by Gale, Iain
Keane, who had been watching from the door, now walked into the room, followed by Morris.
‘Thank you, sarn’t, for that lesson in good manners. Well, Mister Silver, you’ve been recommended to me. It’s your lucky day.’
‘Sir?’
‘We’ve come to save you, man. You’re free.’
*
Walking back through the streets, Keane did not speak to Silver but let him walk along with Ross. The sergeant, not yet trusting him, had attached a noose to his neck just in case he should attempt to escape.
Morris glanced at it. ‘Is that really necessary, James?’
Keane nodded. ‘Until we rescued him, Mister Silver had an appointment to meet his Maker. He was awaiting execution for killing a Portuguese civilian in a bar. I’ll bet he can’t believe his luck. But you know as well as I, Tom, that given the chance the man would run now and we’d never see him again, and a fine start that’d be.’
‘And what’s to stop him running when we take off the rope?’
‘Nothing, I suppose, except the promise of a new life with us and booty.’
‘Booty?’
‘How do you suppose I’m going to keep these rogues with us unless I tell them some yarn about booty and untold wealth?’
‘Yes, of course, I see. Booty. Who was it recommended Silver to you?’
‘Grant, through Scovell. Says he’s just the ticket. Told me himself before we left.’
‘What d’you know of him?’
‘Only what I’ve been told. His name is Horatio Silver and he claims to be aged thirty. He was in the 69th, till he got caught. He’s a thief, is our Mister Silver. Aptly named, don’t you think? According to Scovell he was one of the best burglars in London. Till he was caught there too and sent to the navy. It was either that or the gallows.’
‘The navy? James, are you quite sure he’s for us?’
Keane nodded his head. ‘Certain. He’s just the sort. But I’ve got to trust him first. And he me.’
‘Trust you?’
‘Of course. He must be wondering why the devil we’ve come to rescue him. Two officers and a sergeant. He’ll know that something’s up and he won’t be happy about it. His sort have no respect for authority. And it’s up to me to make him love us.’
Morris shook his head. ‘Can you do it?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll just have to see what comes up, shan’t we? We know that he isn’t all bad.’
‘We do?’
‘According to Major Grant, he claims to have fought at Trafalgar and to have helped carry Admiral Nelson down below. If that’s really so, then he’s not beyond salvation. Not that I’m on any mission to save souls.’
Morris laughed. ‘Hardly, James, I’ll say. A salvationist? Not you.’
‘No, but what I do want is to bring out whatever sense of duty he once had to whatever it is he respects and whatever he craves. Gold, women. I’ll find it. And then I’ll have him.’
They were in the street of balconies again and the girls, goaded and beaten by their mistress, were louder now, determined not to let the soldiers get away this time.
Silver laughed. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you for bringing me here. Never thought I’d see it again, I didn’t.’
Keane was wondering what he might mean when there was a shout from one of the upper windows. A young girl’s voice. Silver stopped in his tracks, jerking the rope round his neck so that it pulled taut in Ross’s grasp. Keane looked up and saw a pretty girl, all black eyes and brown skin. One of the ones he’d noticed in particular before. She was shrieking and pointing directly at Silver.
‘Silver. Silver. No. No!’
Silver laughed. ‘She thinks you’re taking me for the drop, sir. Daft doxy.’ He shouted back to her, ‘No, no, Gabriella. They’ve saved me. I’m to be freed.’ Then, quickly and before Ross or the others could stop him, he had slipped the noose from his neck with a skill that only such as he could have and was running to the house. With a great spring, he leapt up and grabbed hold of a small lower balcony which protruded from the filthy facade, swinging himself up onto it. In a second he had done the same again and was up above their heads standing on the higher balcony with the sobbing girl in his arms, smothering her with kisses.
Keane turned to Ross. ‘Sarn’t. What the devil’s this? How did he manage that?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir. That rope was as tight as any I ever made. I just don’t know.’
‘Well, bloody well get him back down here or there be hell to pay from the general. And from me.’
As Ross ran across the street and into the building, Keane turned and looked up at Silver. ‘Silver, you can’t get away. Don’t think that you can. Anyway, you’re a dead man if you leave us. We’re your only hope. Don’t be stupid, man.’
Silver laughed. ‘No, sir. I’m not that stupid. I’m not gonna run. I just wanted to see my little girl again. My Gabriella. That’s all, ain’t it, Gabby? Never thought I would, sir. See her again. I’ll come with you, sir.’
Ross had arrived at the balcony now and was squaring up to Silver who simply shook his head. Keane shouted up. ‘Wait, sarn’t. Do you mean it, Silver? Who is she?’
‘My girl, sir. We … we’re married, sir. Casado.’
At this the girl, who up till now had merely been holding onto Silver, pulled back with a look of surprise. ‘Casado?’
‘Sim, Gabriella. Casado. Um matrimônio.’
The dismay turned to a grin, and squealing with delight she hugged him again.
Keane frowned. ‘She’s your wife?’
Silver hesitated, but for no more than a moment. ‘Yes, sir. That’s right, my wife she is. Well, near as dammit, your honour. Common-law wife, you might say.’
Keane shook his head and then smiled and looked up. ‘Well, you had better bring her along with us, then, Silver. Get her out of this hellhole.’
He turned to Ross, who was looking on, incredulous. ‘Sarn’t Ross. You can leave them. They’re coming down.’
Ross shrugged and, backing down, left Silver and Gabriella, who followed him from the balcony until all three were standing before Keane. A small crowd had gathered around them in the street and the madam of the establishment was making it clear that she had not the slightest intention of allowing her newest and prettiest acquisition to escape. Silver walked over to her and spoke in Spanish. Her hand moved to her side and Keane saw the flash of light on a small blade. Moving quickly, he grabbed hold of the woman’s hand, making the knife drop to the ground. The madam struggled, shouting all the time at Keane. Gabriella was shouting too now, and Silver. Keane glimpsed two men emerging from the doorway of a neighbouring house. They were Portuguese; one wore a kerchief tied on his head, the other a bicorne hat. Both were carrying sabres. He called to Ross, who turned and levelled his carbine at them, bayonet already fixed. Morris followed, drawing his own sword. The men stopped in their tracks.
Without relaxing his grip on the old woman’s arm, Keane turned to Silver.
Quietly, and keeping his composure, he instructed: ‘Ask her how much she wants. For the girl. How much she needs for the girl, your wife, to come with us.’
Silver lowered his voice, and telling Gabriella to be quiet turned to the woman with some words of Portuguese. She spat on the ground and laughed and then spoke quickly to him.
‘She says she wants five guineas, sir.’
‘Five guineas? That’s rich.’
Silver looked forlorn. ‘Gabriella’s her best girl, sir.’ He seemed proud of the fact.
Keane stared at the woman and tightened his grip on her arm. The two Portuguese were looking restless.
Morris called out, ‘James. What should we do?’
‘Nothing. Wait.’
Keane turned to Silver. ‘Well, she’d better bloody well be worth it, Silver. And I expect to be repaid. In full.’
Without letting go of the woman’s arm he reached into his pocket with his free hand and drew out a purse which he handed to Silver. ‘Th
e money’s in there. Take out just enough. No more. I know what’s there, to the penny.’
Silver opened the purse and took out five coins, which he gave to the woman. Keane let go of her arm and she turned the coins over then bit each one in turn. At last, satisfied, she nodded and smiled through broken teeth. Then she smiled at Silver and the girl and muttered some words of Portuguese that Keane did not understand.
‘Blimey, sir, she’s given us her bloody blessing, the old witch.’
Silver turned back to her and spoke in English. ‘And a plague on you too, you old whore. May all your girls get laid up and may your best customers die of the clap.’
The woman smiled at him and nodded, not understanding.
‘The purse, Silver. I’ll have my purse back now, if you please.’
Silver handed it back. ‘Oh yes, sir. Sorry. And thank you. Truly, thank you.’
‘I meant what I said. I mean to be repaid.’
‘Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll repay you. In money and in kind.’
Keane drew together the strings of the purse and replaced it in his pocket. It was a good deal lighter now.
Five guineas, he thought, a high price for a tart. Charged for by the night she might have been more than he had ever paid to one of her kind, even in Pall Mall to the best of Mother Hayes’s doxies. Five precious guineas from his savings. All that he had to show for a life of soldiering. But he knew that it had been worth it. For now he had Silver in his hand. It was as simple as that, and he thanked providence for putting the whore in their path.
‘And, Silver, I think you might now give your bride a decent wedding, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir, of course, sir. Like I meant to all along.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ He paused. ‘Your Portuguese is remarkably good. How is that?’
‘My father, sir, his mother was from Spain, sir. Still speak a bit of the lingo. My real family name’s Da Silva, sir. My dad changed it on account of we English was always fighting the dagoes, sir, and it wasn’t too good for a family in London. But my old nan, my dad’s mother, sir. She taught me the lingo when I was a nipper. And I ain’t never forgotten it, sir.’
‘It’ll be damned useful to us, where we’re going.’
‘Where are we going, sir?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough, Silver. Come on, let’s get out of this place. I can smell the corruption.’
*
Keane had decided to stay in Lisbon for one night before starting back to Coimbra, where he had been told by Grant that he might expect to find the others of his force.
But before that, and before they would be able to find shelter for the night, he had one more task. Scovell had mentioned to Grant that it would be of vital importance to have one native Portuguese member of their party and that he thought that he might have found the man. Also, Scovell had added that it was his opinion that the man he had in mind was not guilty, hinting that there might also be another reason for his release. Here in Lisbon, in another part of the city, it seemed that just such a man was being held by the authorities.
Jesus Heredia had been a regular soldier in the Portuguese cavalry. According to the charge, Heredia had stolen a large sum of money from the valise of a member of the British general staff. The victim’s identity had not been given. He was to be tried. But it was known that he would be found guilty and then sentenced to death.
Such instances had become common and the Portuguese as much as the British were determined that they should not sour any good relationship that might exist between the two armies. Heredia would die. But Scovell had proposed that he be given another chance. Keane knew that the Portuguese would not surrender him easily. But this must surely be an easier task than rescuing Silver from the gallows and a murderous whore.
Leaving Ross to make sure that Silver stayed true to his word, Keane, taking Morris for support, walked the short distance to the headquarters of the Portuguese army in Lisbon.
Colonel Luis Maria Fonseca was not accustomed to having his afternoon siesta disturbed. Particularly when it involved leaving the arms of his favourite whore. He gazed at the aide standing at the foot of the bed and growled, ‘Who is this man? What does he want? Tell him to go away. I’m busy.’
The girl giggled.
The aide coughed.
‘I’m sorry, Colonel. The man is a British officer. He carries a note from the commanding general. He asks for you by name.’
Fonseca swore, and heaving his bulk from the edge of the bed pulled on his breeches and then stood up. He pointed and the aide hurried over with his coat, which he then buttoned closely around the Colonel’s corpulent frame. Pulling on his boots, Fonseca walked slowly to the door and, with a last touch of his moustache, opened it.
Keane saw a man in his late forties whose grossly overweight body had been shoehorned into a uniform that might have fitted him once. His face was ruddy, as if from exertion, and his balding head was heavy with beads of sweat. As an example of Portuguese soldiery he left much to be desired.
The aide spoke. ‘Captain Keane, sir.’
Fonseca nodded. ‘Captain Keane. What can I do for you? Please be quick, I am a very busy man. I understand you have a message for me. From your general?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s right. We have an interest in one of your prisoners.’
‘One of the prisoners, eh? Which one?’
‘Sergente Heredia, sir. Jesus Heredia. We have orders to return him to the allied army at Coimbra.’
Fonseca bristled. ‘I’m afraid that is going to be impossible, captain. Heredia is going on trial tomorrow. It is very important for my army. And for yours, I think. He will undoubtedly hang. It’s quite impossible. I am afraid that you have had a wasted journey.’
Keane reached into his pocket. ‘I have a letter, sir, from the commanding general, Sir Arthur Wellesley.’
Fonseca looked at the letter. Then he pointed at it and looked at the aide, who took it from Keane. ‘It is from the general, sir.’
‘Well, man, what does it say?’
The aide hesitated. ‘It says that you must give up Heredia into the captain’s care.’
Fonseca frowned and snatched the paper from the aide. ‘Let me see.’ He scanned it. ‘It seems, captain, that your general must want my prisoner very badly. I wonder why? He is no more than a thief. What use can he be to you?’
‘I have no idea. I am merely a messenger, colonel, carrying out orders. Now, if you please, I need to get on my way.’
Fonseca returned the paper to the aide, who in turn gave it back to Keane.
The colonel said nothing, then walked across to the window and looked outside. Turning, he retraced his steps and looked at Keane.
‘Very well. Captain Hernandez, take these officers down to Heredia. You may discharge the prisoner into their care. But make sure that you get them to sign for him. I am taking no responsibility for this affair. God knows what my general will say when he learns what has happened. Good day, captain. And to you, captain.’ Then, turning away, Fonseca returned to his bed.
*
Sergente Jesus Heredia was sitting at a table in the room which for the last week had been his home, eating his dinner. He savoured each spoonful of mutton broth as if it had been a course from a banquet prepared by the king’s own kitchen. For he knew that very soon now a meal he took at this table would be his last.
He wore the uniform of a senior NCO in the Portuguese Dragoons. It was a shame; he had always hoped that he might have been destined for higher office. He had even thought that one day he would be commissioned. It should have been so. His family was a high caste. Gentlemen. It had not been his father’s fault that they had lost everything. But at least Heredia had made something of his life. Until now.
He thought about the circumstances that had led him to this place. How he had welcomed the appointment to act as escort to General Bacellar and his excitement at being attached to the British at General Beresford’s headquarters. What, he wondered, had
driven him to open the British colonel’s valise? He had suspected that something was not quite right about the man for some time. It was not merely his manner or his words but the fact that he could not be accounted for at certain times of the day. When the other staff officers were to be found about their duties, time after time Colonel Pritchard was not. He had wondered about mentioning the fact to another British officer, but realized that he would be dismissed disdainfully for daring to cast the slightest doubt on one of their number. And then one day, during one of Pritchard’s absences, the opportunity presented itself for him to act and Heredia at last found himself brave enough to go into the colonel’s valise. It had been lying on the officer’s camp bed in the headquarters building at Coimbra. It had been the work of a second to slip the strap from the buckle. Then Heredia had reached in and taken out a sheaf of papers, and what he had found there had made him gasp.
On a map of the area Pritchard had drawn with meticulous care the positions of all the British and Portuguese corps, divisions and brigades. That was fine, just as it should be. But what puzzled Heredia and then sent a chill through him was that beside each of the blocks the names of the units were written in French. Their exact strengths were given and the commanders’ names. There was only one conclusion to be drawn. He had rummaged through the other papers and found nothing until his eye had been caught by a sealed envelope, unmarked. Taking his life in his hands, he had broken the seal and found inside a pass. It was green edged and written in French, and at the top it bore the embossed stamp of the golden eagle of the Empire. There had been no doubt in his mind then. Heredia was in the process of replacing the papers in the pocket of the valise when the door to the room had opened.
Pritchard had looked at him and smiled. Then he nodded and withdrew from his belt a pistol which he cocked and pointed directly at Heredia. The sergente had waited for the flash, the bullet and death. But Pritchard had not fired. Neither had he said anything. Instead he had crossed the room, the gun still pointed at Heredia’s head, and had reached inside a purse that lay on the campaign chest. He had taken out a sheaf of banknotes; Heredia had no idea how much money, and then in one movement had thrown them towards him.
