by Gale, Iain
He wondered what was going on down there. How the townspeople lived now from day to day under French occupation. Whatever was left of them. He had heard from the many fugitives who had filtered into the British camp the stories of what had happened when the French had taken their city back in March.
Eight thousand dead. That was the figure he had been given by Morillo and heard repeated by Grant. Men, women and children. Women had been raped in their own houses before their husbands and families. Keane had experienced at first hand the horror of the wrath of the Spanish guerrillas and was sure that soon it would infect the entire population. He wondered about Morillo’s suggestion that there was little difference between the French and themselves, and felt pity for the two nations. If they could push the French from Portugal perhaps they might begin to help Spain. It did not matter to him that they had been engaged in war with the Spanish for three hundred years. They were people, just people, the sort of peasants he might pass by on any road at home in Ireland. No matter what Morillo said or what their priests declared, they were all united by a common bond of humanity.
*
They rode on and began to enter a more built-up area. Narrow streets of new houses. A suburb created to house the population from the expanding city. Villa Nova.
Tom Morris rode to his side. ‘Curious place, James, ain’t it? Just stuck here on a cliff.’
Keane was aware of eyes looking at them from behind half-closed shutters. The people who had remained in the new village were surveying this army and he felt the fear that must fill their hearts, knowing as they did that the British were moving into their part of the extended city before the French had left the old town. There was to be a battle. That was clear, and as if in response one of the doors opened and he watched as a mother and father ushered their children away down the street, trailing a little handcart filled with their belongings. Here was the sadness of war. A family dispossessed, who perhaps had only recently welcomed the new chance they had been given to escape the squalor of the city and find a house in the new village. Better to leave, though, than find yourself caught in the crossfire between two armies.
They continued to walk their horses through the streets and at length emerged at a tall building. The old monastery of La Serra dominated the hill on the south bank of the river and Keane could see instantly that it would make a fine headquarters from which the commander-in-chief might spy out the enemy position.
He took out his glass from its leather case on his saddle and surveyed the town. Oporto lay opposite and below them with the mouth of the Douro to the west. That was the direction from which Wellesley had told him Soult expected them to attack. So, as the general had explained, if that was what was expected, then they would offer the enemy something quite different.
He moved the lens to scan the bank and watched a group of French soldiers idling on the quayside as their comrades bathed in the river.
Whatever the state of morale within Oporto, it was clear that Marshal Soult had not issued orders to be on the alert. The French were enjoying their time in the ruined city and their guard was down. If they could manage it properly the enemy would be taken completely by surprise. The only question was, how?
6
Keane continued to move the eyeglass along the opposite bank of the river, scouring it for some form of crossing. He knew, though, that it would be in vain.
Grant had told him that there was no bridge and so it must be. But still he could not resist harbouring the hope of some solution. He knew that the main crossing, some yards further upstream just below them, had collapsed during the capture of the city as the populace had crossed it fleeing their attackers. Looking down at the river he imagined the scene: the water a boiling froth of humanity; men, women, children and animals washed away in the current and lost under the waters.
After that, to ensure that their prize would be secure, the French had destroyed the other bridge that had sat just below where he was now standing at Villa Nova. Nowhere, so the map – whatever its merits – had assured him, was there a place where the river was shallow enough to effect a crossing, even on horseback. In any case such a venture would be doomed to failure. Somehow, he thought, they must remain hidden and yet cross over the river. He took the glass from his eye and closed it with a snap. He gazed at the river, hoping that somehow it would provide inspiration. As he watched, a vessel emerged from around the bend which swept past the cliff below the town. A wine barge, one of the low-slung kind with a huge red sail that carried the barrels of port to and from the bodegas.
Keane smiled and nodded his head with such conviction that Morris stared at him. ‘James?’
He turned to Morris. ‘That’s it, Tom. That’s what we need. It’s the only way to do it.’
‘James?’
‘The only way to allow the army to cross. On barges. The only way, Tom. An amphibious landing. We must find a sufficient number of barges and get them across to this side of the river. No one else can manage it. It’s up to us. Either that, or Wellesley will be kicking his heels here till kingdom come. For he’ll not get across any other way.’
‘I thought that we were here principally to reconnoitre. That we were to return to the general with information.’
‘You know as well as I do that our orders were to find a means to get into the city.’
‘And to impart that means to Wellesley, yes.’
‘And if possible to manage it ourselves.’
‘I don’t recollect your having told me that part of the orders.’
‘No, search your memory, my friend. For that’s what we’re going to do. My orders are to find the weak spot in the enemy defences, to find a means of crossing the river and otherwise to do as we see fit. We must somehow get hold of barges and bring them across to this side of the river.’
Morris smiled. He knew his friend well enough to see that he already had something in mind. ‘You have a plan, James?’
Keane returned the glass to his eye and scanned the town. ‘We’ll get across the river somehow. Enter the town. Then I’ll have a plan. Then we’ll know what’s what. Then we’ll see what we can find.’
He again snapped shut the glass and turned to Ross.
‘Sarn’t Ross, tell the men to cover their uniforms and we’ll leave the horses here with Garland, Gabriella and Captain Morris. Tom, you can report to the advance party of the army if they arrive before we return. Captain Scovell’s sure to be with them. Garland, take care of my gun, will you. Guard her with your life.’
Garland nodded. ‘Yes, sir. With my life.’
Keane turned back to the men. ‘The rest of you, try to make yourselves look as much like the natives as possible. Leave your shakos here too. See if you can find a hat, or tie a kerchief round your head. And we had better split up to get down to the bank. In pairs. Make sure you’re with a good Spanish-speaker.’
Heredia stared at Keane and shrugged. ‘Of course, sir. But this is madness. What hope have we got against a whole French garrison? Six men?’
‘You’d be surprised, Heredia. In fact, we have more chance as a small number than all of our men. Surprise is everything.’
*
They unstrapped their saddlebags and pulled out the clothes that Keane had selected for just this purpose. Ross pulled on a bright-green coat over his regimentals and immediately earned a laugh from Silver.
‘Shut your mouth, private. You heard what the officer said. Get dressed.’ Silver was already clad in a dark-brown overcoat that reached to his knees. ‘See, you’re no better.’
Keane removed his own bicorne hat, placing it carefully in the leather bag he had attached to his saddle beforehand. He replaced it on his head with a broad-brimmed round black hat of the type worn commonly in the Peninsula.
Morris laughed at him. ‘Buenos días, Señor James.’
‘Very funny, Tom. How do I look?’
‘As a matter of fact, not at all bad. Quite splendid, actually. I’d take you for a don myself if I d
idn’t know better. All you need now is a cheroot.’
‘Perhaps I’ll find one in the town, eh? And a great deal more besides. We’ll liberate some of that French booty, shall we?’
The men nodded approvingly. He surveyed them and smiled. ‘Very good. Yes, that’s very, very good. You look like a proper bunch of cutthroats.’ Which, he thought to himself, is exactly what you are. ‘Right. Get in your pairs and keep it quiet. No English at all. Is that clear?’
They all nodded.
‘Nor no French, neither,’ piped up Gilpin.
‘No. No French either, he’s right,’ said Keane. ‘Too risky. I’ll see you down by the riverbank.’
He walked closer to the parapet and pointed down into the bushes below them. They followed his gaze. ‘You see there? That curve in the river. Find the big building on the opposite bank. The seminary. Got it? Now trace a line down from it to the river. See now? There. Where the curve comes round. Where those trees are. We won’t be seen there, not from the other side. I’ll see you all down there, in those trees. In half an hour, or near as dammit. And remember. What we do now is vital to the general’s plan. These next few hours will tell whether we win a victory here or end in disaster.’
*
With Ross at his side, Keane climbed over the walls that masked the garden of the convent and made his way gingerly down the hillside, through the heavy undergrowth and the rows of carefully tended vines, trying all the while to look every inch the Portuguese and fearing every moment that he could not look anything but a British officer. Even Ross, he thought, looked more convincing. He seemed to have a peasant’s gait. From his earlier observations, there seemed to be no French on this side of the river. At least, they saw no one and no other creatures save a goat and a half-wild cur of a dog that snarled at them and then ran off. Through the vines they went, snagging their clothes on the stalks, until they emerged on another terrace which in turn gave way to a steeper incline down to the river. A deep gully led down to the water and Keane slithered down the wet grass, grabbing at the few branches and saplings for support as he went and trying not to make too much of a commotion. Then they were in the trees that hung low over the edge of the river.
He could see the water stretching out ahead of them and was beginning to wonder how clever his plan really was and whether any of them might find a boat, when there was a sudden movement ahead of them. Both men froze. Ross said nothing. Keane looked at him and, placing a finger to his mouth, peered through the trees.
He could hear voices now. Quite distinctly. A horrible thought came suddenly to his mind. Christ, it was a French patrol. Their intelligence had been wrong. Soult had left a brigade, a division perhaps, here on the east bank. In a few moments he and his men would be discovered and killed, and Wellesley, unapprised of the reality and riding in the van of the army, would blunder into the French waiting for them. He listened more closely, waiting to hear the English that would tell him the patrol had already caught one of his men.
But then he listened again and he realized that the voices he could hear were speaking not in French but in Spanish or Portuguese.
Peering more closely, Keane began to make out the outline of a man. He wore a black coat and a black hat with an upturned brim like a sail, and he appeared to be reprimanding another man standing beside him. Keane struggled to make out the words in Spanish but heard only ‘Holy Mother’ and ‘disgrace’. The man in black must be a priest, he thought, addressing one of his flock perhaps. In a few moments, he knew, the others would be with him. He decided to act on the moment. Walking forward with apparent confidence, Keane pushed through the trees and emerged close to the two men. In fact, as he could now see, there were others of them a little way off. They were dressed in Portuguese clothes, no uniforms, and his hunch appeared to have been correct, for the man in black was wearing clerical garb.
Hearing him, the men spun round and he saw that both were armed with short knives. Keane coughed and spoke in Spanish. ‘Señor. I’m sorry. I mean, father. Good day.’
The priest looked puzzled. ‘Good heavens. Where have you come from? I thought the farm was deserted. Did they go to Lisbon?’
‘Yes. That’s right. But I’m looking after it.’
‘Are you, indeed? And who might you be?’
Keane remembered the alias that Grant had suggested he adopt if caught. ‘Marandes. Don Pascal Marandes, father.’ He bowed.
The priest stared at him. ‘Do I know you?’
‘I don’t think we’ve ever met before.’
The priest looked suspicious. ‘Where are you from?’
‘I told you, father. I live here. I’m one of the cousins.’
The priest looked at the group of five men to his right and slightly to his rear, who had been staring at them throughout the conversation. He nodded to them and instantly the man closest to them drew from his belt a pistol and pointed it directly at Keane.
‘Now, Don Pascal Marandes, tell me who you really are. There are no cousins and the owners of that farm died a week ago at the hands of the French. Horribly. Only a son survived. So who are you? Perhaps you are French spies, come to bring more misery to my people?’
Keane raised his hand, keeping it away from his belt where the sword hung at his side. ‘I’m sorry, father. No, no, we’re not French. Please allow me.’ He drew open the coat and indicated that he wished to unfasten the jacket beneath. The priest nodded and Keane undid the buttons to reveal the faded scarlet tunic of the 27th Foot.
The priest smiled. ‘So. Not French, but you are soldiers all the same. British.’
Keane nodded and decided that he must take a gamble. ‘We are here in advance of the army.’
‘Then you’re British spies.’
‘I am an exploring officer, father. Sent by our general to explore the ground.’
‘And how do you find it, the ground, that is? How did you find it, Captain …?’
‘Keane, father. I find it hard and I am wondering how we might find a passage across to the other side.’ He looked at the man with the pistol, which was still pointed at his heart. ‘Is it possible to dispense with that? It’s making me a little nervous.’
The priest turned and waved down the pistol. Keane relaxed.
‘Captain Keane, I am most pleased to see you. My name is Father Ignacio Sanchez. That is my convent, up there.’ He pointed up the hill. ‘I am the Prior. The Monasterio de la Serra. We have been waiting for you to come, sure in the knowledge that the British would not abandon us. You intend to take the city back from the French?’
‘Yes, that is, we shall if we can find a way across.’
‘Tell me how we can help.’
‘There are barges on the river still?’
‘Yes, the French thought they had taken all of them, but we are clever.’
‘Good. That’s how we’ll do it. Can you help?’
Sanchez turned to the closest of the men and spoke fast, then pointed towards the river. He turned back to Keane as the men began to hurry down to the river. ‘You are a clever man, captain. I think it is the only way across’.
He pointed after the peasants. ‘Go with them. There is a boat here. It will take you and your men. How many are you?’ He nodded to where Keane’s men were concealed in the trees.
‘There are six of us to cross immediately, father. But we need more. Have you more barges?’
Almost on cue the men began to come in through the trees. They looked surprised to see Keane in conversation with a priest.
Father Sanchez smiled and nodded, unshaken by the sudden appearance of the men. He kept talking. ‘The boat will carry you across. One of my men here will take you. On the other side you will find four barges. Manuel will show you. Good luck. And be sure to kill as many of the French as you can, my son. Send them all to Hell.’
Keane smiled. ‘You hate them, don’t you?’
The priest shook his head and crossed himself. ‘They are without God. Their emperor is a new Satan. He has fors
worn Christ and wants the Lord’s world for himself. And he will do anything to get it. He orders his men to do murder, captain. Do you know how many they killed when they took the city?’
Keane shook his head.
‘Eight thousand, captain. Men, women and children. Slaughtered in cold blood. Women raped before their husbands’ eyes before they were killed. Children butchered before their mothers. That is what these men do. Yes, I hate them. And so should you.’
Keane nodded. ‘We’ll do what we can, father.’
Hurrying away after the peasants towards the rest of his command, Keane tried to work out whether it could succeed. Four barges for the entire army. That might be enough for four companies, half a battalion at most. They would have to repeat the process dozens of times. Still, for the present it was the only chance they had.
*
The men ordered by the priest to take them across pulled on the oars and began to row the little boat across the river. Keane looked from the prow at the city on the opposite bank. Silent and forbidding, it rose and fell above them with the rhythm of the oars in the water. To their left, in the west, lay the river gate with the outskirts of the city above it: another great rampart of stone. Their objective, though, lay dead ahead. From the water’s edge a sandy cliff rose from the riverbank to a grassy hillside. Above it stood the walls of the seminary that was their goal.
Keane looked for a way up, a change in the colour of the undergrowth that might betray a hidden path. But he saw none. He supposed that the men at the oars might be able to direct them and his eye fell back to the riverbank and the towpath that snaked along it. Then he froze. For there, making its way along the bank, was a French patrol. A dozen men in blue coats and shakos marching sluggishly at the foot of the cliff. He whispered the discovery to the others.
