by Iain Gale
But this was more than a promise and they had sworn to one another that if they could not meet again in Spain then they would contrive to find each other somehow in Paris, her home town. Keane knew a place. A place with which she was familiar. A little cafe on the rue du petit Temple, close to the Place des Vosges in the old Jewish quarter. That would be their rendezvous. If ever he could manage it and if both of them were still alive.
He could not quite believe how fast it had happened. It had just felt right. There was nothing more to it. How could there be? He knew that he did not feel the same for Henriette as he did for Kitty Blackwood. But then he caught her scent again and for a moment or two began to doubt himself.
He wondered how long it would be before someone raised the alarm in Almeida. Of course he and Gilpin would not be there to meet Maria and her friend that evening, nor would he be on hand to see Massena in the morning to resume their talk of spying. And he wondered how long it would be before the marshal would discover that there was something missing from his rooms. A silver snuffbox embossed with a gold eagle and the initial ‘E’. Perhaps he would not notice it at all. He would blame one of the servants. Or maybe Dominguez. Keane felt his saddlebag to reassure himself that the box was still inside and smiled as he thought of the marshal’s expression. He prayed that Massena would not suspect Henriette of involvement, nor that he would question why the hussar’s uniform which he had had tailored for her had been torn before she had time to have it mended.
She had given Keane useful information. The number of men in each of Massena’s corps and what she had heard said of their abilities. But one thing had been puzzling him. She had known of the presence of the British spy in Wellington’s army, but had not thought his name to be Macnab. What it was, though, she could not recall.
She had also promised to delay Massena for as long as she could and Keane thought she was in earnest. At first, when he went to leave, she had begged him to take her with him and it had been all he could do to stop her clinging to him. She was desperate for some way out from the hell of being at Massena’s whim and Keane seemed to be her only means of escape. He had to trust her.
Gilpin called to Keane as they rode, ‘There’s the convent now, sir.’
Keane looked, but in the dusk could see no sign of life in the darkened building and hoped that Silver and Archer were still there and had not been killed or taken by the French. There was no point in subtlety now and the two men carried on riding until they were close to the convent walls. At fifty yards, they were hailed from the top of the bell tower.
It was Silver’s voice, calling down as he might have done many times from a topgallant, ‘Thought you’d never get here. sir.’
Archer was standing at the door. ‘Were you followed, sir?’
‘Not as far as we know, but let’s not delay. We need to get across the river.’
‘Did you get what you wanted, sir?’
Keane smiled and exchanged glances with Gilpin. ‘Oh yes. We got exactly what we wanted, thank you, Archer, and a good deal more.’
They rode through the night from the convent at Barca, not stopping, across the Côa and back to Alvesco where, collecting the others, they had continued on to Celorico, now abandoned by the allies. Keane had told von Krokenburgh they would be absent five days and to meet them at Mortágua on the sixth day, but in truth he had never expected the mission to Almeida to take that long. Keane had something else in mind.
The route from Celorico to Viseu climbed steadily upward. They left behind the flat lands of the plain around the Côa and within five miles the terrain had become mountainous and inhospitable. The road led across country and he was aware that, according to Massena’s orders, this was one of the routes that the French must take. It gave him great hope, for the surface was surely the worst he had ever seen.
Keane’s horse stumbled on a loose rock, sending shards of stone spinning down the hillside. He called back to the others, ‘Watch your step. The road’s unstable. Take it easy.’
The road was every bit as bad as he had imagined it to be. In fact it was little more than a rocky path and there would be little or no hope for the French to move their baggage carts and wagons over such a route. The artillery park would be in chaos. All that the French would be able to do would be to actually rebuild the road. It would be a nightmare for them.
They entered the hilltop town of Viseu up a winding road. The road continued upward and into the centre where behind a high crenellated wall stood the ancient cathedral. It was a pretty place, thought Keane. But as he had suspected, it was empty of life.
Silver was by his side. ‘Sir, how big is this place?’
‘How big? You mean, how many people live here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I was told about nine thousand souls.’
‘Then, excuse me, sir, but where the bleeding hell are they all?’
The people had gone from Viseu. Terrified of being taken by the French and only too aware of what had befallen their compatriots in Oporto the year before and Ciudad Rodrigo a few months ago, all had fled.
Soon, Keane knew, the French would come and the place would be ruined, its churches wrecked, the crucifixes and sepulchres blighted and broken, private houses ransacked and anything of value taken. Well, he was damned if the French were going to have it all their way.
‘We’ll have to be quick. I have a report to make at Coimbra. I have a few words of caution. Remember, first of all, this is not usual. Be considerate in what you take. Try not to take anything of purely personal value, and nothing too big or ornate. Remember, we’re not supposed to be here, and if the provosts find out then you’ll hang and I’ll be cashiered. Got it? And remember, when you’re done we’ll split it evenly, and that includes a share for Heredia and Leech too.’
They all nodded.
‘Now go, and be back here in the hour.’
They were as good as their word. An hour later and they were back at the plaza, laden with booty. Keane walked from man to man looking at the piles of loot that lay at their feet. There was gold plate from the cathedral, and goblets and other objects which could be melted down.
Martin had brought down a large gold altar cross from the cathedral. Keane shook his head. ‘I told you, Will. Too big.’
They were just loading the last of the silver plate into the large fodder bags that hung from the horses’ flanks when there was a clatter of hooves on cobbles in the distance, down in the lower part of the town. Martin rushed across to the parapet.
‘Cavalry, sir. Lancers.’
Keane spun round and ran across. ‘All of you check your weapons and ammunition. Christ, the French shouldn’t be here for days.’
He peered over the edge down to the lower town and saw them, But it was not the French that Martin had seen. The pennants carried by these lancers displayed the national colours of Spain. Sanchez had found him.
In a matter of minutes the upper plaza was filled with Sanchez’s men and the don himself.
He rode towards Keane and dismounted. ‘Captain Keane. I thought that you were heading for Celorico.’
Keane shook his head. ‘No, colonel. We had a change of orders. Diverted here.’
‘So I see. But I ask myself, what is it that you are doing here, with all this plunder?’
Keane smiled at him. ‘Plunder? Oh, you have the wrong impression, colonel. This is not plunder.’
‘It looks very much like plunder to me, captain. What would you like me to call it?’
‘This is part of the duke’s scorched-earth policy. We are denying any means of subsistence to the enemy.’
‘Do you think that the French eat gold now? I know they are monsters, but even they would find that difficult.’
Keane laughed. ‘You misunderstand me. We are taking this abandoned gold and silver back to Coimbra to provide Wellington with the means to sustain his army. Sold or melted down, it will provide pay for the men and buy supplies. If we leave it here it will fall into the
hands of the French and simply be sent back to Bonaparte.’
Sanchez raised an eyebrow. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘Believe what you want, colonel. It is of no matter to me. We are taking this back to Coimbra, to the Duke of Wellington.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What?’
‘I think that we both know your plans, Captain Keane. And I think that you will now agree for us both to enjoy a share of the booty.’
‘And if I say no?’
‘I have sixty lancers here who will help me get what I want and later we will ride into Coimbra and sadly report to your general the deaths of six of his guides, caught by the French on their way back from a patrol.’
‘That’s blackmail.’
Sanchez nodded. ‘I suppose you could call it that. Just as I could call what you have here plunder.’
Keane knew when he was beaten. ‘Very well, we will divide up what we have with you, fifty–fifty. But I would advise you to take another look. You may find things that we did not and you have more hands to carry it.’
Sanchez nodded. ‘Yes, that would be a wise decision.’ He shouted a command and his lancers dismounted and split into search parties, scouring the town for riches.
Eventually, after another half an hour, the men returned. Throughout the wait Keane had said nothing to the colonel, but as they returned he said merely, ‘Would you really have done as you threatened? Killed us all in cold blood?’
Sanchez shrugged and laughed. ‘Of course not, captain. What do you take me for? Surely I am allowed my little joke? After all, we are friends, are we not?’
Keane smiled, but was not sure whether he believed the man. One thing had been troubling him these past few weeks when they had been parted from Sanchez. And now that worry had been resolved. For there, strapped to the guerrilla colonel’s saddle was his own gun, lost in the wager by Martin.
And he was resolved, how he did not yet know, to get it back.
‘Captain Keane, you have been looking after my men. They tell me only good things about you. They all have full bellies, which is also very good. But they have not had much sport with the French.’
‘No, we have been waiting for the French to attack. You know how it is.’
Sanchez looked at him. ‘No, I don’t know. I take the war to my enemies. Since we last met, I have had the chance to kill many more of them. Some with your very own gun.’ He patted the saddle holster.
Keane smiled. ‘Nice to see it being used so well.’
‘Of course now there is no need for that.’
Keane looked at him. ‘It’s begun?’
‘This morning. At dawn, the French 2nd and 6th Corps crossed the Mondego. By now they will be across the Côa.’
‘Forty miles away.’ Keane looked thoughtful. ‘They’re heading for Celorico. Then they’ll cross the Mondego and head here. It took us the whole of a long day. With the artillery and baggage train, it will take them four. And they’ll have no food or supplies.’
Sanchez interjected. ‘And they will think that when they reach here they can resupply. But everything is gone. People, animals, food, drink. And now they won’t even have any booty. Massena will not be happy.’
‘Almost as unhappy as he must have been when he realized that I had taken his horse. Did you see her?’
Sanchez looked across at where Keane’s horses were tethered. He was suddenly animated. ‘Which one, the grey?’
Keane nodded. ‘She’s a beauty, don’t you think? Sensitive to the touch, strong and goes like the wind. What a prize.’
Sanchez walked slowly across to the horse and patted her on the nose, to which she responded and nuzzled towards him. He moved around her, taking in every measure of her form, running his hand over the brand. He lifted her tail then moved round to the head once again, gently opened her mouth and looked at her teeth.
‘Fantastic. What a horse! How much will you take for her?’
Keane shook his head. ‘She’s not for sale. I’m sorry, colonel.’
‘No, seriously, Keane. We all have our price. How much?’
Keane thought for a moment, as if the idea had just come to him. ‘I’ll take my gun in exchange.’
Sanchez raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course, I could still just kill you all.’
‘But you won’t, colonel, will you?’
Sanchez laughed and shook his head, then walked across to his horse and, unstrapping the carbine holster, extracted Keane’s gun. ‘It’s a real pity. She’s a beauty.’
‘So’s the horse. And she’s Massena’s own. Think of that, colonel, to ride against the French on Massena’s own favourite horse.’
Sanchez handed him the gun. ‘Done.’
Keane took it, opened the lock and snapped it shut. ‘Seems to be in working order. Thank you for taking care of her. Of course, I’ll need a mount myself now.’
Sanchez laughed. ‘Don’t think for a minute that you are having mine, captain. I’ll exchange with one of my men. His nag will do for you. You have the gun. That was our deal.’
Yes, thought Keane, he had the gun and Sanchez had Massena’s horse and the men were still dividing up the booty and Keane took care to make sure that it was done evenhandedly.
There was just one last thing. One thing which he could not resist. He turned to Sanchez. ‘That would appear to be everything. If you are agreed, colonel, we will pack up and leave.’ He paused. ‘Colonel Sanchez, I have a final favour to ask of you.’
‘I will listen. Go on.’
‘I would be greatly honoured if you would ride with us down to Coimbra, so that I may introduce you to Wellington. So that he can at last meet a man who has done so much to further the efforts of his army.’
Sanchez pondered the idea for a moment. ‘Yes, of course we will ride with you. In fact, we will all come down. There will be a big battle soon and I want my men to be a part of that victory. We need a victory, captain, and Wellington will give us one. Before the winter. So we will come.’
So together they rode out of the ghost town of Viseu, Keane with his gun and Sanchez with his horse, and Keane realized that in many ways Sanchez and he were alike. Two men, battling the odds, taking opportunities as they arose, always quick to spot a chance. Always ready with an answer and, for all their unorthodox ways, at heart, men of honour.
*
The road down from Viseu was better than that on the way up, but it was still tortuous. Close on forty miles of twisting mountain dustroad, whose surface of baked, scorpion-infested rocks would sometimes be no wider than the thinnest ridge, capable of taking just one man at a time.
Sanchez’s men had joined him where the Mondego met the Criz at Fosado. Five hundred infantry and another hundred horse to swell the ranks of Wellington’s army.
They marched on, through the fertile valley of the Criz, where normally the crops would have been standing chest high and cattle would have been grazing by the water. But the guerrillas and the Ordenanza had clearly been as busy as Keane’s own command. The place was now transformed into a wilderness, the towns deserted, the livestock driven off down to the south.
Even when they left the barren hills, thought Keane, there would be no solace for the French down here.
*
Crossing the river at Mortágua, Keane was relieved to find that his plan had worked and that von Krokenburgh, the hussars, Sanchez’s remaining lancers and the Ordenanza were all already there, along with Leech, Ross, Heredia and Gabriella.
The Hanoverian grinned widely. ‘Welcome, Keane, how good to see you. We did not know how it had gone.’
‘Thank you, captain. I did all that I set out to do. The French are fooled and will fall into Wellington’s trap.’
Leech found him. ‘Sir, you’re all safe, thank God.’
‘How are the mills?’
‘Less of them standing now, sir, I’m happy to report, than there were when you left.’
Keane laughed. ‘And no casualties?’
> ‘No, sir, but I don’t think my hearing will be the same again.’
Silver sought out Gabriella. Pereira had been as good as his word and Heredia had not troubled her, nor she him, so she said.
They fell in together and slowly the swollen column, now comprising almost eight hundred men, began to climb again out of the valley and up into the hills. After some five miles, Keane stopped to consult his map. It was a desolate spot. A long ridge, running for some seven miles at almost two thousand feet. As he had predicted, they emerged on to the ridge of the Serra do Bussaco, about ten miles north-east of Coimbra.
He rode back down the column, towards Sanchez. ‘This is where the duke will fight his battle, colonel. This is his chosen ground. Look down there.’
He pointed down behind the ridge, where the reverse slope of the hill angled gently down to a new road. Men, some in red coats, most in shirtsleeves and grey overalls, were working on it even as they looked.
‘Down there’s the duke’s road. He’s planned to bring the French here all along, and that road behind this position will enable him to move battalions at will, out of sight of the enemy.’
Sanchez stared. ‘He planned all this?’
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve been doing, colonel. Laying a trap which would bring the French here. Right to this place.’
They had crested the top of the ridge now and Keane could see what a perfect position it was. It was flat in some places. Ideal for troop formations. Perfect for hiding an entire army. It was dominated on the left by a large building which Keane had marked down as a convent, surrounded by an extensive wood. On either slope of the ridge stood several small villages, all of which Keane presumed would now be deserted.
Sanchez stood and stared at the position the British army would soon occupy. ‘It’s extraordinary. Such planning. Such care. Genius.’
They did not pause for long on the ridge, but as they descended on the road to Coimbra, Keane realized how everything he had done, all he had accomplished over the past two months, had suddenly come together.
Sanchez was right. Wellington was a genius. If by some miracle the French did come to Bussaco, if the British and Portuguese did meet them on that ridge, then he was certain the allies would prevail. The telegraphs, the deception, the kidnapped general, the captured couriers, the codes, the smashed mills and the ruined peasants. All of it. All of it would be worthwhile. Battle would be joined on Wellington’s terms and, God willing, the British and their allies would prevail. And Massena would lick his wounds and the defensive lines would be finished and they would retire into Portugal and the French would again be confounded. Genius indeed.
