by Gale, Iain
Keane looked up. ‘Not at all, sarn’t. You really think so?’
‘I do, sir. One man.’
‘May I ask his name?’
‘Garland, sir. George Garland.’
‘And who is he, this Garland?’
‘Private. 4th Foot, sir. And I reckon he’s about the best prizefighter I ever seen. Best we’ve got in this army most likely. He’s never lost yet in the ring. Not once. I heard that before he joined the colours the Marquess of Queensberry hisself was after him. Proper handy lad is Garland, sir. He’d be good in any fight. Might be useful to us, sir.’
Keane thought for a moment. It was true. He might have assembled a fine group of liars and thieves, but what was certainly missing was a proper Ajax.
‘And where is Garland now, sarn’t?’
‘That’s just it, sir. That’s what made me think of it. Saving these lads from the gallows. That’s where he’s bound for too, sir. Killed a man. Portuguese bloke. Only took one blow, sir. A brawl in an inn, it was. Only last week. Doesn’t know his own strength, see, sir. Specially after strong drink. That’s what always does for him.’
‘He’s under arrest?’
‘No, sir. Not as yet. He’s in hiding, sir.’
‘But you know where he is?’
‘I might know someone who does, sir.’
‘You’re a sly one, Ross. You know that you could be in as much trouble as him?’
‘Really, sir, why would that be?’
‘Aiding a wanted man. You could swing for it with him.’
‘But I won’t, sir, will I?’
‘Can we get him?’
Ross nodded. ‘I think we can, sir.’
‘You’re certain it’s Garland we need?’
‘I’d put my shirt on it, sir. Can’t think of anyone I’d rather be in a fight with, when the fists start flying. Garland is the equal of five Frenchies. More, even.’
Keane nodded and walked across to where Morris was feeding scraps to his terrier, with whom he had now been reunited by his soldier-servant.
‘Tom, it would seem that we have a problem. Sarn’t Ross is of the opinion that we might be lacking a strong-arm man.’
‘Yes. I think that might put us at a disadvantage.’
‘He has a man in mind. Fellow named Garland. A prizefighter.’
Morris nodded and grinned as the terrier, Hercules, jumped a foot to take a piece of sausage from his hand. ‘I’ll say. Ain’t you seen him box, James? Surely you must have. Beat that giant of a man from my mob in less than two rounds last spring. What a man. Well done, Ross. Where is he?’
Keane spoke. ‘That’s just it. As I said, we have a problem. It would seem that our friend Garland has got himself into a spot of bother on account of his killing one of our Portuguese comrades.’
Morris shook his head. ‘Not again, surely?’ He produced another scrap and teased the terrier. ‘Please, James, don’t tell me we have to ride back to Lisbon and make another trip to that bloody hellhole.’
Keane went on, ‘No, I’m not springing any more convicts. This one hasn’t been taken yet.’
‘A fugitive?’
Keane nodded.
Morris whistled. ‘You’re certain of your powers, James? You have the authority?’
‘From Wellesley himself, Tom. You know that.’
‘Then we must act at once. Find the man before others do.’
Keane called to Ross. ‘Sarn’t Ross, can you find him for us?’
‘Yes, sir. Just give me the nod.’
‘You have it, man.’
*
They did not ask how Ross had managed to find the fugitive, but find him he did and within an hour the two of them were back at their bivouac. The smell was unmistakable and revolting. Garland had been hiding where no one would think of looking for him, and they did not need to ask where that had been.
‘You weren’t followed?’
‘No, sir. Where I’ve been not a soul would have followed us.’
Keane looked at Garland. Ross had not exaggerated. The man was huge, with hands the size of shovels. He stood before him, his clothes sodden and stinking, looking terrified out of his wits.
Ross spoke. ‘I managed to convince him, sir, that you were all right. I mean that we weren’t going to hand him over to the provosts. I don’t think he’s quite sure, though.’
Keane walked towards Garland, who seeing the officer’s uniform shrank back into the shadows.
Keane spoke quietly. ‘Private Garland. Captain Keane. Don’t worry, man.’ The look on the huge man’s face suggested that of a puppy being chided by its master, and that was exactly how it seemed to Keane. There was a childlike innocence about Garland which seemed utterly out of keeping with his frame. ‘We’re all friends here, Garland. We know what you did but we want to help you. Did Sergeant Ross explain?’
‘Yes, sir. He said you wasn’t going to turn me in.’
‘More than that, Garland, we want your help.’
‘My help, sir?’
‘Yes. We need you. You’re a valuable man, Garland. Didn’t you know that?’
‘You mean my fighting, sir. My boxing. You want me to fight?’
‘We certainly do, but not in the ring. We need you to fight the French, with us. Will you come with us, Garland?’
The man thought for a moment and then looked across at Ross who smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll come with you.’
‘Good. That’s settled. Now, have you had anything to eat? No, perhaps first we should get you some fresh clothes. Though God knows where we’ll find any to fit you.’
So Garland stripped off the sodden, stinking clothes and Gabriella took them away, wondering if she could ever remove the stench. They found him a shirt of Ross’s and a pair of Gilpin’s grey overall trousers that they fastened with string and a stable belt. Then they gave him what was left of the day’s food, and as he ate Keane sat down and spoke to him.
‘So man, tell me what happened. You were in a fight and you hit a Portuguese? You killed him?’
‘Didn’t mean to, sir. I just hit him.’
‘Why?’
‘He was laughing at me, sir. Called me stupid. Can’t take that, sir. Never have been able to.’
‘You just hit him the once?’
‘Yes, sir, I swear. Just the once. My right hand. Like this.’
Keane grabbed Garland’s arm to stop him and sensed the strength in the man. ‘No need to show us, Garland. We believe you. Don’t we, Tom?’
‘Of course. Most unjust. You’re better off with us, Garland.’
‘Captain Morris is right, Garland. You’re invisible now. You’re one of us. One of the forgotten men of this war. Tomorrow no one will remember you and you’ll be a different person.’
Garland looked at him. ‘Sir?’
‘You’re safe. You’re with us now.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ He paused and then remembered what he should say. ‘I’m in your debt.’
Morris smiled, and the two officers got up and left Garland to finish his supper. Then, walking away a short distance, Keane poured a little wine into his friend’s cup.
‘Not the first time I’ve heard that in the last few days, James.’
‘But I heartily pray that it might be the last. I’m done with saving lost souls, Tom.’
*
Arthur Wellesley stared from the window of the salon in the Bishop’s palace of Coimbra down at the town and the teeming river, then, turning to face the room, spoke. ‘Well done, Keane. Colonel Grant tells me you’ve found the makings of a proper company.’
‘Yes sir, I believe I have. Although I’m not sure how proper.’
‘But they’ll do the job, Keane? Won’t they?’
‘Yes, sir. They will do the job.’
‘Well, now’s your chance to find out how good a judge of men you are. I want you to take them out into the hills. I need to know the positions of the French. Accurate as you can. Marshal Soult is in Oporto. That is well k
nown, as is the savagery with which he took that place. And that may be of use to us. But there are other armies out there: Ney, Victor, Joseph and Sebastianni. I have had only garbled reports, Keane. I want facts.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Wellesley continued. ‘And I want to find the Spanish, Keane. Not General Cuesta and his blasted army; I know where he is, or was until his last defeat. I mean the guerrilleros.’ He hissed the word. ‘The irregulars, Keane. The people’s army in the hills. I want you to make contact with them. Major Grant here has done so already on his own. He’s seen them in action. But we need to know more of them. I want a full account of their nature, their character and their morale. And I want to know how far I can rely on them. Everything there is to know. And I need to know now. You will move east as quickly as you can. Speed is the key to all this. To be one move ahead of the enemy. You understand?’
‘Sir.’
‘Cross the border into Spain. Major Grant and Captain Scovell will furnish you with all the details. You do understand, Keane?’
‘Yes, sir. Completely.’
‘Very well. And I do need you to return. Don’t go getting yourself killed, Captain Keane. That would be both tiresome and unnecessary. Don’t take any undue risks. Major Grant will see you out. Good luck.’
Outside in the anteroom, Grant spoke quickly to Keane and flashed his finger fast across the map laid out on the table.
‘Go here, James, by way of the Serra da Estrela, to Guarda. Then cross into Spain and head for Ciudad Rodrigo. By then you will be in the high sierra. The real mountains. It’s my guess from what I know that Marshal Victor will be below you – but that’s what we want to know for certain. Go down off the mountains through the pass, but only as far as you dare. I’m sure that you’ll manage it.’
Scovell took over. ‘Your contacts are three guerrilla leaders: Morillo, Merino and Cuevillas. They are none of them particularly attractive characters. Morillo is an embittered ex-regular from the Spanish navy. He styles himself colonel but was never a soldier. His entire family was slaughtered by the French early on in the war. He has every reason to hate them. Cuevillas was a originally a smuggler by trade. His real name is Ignacio Alonso. Merino was a semi-literate parish priest with a particular penchant for cruelty. They’re a bad bunch by all accounts, Keane. Not much to choose between them. The very best of luck.’
Scovell left the room and Grant smiled at Keane.
You’ve done well so far, James. Damned well. The general is impressed. With everything.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Answer me one thing, though. How the devil did you manage to get Gilpin away from his flogging?’
‘Gilpin, sir? Hadn’t you heard? He escaped before we could get to him. His guard was overcome.’
‘Yes. Colonel Hackett’s furious. The word in the mess, though, is how he was overcome. Something about him being distracted by a señorita and then being coshed. You wouldn’t know anything about it, I suppose?’
‘Me, sir? Why would you think such a thing, sir? How could I know anything about such a business, Major Grant? I only wish I knew where he was. Sore loss to us, that one. He’d have been an asset, I’m sure. Talented lad.’
‘So I believe, Keane. And there was someone else. Big chap. Prizefighter. Wanted for murder. Name of Garland. Went missing four days back. No one’s seen him since. I don’t suppose … You wouldn’t by any chance …?’
Keane shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him, sir.’
Grant smiled and nodded. ‘Very well. We’ll say no more about it.’ He paused. ‘You know, Keane, I’ve learnt a few things in the past year. You have a natural talent for playing the spy. You simply need to keep your eyes and ears open and listen to everyone and everything. Always be prepared to take advice. From whatever quarter it might come. Expect the unexpected. Use whatever local knowledge you can find. But do not trust everyone. One important thing above all others. Learn to make yourself invisible. You must be able to slip through the enemy like water through a grate. All of you. Make a study of it, Keane, and you will be repaid.
‘Now, get on your way. And mind what Wellesley said. No risks. You’re too valuable a man to us to lose you now. And that goes for all of you. You’d better get some rest. You’ve a long day in the morning. And, James, best to post some sentries. Wouldn’t want anyone, that Garland fellow maybe, to surprise you.’
4
The height of the sun above their heads in the burning blue sky told Keane that it must be close to midday as the little party trotted up the dusty road, sending up clouds of fine sand beneath the horses’ hooves. As always, the pace of their troop was uneven, with the inexperienced horsemen slowing them down. Silver and Ross were as unsure as ever. Garland too looked unsteady, even though they had given him the tallest of the horses. But Gilpin rode with the arrogance of a trained cavalryman and Will Martin had evidently been educated in horsemanship and seemed perfectly at ease, as if out for a morning hack.
To their right rose the mountains of the Serra da Estrela, their peaks cloud-shrouded against the blue of the sky. He knew from the pitifully poor map given him by Grant that they must by now be nearing the town of Guarda, not far from the border between Portugal and Spain.
Noticing the way in which the sides of the road were marked by gaps in the grass-line, Keane pulled out a leather-bound notebook and wrote: ‘Hills some fifty miles north-east of Coimbra. Road unsuitable for heavy vehicles. Light guns may pass and all manner of troops, but nothing more as sides inclined to give way under pressure. Sheer drop.’ He tucked the book away again and gazed down into the ravine.
They had been travelling for fully three hours but Keane did not plan to stop just yet. He wanted to probe deeper into the mountains and then to cross the border into Spain where he was sure the guerrillas would be. And he was working on the assumption that the further into the mountains he could get, the higher the rank of the guerrilla capitan he might find.
Tom Morris rode up alongside him. ‘Should we not rest for a while? The horses, I mean.’ He patted his horse. ‘Poor Tilda’s sweating like a good ’un.’
Keane looked at the foam-flecked flanks of Morris’s beloved Matilda and nodded. He glanced back at the rest of the troop and saw their weary faces and drooping shoulders. Ten minutes, he reasoned, would make no real difference and they would ride on refreshed.
‘Yes, I think perhaps we should. And, to be honest, I could do with a drink myself.’ He half turned over his shoulder. ‘Dismount. Ten minutes.’
The men and Gabriella swung their legs from their mounts and jumped down onto the path, stretching, swearing and rubbing the sweat from their necks.
‘We’ll take a rest here. Not long, Sarn’t Ross. Ten minutes. No more.’
They sat down on the south side of the road a good distance away from the uneven edge, on sun-baked rocks that sent the heat through their clothes. As they opened their canteens, Keane took a swig from his own, careful not to have too much, and reached for the leather valise strapped to his saddle, taking out a rolled map. He was spreading it on the flank of his horse as Morris came up.
‘So, James, where exactly would you say we are?’
Keane traced his finger along the road that had been marked on the map by the engineer surveying officer with a thin red line.
‘We’ve come this way. About fifty miles, and we have another fifty to go before we reach the border with Spain.’ He took a pencil from his pocket and looking up for a moment to the west wrote on the map, drawing in a contour of hills where previously there had been none. ‘Have you noticed, Tom? Map’s all wrong. Keeps happening. Makes you wonder if they ever actually carried out the survey.’ He went on. ‘As I was saying, we reach the border, here, just above Guarda, at a place called Almeida. Fortress of a place. Then we leave the road and head for the river. The Coa.
‘Scovell’s instructions were to ride deep into the mountains … here. Well, we shan’t make it there before nightfall. We’ll stop here.’ He jabbed at
the map. ‘At Linhares, if we can. If it’s actually where it’s shown on this damn thing.’
‘What chance of a French patrol, d’you think?’
‘Little, I imagine. We’re too far south for Soult and further north than Victor, if Grant’s intelligence is to be believed. Besides, these are the mountains. You’d be a very foolhardy Frenchman to venture in here. This is guerrilla territory.’
‘I wonder what they’re like, these guerrillas.’
‘Pretty ferocious, apparently. They give no quarter and have been led to expect none. That at least is what Grant said. Good fighters, though. Said he’d rarely seen the like. Glad they were on our side. I suppose that we shall have to make sure they know who we are.’
‘They’ll know us from our uniforms, surely?’
Keane laughed. ‘I wouldn’t take a wager on it. You can’t be certain of anything here, Tom. You know that. Besides, Sarn’t Ross, Gilpin, Silver, Garland and I might be in red but you are all in blue, hadn’t you noticed? And Heredia too, with that ludicrous helmet. Worse than a French dragoon’s.’
‘My own ain’t much better. But won’t these heathens know a British officer when they see one?’
‘Oh, they’re not heathens. Far from it, actually. They owe allegiance only to God and their leaders. That’s why they’re so incensed at the French. They consider the French to be godless.’
‘At least that’s one thing we have in common. We’re all Christians.’
Keane laughed. ‘Not exactly. They’re Roman Catholics, Tom. In their eyes we’re heretics too. Don’t forget it wasn’t so long ago that we forswore the Pope and killed our king. Cut off his head, just as the French did with King Louis. As far as the Spaniards are concerned, we’re almost as bad as Boney.’
‘Well, God save us all from them then. I’ve said it before but this is a strange country, James. It’s like going back in time five hundred years. At home we are creating a new world. Travelling faster, making everything at double the speed and for twice the money. My cousin is thinking of buying a mill. A mill, James. He says it’s going to make him a fortune. Ten thousand a year. I sometimes wonder why I’m here and not at home getting fat while my workers do the same for me. Do you ever wonder why you’re here?’
