by Gale, Iain
Morillo smiled. ‘That is most generous of General Wellesley. Tell me, how does he intend to help me? With your little command? Seven men and a girl? Or is he planning to send a brigade to me? Men who know of no other way of fighting a war than to stand in line and be shot at by the enemy. They would not be of very much use in the sort of war I wage in these mountains.’
‘Believe me, colonel, General Wellesley will assist you in whatever way you wish, up to a point.’
Morillo paused and seemed to Keane to be staring at him in an effort to understand him.
‘And what does he want from me, captain? How will I help him? Undoubtedly he wants to know our strength. Well, that is rather hard to say, captain. You see, some days I can count on a thousand men following me. On others it might be merely threescore. That is the nature of our war.’
Keane continued. ‘I am also instructed, colonel, to offer advice as to how best to organize this army, and if I see fit to leave behind one of my own officers to facilitate this.’
Morillo said nothing for a moment but Keane could see that he had rushed it; had even perhaps overstepped the mark and offended the Spaniard.
At last the colonel spoke. ‘Captain, I have been a proud soldier all my life. Since I was thirteen. I joined the army of Spain in 1791. I fought against your navy at Trafalgar as a marine, and after the battle of Bailen I was promoted to officer. It was the greatest moment of my life. I serve the king of Spain and the people of Spain. I have known war and I have gained from war all that I have. It is as much as a humble shepherd boy could have hoped for. I do not need your advice and I do not need your men.’
‘Colonel, please accept my apologies. I did not intend to offend you. I am sure that your men are great fighters. We are on the same side. We both fight the French.’
Morillo shrugged. ‘True. At present that is true. But what will happen when we drive them out? Will you go too?’
‘Of course, we are not invaders.’
‘No? For three centuries your people and mine have been at war and now you are here as our friends. Why? Because your government sends you.’
‘Times change, colonel. We have no argument with you. I am only a soldier. I obey my orders. We are both fighting Napoleon.’
‘Yes, but you want what you have always wanted. You English.’ He put the slim cheroot that he was holding in his right hand to his lips, and, pursing them, took a long drag, blowing the smoke high in the air where it curled in circles.
Keane said nothing. He knew that there was more than a grain of truth in what Morillo had said. He was canny enough, an Irishman’s sensibilities aware that the English did nothing without a clear motive. Spain was a mess. The king had fled, and if they did manage to drive out the French the country might dissolve into anarchy. He knew that when that happened, the government in London wanted to be there to pick up the pieces of the shattered country and what was left of its empire. This was the final act, as Morillo had said, of a tragedy that had played out over three centuries ever since Drake had defeated the Armada.
Morillo spoke again. ‘What will your general give us in return?’
Keane had known that this would come eventually.
‘We can offer you muskets and ammunition. Supplies too, if you need them.’
Morillo thought for a while. ‘Very well. But I will need to see the muskets or something in good faith.’
Keane reached into his valise and drew out a sealed leather bag that he had kept for just this occasion. He tossed it to Morillo. ‘In there, colonel, you will find ten guineas. That is my general’s pledge to you of his aid. I trust that will be sufficient proof.’
Morillo took the bag and, breaking the seal, pulled it open. He smiled at Keane and nodded.
As they had been talking, Keane had become conscious of a noise from beyond the landslide. The sound of men’s voices. He presumed that they belonged to Morillo’s guerrillas and wondered how many there might be on this day: threescore or a thousand? At that moment the noise became increasingly loud and the silence which had followed their conversation was filled by a great shout, a cheer almost, followed by a terrible scream. It was the sound of a man in pain, but it was almost animal in its despair.
Keane started. ‘Christ, what the devil was that?’
Morillo took another long drag on his cigar. ‘The prisoner, I would guess.’
‘Prisoner?’
‘Oh, I didn’t tell you, captain? My men caught a French courier this morning.’
‘What are they doing to him?’
Morillo smiled. ‘They are making him talk. And they are killing him. Slowly.’
Keane paused. ‘They can’t do that. It’s against the articles of war.’
‘No? Watch them, captain. Actually, perhaps I will do just that. You might like to join me. If you have the stomach for it.’
He turned and walked away from the landslide and Keane could see now that what had previously seemed to be an impenetrable barrier had in fact been carefully constructed so that a slim passage just wide enough for a man on a horse to slip through had been cut into the rocks. Morillo went quickly through the gap and looked behind him to see if Keane was following. The last thing that Keane wanted to do was to watch a man being tortured to death. But he knew it was vital that he make a show of his own machismo and at the same time atone for his earlier blunder. He followed, but turned as he did so and motioned to all the others except Morris to remain behind, and also to cock their weapons. Morris drew his sword.
Hurrying after Morillo between the rocks, Keane found himself in a circle of perhaps a hundred men. He followed the colonel to the front and what he saw stopped him dead.
The banditti were ranged around the unfortunate Frenchman, who had been stripped naked and roped to a St Andrew’s cross which was set against a boulder. From his green and gold uniform, which lay on another rock, Keane could see that the man had been an officer of dragoons. Still was, in fact. For the Frenchman was not yet dead. He groaned and tried to writhe against his bonds. Keane could see now that his naked body was flecked with blood and covered in cuts.
In front of him another man, one of the guerrillas, stood with a knife in his hand and Keane noticed that both it and the man’s arms and body were spattered with gore. The man placed his hand under the Frenchman’s head and brought it up to stare into his eyes, then moving quickly he flashed out the knife and made a cut in the man’s upper arm. The Frenchman screamed and the blood flowed. The guerrilla let the man’s head sag again and turned, grinning, to face his appreciative audience. Then he walked up to the man again and, moving to his left side, stood for a moment contemplating his handiwork. The knife flashed again, and again the victim screamed as its razor-sharp blade took a slice from his ribs. This time the executioner held up the flap of skin for all to see. Keane realized that, having merely played with the Frenchman, the executioner was now starting to flay his victim alive.
Making sure that no one was watching, that all eyes were focused on the appalling obscenity playing out before him, Keane reached into his belt and drew out a pistol. Placing it behind his back, he drew back the lever until it clicked into place. Then, as the executioner raised his knife for a third time, he brought the gun round and aimed it carefully at the Frenchman’s head. He pulled the trigger, and the shot shattered the expectant silence. The bullet entered the Frenchman’s head at the temple, killing him instantly. Then, having passed through his head, it smashed into a tree on the opposite side of the road.
For a moment there was silence and then a hundred pairs of eyes turned on Keane, who had replaced the pistol in his belt and drawn its pair, which was cocked and ready. He needn’t have bothered. A glance to his right and left told him that his six men were now to the rear of the circle, with their own carbines cocked and pointed towards the crowd.
Morris whispered to him. ‘Didn’t think that we wouldn’t follow you, James, did you?’ He caught sight of the mangled corpse. ‘Good God. What’s that?’
The executioner lowered his knife with a muttered oath, then, raising it quickly, plunged it into the dead man’s heart. Then he looked straight at Keane with emotionless, steel-grey eyes.
Morillo spoke to Keane. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘To put him out of his misery, in the same way that I would kill a wounded dog.’
‘You don’t know anything. Nothing. He was a beast. A rapist. A killer of children.’
‘He was a man, colonel. That’s all I know. And now he’s a dead man.’
The executioner began to move towards Keane, but then saw the raised guns and stopped. Morillo threw his cigar to the ground and stamped on it. ‘You’re a fool, captain. That was not necessary.’
‘In my eyes it was absolutely necessary. What you did was inhuman.’
‘No. What he did was inhuman. What his countrymen do every day to my people is inhuman. Clearly you have no idea, captain. Besides, we needed the information and we got it from him. Information, I think, for your general.’
He smiled, happy that he had shifted the blame for the torture to Keane and the British. Keane shook his head. ‘Had I known what you intended to do I would have done it myself.’
‘What?’ Morillo laughed. ‘You would have had your sergeant beat him to a pulp with his fists? Is that any different?’
‘Yes. Of course it is. And you know it. It’s not the sort of systematic cruelty that I’ve just been privy to. Killing a man by degrees. Humiliating him as he dies for the cruel pleasure of others. I’m all in favour of using force where necessary, colonel. But that? That was just wrong. It was immoral.’
Morillo shrugged. ‘It’s life, Captain Keane. One more life is taken. One more Frenchman is dead.’
*
The executioner, still wiping the blood from his hands, walked towards them, expressionless but clearly furious. He was a huge man whose massive, bloody hands seemed to Keane to be incapable of having performed the horribly precise butcher’s job he had just carried out on the Frenchman.
He shrugged at Morillo. ‘What did this fool think he was doing? The Frenchman should have suffered. After what he did.’
Morillo gestured to Keane. ‘You haven’t met our new friend, have you, Ramon? Let me present Captain Keane of the British army. Ramon Sanchez. My ablest lieutenant.’
Sanchez smiled and then, looking at Keane, resumed the same blank expression. ‘Why did you do that? Why have you come here, captain? What do you want from us?’
‘We need your help. Information. We need to find out how much you know about the French.’
The man laughed. ‘I know enough about them. But I know more now than I did half an hour ago. Thanks to that piece of dead meat over there.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘We are on the same side, aren’t we?’
‘Are we?’ Sanchez looked at Morillo, who nodded. ‘He told me that the French generals are on the move. That they’re going to combine their forces.’
This was it. This was what they had come for. ‘You’re certain of that?’
‘That was what he said, captain. And I don’t doubt it to be true. The idiot thought that if he told us we might spare his life. At least he thought we might stop the pain.’
‘Do you know where they intend to move?’
‘Yes. He was most obliging.’
He was evading the question. Playing games in revenge for Keane’s ruining his sport. It was going to take longer than Keane had imagined and there was no alternative but to play along.
Morillo smiled at him, as if realizing that Keane now understood the game they were playing. ‘You will stay with us tonight?’
‘That is most kind, coronel. But I think we had better get on our way. My general will be awaiting my report.’
‘But you have no report to make, yet. At least then let me offer you a drink and some refreshment for your journey.’
There was no alternative but to accept.
The body of the dead Frenchman had not been touched and since none of the guerrillas looked as if they were inclined to deal with it in the near future, Keane was relieved when Morillo led him away to another part of the camp where, in the shade of a makeshift shelter, Morillo offered him a glass of the heavy local wine and some olives.
‘My men will look after yours. Who is the girl? A Portuguese?’
‘Yes, she’s the wife of one of my men.’
‘She’s very pretty.’
‘Yes. And of course he’s devoted to her and very protective.’
Not for the first time Keane felt slightly threatened by Morillo and his men. They might have declared themselves to be allies of the British, but in Keane’s mind they seemed in reality no better than a band of brigands, willing to slit the throat of any man who might have a purse of gold and probably more than willing to take something or someone they had an eye for. He decided to make a point.
‘She’s a feisty one too. A good fighter.’
Morillo nodded. ‘Yes, I can believe it. We have similar women in our partidas. They are the worst when we capture a Frenchman.’
‘Tell me about the partidas, coronel. How many of you are there?’
Morillo laughed. ‘It’s hard to know. I never have an exact headcount. Men come and go. We do not have the same discipline as your army. I don’t flog my men.’
Another evasive answer. Never an exact headcount. Keane’s mind was racing. He tried again.
‘Your command seems very extensive. What area do you cover? Is that how it works? By district?’
Morillo shrugged. ‘Yes, captain. We are each in command of men in an area of the country. That way we can move onto another’s command if the enemy invade our own. We know every road, every hill, every river and all the places where we can catch the enemy best. That is how we fight. You won’t find us where you expect to.’
‘How are we to find you, then?’
‘When you want us all you have to do is to ride into the mountains. We will find you, captain. Of that you can be sure.’
He smiled and took a long drink.
Keane drank slowly. He had half wondered whether Morillo, for all his talk of comradeship, might not have drugged their drinks. But he put the thought from his mind. The wine was a strong local red and the olives bigger than any he had ever eaten. The idea that Morillo did not know how many men were in his camp had fired his imagination and he thought of Gilpin, with his Spanish and his gift for mimicry. Making his excuses and leaving Ross and Morris to drink with Morillo, Keane walked to the horses where the others had been standing. He found Gilpin talking to Silver.
‘Gilpin, I’ve a plan.’
‘Sir?’
‘You are to disguise yourself as one of the guerrillas and remain here.’
‘Sir?’
‘Just what I say. Take a disguise and use all your skills. Then in two days’ time, if you have overhead enough, ride out of the camp and find us.’
Gilpin blanched. ‘But sir. How am I to find you?’
Keane had thought of this. ‘In three days’ time we will be back at Coimbra. Make for there. I will give you one of my maps. They’re poor, but good enough for you.’ Keane reached into his saddlebag and drew out a duplicate map of the area, giving it to Gilpin. ‘We will see you there. You may count on it. You had better get to it soon. Slip into the shadows. They have no idea how many we are, let alone how many of their own men they have here, and they’re all getting tipsy on that local filth. Will you do it? Can you?’
Gilpin nodded. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘That you will, Gilpin. Of that I’m sure.’
Gilpin said no more, but removing his red coat and placing it carefully in one of the saddlebags, he drew out from the same one of the simple Spanish costumes they had packed for just such an event, and in a moment he was gone.
/>
Keane hoped that he had done the right thing and not sentenced the man to a certain and horrible death.
Having once again refused Morillo’s offer of remaining in the camp, they left, without Gilpin, shortly before nightfall, and retraced their steps back towards civilization while the guerrillas continued to drink and sing.
They slept that night in the open. The night was warm and the sky clear, and the sound of the cicadas echoed across the hills. Keane stood on his own, a little way away from the campfire. He was content. Morillo had at last him given the information he needed: the placings and movements of the French armies and their strengths. And what was more, he had learnt much about the guerrillas. He congratulated himself too on having formed a relationship with Morillo. He stared at the stars. He had always enjoyed sleeping outdoors; had grown accustomed to it as a boy and become hardened by the army. These nights in Portugal were kinder but he was always conscious that the same sky looked down on Ireland. He was aware of a presence behind him and thought it must be Morris, but on turning he found Gabriella.
‘Can’t sleep?’
‘No. Not after today. Too much has happened.’
‘Are you sorry you came with us?’
‘How could I be? I have him.’ She pointed to Silver, sleeping soundly with his head on a rolled blanket close to the dying embers of the fire. ‘And I am free of a life that I never wished for myself.’
‘I won’t ask how you came to be there.’
‘The usual story. My parents died. There was no money. That’s all. What else does a girl have apart from her body?’
‘You have your mind. You can work.’
‘That was work. You think it wasn’t?’
‘I didn’t say that. Nor did I mean it.’ Keane looked back up at the stars and then down at the landscape, bathed as it was in moonlight.
‘It’s beautiful here.’
‘I thought it frightened you.’
‘Not tonight. Not any longer. Nothing could be more frightening than that man. It is beautiful. And it has a beautiful name. “Serra da Estrela”. The mountains of the stars.’
‘It seems right tonight, with so many up there above us.’
