Keane's Company (2013)

by Gale, Iain

  Morris turned to him, talking as they rode. ‘James, do you realise that we have just managed utterly to fail in our mission. We have alienated Cuevillas’s guerrillas and all for the sake of saving the life of a Frenchman. Is that right?’

  ‘It’s certainly not an auspicious start, is it, but we still have to find Morillo. He’s the man Wellesley wants. Cuevillas is second-line stuff. Morillo is the prize. He’s the one whose head we have to turn.’

  ‘All the same, James, I do think we might have enlisted Cuevillas’s help, rather than arouse his enmity.’

  A commotion from behind them brought their conversation to a halt. Gabriella had began to gabble in Portuguese and Silver was trying to calm her. Heredia rode up to Keane and Morris.

  ‘She says that we’re mad, sir. That the banditti, Cuevillas’s men, will come and kill us in our sleep. That we should have left the French bastard there to be disembowelled. That he is no better than’ – he paused, trying to find the words – ‘than pig shit.’ He smiled and rode back into line.

  Keane turned and looked back at her. Silver was having a hard time of it and the hussar was trying to ignore her. Keane spoke to Morris. ‘Yes, I knew she’d be worried. But this hussar is definitely worth more than pig shit.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Once we get across these mountains, I’m sending three men back towards Oporto to meet up with Wellesley’s force. He’ll need to know what we learned from Cuevillas about Victor and Soult. Everything.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Safer. We need the intelligence to get through.’

  ‘While we go and find Morillo. I see.’

  Keane shook his head and smiled. ‘Not exactly, Tom.’

  ‘I thought that our orders were to return with the information and to ensure that Morillo will help against Ney.’

  ‘I intend to go on. You can join me if you wish, or go back.’

  Morris stared at him. ‘I’m not sure that I understand you, James. Where exactly are you going? What do you intend to do?’

  ‘I’m going with Captain Fabier, to find that treasure. The 50,000 crowns.’

  ‘Good God, are you serious? I thought that story about the weapons was just a tale to rescue Fabier. Surely, James, this goes directly against our orders, against Wellesley’s orders, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Perfectly. We need it.’

  ‘We do?’

  ‘The army needs it. Think about it, Tom. Wellesley is crying out for the payroll. And the French are leaving hundreds of thousands of crowns lying around the Portuguese countryside. It’s simple enough to work out what we have to do. The army is desperately in need of pay and supplies. Money like that could be the answer to all of the problems.’

  ‘I suppose you do have a point, James. But how do we know that he was telling the truth, not simply spinning a line to try to persuade us to rescue him from the guerrillas? And even if it is true, how on earth are we meant to take silver coin with four men? Silver coin? How on earth will you get it?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But I intend to try to get whatever I can. We might hide it somewhere and take what we can carry back to the army. I don’t know.’

  ‘And no doubt you’ll manage to take some for yourself too.’

  Keane shrugged. ‘There’s no point in leaving silver and gold to rot in these mountains when they can be put to good use. Whether that use be for the army or for ourselves. The booty of war, Tom. Fair shares.’

  ‘I’m not sure which is your stronger motive, James. Finding the money for Wellesley or lining your own pockets. You know that I am not entirely at ease with this kind of soldiering. It is not what I know and what I have learnt to do. In fact it is hardly like soldiering at all.’

  Keane’s tone was abrupt. ‘I have said already, Tom, that if it does not suit your character then you’d best rejoin your regiment. But that would be a pity.’

  ‘Old friend, do not think that it is your company that is at fault. It is merely that I find this life unfamiliar and unsettling. Of course I shall carry on with you. For the present, at least. And devil take the money. Wellesley will get his share.’

  Keane smiled. ‘Do you not know me that well, Tom? How could I be anything less than wholly patriotic? You will you come with us?’

  Morris laughed. ‘Can you think of one reason why I should not? Who will you send back?’

  ‘Sarn’t Ross can go, with Heredia and Gabriella. I’ll keep Silver, Gilpin and Martin. And Garland. We might be in need of some brawn and muscle.’

  *

  Together they rode on and Keane wondered whether he had done the right thing. Certainly he knew the money to be invaluable to the army, but in splitting his force had he not committed the cardinal sin of all wars? He wondered too whether Fabier might have been inventing the truth. Had Soult really left so much money in coin just because he was unable to take his wagons across the mountains? It seemed unlikely. But there again, in war everything was unlikely and anything possible.

  He also knew that Morris was right about one thing. That taking treasure, even from the French, was not a part of their orders. But surely, he reasoned, when such an opportunity presented itself and with the army in such a plight, who could possibly decide not to try, at least, to take what had become the spoils of war?

  He could not help but wonder, too, what a difference such a sum might make to his own life. At last, he thought, he would be able to attain the lifestyle that had been denied him all these years. Certainly he had been better off in the army than he would have been had he remained at home after the farm had failed. But the years of jibes from fellow officers, the pointing fingers and whispers in the mess when his bills had not been paid: all of these things weighed on his mind and he longed to be rid of them, longed more than anything now to be the gentleman he knew himself to be. The money might make that happen. Would make it happen. And then, he thought for a moment, even the accursed Blackwood would no longer have cause to doubt him, and what might have been merely a dalliance with the lovely Kitty might even become something more affirmed.

  He caught himself and swore and tore himself away from such thoughts, returning to the matter in hand.

  They were nearing the end of the gorge and before them through the tiny space of the defile he could see the expanse of the country spreading away into the distance like a vast tableau.

  Directly below them lay a village, and as they began to descend Keane could make out the church and a small square which seemed to have been etched into the very hillside, with the houses all around it set at curious angles. Beyond it the mountain range continued to their right, while on the left the plain stretched away towards a river and more mountains beyond. It was as if they were descending into a basin and he suspected that they would have to climb out of it again before they found Morillo.

  He half turned his head and called to Ross. ‘Sarn’t Ross, we’ll find billets here tonight.’ Morris was beside him. ‘You see that road that cuts across the plain, over there to the left. That’s the road to Braga. Tomorrow we’ll send the others off down there to find Wellesley. We’ll take that road.’ He pointed to a narrow road that ran away from the village and off to the north, skirting the high country and then eventually climbing back into the mountains. ‘I’ll wager that’s where we’ll find Morillo. And if I’m not mistaken, it’s also where the good Captain Fabier will lead us to Marshal Soult’s treasure.’

  *

  The village was no more than that, but to his surprise Keane found that they were welcomed by the villagers. He had not expected here such jubilation as they had experienced after Oporto, for it had never been the case in any of the more remote places they had passed through in this hard, mountainous country. As they rode in along the filthy narrow street, seeing the red uniforms people came slowly from the houses. A man came up to Keane and grasped him by the hand, muttering his thanks. A pretty teenage girl did the same to Morris, smiling and pressing a small white flower into his hand. Keane looked at him. �
�We would appear to have done something right, Tom. Soult must be moving faster than we had thought. They seem to think we’ve won the war already.’

  They found shelter at a little inn where the landlord plied them with the local wine and ham at his own expense, and later Keane asked him if he knew where Colonel Morillo might be found. But the man shrugged and said merely that he was somewhere in the mountains, and poured Keane another glass of wine.

  They slept well that night, and in the morning when Keane walked in to rouse Morris, he found him lying in his bed entangled with the lithe brown form of the village girl. Keane said nothing, but later, as they mounted up to rejoin the road, he saw her kiss Morris on the cheek and watched as his friend placed a small bunch of the little white flowers in his valise.

  He looked at them, the men he had led here, some of whom were now about to leave, and enjoyed a brief moment of self satisfaction. They had worked well thus far and had the makings of a good team. Even Morris, he thought, whom at first he had wondered might not be cut out for this life and be better suited to the line of battle, seemed to be becoming accustomed to their work.

  Leaving behind the village, which they had learned bore the name of Refovos de Bastil, they rode across the plain for some five miles until they reached a fork in the road. Keane called them to a halt and had them dismount.

  ‘I’m dividing the command. Sarn’t Ross, you will take Gilpin. Ride west, along there.’ He pointed down the road that snaked away to the left across the plain.

  Ross looked at him, raising an eyebrow. ‘If you’ll pardon me, sir, is it wise to split ourselves?’

  Keane stared back. ‘Sarn’t Ross, much as I value your wisdom and agree that in other circumstances it might be unwise, this time I would ask that you accept my order.’ He pointed again. ‘That leads to Braga. It’s about thirty miles. But don’t stop if you can help it. I don’t think you’ll find any French, or any guerrillas, come to that. Keep going as fast as you can and you’ll encounter General Wellesley and the army. Find Major Grant and tell him that we have gone to find Colonel Morillo. Tell him that Marshal Victor has abandoned Amarante and that Soult is leaving his baggage train as he goes. Tell him that Cuevillas is in the Sierra Cabrera with maybe four hundred guerrillas. And give him these papers.’

  He unslung the hussar’s leather valise from his own saddle and handed it to Ross, who attached it to his own then turned back to Keane. ‘Should we not take Captain Fabier himself, sir?’

  ‘No, Ross, I don’t think there’s any need for that yet. He might be of use to us. Besides, it would only complicate matters. Just say that we were given his papers by Cuevillas. You had better let Major Grant know that Captain Cuevillas does not seem overkeen to work with us. Tell him that we cannot fully depend upon him and his men. Oh, and you had better take the girl.’ He motioned to Gabriella to join them and Silver explained to her what was happening. She shook her head and Silver spoke again, and then, after kissing him, she led her horse across to Ross.

  Keane waited with Morris, Martin, Silver, Garland, Heredia and the hussar and watched with hope and concern the small party of riders as they made their way westwards towards the distant hills to the east of Braga. He prayed that they would get through quickly and then he turned his horse and led them away to the north, towards the mountains.

  Keane knew that Ross would be less than happy to be sent back, but there was nothing else for it. But he could not see the smile that played across the features of one member of the sergeant’s party.

  Heredia’s heart had lifted. They were riding back to Wellesley and now here was his chance to find a man at the very heart of the allied army. A man whom, given the opportunity, he somehow intended to kill. Heredia had thought initially that, having been released, he might make good an escape from his benefactors, although he did have a sense of gratitude. But it had not taken long for the reality of his new situation to dawn upon him. He had not, of course, told Keane anything of the truth of the situation within the staff. The man might have released him for special duties, but why should he have been any readier to believe him than any of the others with whom he had already pleaded? Indeed, for all Heredia knew, to repeat his allegations of treason against a British officer might have jeopardized his new situation. And the natural urge to escape had soon subsided as his overpowering sense of self-preservation was outweighed by the need for revenge. And now it seemed as if that need might be satisfied. There was too though, a sense, since he had joined Keane, of being a part of something and, for the first time in his life, Heredia actually felt welcomed by his comrades. It was a pleasant sensation and whatever the outcome of his quest, something within him hoped that it would last.

  *

  After a few miles Keane and his party arrived at a river. Keane drew out his map and spoke to Morris. ‘This is the Cavado. It runs out to the sea from the mountains. It’s the marker between the plain and the hills.’

  They crossed at the town of Pontenova and made north-east along the road. The mountains rose directly ahead of them now like an insurmountable barrier with their high peaks disappearing into the clouds. Silver spoke. ‘Please don’t tell me, sir, that we’re heading into that lot.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s exactly where we’re heading, Silver. Right to the top.’

  At Saltador, the last village marked on Keane’s map, they began to climb and once again they found themselves on a winding mountain road with a river running below to their left.

  Slowly, as they rode on, Keane began to notice something curious about the road. It was littered with items of clothing. A French shako lay at the roadside. He reined in his horse and dismounted, walking over to pick it up. Morris rode across to him. ‘French?’

  Keane nodded. ‘Yes, 43rd infantry of the line.’ He examined the red felt binding which ran around the rim of the crown and the red feather above the brass eagle. ‘Belonged to a Grenadier. I think we’ve found Soult’s army, Tom. What’s left of them.’

  They rode on, and as they went, the amount of abandoned clothing increased. There were packs now and knapsacks. Some of them appeared to have been torn open by other passing fugitives and their contents fluttered across the road in a sad parade of forgotten owners. Letters and clay pipes lay scattered around. It looked, thought Keane, not unlike the aftermath of a battle, with the field strewn with the possessions of the dead. The only things missing were the bodies.

  But a few hundred yards further along the road, he was proved wrong.

  The corpse lay at the side of the road contorted in the agony of death. It was that of a Frenchman, an infantryman, and its form, otherwise emaciated, had a bloated stomach and staring, sightless eyes. It showed the signs of dysentery.

  ‘Disease,’ said Morris. ‘If that takes hold in the army then Soult won’t just be leaving Portugal behind him.’

  Keane knew the cost of disease. He had seen it in Egypt. An entire brigade wiped out by typhus. Napoleon’s own army had succumbed to the plague out there and he had run back to France, leaving his men to rot at Jaffa.

  Disease could do more to an army than any amount of roundshot and ball. Keane shuddered and fancied for a moment that he might be breaking into a fever himself, but he was sure it was only the suggestion of the dead Frenchman. They rode on and every so often passed another corpse. The stench of death haunted their route and Keane wondered how long it might be before they found any clues as to the whereabouts of the abandoned train. He did not imagine for a moment they would find it wholly without a guard. You simply did not leave such a vast amount of money in the middle of a road in an enemy country. Or perhaps that was just what you did. It was such a curiously unimaginable situation that he found it hard to understand how any commander could do such a thing. But in despair he supposed you might do anything. And clearly Soult was in that position now. The litter on the road told him that. Particularly now, for as they advanced past the corpses and detritus, they began to see more abandoned weapons. This was surely an army no
longer.

  Their little group stuck closer together now. A retreating army was a dangerous thing and they had to be ready for a surprise attack. He called over to Morris. ‘Tom, we need to keep our wits about us. There’s no telling what these French will be up to. They’ve lost all their discipline. That’s clear. Just keep your eyes open.’

  But there was no sign of any renegade French, nor indeed of any more guerrillas.

  Fabier, who had given his parole as an officer not to escape and knew that in fact to do so would be to court death at the hands of the guerrillas, was riding behind Keane and Morris and just in front of Silver. Now, after a long silence, he spoke. ‘It is sad, is it not. That these brave men, my countrymen, should die in such a way. They came here to fight for their emperor and to die if they must on the field of glory. But look at them now. Condemned by a useless general to die at the roadside like beasts.’

  ‘You are not overly impressed by your Marshal Soult?’

  ‘He is not the emperor. He has no love for his men. He uses them like pieces on a chessboard and if he has to lose them he loses them, no matter how. The emperor would not do that. He cares for us all. And we would willingly die for him.’

  Keane was impressed. ‘You really believe that? You believe that he cares about every one of you?’

  ‘Yes. I know it. And when he finds out what Soult has done, the Marshal will have hell to pay.’

  Keane laughed. ‘If I thought for a moment that General Wellesley cared for all of us, I would cease to have faith in him. Surely a general has greater things to concern himself with than the welfare of his men? Funny how we are so different, isn’t it?’

  *

  They rode on for another two hours and took the road that stretched high up towards the north. A river flowed alongside the highway. It was called the Cavado, according to Keane’s map, which by now he was attempting to re-draw at every possible opportunity.