Keane's Company (2013)

by Gale, Iain

  Keane shouted to the Portuguese, ‘He was surrendering. That man was surrendering.’

  Heredia looked at him and smiled. ‘I don’t know what that means, sir.’

  The last Frenchman, seeing the fate of his comrades, turned and ran and made it through the gap in the doors. Together, Keane, Martin and Ross ran after him and found themselves in the doorway. Outside was carnage. Apart from the corpses they had left before the walls with their earlier gunfire, more French dead lay piled before the gate. And with them no few bodies of men in red coats.

  Keane tried to see who they were, but was not certain. Buff facings. They might be the Third Foot, the Buffs, but could just as easily be the 73rd.

  Directly before them a small knot of men were fighting. Three French and two of the redcoats, one of them an officer. Keane ran to help, his bloodied blade above his head. As he closed with them one of the Frenchmen, himself an officer, saw the threat, and disengaging from his duel with the British officer turned to face him. Keane cut into him with an upper stroke which cleft his chin and sliced into his face.

  He pulled back and watched in horror as the reality of what he had done unfolded. The officer was barely more than a boy and his eyes seared into Keane’s with a helplessness as his face disintegrated in a mess of blood and ruined flesh.

  The redcoat officer grabbed at his forearm which, Keane now saw, had been cut by the Frenchman. It looked superficial, a glancing blow, and Keane turned back to the fight. But the French had gone, leaving their dead behind them.

  Martin turned to him. ‘We should get after them, sir. Chase them from the town.’

  ‘They’re not finished yet, Martin. They’ve just started. There’s hundreds more where they came from. Thousands. They’ll be back. Don’t worry.’

  He turned back and found the officer with the wounded arm. He was young, very young; younger even, he thought, than the Frenchman he had just sent to meet his Maker. In fact, as a corporal tied up his flesh wound he looked up and smiled at Keane. Barely sixteen, he guessed, and still in shock from his first engagement. The eyes were wide, the veins high in the temples where a wisp of fair hair fell down in a ringlet. Yet the boy was keen for advancement, had pushed himself into volunteering for the forlorn hope that had been the first across the river in the first barge. Keane wondered what his story was. Passed over by a father? Family ruined by debt and drink? He fitted all the criteria that the army demanded on such occasions as these when the forlorn hope charged into the breach. He was brave, he was foolish and he was expendable.

  The boy gabbled excitedly, trying to keep his voice down, high-pitched as it was. ‘Thank you, sir. We didn’t know who held this place and then my sergeant saw your coats. Thank God we have prevailed. Have you seen him, sir? My sergeant, I mean. Sergeant Copeland. I hope to God he’s not fallen. Sorry, sir.’ He came to attention. ‘James Watkins, the Buffs.’

  Keane nodded to him and smiled as he cleaned the blood from his sword on the blue coat of a dead Frenchman and returned it to its scabbard, the boy watching avidly. ‘Keane, Inniskillens, as was. You came with good timing, Mister Watkins. And you did well to do so.’ He saw Ross. ‘Sarn’t Ross, any losses?’

  ‘Gilpin is hurt, sir, not bad though, and Heredia’s a cut to his face, but it’s only a scratch, whatever he says.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Sarn’t Ross, this is Lieutenant Watkins of the Buffs. Come to relieve us.’ He laughed. ‘But in truth, I don’t think we’ll be free of the French for long. The last thing they want is for us to hold a strongpoint on this bank of the river.’ He turned to Watkins. ‘How many are you, lieutenant?’

  ‘Just twenty-five, sir; at least we were. We’ve lost a few men, though.’

  ‘And how many more are coming over?’

  ‘Another three boats, sir, all of them with twenty-five men apiece.’

  ‘That gives us a round hundred, if you count in my men. Better odds than we’ve had, eh, sarn’t?’

  ‘Yes, sir, a damn sight better.’

  Keane walked across to the south towards the cliff face up which the Buffs had made their way and to his relief saw two boats midstream and another making its way back across the river. The lieutenant was as good as his word. On the hillside he could make out the figures of redcoats making their way, unopposed now, towards the seminary.

  Looking across to the opposite bank he made out plenty of activity as the army came to battle. The fields behind the river were a mass of black dots, men moving like so many ants in response to orders. It was a fine sight and he knew that it would be enough, if they could hold onto this foothold they had gained.

  There was a puff of smoke on the opposite bank, followed by another and then another. British cannon, opening up on the town. He noticed that Watkins was on his right. Watkins pointed at the smoke. ‘Look, General Wellesley has placed three batteries on that hill, sir. Eighteen nine-pounders, at the height of the convent.’

  They watched as the guns continued to fire and saw the black specks that were cannonballs flying high above the Douro before disappearing into the city. The boom of the guns obscured the sound of impact. The gunners were using round-shot first, to gauge the range. Soon though, he thought, they would use the howitzers to hurl shell and hollow case shot fitted with a slow-burning fuse. Hollow iron balls filled with gunpowder and designed to explode when the timed fuse burned down, causing death and destruction and with the ability to set buildings afire. He felt sorry for the people of Oporto. Raped by the French and now bombarded by the British. But it was the price they must pay for freedom, and he suspected that they were aware of what would happen.

  He was astonished that no French guns had yet opened up in counterbattery fire or indeed on the barges ferrying the redcoats across the river. The second barge was nearing their bank, about to beach.

  ‘Those are your men down there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s my company commander. Captain Lawrence.’ Watkins continued, still pointing. Following the ensign’s finger Keane saw a third boat leave the opposite bank. ‘And that boat there, sir. That’s Major Danvers. The adjutant. He’s a fine man, sir. A great leader. You might know him.’

  Keane ignored his embarrassing enthusiasm and watched as the boats slipped across the river, and still no noise could be heard from the French in the town. The first vessel slid from their view as she neared the shore.

  ‘Do you know if the general is intending to cross elsewhere?’

  The boy nodded. ‘We were told when we were picked for the assault. I know that General Wellesley has sent General Murray with the German brigade, the 14th Dragoons and a battery three miles upstream. He believes that it will be possible for him to attempt a crossing there. There was no word, though, when I left, as to whether he has succeeded.’

  ‘It’s of no real matter to us. What we need is more infantry and guns over here. We’ll have to manage that somehow.’

  He pondered the situation. These barges could hold only penny parcels of men. It would take the entire day to move an army. And the French would start to bombard them ere long. ‘We’ll just have to make do with what we have for the present. Put yourself in order, lieutenant, and gather your men in the courtyard. We need to waste no time in repairing the damage done.’

  Watkins hurried away and Keane remained for a moment looking down on the little boats. They had done well, but as he had told the ensign, they would have to do better. The only way would be somehow to get down to the city and find bigger boats. They would need to mobilize the townspeople. But how to do that, he wondered, if the French had them penned up in the seminary?

  Ross came up, grinning. ‘Look, sir, they’re pouring across. Why don’t the bloody Frenchies shoot? They must have seen us by now. If we keep this up the whole army will be across and not a shot fired.’

  Keane shook his head. ‘It’s beyond me.’

  But he knew that time was running out and cussed under his breath for their both having tempted fate. This was too good to last: a
frontal assault by boat in broad daylight against a position which overlooked the attack. Any moment now the French would see them, and then it would all be up.

  8

  Still standing on the cliff top, gazing down at the Douro, Keane realized with a start that he was wasting precious time. He turned to Ross. ‘Sarn’t Ross, we must fix the windows. Come on.’

  Together they ran back into the seminary to find Watkins already posting his men. Keane shouted to him. ‘Mister Watkins, place half a dozen of your men under Sarn’t Ross here. We need to use everything we can find to barricade the windows. Get them to rip out the floorboards, anything. We have to secure this place. Get the rest of your men down to the first-floor windows. We have to stop the French getting in. If they make any breach they’ll have us. I want to know if anyone sees a gun coming up. And if you see any gunners tell Martin, he’s the best marksman.’

  Within moments the sound of tearing wood and hammering filled the place. Everywhere men were pulling at panelling, boards, anything that looked as if it might move. They used the same nails and the butts of their muskets to hammer home the pieces of barricade. Keane walked from one window to another, inspecting their handiwork, testing its strength, making them do it again.

  The front gate he had left open, waiting for the two remaining boatloads of infantry. He was inspecting the fabric of the gates when there was a noise from the hill and around the corner of the wall appeared a dozen redcoats, led by a red-faced captain.

  ‘Captain Lawrence?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘James Keane, the Inniskillens. We were expecting you. Your ensign did well.’

  ‘Where are the French, Keane?’

  ‘We pushed them back into the city. But I don’t think we’ll have long to wait for their return. You have twenty-five men?’

  ‘Twenty-five, and a few others besides.’

  Tom Morris clasped him by the shoulder. ‘James, at last. We thought you dead.’

  ‘Not so soon, Tom.’

  Morris clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Truly, it is good to see you. And the others?’

  ‘Fine, unscathed for the most part. Garland is with you?’

  Morris nodded. ‘But not the girl. This can be no place for a woman.’

  ‘You’re right on that account. I tell you, the French morale may be low, if we are to believe Morillo, Tom, but they still fight like dogs when cornered.’

  There was shout from the tower, where Keane had posted Silver.

  ‘Sir, they’re coming again.’

  Keane turned and saw that a column of men were leaving the town. They marched in threes with a colonel at their head, in proper order, and behind them came a team of horses pulling an ammunition limber and a gun.

  ‘That’s bad. I knew it would only be a matter of time.’

  Keane turned to Lawrence. ‘Captain Lawrence, I presume you have no objection to my taking command?’

  Lawrence smiled. ‘I have no objection. I would imagine our commissions are of a similar time.’

  Keane hesitated. Protocol demanded he should admit that his was only a brevet rank. That he was in effect a mere lieutenant until confirmed by Horse Guards. But now was not the time to invoke protocol. He would play on Lawrence’s good nature.

  ‘Thank you, captain. Very well, I should be obliged if you would take your men and split them in two divisions. Post a dozen, with your best sergeant, up there.’

  He pointed to the two windows above them, which they had kept open as before. ‘Use them to shoot down into the French. The others we’ll keep down here under your own command. Be ready for the French when they break in.’

  ‘You think they’ll get in?’

  ‘Oh, I’m certain they’re going to get in. We’re going to let them in.’

  ‘We’re what?’

  ‘We’ll fire down on them and then when they think we’re beat we open the doors and let them have a full volley and then another one. How are you for ammunition?’

  ‘Fine. We’ve enough.’

  ‘Good. We’ll share it out between us all. How many men have you, all told?’

  ‘Steady on. That ammunition is recorded for us. Signed for from the stores. And I’m afraid I haven’t had a headcount.’

  ‘Well, let’s get one. And don’t worry about the damned stores. I’ll account for the ammunition. Give me a headcount first and then we’ll divide up the cartridges. Then we’ll know what we’re dealing with and we can measure the odds.’

  Lawrence stared at him, incredulous. ’You actually plan to open the gates?’

  ‘Yes. And I plan to kill the French. Now do as I ask. We need that headcount.’

  ‘Very well, Keane, but it’s folly, if you ask me.’

  The men had done a good job of repairing the main gate of the seminary. The locks proper had been blown off and the crossbar had snapped in the last struggle. But they had made a new crossbar by tying together several iron railings from the fence around the kitchen garden and this they had fastened between the brackets, both of which were still intact. It was almost impregnable.

  The French column was growing closer by the moment and Keane could see that once again they had sent out skirmishers. A cloud of them this time, deployed far in advance. The cannon had turned out of the column and pulled away to the right onto a piece of rising ground. Here the drivers were unfastening the limber while the gunners set about preparing their piece. Keane hoped that they would not use shell or case shot. Roundshot would be bad enough coming in on a high trajectory like a mortar. He wondered how clever their officer was. The column itself seemed stronger than before. These men, he noticed, were all in dark-blue coats without the white waistcoats of their earlier attackers. Light infantry. These were men who had been trained to fight fast, to get through difficult country and, importantly, to take buildings.

  *

  Just then there was another massive crash from the left bank of the river and Keane and the others watched as a salvo of black cannonballs flew into the air from the guns on a hill above the river. The first seemed for a moment to be coming directly towards them but then it appeared to slew away and head towards the French.

  It exploded in the air, close to the right flank in the centre of the French column. A short fuse, thought Keane, as he watched the red-hot metal rain down upon their heads, cutting shakos, bone and flesh like a heated knife going through butter. The French screamed as half a dozen men went down in a mess of gore, and the column stopped. Their officers turned and then another ball came in. Keane thanked God the British artillery on the heights by the seminary on the opposite bank had found their range. As he had known they would, the foremost files of the French dissolved in a panic-stricken mob and milled around the mutilated bodies lying in the carnage on the approach road.

  Morris was at his side.

  ‘How many men do you suppose we might have on this bank in the next hour, James? I mean, how many can come across?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, five or maybe six hundred men. Enough to persuade them to retreat.’

  ‘Enough, providing we can hold on here.’

  *

  They watched them come. Marching in column along the approach road they had used before, officers and skirmishers to the front. Keane yelled at Ross. ‘How many would you say this time, sarn’t?’

  ‘A good four hundred, sir. At least.’

  There was a shout behind him as Gilpin came running into the garden. ‘They’re coming up the other two roads from the west, sir. Captain Morris reckons there could be as many as a thousand of them.’

  *

  Ross appeared with a man, a soldier dressed only in a shirt and overalls, and dripping wet. ‘A runner, sir, from the commander-in-chief.’

  The man was drenched from head to foot. Keane looked at him. ‘You swam the river?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well done, man. Have you a message?’

  ‘Yes, sir, the general says to hold on. The 66th and 48th are on their way,
sir.’

  Keane nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you. That’s good news. Well done. There is no need for you to return. Best stay here with us. Get dried off and then get yourself a musket.’

  He looked at Ross. ‘Good news, then, sarn’t. Two battalions on the way to our relief.’

  Ross grinned. ‘Believe that and you’ll believe anything, sir. I’m sure they’re on their way right enough. But when are they going to get here, sir? In those boats? Not before Christmas.’

  Keane knew him to be right, but they had to believe, at least.

  He called to the men still outside the gates. ‘Right, get inside. Tom, that means you too.’

  Morris had been standing on a piece of rising ground observing the French gunners through a field glass. ‘It’s bad, James, but not as bad as it might be. A six-pounder. Why didn’t they bring up a howitzer? The fools.’

  ‘Don’t chastise them too much. That’s what we want, isn’t it? And it’ll be bad enough, won’t it? You had better get inside. All of you inside, now, and shut the gates.’

  Captain Lawrence appeared. ‘Captain Keane?’

  ‘Captain Lawrence?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry? What am I doing?’

  ‘You are closing the gates, sir.’

  ‘Indeed I am. Have you not see what is outside and coming in our direction?’