complexion. Most noticeably, his right eye was sightless and remained fixed in one position. He wore the uniform of a marshal of France, with its lavish gold embroidery and decorations and a scarlet sash.
Massena took the bottle from Keane and held it up close to his one good eye, reading the label. ‘This is very fine wine.’
‘Only the best for your honour, sir.’ Keane hoped that his own Spanish would pass with the Frenchman.
Massena lowered the bottle and stared at Keane, looking at him carefully. ‘Well, this is most welcome. Welcome indeed. It was a long way for you to travel, was it not?’
‘Your honour, I have other business here. It was in fact most timely.’
‘Other business?’
‘My brother lives here but we have heard nothing of him. He works as a servant. I am worried. I heard about the big explosion and we have seen the damage. It is terrible. Horrible.’
‘Yes, terrible. You say your brother is a servant. Who for?’
Keane looked down. ‘He was a servant for the British, sir.’
Massena raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, the British? And are you also a servant of the British, Dominguez?’
Keane froze. Had Massena seen through his disguise so easily? Could this be the end? Quickly he scanned the room for a means of escape but could see none. They were two storeys up and the windows were bolted. There was an armed hussar officer by the door and all that Keane had was a dagger in his boot. There was no hope. He blundered on. ‘Oh no, Your Majesty. I hate the British. That i
s my problem. Me and my brother, we have not spoken for a long time and now I fear I may not see him again.’
‘You hate the British?’
Keane nodded. ‘Oh yes, sir. They have ruined our country with this war. You are the future, sir. You, France, the Empire, that is the modern world. My brother is stuck in the old ways. In the Church and all the saints. I do not believe in this. I am a man of commerce. I buy, I sell. The world continues and money grows. That is the way we must be. That is the French way. The French can bring prosperity – there has to be pain with every revolution.’ He stopped and then thought he might as well say what was in his mind. ‘Vive l’empereur.’
Massena on hearing the words raised his hand in the air and repeated them. ‘Vive l’empereur. It is good to see someone so enlightened. I insist that you join me for a drink. Did you know my own father was a wine seller?’
‘No, sir, and thank you. What a great honour.’
Massena signalled to the hussar, who motioned to the valet to bring glasses and a bottle. Keane noted that it was not the wine that he had brought, that was far too special, but one already in a carafe.
Playing his advantage, Keane went on. ‘It may amuse you to know, Your Highness, that this wine, this very vintage, is in fact the same wine that my brother had asked for the British governor here, and I know that the Duke of Wellington himself has drunk it.’
Massena laughed. ‘Wellington’s wine, eh? That’s good. That’s damned good. Here, have a glass with me, wine merchant.’
Again Keane could not help but wonder whether the marshal had seen through his disguise, but he put the thought aside.
The marshal seemed intrigued. Keane supposed that he might be wondering that a man should travel from Madrid with no escort, carrying wine that his servant might have taken, just to deliver it to Massena and with the purpose of finding a brother who might be dead. Perhaps, he thought, the story had touched him.
