by Gale, Iain
They climbed steadily, looking around themselves all the time, fearful of the joint threat of the French and guerrillas. On and up they went, and as they did so night began to fall. It came on fast at this time of year and soon they were barely able to see in front of their horses’ hooves.
Morris turned to Keane. ‘James, this is the very wildest place to which you have brought us yet. Do you suppose we shall find shelter or do you propose that we should rest on the road?’
‘I think that we shall have no alternative but to do the latter. We might as well stop here as anywhere.’
And so they halted for the night on the side of the mountain. Ahead of them a wagon lay on its traces, where it had been left by the retreating French. They smashed some wooden planks from its chassis and Silver lit a fire. There was no point in trying to hide their presence, and the cold had set in. It was better, thought Keane, to die fighting even in an ambush than to perish horribly from cold on a hillside in the dark. They wrapped themselves in their blankets as best they could and settled for the night, one man taking a watch every four hours.
Keane woke with a start at dawn to find Garland asleep at his post. In normal circumstances this would have been a hanging offence or at least worth a damned good flogging, but these were not normal circumstances and Keane let the matter pass. He stood over Garland for a moment and then gave him a nudge with his foot, and the big man jolted into consciousness.
‘Sir, sorry, sir. That is, good morning, sir.’ Garland rose to his feet and picked up his carbine.
‘Good morning, Private Garland. You’ll be relieved to know that I took your watch for you. No enemies attacked us. You’ll be pleased to hear that we were not surprised and no one was killed. All of which is no thanks to you. Don’t do it again, Garland.’
‘Sir. Thank you, sir.’
Keane looked about them, taking in the terrain. They had stopped perhaps halfway up the mountainside, making camp a little to the right of the road which meandered around the contour. To their left was a cliff, dropping away some hundred feet to a plateau and then beyond that falling away again to the river, a silver line of water hundreds of feet below them. The litter of Soult’s army lay across the countryside but here at least there were no bodies. He walked across to the wrecked wagon from which they had taken last night’s firewood and saw that it was full of baskets that had once contained food.
They were all awake now. Morris asked, ‘Where on earth are we, James? Not Spain already, surely?’
‘No, the Spanish border is another fifty miles along this road, over those mountains. I don’t think we’ll be going that far. Soult must have abandoned his wagons before going into that.’ He pointed ahead towards the rising mountain range. ‘What do you think, captain?’
Fabier was with them now, looking in the same direction. He spoke without turning to Keane and there was a tone in his voice which Keane thought might have been fear as much as it might have been anticipation.
‘I think you are right, captain. I think we shall find your countrymen soon.’
11
The road to Montalegre, their destination and the spot at which they hoped to find the French, wound on and on, an interminable sequence of bends, climbing all the while, and the further they went, the more rugged the landscape became. All of them were weary, but it was Morris who spoke. ‘Surely, James, there is no way that Soult could have brought his wagons up this road? By God, just look at the place.’
Keane shook his head. ‘It could be done, Tom. You know that as an artilleryman. Think about where you can take your cannon. And look at the evidence.’ He pointed to the shakos and helmets discarded by the roadside. ‘The army has been through here, and with it the wagons. Look at those ruts carved into the road, Tom, and you’ll see that something passed this way, and not so long ago.’
It was true. They looked down as they rode on and through all the litter of the retreating army they could see that the road surface was pitted and split with grooves that could only have been made by iron-shod cartwheels. And the depth to which they had sunk into the earth attested to the fact that they had been carrying a heavy load.
Morris shook his head. ‘I still think we should treat his story with caution. We might be going nowhere. Or straight into a French trap.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Tom. Why would the French want to trap us? Five men?’
Morris’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t you see, James? We are intel-ligencing officers now. We are privy to Wellesley’s plans. Fabier knows that. He can see what we are doing in this country. Why we are here? Ask yourself that. Don’t you think that he might have had a notion to lead us towards his countrymen with the idea that we should be captured in turn? You heard from his own lips how fanatically devoted he is to Boney. Such a coup might further his own career and get him closer to his beloved emperor.’
Keane froze for a moment. How, he wondered, could he have been so stupid? The idea of taking all that silver, real or not, had run away with him and he had lost his senses. It was true. For once Morris had seen the obvious. Fabier might well have made a plan to betray them to the French. They were certainly of some use to them, and he could guess what methods the French might use to get information. Not as bad as the guerrillas, of course, but they were all of them in danger and he had put them there.
He turned to Fabier. ‘Captain, where do you suppose Marshal Soult will have abandoned his train?’
‘These hills are bad, captain. I do not think he can have taken the wagons much further. Look.’
They had just rounded a bend in the road, and as if to bear the Frenchman out, a panorama had opened up before them. There, stretching away into the distance, lay mountain after mountain. Keane knew that any French driver coming to this spot must surely have sighed in desperation and that any general worth his salt would have recognized that there was from here on no possibility of continuing with the baggage they were carrying. He wondered how far the train might have gone on without giving up and then realized that once again he had bought into Fabier’s story.
Fabier was talking. ‘He is making for Montalegre. Down in the plain on the other side of these mountains. He knows that once he gets there it is possible he will reach the Spanish border and save his army. If he can get the wagons across the mountains he will save them too and what they are carrying.’ He smiled. ‘But I have been here before, Captain Keane. I have carried dispatches across these mountains, from the emperor. I know this country. He will not make it. The men, yes, and the horses too. But nothing else. Believe me.’
Keane listened and nodded but his mind was elsewhere. He was trying to decide what might now be the best course of action. Should they go on with Fabier and test out the truth of his story, potentially risking themselves and the integrity of Wellesley’s plans? Or should he turn around and head back to Braga? But to do that would be to pass up the prospect of gaining the treasure, and he reminded himself just what it meant to the army, and not least to himself.
He looked out across the sierra and wondered, and tried to find in his mind some means of testing the hussar.
But there was none. At length he turned to Morris. ‘Tom, we’re going to go on. Captain Fabier is right. Marshal Soult is desperate to save what he can of his army and will do everything he can to get them into Spain and across the mountains. We have every chance of taking the wagons.’
Morris nodded. ‘Whatever you say, James. I have spoken my mind. It’s your decision.’
At Keane’s signal they began to trot on. He yelled at them all to put more into it and digging in their heels they moved more quickly along the top of the mountain plateau. They were higher now than Keane could remember having been ever before. Small bright mountain flowers grew by the roadside amid the discarded weapons and uniforms, and the bodies of the scattered dead lay incongruously in the meadows.
To their right lay a huge basin, enclosed by the mountains, and within it a lake that Keane had not noticed on his map. As they rode he ma
naged to extricate it from his valise and drew it in place. Martin saw him. ‘You’ll have sketched the whole of the Peninsula, sir, before you’re done.’
‘You may not be far from the truth, Martin. This map is hardly worth the paper.’
Morris interjected. ‘The engineers do what they can, James. Remember some of them are friends of mine. I was at Woolwich with them.’
‘They are engineers, Tom. They build bridges and storm fortresses. And they attempt to draw maps. There should be a quite separate department for that.’
‘Perhaps you are the man to found it.’
‘Perhaps, one day,’ said Keane, strapping the map back into his valise and giving his mount a pat on the neck. ‘At present I have one or two other things on my mind.’
An hour passed. Keane was growing worried. Perhaps after all Morris was right. Perhaps Fabier was lying and around the next bend they would stumble into the rearguard of Soult’s army. Perhaps any number of things. He had almost given up hope when at the bottom of a slight dip in the road they found a wagon. It had lost a wheel and half fallen on its side. The traces had been cut and the horses were long gone. Keane dismounted and was followed by Fabier and Morris. He walked across to the cart and saw that it still contained three wooden chests, all of them fastened with a lock. Two others similar lay with their lids open, the locks blown off, while another, he noticed, was lying smashed on the ground beside the useless cart.
Keane climbed up on the cart and yelled to the men. ‘Silver, come here. And bring your carbine.’
Silver handed the gun to Keane, who took the weapon and loaded it. Then, standing a little way off from the chest, he fired at the lock. The bullet struck between the metal and the wood and spliced the mechanism away from the chest. Keane put down the gun and knelt beside it. He opened the lid and looking inside saw a dozen or more green canvas bags, tied and labelled with the letter ‘N’ and an eagle. Grabbing one, he felt its weight, then opening it up he pushed in his hand and drew it out. In his fingers he held a shining silver crown. They gazed at it.
Morris spoke. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed.’
Fabier whistled. ‘I told you. He cannot take it. The road is too bad. This is only the first wagon. But look. Others have taken some already.’
The smashed chests told their own story but Keane did not care. His decision had been proved right and Fabier, it seemed, was no liar.
Silver, standing over Keane, stared wide-eyed. ‘Christ, there must be thousands in there.’
‘Yes,’ said Keane, ‘there must be. And if we do this right then you’ll get your share. You all will. You too, Captain Fabier.’
The Frenchman nodded. ‘Thank you, captain. I did not expect.’
‘You led us here. You deserve a share. Right. We need to hide this lot and then get on after the rest.’
‘Rest?’ queried Silver. ‘You mean there’s more of it, sir?’
‘Yes. Much more. If we’re quick and if we’re lucky.’
They carried the chests, one between two men, out of the wreck of the cart and into the thick bushes that grew beneath the conifers at the side of the road. Keane looked about them and spotted a small area of rough rocky ground in a clearing some fifty yards away. ‘Over there,’ he said, and after he had unstrapped his valise from his saddle and slung it over his shoulder, they carried the chests across and found that the rocks formed a sort of semicircular shelter. It was natural but it might have been man-made, and it was the perfect hiding place for the strongboxes. They hoisted the chests inside the stones and before they left Keane opened one of the bags and pulled out a handful of the coins and then another. He motioned to Silver to open the valise across his shoulder and emptied his hands into it, filling it with the silver crowns. ‘There,’ he smiled. ‘Now we’re equipped for anything.’
Remounting, they rode on and passed further evidence of the gradual breakdown of Soult’s retreating column. Cannon lay in the ditches where they had lost a wheel; limbers too and ammunition caissons, still packed with roundshot.
Morris shook his head. ‘If only I had a team up here. We’d have this lot back in the lines before you could whistle.’
There were no more wagons of treasure, though. But as they reached the top of an incline Keane held up his hand and made a sign to be silent. They could hear voices. Quite distant, but nevertheless distinct.
They sat motionless in the saddle and then Keane signalled for them all to dismount. They did so as quietly as they could, and leaving the horses with Garland, Keane went forward with Silver close behind him. Nearing the edge of the road, where it bent left to hug the cliff face, Keane dropped to his stomach and edged forward, followed by Silver. The road gave way to a steep slope which ran down for three hundred yards to a plateau beneath them, and there where the road turned back in on itself further down the mountain they saw a troop of French cavalry, hussars like Fabier, although from a different regiment, clothed in gaudy red with blue facings. They had pitched camp at the roadside, their horses tethered in an orderly line in the trees, and their leader, a stocky sergeant with a huge moustache, was drinking wine from a bottle, clapped on by a dozen of the men. What caught Keane’s eye, however, was that in the centre of the camp, just off the road, where it had toppled on its side, lay a wagon. And inside sat three large wooden chests.
He turned and was about to make his way back to the others when Silver spoke.
‘It’s the Frenchie, sir. The captain, sir. I don’t like it. It’s not right. He shouldn’t be with us, sir.’
Keane looked at him. ‘Thank you, Silver. I plan to keep Captain Fabier alive. It is my duty as an officer.’
Silver shook his head. Then, crouching, they made their way back to the others.
‘French hussars. Not your lot, captain. Scarlet uniform. Sky-blue facings.’
Fabier nodded. ‘The 9th. Yes, I know some of them. My father is their Colonel.’
Keane raised his eyebrows. ‘Indeed? I pray that he is safe. They seem to be without an officer. Deserters, most like. They’re a way off from the main body of the army, I’d guess, and they don’t much look like a rearguard. And they’ve found a wagon of the silver.’
‘How many of them?’ asked Morris.
‘A squadron, near as dammit. Eighty men at least, I’d say. Maybe more.’
Martin spoke up. ‘We could attack them, sir. Surprise and all that.’
‘No, even with surprise we’d be at too much of a disadvantage. It’s almost dark. We’d best wait up here overnight.’
They rode back to where they had left the silver and slept fitfully, conscious of the hussars’ presence such a short distance up ahead. Keane in particular had a poor night’s sleep. He was too conscious of Fabier, aware that, for all that the man had said, he must retain an allegiance of some sort to the cavalrymen on the plateau. He woke it seemed every hour and stole a look at the Frenchman, who all the while appeared to be asleep. The morning came cold and bright high in the sierra and they tried as best they could to rouse themselves and come to order. During the night Keane’s mind had wandered across the events of the day and what they might do next. He was in no doubt but that they must do something about the hussars. He toyed with the idea of having Fabier lead him and the others into their camp as his prisoners but dismissed it as being too perilous. There still existed in his mind the faint possibility that Morris might have been right about the man after all, and now he could hear Silver’s words ringing in his ears.
But the problem remained. How could five or at best six of them take on twelve times their number?
He decided that the only way to find out would be to return to the plateau. Something would become evident. And if it did not, then they would have to abort the operation and return to Wellesley. At least they had the contents of the hidden chests – whatever of it they were able to transport in their saddlebags.
He led the party along the road, walking this time and leading their horses to make as little noise as possible. On reachin
g the spot, he and Silver repeated their movements of the previous evening, crawling forward to the lip of the drop. Cautiously, Keane peered over the edge and saw nothing. The wagon was still there but the chests and the hussars had gone. It was as good as he might have hoped for. Standing up, he walked back to the others. ‘They’ve gone.’
Fabier raised an eyebrow. ‘Gone?’
‘Well, I doubt that they went to rejoin the army. But they’ve gone, anyway. Which means we can go on too.’
Now Silver spoke. ‘Sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful. But where are we going?’
‘We’re going to find the rest of that treasure. According to Captain Fabier, Marshal Soult is abandoning the whole lot. And I intend to claim it.’
‘Can I ask how much it is, sir?’
‘Fifty thousand silver crowns, so the captain says.’
Silver whistled. ‘Fifty thousand, sir. Blimey.’
Keane went on, ‘Yes. That must mean ten or a dozen chests at the very least. I don’t believe for a moment that we can get the lot. But I intend to take whatever we can, for the army. Mount up. I don’t want those hussars getting their hands on that silver before we do.’
They rode on down the road and onto the mountain plateau, and after another eight miles Keane stopped. ‘Did you hear that, Garland?
‘Sir?’
‘Up ahead. A noise. Like gunfire.’
‘No, sir.’
‘You, Martin?’
‘I heard something, sir. Couldn’t swear what it was.’
‘Silver?’
‘Yes. It sounds like muskets, sir.’
Keane thought for a moment. ‘No, not muskets, it’s … ’
Fabier interrupted. ‘Carbines. That’s French carbine fire. I’d know it anywhere. It’s the hussars.’
On Keane’s word they rode on quickly, anxious to find out what was happening. It must be the guerrillas, thought Keane. Cuevillas has caught up with them. He turned to Morris. ‘It’s Cuevillas. He’s attacked the hussars. He must have got wind of the silver. Damn him.’
