by Gale, Iain
‘Can I help it if your general forgets to make provision to pay his own men?’
Keane was losing his patience but refused to be drawn. ‘You gave a thousand to Cuevillas.’
Morillo shrugged. ‘What else could I do? I don’t want to start another war. We have one already.’
‘So why not reward us? If I return to General Wellesley empty-handed, don’t you think that he might draw the wrong conclusions about your loyalty? Conclusions I myself have drawn from our conversation. I would not want to suggest that you will not support him. Unless, of course, that is what you wish me to convey.’
Morillo’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Keane. ‘You are a clever man, Captain Keane. You might not have realized that my men were following you, but you do appear to know my thoughts. Yes, I do intend to help General Wellesley. It is in the interest of Spain.’
And not least in your own interest, thought Keane. Morillo was no fool. Keane knew he was aware that whenever this war ended, when they had finally pushed Boney from Spain there would be rich pickings for the victors. Cuevillas couldn’t see past the nose on his face. He was only in it for the short term. But Morillo was playing the long game. He smiled, as a plan began to form in his mind.
‘That is very good to hear, colonel. Very good news. So you will hold off Marshal Ney while we push on after Soult?’
‘If that is what is required now, then I will do it.’ He paused.
Keane spoke. ‘And what of the money? I cannot return empty-handed.’ And then, almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘You seem like a sporting man, colonel. What would you say to a game of cards?’
12
They did not linger long on the battlefield. The guerrillas had buried their own dead and had thrown the French into a gravel pit by the side of the road, which they covered with bushes.
‘There’s no point in trying to bury them. And they don’t deserve it. The animals will get them anyway,’ said Morillo. ‘We have wolves in these parts. In just a few days they will be nothing more than a heap of stripped bones and tatters of cloth.’
Keane looked for Fabier but luckily the hussar captain was out of earshot.
They camped with the Spaniards that night beyond the Tamega on the outskirts of the little town of Montalegre. Approaching it, Keane had been struck by a sense of foreboding. High above the houses rose the huge mass of the old town’s ruined medieval keep. It must have been over eighty feet tall and for all its crumbling condition it still appeared threatening. It stood like something from a Romantic novella, the sort he had mentioned to Ross. And it was perhaps because he shared Keane’s sense of its sinister presence that Morillo had chosen not to make his headquarters in the keep, but here, away from the town, on the plateau. Morris and Keane messed with Morillo, the others on their own, making sure that they kept the guerrillas as far away as possible from Captain Fabier, who had been as good as his word.
The guerrillas stood guard over the silver, which they had carried here by pack mule, and as they ate Keane thought of the promised game of cards. Morillo, he thought, seemed less on his guard, and Keane wondered whether he really did mean that he was now an ally of the British. He thought back to the savagery of their first encounter. He had been appalled too by the callous way in which the colonel had instructed his men to give no quarter to the French wounded. But he was not surprised. Up here in the mountains it was easy to forget for a moment the atrocities that Boney’s armies had committed, were committing even now down in the towns, valleys and plains of Portugal and Spain.
Morillo laughed and talked of Spain and his love for its people, its culture and its food, and Keane saw a different man. Perhaps the man he had been before the French had come. They dined like kings on local hams and sausages, cheeses, pork and strong red wine.
He wondered in fact if Morillo might be trying to get him drunk before their card game and to begin with merely sipped at his glass. But he soon gave in and drank with the others. Keane had a name in the mess for his hard head and tonight was surely no different.
From the direction of where his men were seated around their own fire he could hear music. Silver was singing. The man had an ear for music, born of his days at sea, perhaps, and as melodious a voice as any that Keane had heard in twenty years of soldiering. The tune he sang now was one of his favourites, ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’. It seemed a little strange to hear it up here in the hills, away from the rest of the army, particularly as at the same time in another part of the camp one of Morillo’s men was playing a guitar. The lilting strains of some Spanish tune mixed now with Silver’s offering. It was curious, thought Keane, how both seemed to mesh together. It might almost be, he thought, a metaphor for the alliance of the two nations against Boney. Yet at the same time there was something not quite right about the sound, for beneath each of the tunes lay its own distinct character, and the more he listened, the more he seemed to notice the discord. Perhaps, he thought, that is what is wrong with the alliance. Perhaps we simply don’t understand one another’s characters. Perhaps we are just too different.
Morillo brought him back to the present and he took another gulp of wine. ‘So, Captain Keane, are we going to play cards for this silver? Are you prepared to lose?’
Keane smiled. ‘I rather think that it will be the reverse, colonel.’
‘You seem very confident. Do you have a reputation?’
Keane turned to Morris. ‘Do I, Tom? Would you say that I had a “reputation”?’
‘James. You are quite aware that you do. Colonel, I may as well admit to you that Captain Keane here is well known as not only the best but indeed the luckiest card player in the British army.’
Morillo laughed. ‘Well, this time he has met his match. What is your game, captain? You choose. Like a duel, eh? What shall we play? Bassett? Hombre?’
Keane shook his head. ‘You mean quadrille, I think, colonel. No, neither of those. Bassett is far too polite for this company.’
Morillo laughed. Keane went on. ‘What then, shall we play?’ He smiled. ‘I have it. Pharo.’
‘Pharo?’
‘Do you refuse my choice, colonel?’
Morillo looked nonplussed. ‘But for Pharo we need a banker and a box and I’m afraid that you would not trust my men, nor I yours.’
‘But we have Captain Fabier. He has no side.’
Morillo thought for a moment. ‘Very well, captain. As you wish. We shall play Pharo.’
*
It took half an hour to assemble the gaming table, which Morillo’s men fashioned from five planks salvaged from the carts set on trestles made from the axles. This, with a fine sense of irony, they had draped with a French tricolour they had found among the wreckage.
The betting shoe they had made from a split ammunition case and it sat at one side of the table, guarded by Fabier who had been persuaded to act as banker. Keane smiled to himself as he thought again of how in Morillo’s mind the captain must be unbiased. Only he had been privy to the hussar’s true thoughts and concerns about the fate of the money. In Fabier’s mind the worst thing that could happen to the silver would be that it should pass to Morillo, and Keane rested in the knowledge that the Frenchman would do everything in his power to assist him in winning the game.
Besides, Keane had a few tricks of his own learned in the mess. He remembered something that an old colonel had once told him when, still an ensign, he had taken up the older man’s invitation to a hand of piquet. ‘Only a fool trusts to luck when playing cards, my boy. You must learn to cheat gracefully.’
Morillo interrupted his thoughts. ‘You’re a brave man, Captain Keane.’
‘Not brave, colonel. Just confident.’
‘As long as you don’t feel lucky. Luck is no friend of the card player, captain. You should surely know that.’
Momentarily dumbfounded by the fact that the man seemed to have read his mind, Keane recovered. ‘I never trust to luck, colonel.’
Morillo leered. ‘Still sure that yo
u want to play?’
Keane nodded. ‘Of course. More than ever.’
Fabier intervened. ‘Very well, gentlemen.’ He sprang a new pack of cards and spoke in the tone of a true Paris croupier. ‘Bank, gentlemen!’
On the table lay two piles of coins. Not the silver crowns but pennies, acting as tokens, each of them representing 200 crowns. To the right of both Keane and Morillo sat a dummy player, in Keane’s case Morris, each with their own pile. Fabier prepared to deal.
The cards flew from his hands and Keane turned his. He looked at it and moved three pennies into the centre of the table. The others drew their cards and each placed a stake, Morillo last. He turned his card as they all did and Keane groaned inside, beaten in the first hand by the colonel.
They played again and again until Keane had lost four times.
Morris looked at him in alarm. Keane reckoned his losses and called on the next card: ‘Four thousand crowns.’
Morillo’s eyes widened. ‘You are indeed a brave man, captain.’
Keane said nothing, although he saw Fabier look at him and make a sign with his eyebrow, lowering it. It was the subtlest of all movements but it was enough for Keane to know that Morillo had low cards in his hand. That this was the time to bet. He called again. ‘No, in fact I’ll double that lest you doubt my bravery. Eight thousand.’
There was a gasp from around the table. Morris said, ‘James?’
Morillo smiled at him. ‘Very well. Captain Fabier, cards.’
Keane gazed at the backs of Morillo’s tanned and weather-beaten hands as they held his cards and looked across at those of Fabier, holding the rest of the pack in the shoe.
He wondered for a moment whether he was mad. He had just bet a greater sum of money than he had had in his possession for years, money that would have bought back the family farm and kept them all together and healthy for decades. And he was playing cards for it with a man who was undoubtedly one of the biggest rogues in the Peninsula. Gambling more than a sixth of the treasure on the turn of a single card.
For an instant reason took hold and had him ask himself how he had come to this. And he wondered too how, should he lose, he would explain his predicament to Wellesley and the others. But reason was the enemy of the gambler.
He watched Fabier’s hands and waited. Had time to observe the thick dark hair that grew on their backs and the old scar, a duelling cut perhaps, that adorned the left. Then the hands shot out and dealt the cards left and right. Morillo’s man looked at his hand and threw it down before standing up and walking away from the table. Morris looked sanguine and said nothing. Morillo shrugged and laid down his cards. ‘I don’t think you’ll beat that, captain.’
It was a low hand, and just low enough. Fabier had indeed been signalling. Keane laid down his own cards.
‘I win, I think, colonel.’
Morillo gasped. ‘You win once. Once only when you play with me, captain. Bank.’
He took a sip of wine. ‘I have no idea how you managed that, captain. Luck is fickle. Of course I would never accuse you, although I do hear that sharp practice is not unknown in the British army. I advise you to be careful.’
Keane reddened. ‘And I would advise you the same, colonel.’
Fabier stopped them. ‘Gentlemen, come now. We are men of honour. We would not indulge in such practices. Colonel, captain, I thank you. Enough. Now, another hand.’
‘Deal then,’ said Morillo, through gritted teeth.
‘Yes, deal if you will, captain,’ said Keane, wanting to appear equally furious.
Morillo looked at the pack, eyeing up the cards suspiciously as if he knew the card that was at the top. Keane watched him.
The Spaniard spoke. ‘Damn. Damn that card.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Keane. ‘I’m sure you have another chance. You were not trusting in luck, surely, were you, colonel?’
‘Damn luck. You have the devil on your side, Captain Keane,’ said Morillo, knowing that he had lost again. And once again Fabier began to deal.
*
It surprised Keane that it took as long as an hour for the other two players at the table to lose all interest in their own chances. All eyes now were on Keane and Morillo. Men had come from throughout the camp to gather around the table, jostling for a view, with Keane’s men to the front.
Beside both of the men lay a slip of parchment, on the reverse of which had been written the orders given to the dead French commander of the wagon train.
Now each of them bore a list of figures, written in pencil.
Where before there had been five hundred, two thousand and four thousand crowns, now the figures lay in their tens of thousands and while Keane’s stopped at ten, Morillo’s was touching forty.
Morillo looked like a man possessed. His eyes were staring wildly and the sweat hung heavy on his forehead. On the table beside the cards stood two glasses and two bottles of wine. Fabier, cool as ever, held the cards in his tanned, hairy hands and dealt them fast.
‘Gentlemen, bank and deal.’
They declared. Morillo screamed, ‘The knave.’ He paused then. ‘All right. Double or quits … No!’
Keane picked up his cards and handed them to Fabier and as he did so he saw Morillo stare at him as if he was trying to read his mind again. It was almost over.
He thought to himself, he knows now that he’s lost. That he cannot make me lose it all now. Why doesn’t he just give up? Is it to save face?
And Morillo sat opposite him, hating him more with every moment and wondering quite how the Irishman had done this to him. Gone was the coolness of the early evening. Gone the bragging and bravado. He had seldom been beaten in cards. Not once in ten years, and now this. Keane must be cheating. Surely it was the only explanation. But to call him a cheat would be to challenge his honour and incur a duel, and he had seen enough of Keane in battle to know that a duel was something he did not want with this tall redcoat. And so it must be, he thought, that I shall lose the silver. He felt the sweat beading on his forehead and realized that he must look terrible. Like a man about to lose. He tried to regain his composure, determined that his men must not see him like this. That even if he did lose the silver, he must still retain his dignity. If he did not have that then he would surely lose their respect. In a game of cards fortune was your mistress. He must show that he was beyond this great loss, that he was the greater man.
After all, he still had the 150,000 francs he had taken at Vigo. And he had his men and his freedom and his kingdom in the mountains. And what did Keane have? He’d be lucky if he got away from Spain with his life. He smiled and Keane saw it and in his turn wondered what might be going through Morillo’s mind.
Fabier spoke. ‘It would seem, colonel, that the score against you is now a little in excess of 50,000 crowns. Have you the means by which to pay Captain Keane?’
Morillo glared at the Frenchman and for a moment Keane wondered whether he might order one of his men to kill the hussar and whether in the heat of the moment they might not all be at risk. But he reasoned that Morillo was an intelligent man, more intelligent then Cuevillas certainly, although equally callous.
‘It would seem that you have won, Captain Keane, though how, I do not know. You may take the money. Whatever of it you can find here in the camp. I do not think by any means that we have the full amount.’
Keane thought of the boxes they had hidden on the road above the skirmish. ‘No, I dare say some must have got away. But thank you, colonel. You are most sporting.’
He stood, as if to leave, and paused. ‘Perhaps I have a proposition for you. What if I suggested that you keep half the silver?’
Morillo looked puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘In return, I would need you to make a solemn promise to me that you will mobilize all the men you have in this area, Cuevillas’s men too and any others, and prevent Marshal Ney from coming across to aid Soult. Can you do that?’
Morillo stared at him. ‘You are an extraordinary man, Capt
ain Keane. First you beat me at cards, by what means I do not know. And now you offer me back the silver to become your ally.’
Keane thought that he might have gone too far. Might he have offended Morillo’s honour? ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to cause you offence. It was merely a gesture of goodwill. Between allies.’
There was a pause. And then slowly, Morillo’s moustachioed face broke into a grin. ‘Of course I am not offended. I am flattered that you would consider such a thing. Besides, I would be a fool to refuse. I will accept your offer. I will undertake the task and Marshal Ney will see that his master has made a grave mistake in thinking he can defeat the Spanish people. And in the morning we will pack your treasure on mules and send you back to your general. Now, though, come. Have a drink. We are allies, after all, are we not?’
*
Morillo was as good as his word. Early the following morning, a short while after the sun had broken over the sierra with the promise of a long, hot day, Keane led his men out of the guerrilla camp and back towards the south. They rode in single file and behind each man, tethered to the back of his saddle, walked a pack mule, hung with panniers into which Morillo’s men had loaded half of the French silver.
The mountains seemed less forbidding now and the prospect of rejoining the army gave them the drive to move quickly as they climbed towards the clearing where they had hidden the two remaining boxes. They dismounted and, moving quickly lest they might be observed, uncovered the boxes. Keane knew that the only way to carry the extra silver was to distribute it among the panniers, but as the men prepared to carry the bags from the broken boxes, he stopped them.
‘Wait a moment. How many bags are there here, Tom? What would you say?’
‘There must be ten bags in each of the boxes.’
‘Yes. And in each bag how much?’
‘Four hundred, perhaps five hundred crowns.’
‘And if each of us should carry one of those bags in our own baggage? That would leave?’
‘Fifteen bags, of course. James, what are you talking about?’
