Keane's Company (2013)

by Gale, Iain

  All of them lay as low as they could manage in the bottom of the boat and Keane signalled to the oarsmen to rest their oars in the rowlocks, lest the French should hear. But the soldiers, who Keane presumed must exemplify the general feeling of torpor among the garrison, did not bother to give it a second glance. When it was clear that the French had not seen them he looked up cautiously and watched the patrol disappear around the curve in the wall, the men talking among themselves.

  ‘All right, you can breathe again. But keep your eyes peeled. We don’t know how often they come past. And remember, not the slightest sound.’

  Slowly the oarsmen took up the rhythm again and the boat resumed its passage across the broad river.

  Keane could see the opposite bank more clearly now through the dappled sunshine and fancied that he could make out the shape of boats on the shallow beach below. A few more strokes and the little skiff hit the sand. Keane motioned to the men and they all scrambled out and quickly up onto the ledge of the shore. Sure enough his eyes had not been wrong. There just below them, cleverly hidden among some overhanging branches, rolling on the wash, lay four long flat-bottomed barges, their sails furled along the lowered masts.

  He signalled to the oarsmen who nodded in unison and climbed out of the boat and onto the bank. ‘Right. There’s our prize. We need to get those back to the other side. They’re big enough to take a company across, and judging from the condition of that patrol, that might be all we’re going to need to take this place.’

  But hardly had the words left his mouth when he heard voices. French voices. Keane and the others stopped where they were. The oarsmen had heard them too and looked alarmed. Keane motioned his men back against the wall and beneath the bushes at the water’s edge. It was not a second too soon. Around the side of the wall came another French patrol. Six men this time, in grubby blue-and-white uniforms, all with shouldered muskets, their bayonets fixed. They were talking among themselves, laughing. One of them stopped and pointed to the little party of oarsmen who alone had remained in view, unable to find cover. The sergeant, a large man with a moustache, shouted at them in coarse Spanish and led his men towards them.

  ‘You. Who are you? What are you doing here? You’re not meant to be here. There’s a curfew.’

  The lead oarsman shrugged and muttered something to another. The Frenchman, closer now, yelled at him and struck him with the butt of his musket on the arm. The man howled in pain and grabbed at his arm. The others did not move. The sergeant turned to the soldier beside him and switched back to French. ‘Corporal, put these men under arrest. Then shoot them.’

  The corporal smiled and motioned his men forward. They walked slowly, muskets levelled now, and pushed the oarsmen, at point of bayonet, away from the river and back towards the wall. Keane saw the corporal raise his own musket and knew that his next movement would be to cock the hammer. Once that was done, when the gun went off, whether or not the oarsmen died, all hope of secrecy would be lost. Quickly, Keane looked across at Sergeant Ross. Catching his eye, he nodded and the Scotsman turned and signalled to the others. Then, before any of the French had time to realize what was happening, Keane and the others burst from their cover.

  Ross was the first upon them. He went in head first, bent almost double and careering with his full force into a scrawny Frenchman, sending him sprawling to the ground. Picking up the man’s musket, he hovered over him for a moment and then, with one dreadful thrust, skewered him with his own bayonet before moving on to the next.

  Keane himself took on the French sergeant, who looked at him in alarm and opened his mouth to shout a warning. It was the last thing he ever did. Before the words had time to leave his mouth Keane slid the great curved blade of the Egyptian scimitar into the man’s side and, drawing out the bloodied silver streak, watched as he slumped to the ground.

  Keane looked to his left and saw that Ross was smashing the second Frenchman’s head against the wall. Ahead of him Silver had slit another’s throat from ear to ear. Heredia was drawing tight the knotted leather rope he used to garrotte his victims and within less than two minutes it was all over, as Gilpin slid his sword, wiped clean of the last Frenchman’s blood, back into its scabbard. Keane, the adrenalin still pumping through him, nodded to them. He recovered himself, impressed by this first outing in battle for his new command. This was teamwork at its best. Every man his own master, yet conscious of his comrade’s position.

  ‘Good. Right, drag these bastards into the bushes. No, strip them first. We can use the uniforms.’

  Silver shook his head. ‘Sir, I’m sorry. Going native is one thing. But I’m damned if I’m going to dress up like a bloody Frenchie.’

  Ross turned on him. ‘That’s enough. You’ll do as the officer says, Silver. Now get to it.’

  Keane watched as reluctantly Silver began to peel off one of the dead men’s uniforms.

  ‘You’d better make it quick, before they’re missed.’

  It did not take long to dispose of the bodies and despite a few more protests the men managed to dress themselves in the resented uniforms, discarding their civilian clothes and piling them in the boat. They kept their own grey overall trousers, though, and were careful too, as Keane had instructed, to keep their own tunics rolled up in a blanket and strapped on top of the French packs.

  Keane tugged at the cuffs of the dead sergeant’s tunic, which was too short on his long, athletic frame, and pulled the straps tighter on trousers that hung slack on his slim waist.

  Once dressed, they dragged the half-naked corpses under cover of the trees and disguised them with foliage. The oarsmen, to their credit, had stayed with the British, helping them with the dead, and now stood ready for Keane’s orders.

  ‘Right, let’s get these barges across the river. We’ll tie them onto the boat and pray that no one spots them.’

  There was a coil of rope in one of the barges and Keane used his sword to cut it into four equal lengths. They tied one of the barges to the stern of the rowing boat and then the others in turn to each other. Keane turned to Heredia. ‘Can you explain to them what I want to do?’

  Heredia nodded and Keane turned to the lead oarsman, his words being relayed by the cavalryman.

  ‘We need to row out into the middle of the river. Don’t worry about being seen. I want the French to think that you’re just a convoy of wine or stores. And you’ll have one of my men in French uniform in each of the barges. If they shout at that man he will shout back in French and tell them you’re heading for the harbour. It’s my guess they’ll be too concerned with their own welfare to challenge you. Once you’re in mid stream just gently push the boat back towards the other shore. I’m sure you know what to do. The trick will be making it look as if you’re not heading for the bank but simply drifting slightly across. Have you got that?’

  The man nodded and muttered a respectful, ‘Si, Señor.’

  Keane turned to Ross. ‘Right, sarn’t. You stay here. Silver, how’s your French?’

  ‘Good enough, sir. Better than my Spanish, Gabriella says.’

  ‘Heredia?

  ‘I can speak their filthy language, if you need me to.’

  ‘Gilpin?’

  ‘I’ll pass for a Frenchie, sir.’

  ‘Right. That’s good. Silver, you come with me and Martin in the barges, one per boat. Heredia, you stay here with Sarn’t Ross. If you are challenged you do the talking. Martin, if we are hailed from the town, stay buttoned up. Let Silver or me do the talking if it comes to it.’

  The four of them clambered into the barges and each of them sat down in the stern while the oarsmen got back into the little boat. Then, on a given signal from Keane, the lead oarsman took up the strain and slowly, edging its way out from beneath the overhanging boughs, the little convoy set off into the river.

  Out on the water, Keane instantly felt uncomfortably exposed. Should the French spot them and see through their disguise, they would be entirely at their mercy. He reasoned with himself
, though, that in their new uniforms and given the plan he had formulated to navigate the river, they stood a good chance of getting across. He hoped too that Ross and Heredia would be safe on the opposite bank. The Portuguese had a volatile temper and he hoped that if they did encounter a French patrol Heredia would not allow his desire for revenge to get the better of him. Ross, he thought, would keep him in check, and he was a better choice to have left behind than the edgy Silver.

  The train of boats continued into the centre of the river, meandering on a lazy course. Keane glanced up at the rampart above them, but, despite the feeling that they might be being observed, he saw no one. They were almost at the other bank now, edging their way closer, the oarsmen desperately pulling with all their might. It was more difficult here, though, and suddenly the current began to pull. There was a shout from the boat as one of the oarsmen lost an oar and then the second-to-last barge, hit by a sudden swell, careered into the one in front with a loud crash. Keane, who was on the first barge, turned and saw that the prow of the fourth barge had made a hole in the stern of the third, just above the waterline but not enough to be a danger. The most worrying thing, though, was the noise. Now, he thought, the French are sure to come to the ramparts and find out what the din was about.

  He called to the other three. ‘Lie down. Lie down in the boats.’ Then he motioned to the oarsmen to do the same, but the men were already running for their lives and wading through the shallows and onto the bank. Keane ducked down into his barge, and just in time. From above on the opposite bank he heard the sound of distant voices and then the unmistakable clap of musketry as the French on the ramparts saw the running Portuguese oarsmen and opened fire. There was a shout as one of the men was hit. Keane clung to the unclad hull of the barge, tasting the foul water in his mouth, mixed with the spillage of rancid port and all manner of other filth. He retched and it was all he could do not to vomit. But he lay still and prayed that the others would do the same. The voices continued from the city bank. Clearly the French had seen the barges and were aware that something was wrong. But they must be equally aware, he thought, that there was nothing they could do about it. The firing had ceased and Keane heard a French voice shout something, but could not make out what. He wondered whether any of them had been spotted. The vile stench of the sodden boards filled his senses and he wondered how long they would have to wait before taking a look. A voice from above put him right.

  ‘Captain Keane, they have gone. You can come out now.’

  Looking up, he saw Sanchez.

  ‘I almost took you for a Frenchman. You are quite convincing.’

  Keane stood up, managed to climb out of the barge and began to brush down the French uniform. ‘You flatter me, father. One of your men was hit?’

  ‘Yes, but I do not think it will be bad. The French cannot hit anything. They were lucky this time. And so were you.’

  ‘We have to get back to the other bank.’

  ‘Captain Keane, I know you to be brave, but are you quite mad? Why not wait here for your army? You have the boats now.’

  ‘Yes, but I also have men on the opposite bank and I cannot leave them. And I promised my general that I would find a way into the city for him and the army.’

  Sanchez laughed. ‘You English, you are so very honourable. Just like us. But it surprises us. We would not expect the French to behave like this.’

  ‘And there’s another thing. Surely the French will try to send a boat across to take back the barges. They must know that they will give Wellesley a way across.’

  Sanchez spoke again. ‘I have that in hand. We will move them further upstream to where the French will not find them and if they row their boat across here my men will be sure to give them a warm reception.’

  Morris walked over to them. ‘James, you stink like an alehouse. And what the deuce are you meant to look like?’

  Keane grinned. ‘A French sergeant, I believe. I know, scruffy bit of kit, isn’t it?’ He scratched at the collar of the faded blue coat. ‘Damned itchy too. The fellow must have been crawling with lice. The sooner I get out of this the better. But first we need to get inside that monastery.’

  ‘You’re going back?’

  ‘I left Ross and Heredia on the riverbank. God knows what’s happened to them. And we need to get a foothold in the city. Anything. We might have the barges, but when our boys go ashore over there, they’ll need someone on the inside if they’re to survive. You had better stay here, Tom. Wellesley will want a full account of our affairs. And where’s my gun?’

  ‘Garland has it still. I’ll find him.’

  As they spoke, Father Sanchez busied himself with moving the barges. He had brought up more men now, and attaching a length of rope to each vessel teams of twelve men were dragging the boats, walking along the towpath that ran along the river. The French had not yet reappeared on the opposite rampart and Keane prayed that the barges would make it round the small spit of land that would hide them from view.

  He turned to Morris who had returned. ‘When the general arrives, Tom, tell him his barges are there and that it might be expedient to make the assault from that position as it will mean that our lads are out of sight of the enemy. Oh, thank you.’ He reached out and took the gun from Morris, then placed his finger on the trigger very gently and felt its weight in his hand. The perfect symmetry, the balance, the sweetness of it.

  ‘She’s a lovely piece, Tom. Best I ever had. I knew she’d come in useful one day.’

  ‘You’d never have had the use of her in the field.’

  ‘You’re right. But this ain’t the field, is it? Now she’ll have her day. Just as soon as we get back over the river.’

  He looked across to the spot where he had left Ross and Heredia but could not see them. He could only assume that they had gone into hiding. Either that or they had already been taken by the French. Either way, he would find out when they returned across the river.

  Three of the barges were hidden now, and as the fourth slipped around the bend Keane looked back up at the walls. There was still no sign of the French. Perhaps, he thought, they had presumed that the British were already on the opposite bank and did not dare come over to retrieve the barges. Or perhaps they had simply forgotten about the entire affair and dismissed it as nothing of importance. The question of how he and his men were to return to the city had troubled him but he thought that he might now have come up with a plan.

  He walked across to Sanchez. ‘Father, I may need to borrow one of your men again.’

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘I need someone, maybe two men, to row us back. I intend to hide myself and my men in the bottom of your boat, under a cover. We can deal with any French when we arrive.’

  Sanchez nodded. ‘Yes, to cross in full view, even in those uniforms, would be folly. Take two men.’ He signalled. ‘And good luck, captain. God be with you all. Where are you headed?’

  ‘I had thought we might cross in the same place and make our way eastwards towards the seminary.’

  The huge building stood several hundred yards away from the city. With its high white walls and central bell tower, it would, Keane had decided, make an excellent strongpoint for them to take and hold. It would also be the perfect beachhead from which the army might assault the city, when it came. It was directly opposite the bend where Sanchez had hidden the barges and would allow them to see exactly what was unfolding at the point at which he had told Morris to suggest to Wellesley that the troops should cross.

  Sanchez nodded. ‘Yes. It is entirely empty. It is not finished and the houses there were abandoned by the bishop and all the priests fled when the French attacked the city.’ He looked disdainful. ‘They left their people to the mercies of the enemy. What sort of man does that? Bishop or not?’ He realized that he was speaking his thoughts aloud and stopped. ‘It would make a good place to defend, though, captain, if that is what you have in mind.’

  Keane nodded. ‘You’re a natural soldier, father.’
>
  Sanchez smiled. ‘Yes, I somehow suspect that I will have to be just that before we rid our country of these heathens.’

  Keane motioned to Martin, Gilpin and Silver to make their way down to the boat, at one end of which he could now see Sanchez had placed a large oilcloth of the kind used on the river to cover stores in transit. Once in the water up to their knees, Keane and the others climbed in and, squashing in against each other, managed to fit themselves snugly into the bottom of the boat. Two of Sanchez’s men draped the cover over them and they lay beneath it in the darkness, smothered and ready to start off across the water. Keane felt the boat rock as the oarsmen pushed off.

  Within a few minutes that seemed to Keane like an eternity, they were well away from the shore and in mid-river. There was no noise now save for the heavy breathing of the men round him and the splashing of the oars as they moved through the water. And something else. A deep thudding, booming noise that Keane finally realized was his own beating heart.

  With every stroke of the oars Keane was convinced that shots would come ripping through the oilskin and tear into their bodies. The men seemed to share his anxiety, so hard now was their breathing, and the stink of their foul breath mingled with the sweat of fear. But no shots came and it was with relief and disbelief that they suddenly came to a shuddering halt as the boat drifted against the riverbank. He heard voices from above the oilskin and winced against the bright daylight as the cover was peeled back, to reveal Sanchez’s men. ‘Señor,’ said one and Keane rose up and with the others stepped ashore at the spot where they had left Heredia and Silver a short while before. No sooner were Keane and the others ashore than the two men emerged from the sandy cleft in which they had hidden themselves. Ross smiled. ‘Glad to see you, sir. We wondered if the Frenchies would come back for us. They don’t seem to have missed the patrol yet. But if you ask me, it won’t be long, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Ross. We need to move from here.’