by Gale, Iain
She spoke in a loud, bellowing voice, almost shouting at the bewildered aide de camp of hussars who had brought her into the room.
‘No, no, no. That’s simply not good enough, young man. We have travelled from Lisbon to see my son on the eve of battle and you say that he’s not here. Where’s the general? Where is Arthur – Arthur Wellesley?’
Grant moved quickly as she advanced across the room. ‘Madam. May I be of assistance? Major Grant, ma’am. I’m on the general’s staff.’
She stopped. ‘Major Grant. It’s General Wellesley I want. Where is he? He has sent my son off on campaign to fight the French before we have had a chance to bid him adieu and farewell. It’s too bad. It really is.’
As she spoke, Keane noticed the others who had come into the room with her. Behind her stood a middle-aged man in a top coat and a tall hat, whom Keane presumed must be her husband, and behind him a girl.
She was, he guessed, about twenty years old, with black hair that hung in curling tresses around her shoulders. Her skin was a milky white and barely covered by the fashionable décolletage of her gown, which almost matched that of her mother. As Keane watched her she looked up and for an instant their eyes met. Keane felt like a schoolboy caught out in class and quickly looked away. But he knew it to be too late. A look had been exchanged and nothing could change that. He knew that he must have her.
He was aware of the others in the room and the conversation. Grant was speaking now, trying to calm things. ‘May I ask your name, madam?’
‘Blackwood, Lady Sarah Blackwood. And this is my husband, Sir William. We are old friends of the general.’
‘Ah yes, your son is in the dragoons, is he not? A fine officer.’
She relaxed for a moment. ‘You are kind, Major Grant. Yes, he is a good boy. But you see, we have travelled from Lisbon to see him only to be informed that he is gone.’
‘I’m very much afraid that will be the case, Lady Blackwood. His regiment is with General Hill. They are on the left flank of the army, at Aveiro. I can show you on the map, if you will?’
She walked with him to the table and pretended to understand. ‘Have they been in fighting yet? Have they killed any Frenchmen?’
Grant nodded. ‘Yes, indeed, they have. They have beaten back the French as far as Oporto.’
She turned, a look of horror on her face. ‘William, d’you hear, he’s been in action. John.’
Blackwood spoke. ‘Have you any more news, major? Have the lists been posted?’
‘No, Sir William. There are no casualty lists as yet. But General Hill’s force did not take heavy losses. I’m sure your son will be well.’
Lady Blackwood spoke again, quicker now and her voice an octave higher, it seemed to Keane. ‘But he might be wounded. Or worse. Oh no. Oh dear. I do believe I feel a little faint.’
She began to tremble and Keane reached for a chair, which he placed beside her before helping her to sit down.
‘Thank you, thank you, young man. I don’t know what came over me. I do feel queer.’
Grant signalled to the aide-de-camp. ‘A glass of wine for Lady Blackwood. Or eau de vie, if we have it.’
Sir William spoke. ‘Was it a large engagement, major?’
‘No, Sir William. Merely a skirmish. But it served its purpose. Marshal Soult is wrong-footed.’
Blackwood shrugged. ‘Good. That is good. But either way, it would appear that we are too late to see our son.’
‘It would appear so, sir. I’m very much afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’
The wine was brought and as Lady Blackwood was drinking it, the colour returning to her cheeks, the door opened and Wellesley entered.
‘What the devil’s going on out here? I can’t hear myself think. Grant, who are these people? What is all this noise?’
He saw Blackwood and smiled. ‘Why, William, my dear fellow, and Sarah. What a pleasant surprise. And this must be Kitty. How lovely. How delightful to see you all. What brings you here? If it’s John you’re after, I’m afraid you’ve come on a wasted errand. He is on campaign in the north.’
Blackwood spoke. ‘Yes, that’s just it, Arthur. We have just been told as much by Major Grant here. He has been most kind. As has your aide here, Captain …?’
‘Keane, sir. James Keane.’
Wellesley smiled again. ‘And he’s no aide of mine, Sir William. He has a command of his own. A highly important command. Don’t you, Keane?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Keane was reeling. Blackwood. How could it be that the beautiful creature who stood before him was the sister of the man who had very nearly had him cashiered?
Lady Blackwood spoke. ‘Do you know our son, Captain Keane? John Blackwood, Light Dragoons?’
Wellesley answered for him. ‘Yes, Sarah, John and Captain Keane are old friends. Isn’t that right, Keane?’
‘Absolutely, sir. Firm, old friends.’
Blackwood’s sister looked at Keane and smiled. If she only knew the truth of our relationship, he thought, she would not look at me in that way.
Lady Blackwood rose to her feet. ‘Kitty, my dear, have you met Captain Keane? You know he is a friend of John’s.’ She turned to Keane. ‘I’m surprised, Captain Keane, that we have not heard talk of you, or met you previously. John brings his friends to us from time to time. Even that poor Mister Simpson. The one who died, William, you remember? Captain Keane, you must come and visit us at our house in Lisbon. Mustn’t he, Kitty?’
Kitty Blackwood smiled and looked at the floor.
Wellesley cut through the silence. ‘How is the wine business, William?’
‘Tolerable. As long as you are here with your army, Arthur, the French cannot do us harm. Some of my friends have gone back to England. But there are those who will stay. With the army. And we prefer to remain. Particularly as John is with you.’
Wellesley nodded. ‘Keane, you must realize that Sir William has one of the finest bodegas in all Portugal.’
‘You flatter me, Arthur.’
‘No, it is true. Do not be modest. You must accept it as so. It has been in his family since 1670.’
Lady Sarah spoke again. ‘Enough of these niceties, Arthur. How will we hear news of John?’
‘Oh, I can find news of him. I have my ways. In fact, Captain Keane here will be in the very vanguard of the army when we advance on the French. I will make it his personal responsibility to find news of John. You will do so, won’t you, Captain Keane?’
‘Yes, sir. Of course. With pleasure.’ Kitty smiled at him again. Wellesley continued. ‘There, you see, it’s settled and in the very best of hands. Captain Keane and his company of guides are the very finest intelligencers we have.’
Lady Blackwood raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that your profession, Captain Keane? An intelligencer?’
‘I believe so, your ladyship. It is my duty.’
Sir William spoke. ‘Very good, young man. I’m sure that Sir Arthur relies upon you very much. After all, someone must do such work.’
Lady Blackwood spoke. ‘Yes, someone must. Such a pity, Captain Keane. Come, Kitty. We must leave now.’
She turned and Kitty followed, but as she passed through the door, followed by her father, she turned and again caught Keane’s eye, and this time he detected something more. Perhaps a warmth that had not been there before, and he wondered how much of it might be due to her mother’s evident disapproval of his station.
The door closed behind the Blackwoods and Wellesley coughed. Keane turned back to him from the door, aware that the general might have followed his gaze.
‘Major Grant, you have briefed Captain Keane?’
‘I was in the process of doing just that when Sir William arrived, sir.’
‘Very well then, I shall continue. You will be aware, more aware than most, Keane, of our situation. We have no means of effecting a passage of the Douro. We cannot attack Marshal Soult.’
‘And I am to find a means of crossing the river, sir.’
‘Indeed. A
means by which the entire army might cross the river. Take your men and find us a way across. We must have Oporto. Without the city in our hands I am powerless to pursue the campaign any further. You have done well thus far, Keane. Do this and I shall confirm your command. Fail me, and you fail the entire army.’
‘Sir.’
‘Oh, and one other thing, Keane.’
‘Sir?’
‘You do know that I was in deadly earnest when I spoke earlier. I want news, Keane.’
‘Of Captain Blackwood, sir?’
‘Yes, of course of Captain Blackwood. Let’s try to keep his mother happy, shall we? And you might find yourself with a chance to meet the family again.’
He smiled. ‘I want news, Keane, of everything. Not merely of Captain Blackwood, but of General Hill’s exploits and his casualties. And chiefly I want news of Oporto.’
*
Walking back to the bivouac, Keane wondered again at the cruel fortune that had made him lose his heart to the sister of the man who had vowed to hound him from the army.
But as he walked he thought more clearly, and alongside the vision of the girl’s pretty smile and pale flesh, a fresh thought came into his mind. He imagined the look on Blackwood’s face when he heard that his baby sister had been bedded by James Keane. And he smiled, amused now by the irony which had led him to the resolution that sometime, somehow, Kitty Blackwood would be his.
The camp was full of the rumour that they would soon be on the move and Keane had it from the lips of every sutler and washerwoman.
Tom Morris was ebullient. ‘Isn’t it wonderful news, James? We’re on the attack. Wellesley is moving the whole army north. We’re to take Oporto.’
‘Yes, I am aware of that, old friend. I do admire your keenness, Tom. You’re obviously determined to be at them.’
‘Of course, James, aren’t you?’
‘Oh yes, and I’m thankful that we have been accorded the privilege of being the first to do so.’
‘We have?’
‘We have indeed, Tom. We are to be the advance party. First into Oporto. And let us hope that fortune is with us.’
They were disturbed by a shout from the direction of the tents. Silver’s voice and then another. Martin’s too. Both men turned and began to walk fast towards their encampment, but they saw all they needed to before they were twenty yards away.
Silver and another man were on the ground, fighting tooth and nail, while Martin was exchanging blows with a redcoat, knocking over cooking pans and sending arms and possessions flying. Garland too was busy, but he had just picked a man up by the neck and had him hanging in mid air.
Keane yelled, ‘What the devil’s going on? Sarn’t Ross!’
He looked for Ross and found him. The big Scot was being held back by two redcoats while another punched him in the face and stomach. Keane ran across and tried to pull the man off. The soldier turned, and seeing an officer left Ross and ran, followed by his two comrades who let Ross fall to the ground. Keane turned back to the others. Heredia had joined in now and was trading blows with a large man in shirtsleeves.
Keane turned to Morris. ‘Who the deuce are these men and what are they doing?’ He ran across to Martin, who had pinned his adversary to the ground and was sitting on his back aiming rabbit punches into his kidneys, with great effect. ‘Will, who are they?’
Martin stopped for a moment but increased the pressure on the man’s neck. ‘Sorry, sir. It all started when Silver got into a fight with one of them. The fellow just wandered up to him and made some comment about how they were going to fight the French but all we were good for was riding around “observing”.’
Keane understood now. Word had finally got to the rank and file that these men were different. Special, chosen if you like. This was the army at its ugliest. Expressing its disdain for those who did not conform. Those who might be seen as cowards for not standing in line on a battlefield and waiting for the next cannonball to strike.
‘So you thought you should join in, did you?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s about the way of it.’
‘You did well then, Will. I won’t have my men called cowards.’
He watched as Silver, who had just doubled over a man with an uppercut, followed up with a well-aimed boot to the groin. The man fell to the ground groaning. Keane turned back to Martin, who again stopped raining punches on his now near-unconscious victim. ‘What regiment are they, d’you know?’
‘88th, sir. The Connaughts.’
‘Irishmen? They should know better. You had better kick their arses out of our camp. They’ve had their fun.’
Martin shook the man to what was left of his senses and dragged him to his feet. Keane shouted across to Silver. ‘That’s enough now. Let them go. They’ll know better next time.’
Silver smiled back at him through bloodied teeth. ‘Sorry, sir. Couldn’t take that from no one, sir.’
‘Quite right too. Well done. Now get this place tidied up, and yourselves. We move tomorrow.’
*
In the morning and under a misty Spanish sun, as Keane had said, the army at last was on the move. In a long, meandering column of men and animals, it snaked its way through the dust of Portugal, carrying hope to the conquered and death to the French. Somewhere a village church bell pealed eight times, slow and sonorous, and above the cacophony of horses, harness, marching feet and wagons, the smells and sounds of a peaceful Portuguese May morning invaded Keane’s senses, as from his position at the head of the long column he turned in the saddle to look back. He marvelled at the operation, knowing as he did what it took to get such an army on the march. The sheer size of the undertaking.
It was an awe-inspiring sight. Ross caught his mood. ‘It is a thing, sir, isn’t it? You just wonder how Boney’s lot can stand up to that. If I was them I’d be running back to Paris already.’
Keane smiled. He had grown to like the Scotsman more and more over the past few weeks and was glad at his choice for a sergeant.
‘You’re right, sarn’t. It’s enough to make any enemy quake. But remember, those are Boney’s soldiers you’re talking about. They fight for their emperor and for their eagles and they go into battle with the sound of drums and trumpets.’
‘And you know why that is, sir, don’t you?’
‘Tell me, sarn’t’.
‘Why, it’s to drown out the noise of the dying. That’s their real drums and fifes, sir. Screams as we give them volley fire and canister at fifty.’
There was no music from the column as they marched. No bands nor even any singing. Just the noise of men and animals on the move, the tramp of thousands of feet and hooves and the rattle of equipment, creating its own martial music which to Keane’s ears was as good as any marching tune. A song, he knew, would cheer the spirits and improve the tempo of the march, but this was no time for songs. While there had been no specific orders from the command to march in silence, the officers knew that the French were close, just the other side of the river, and that a thousand men in full cry was the last thing that was wanted.
And this too was when any army was at its most vulnerable, open to attack from the flanks. But from Keane’s intelligence there were no hostile troops this side of the Douro. He had done his job well and was content in the knowledge that the column would not be threatened.
The British soldier, he knew, could move in formation better than most, but there was still a horror of ambush in any army on the march. The sudden gut-wrenching sensation of being fired on from the hills.
Still looking behind him, he knew that not far away beyond the immediate vanguard of which he and his men formed the foremost part, rode Wellesley and Grant and Scovell.
And somewhere up ahead of them, with the flying column, was Blackwood. Keane’s thoughts turned momentarily to Kitty and then back to the matter in hand. They had been on the road for two hours and it was time now for them to detach themselves from the army, time to perform the new role assigned to them by the commander
.
He turned to Ross again. ‘Sarn’t Ross, let’s get the men on now. We need to be away from here. We’re meant to be ahead of the army, remember. Tom?
Morris trotted up. ‘James?’
‘We need to make some ground. Order them into a trot, I think.’
Keane spurred on his own horse and quickly the men followed suit, with their various levels of competence.
They pulled away from the troops immediately behind them, a company of rifles, and rounded a bend in the road which brought them into a defile. Another fine place for an ambush, he thought for a moment, before they were through and urging their horses on at a gallop now along the dusty road. As they grew closer to Oporto it was plain to see that the French had been there. To their right and left cottages lay in ruins, their stone walls broken down and their pantiled roofs smashed. Keane saw what had once been pretty kitchen gardens now no more than wasteland. The houses had been burned and looted, and the meagre possessions of their inhabitants that had been left by the French lay strewn upon the ground. What had once been a verdant country was now laid waste and he knew that worse was to come.
Five miles more and they came to the crest of a hill. Keane reined in and looked down.
The great city of Oporto rose on the opposite bank of the Douro, silhouetted against the hills. Smoke coursed lazily up from its chimneys and from this distance at least there was little sign of activity. Where, wondered Keane, was Soult’s great army this morning? Packing its bags to leave? He had expected a further scene of devastation. Burning buildings, perhaps worse. But Portugal’s second city looked from here outwardly no different from Lisbon.
And it was breathtaking. The river was as clear as day, curving away past the walls and houses. Beyond, he could make out the tower of Clerigos and the spire of the Sé cathedral. That was their objective. The centre of the city. Take that, and the French would not be able to hold. It would be hard going; as tough as it got. Street fighting was a sanguine affair. But the regiments in that long column would not be deterred by that. The Rifles and the Light Bobs, he knew, would be best for the job, although for the first assault he knew that Wellesley would have selected one of the old battalions.
