by Iain Gale
At last, he thought, it all made sense. All, that was, save one thing. Pritchard’s death. Who had killed him and why? Was it Macnab? And where was the spy now?
*
Coimbra was as it had always been and it was almost as if there was no war being waged not thirty miles away. The town seemed to go about its workaday life, just as if it might have been in an English shire. Of course, he knew that all this might change in an instant. That if the French showed themselves over the ridge, then the town would simply cease to exist. People would flee to Lisbon and the town would become another Viseu.
For today, though, Coimbra was their solace. They trotted in through its high arched gate to find streets flanked with market stalls. Keane knew the route to the headquarters building that had been occupied by Wellington in the previous campaigning season and led the column to a part of the town where they would be able to make camp without causing too much of a commotion: a patch of open land on the south side, where an olive grove provided shelter and a small stream gave running water. It was all that they could have wished for.
He rode across to Ross. ‘Sarn’t Ross, I need to report to the duke. Find billets for everyone, will you? Captain von Krokenburgh will want his own rooms. Might as well put him in with me. Colonel Sanchez too, if he’s of a mind to do so. Find yourselves somewhere tight and warm. The rest can do as they please.’
He dug into his haversack and pulled out a small purse, which he threw to Ross, who caught it. ‘Buy wine and provisions for all our men. Just our men, mind. I’ll see you in the hour.’
*
Together with Sanchez, Keane trudged up the curving path of cobbles that led through the narrow streets of Coimbra towards Wellington’s headquarters.
His mind was filled with the spirit of the coming battle. Though he wondered, as always, how Wellington would receive him. Knocking at the door, he was admitted by the duke’s unctuous ADC, Captain Ayles. ‘His Grace will see you now, captain.’
Keane motioned to Sanchez to remain outside. ‘I have matters to discuss with the duke, colonel. I shall announce you shortly.’
Keane entered and found Wellington standing with Grant and George Scovell, staring down at a map of Portugal. As he entered the duke looked up.
‘Keane? Major Grant told me to expect you. Your travels were successful?’
‘Sir.’
‘And now you return at last. What news do you bring? Good, I hope. I hear that Marshal Massena has left Almeida and is advancing apace towards us.’
‘I’m not sure that I would say “apace”, sir. In fact I hope quite the opposite. He is, though, making his way towards us.’
‘Major Grant tells me that you have managed to persuade him to come by the northern route, and as we are aware, that road goes directly to the Serra do Bussaco.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It is as good as I might have hoped. A splendid piece of work, Keane. But tell me, how did you manage it? To have the marshal, one of my most able enemies, believe the absolute opposite of what was the case. Your method must have been something quite radical.’
Keane paused. ‘I gave him the code book, sir.’
‘You gave him what? The code book?’
‘Yes, sir, Colonel Folque’s code book, I passed it to the French. Well, to their spy, Macnab. Had him believe that he had managed to acquire it. Then I transmitted regular messages in code which gave him the misinformation.’
Wellington said nothing for a few moments, then he turned to Keane. ‘Allow me to collect my thoughts. My head is reeling. You did what? You gave the French our confidential code book? Grant, were you aware of this?’
‘No, sir, in fact I was not. Keane, what were you thinking?’
‘Yes, Keane, what the devil were you thinking? You may have successfully persuaded Massena to march to ground of my choosing, but you have seriously compromised the safety of our entire army. Explain yourself.’
Keane smiled and instantly realized that he should not have. ‘In fact, sir, it’s really fine. My man Archer, quite a brilliant fellow, medical student and mathematician, has devised a brand-new code. It’s a great deal more secure than Colonel Folque’s cipher. I have a copy here.’
He took a small black book from his pocket, containing the code on which Archer had been working for a fortnight, while the Ordenanza had been busy destroying mills.
He handed it to the duke, who without looking at it immediately passed it to Grant.
Wellington spoke quietly, but his face was incandescent. ‘I see. It is being copied?’
‘I have a team of clerks, ready to make copies, sir.’
Wellington nodded and then turned on him suddenly. ‘That’s beside the point, man. By God, I’ve a damned good mind to have you cashiered. I should have you shot.’
Keane said nothing. Grant, who had been thumbing through Archer’s code book, spoke. ‘You know, sir, this is actually not half bad. In fact, it’s damned good. I think Keane’s right. It is more secure than the old book.’
Wellington shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it.’ He looked at Grant. ‘Do you really think so, Colquhoun? Really?’
Grant nodded his head. ‘Yes, sir, I do. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it’s brilliant.’
Wellington stared at Keane. ‘I don’t know how you’ve pulled all this off, Keane. But you seem to have done so. You should thank Major Grant here. He is the only reason why you are not under arrest.’
‘Thank you, sir. I am most grateful. I honestly believe that codes such as this will win this war.’
Wellington took back the code book and began to leaf through it while still continuing to talk to Keane. ‘You’re convinced that this is the way Massena will come?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what if you’re wrong? What then?’
Keane shook his head. ‘I’m not wrong, sir.’
‘How can you be so certain? I need positive proof.’
The time had come for Keane to play his masterstroke. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a piece of paper, which he handed to Grant. The major opened it and gasped. He read it, reread it and passed it to Wellington.
‘Well, Grant, what is it?’
Keane spoke up. ‘It’s a note, sir, an order in Marshal Massena’s hand, written to Marshal Ney, ordering him to advance by way of the top road, to Bussaco.’ He did not mention that he had copied it from the original.
Wellington read the note. ‘How the devil did you get this, Keane?’
‘I have my means, sir. I retrieved it from the marshal’s writing desk.’
‘You were in Marshal Massena’s headquarters?’
Keane nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I also acquired this. I wondered if you might like it.’
He delved into his saddlebags, which he had carried into the palace, and brought out the silver snuffbox, which he presented to Wellington. The duke looked at the monogram and shook his head. ‘Tell me, Keane that this is what I suppose it to be?’
‘It is Marshal Massena’s own, Your Grace.’
Wellington handed the box to Grant. ‘Look, look at this. He gives the code book to the enemy and hands me this, Grant.’
Keane spoke again. ‘Sir, I have also brought someone with me. Someone who is most keen to make your acquaintance.’
‘Who’s that, Keane? Don’t tell me it’s the marshal?’
Grant laughed and Wellington smiled at his own joke.
‘No, sir, it is Don Julian Sanchez. He is waiting in the anteroom.’
‘Well, bring him in then. Be quick about it.’
Keane motioned to the ADC, who opened the door and admitted Sanchez.
Wellington smiled and bowed. ‘Colonel Sanchez. Delighted to meet you. Captain Keane here has been describing your exploits to us. You are, sir, a most invaluable aid to our mission here.’
Sanchez bowed in turn. ‘Sir, Lord Wellington. Your fame is well known. I am honoured to fight on your side.’
His eye alighted on
the snuffbox, lying on the table. He pointed to it. ‘I see you have acquired some fresh booty. It looks a splendid piece. Very handsome.’
Wellington smiled at him. ‘Yes, isn’t it? In fact I’ve just been presented with it by Captain Keane. It belonged to Marshal Massena.’
Sanchez grinned and nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Captain Keane has been very busy. I am fortunate to have acquired the marshal’s own horse. A real beauty.’
Wellington looked puzzled but soon led Sanchez away to study the map and discuss the role of his company in the coming battle.
It heartened Keane to know that that Don Sanchez, mounted on Massena’s horse, would go into battle on Wellington’s side. He left the colonel deep in conversation with Wellington and was about to make his way from the headquarters building, when Grant called him back.
‘I can see how you might have got hold of the snuffbox, but God knows how you got the horse. You’re a rogue, Keane. Quite brilliant, but a rogue all the same.’
He took him by the arm and moving out of the anteroom with its flurry of scarlet-coated aides ushered him into a darkly cool colonnade. ‘James, there is one more thing. A somewhat delicate matter.’
Keane wondered what it could be. Surely they had not found out about the loot from Viseu? Or might it be his fight with Foote? ‘It’s Captain Morris.’
‘He’s not dead, sir?’
Grant shook his head. ‘No, no. Not at all. It’s about Miss Blackwood. Kitty Blackwood. It seems that she and Morris have been seeing a good deal of one another these past few weeks while you’ve been away and apparently it began some months ago. Well, I’ll be blunt with you. They are engaged to be married.’
Keane thought for a moment that he might have misheard. ‘Sir?’
‘Captain Morris and Miss Blackwood. They are betrothed, James. I am sorry.’
Keane said nothing for a moment, then, ‘Oh, I see. Thank you, sir.’
He walked away from Grant, unable to absorb the situation, and just as he was about to reach the double doors of the main entrance he felt a heavy hand on his left shoulder.
Turning, he saw Major Cavanagh. But his face was not that of the smiling friend he had been on their last encounter. Cavanagh was red with rage and his expression betrayed his anger.
‘Captain Keane, a word if I may.’
He withdrew his hand, as Keane replied, ‘Not now, sir, please. Now is not the moment.’
‘No, so it would seem. Nor any other. The moment was lost on you, was it not? I have friends here, Keane and they tell me that you have been playing me for a fool. You assured me that you would do your utmost to confound Wellington’s plans and press for a battle. And it would seem that you have been doing quite the opposite.’
Keane, his usual tact confounded by the news of Morris’s deceit, turned on Cavanagh. ‘You shall have your battle, sir. The duke has plans.’
‘Take care, young man, and calm yourself. Certainly the duke has plans, but they are not those of my patron nor of my friends at court.’
‘We will fight a battle, sir. The French are coming.’
‘Yes, Keane, the French are coming. But we will not fight it on terms of my choosing. D’you see, Keane? Do you comprehend at all what you have done? You have alienated a man who might have done you a great deal of good.’
Keane shook his head. ‘I do not need your favour, sir.’
Cavanagh, shaking his head in turn, smiled, knowingly. ‘No, Keane, not me, you fool. You may be a spy, sir, but take care not to deceive the throne. By your lies you have gained the enmity of the prince regent.’
15
Keane was in a very dark place. His mind had been there for some time, but the days no longer seemed to have any relevance.
Grant’s news had not entirely surprised him. For Foote to have made such an accusation had nagged at him with the possibility that it contained a degree of truth. The reality of it was altogether different. This was utterly unlike the earlier doubts he had entertained with regard to Morris. He had known that his old friend was not in truth suited to the intelligencers. He was no spy. Morris longed for the field. For his beloved cannon and his artillerymen.
Keane had known that he had been drifting away and had realized that it was bad enough that he would leave their company. But this? He wondered what drove a man to such betrayal. They had come through much together. He had seen them almost as brothers. Family certainly. He shook his head again and tried to search somewhere inside his soul for the explanation.
Perhaps, he thought, it is all my fault. I made him change. I made him play the spy and that is what has altered his character. He had known nothing of deceit before this. Now he is an arch-deceiver. He thought too that perhaps this was some terrible revenge. A moral judgement wrought upon him for killing Kitty’s brother. The only consolation was that he supposed that Kitty must be happy.
It had been four days since the conversation with Grant. He thought too of the exchange with Cavanagh. The man was a fool. Keane had nailed his colours to Wellington’s path and Cavanagh could go to Hell. Besides, the French were coming. News had come, from Martin, that Massena was on the move, his entire army it seemed marching towards Bussaco, as Wellington had wanted. Walking into the trap. But although Keane had understood, it had meant little to him. He had felt strangely numb. For the last few days he had gone through the actions of his duties but without any real engagement. He was detached, and everyone was aware of the change.
Sergeant Ross had brought him food and wine in his tent, where he had retired early every evening, rather than sharing a song or a few words before turning in.
Ross had tried to coax him out of his depression. ‘I know what it’s like, sir. I was the same when my woman ran off. Course you’re not like that, not like me, and you wouldn’t be so mad as I was, nor do what I did, neither.’
Keane looked at him. ‘Thank you, sarn’t.’
But Ross went away with a heavy heart and knew that it would take something more than sympathy to make his officer see sense.
*
On the fifth day, just as Keane was preparing to write another report on the quantity of ration required for Sanchez’s lancers which would have to come out of their allowance, he was aware of a commotion outside his tent. Martin seemed, along with Silver, to be attempting to prevent someone from entering. And their actions did not surprise Keane when he saw who that person was.
Tom Morris pushed past the tent flap. ‘James. This is nonsense. Major Grant has been to see me, alerted by your sergeant. This is folly.’
‘Well, it’s no folly of my making, Tom.’
‘You must understand, James. We did not do it to deliberately spite you.’
‘Why then? Why on earth would you even contemplate doing it?’
‘I cannot explain. I only know that she is the dearest thing to me.’
‘As she was to me.’ He turned away, unable to look at Morris. ‘I should call you out.’
‘James, you and I both know that would solve nothing. Surely we can be sensible about this?’
‘Were you sensible with her?’
‘That’s stupid. You’ve lost your reason.’
‘Perhaps I have. I have lost my oldest friend and I have lost the woman I love. Did you not think of loyalty? To a friend? You might at least have told me first and not let me know of it from Major Grant.’
‘James. I cannot undo what has been done. It is too late.’
Keane shook his head. ‘Come back and join us. It can be as it was, Tom.’
Now it was Morris’s turn to refuse. ‘No, James. It can never be as it was, and you know that. I intend to rejoin my regiment. I yearn for the battlefield. Staff work and any amount of spying are not for me, James.’
Keane smiled to himself. ‘Of course I know that. I knew it the moment that I signed you up.’ He paused and said nothing for some time but seemed to stare into emptiness. Then he turned to Morris. ‘If Kitty wants you, then so be it. Take her with my blessing. I’m o
ld enough to know that when a woman’s mind is made up there is no moving it.’
Morris smiled and clapped Keane on the shoulder. ‘Thank you, dear friend. I cannot tell you how happy that makes me. I have been troubled by this since I first saw her and since she declared her love for me. You may be certain of one thing too: I shall never reveal to her who it was killed her brother.’
‘Thank you.’
Morris spoke again. ‘There is one more thing, though, James. In fact, I would have come to tell you of it even if Grant had not persuaded me.’
‘What is it? Tell me.’
‘It’s Pritchard, James. He’s alive. I’ve seen him.’
‘You have? Alive?’
‘As alive as you or I. I could not get word to you. You are elusive, James.’
‘That is the nature of my position.’
‘He goes by another name.’
Keane sighed. ‘Macnab.’
‘You knew? How?’
‘How stupid I am. How very obvious. Of course. Pritchard is Macnab.’
‘He has died his hair a frightful shade of ginger and adopted spectacles. But it is Pritchard. Of that I have no doubt. In fact, he’s neither Pritchard nor Macnab. He’s as Irish as you, James. His real name’s O’Callaghan.’
At this, Sergeant Ross, who had been standing guard at the tent flap, peered inside.
‘Sorry, sir, but did I hear you mention O’Callaghan?’
‘If you did, Sarn’t Ross, then you ought not to have done. But what of it?’
‘If it’s the same O’Callaghan I knew, he’s a proper bastard, sir. Fought for Boney in Egypt. That’s where I came across him. He led a company of free Irishmen, and what they did doesn’t bear speaking of.’
