Keane's Company (2013)

by Gale, Iain

  They were standing now, allowing the Spanish infantry to get ahead again, and Keane was in mid flow when the clatter and jingle of the harness and sabre of the Spanish cavalry announced their presence on the flank. Tucked into the hillside, Keane and his men watched them pass below them on the road, the dust from the hooves obscuring them momentarily before they emerged in a panoply of colours, plumes and sashes. They were most like the French, he agreed with Silver. Certainly in one aspect. For while the British army dressed itself principally in red and dark blue, with the rifles of course in their green, the Spaniards and Portuguese seemed to have embraced the very sunshine of their countries. They were a riot of colours, as likely to blend into the landscape as a virgin in a brothel.

  Garland whistled quietly so as not to be heard – not that he would have been, above the din. ‘What a sight, sir. If they fight as good as they look the Frenchies should be running for Paris.’

  ‘Let’s pray that the French think so.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It’s show, Garland. Like Boney’s men. Designed to strike fear into the heart of an enemy. But you could give me a platoon of redcoats for both those armies put together.’

  Keane realized that they must be in danger of being observed themselves. He held up his hand to signal a halt and together they pulled up their mounts. They had become accomplished at reading the terrain, and although Keane would not have claimed they were even approaching the skills of the guerrillas, they all knew how to hug a contour and to attempt the impossible – making yourself invisible against the landscape. This they now set out to do, and were soon moving more cautiously, still able to observe the army below them.

  They had been riding for perhaps two hours when he began to perceive that the force below them had become fragmented, strung out on the line of march. While the bulk of the Spanish infantry could be seen away to their right in a dust cloud, the regiment of cavalry they had been shadowing had ridden forward and in so doing lost contact with the bulk of the force. Too far, he reckoned, leaving the infantry’s flank exposed and creating a dangerous gap between them and the following unit, a brigade of Portuguese infantry. He reined in, and taking his eyeglass from the valise, put it to his eye and scanned the road below them and to the rear. As he had suspected, there was the lead battalion of Portuguese, and he could see that they had become detached from the others, labouring to catch up with the Spaniards, who had taken a path wide of the designated route.

  He turned to Morris and handed him the glass. ‘Look at that. Whoever is commanding has no conception of how to conduct a route march. They’re strung out. Quite broke up. If Marshal Victor’s scouts are out there they’ll have a field day, Tom.’

  Morris kept the glass to his eye and looked at the white-coated column of Spanish marching across away from them. Then he brought it round and found the Portuguese. Finally he looked at the Spanish cavalry, trotting away to their left, and as he did so he saw something else. Something that made his heart stop.

  ‘James, over there. Look.’

  He handed the glass back to Keane, who raised it and focused on the Spanish dragoons. Then he turned it to where Morris had indicated. ‘Oh, Christ. Where the deuce did they come from?’

  There in the circular frame of the glass he could make out a score or more of green-coated French dragoons, their gold helmets flashing in the sun. And there were more on their heels. And they were making directly for the flank of the hapless Spanish cavalry.

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Nothing. We can do nothing. We’re too far away to let them know in time. Besides, remember: we’re not meant to be here.’

  ‘Well, we can’t just watch. It’s as it was with the hussars, James. They’ll cut the poor devils to ribbons.’

  ‘And what can we do? Tom, we are eight men. What effect could we have?’

  They watched, powerless to act, as the French dragoons neared the flank of the Spanish. Keane could almost feel the sabres slashing into flesh; see the horror in the faces of the Spanish cavalry as they realized what was happening and the blades began to rise and fall before they had a chance to react.

  He was aware that in the distance, beyond where the Spanish cavalry were being butchered, another unit, a white-coated battalion of Spanish infantry, was running hell for leather away from the fight. In any other circumstance, he thought, the commander of the dragoons would surely have ordered his men to take out this easier and more numerous prey. But it was too late for that now. The French dragoons were fixed on destroying the Spanish cavalry and nothing would stop them.

  In an instant, he spun round in the saddle.

  ‘Wait, it might just work. Well, it’s worth a try, anyway.’ He looked at Morris. ‘Tom, we may not be able to help those poor Spanish buggers but we can do something here. Come on.’

  Turning his horse, Keane spurred her forward and down the slope, breaking cover. Morris looked round at Ross and the others. ‘I’m as nonplussed as you. God knows what he’s doing, but we have to follow him. Come on.’

  Morris dug his spurs into the flanks of his mount and she careered away after Keane, followed by the others. He could see Keane ahead of him and his friend seemed to be making for a unit of blue-coated Portuguese infantry who had halted up ahead. Morris thought that he saw his plan.

  Keane was almost with the Portuguese now and the rear ranks had heard him and turned to see what was approaching. The brown-coated figure looked friendly enough. His sword was sheathed, but he was calling out to them in English, which none of them was able to understand. One of them called to an officer who came riding down the flank of the column. The man pointed and the officer stared at Keane in wonder. Keane was nearer now.

  ‘Dragoons. French dragoons,’ he shouted, first in English then in Spanish, but his words were lost on the wind. The officer tried in vain to read his lips. Finally the words reached his ears and he stared in alarm. Keane was pointing now towards the dragoons, and the man turned in the saddle. Where the Spanish cavalry had been was now a mass of billowing dust as the French horsemen collided with their prey. Both men looked on in horror as the air filled with the screams of wounded and dying men. The sun flashed on the falling blades and Keane’s nightmare image became a ghastly reality.

  Keane was the first to come out of the trance. ‘French dragoons. The cavalry have no hope. You must form square.’

  The Portuguese captain turned to him. ‘You’re English. I didn’t recognize your uniform.’

  ‘Captain Keane. I’m on the staff. Can’t explain now. These are my men.’ He pointed to his rear, knowing that the others would be close behind. ‘Captain, you must form square. When the dragoons have done with the Spanish they’ll come after you. Form square and we’ll make them pay.’

  The captain suddenly snapped into action and began to shout to his men. Sergeants and NCOs moved fast, pushing and dragging the men into line, although Keane was surprised and impressed by the way in which they moved.

  ‘Fazer quadrado.’

  The words rang out and within a few minutes the column was beginning to establish the only formation in which they would be able to withstand the onslaught of enemy cavalry. But this, Keane knew from his own experience, was the critical moment. If the French dragoons closed with them now, as they were engaged in the complex manoeuvre of forming a square, the Portuguese would have even less of a chance than if they had been caught in column or line. They were unformed, merely a mass of moving men, a crowd milling around and attempting to form up. He signalled to the others and they closed up with him. Then, moving away from the Portuguese, he positioned himself and his small command directly between the confused infantry and the massacre going on in the road up ahead. There must be a full regiment of French dragoons up there now, he thought. Close on five hundred men, perhaps, and more than enough to make short work of both his own men and the infantry. But if they could just buy the Portuguese a few moments more then they would be well-nigh invincible. It was these seconds an
d minutes now, as the dragoons grew tired of their shattered prey and began to focus on another, that were crucial. Elements of the French were sure to spy the Portuguese infantry and to gallop across, hungry for further blood. If he and the others could only hold them off until the manoeuvre was complete …

  Sure enough, as he looked on figures began to appear from the cloud of dust and the heaving mass of bodies. Green-coated and shining-helmeted, they paused for a moment at the edge of the melee and then began to trot towards Keane and his men. He called down the thin line of horsemen. ‘Steady. Hold steady. We must hold here and see these fellows off, before the others join them. Then get into the square. Draw sabres.’

  As one the men drew swords from their scabbards and brought them to rest on their shoulders, as they had been taught. Keane, more used to looking down a line of bayonet-topped muskets, felt strangely proud now as he surveyed the rank of his improvised cavalry. Behind them the Portuguese were a mass of movement, desperately hurrying to complete their formation change. Keane called again, watching the Frenchmen as they increased their pace from trot through canter to gallop. He could see their faces now, mouths open in shouts of attack, eyes mad with bloodlust. ‘Ready, trot.’

  He knew that they would have to be moving when the dragoons hit them and hoped there would be time. ‘Gallop.’ They moved quickly, changing pace, and he congratulated himself on their speed. He could make out the French uniforms now, the leopard skin on one of the saddles denoting an officer. There were eight of them, the first to break from the melee. Keane called out again and as he did so pushed Rattler on towards the enemy. ‘Come on. With me.’

  The dragoons had levelled their swords in the classic French attack but Keane and his men kept their sabres at the present, in the English fashion. At ten yards out the ground beneath him moved with the pounding of the hooves. At five yards he saw the horses’ breath and smelt the sweat and fear of the dragoon who was making directly for him. And then the man was upon him. Keane struck at the point of the Frenchman’s sabre and deflected it away with all his might. The man followed it and careered into him, almost sending him flying from the saddle. But Keane held on and with a swift single action retrieved his blade and brought it down on the left side of the dragoon’s body, cutting him at the shoulder. The man screamed and looked in disbelief at the blood spurting out from his mangled limb. Keane struck again, cutting at the man’s belly, and the dragoon toppled from his horse, one top-booted foot caught in the stirrup. Keane did not linger, but reined Rattler round to hit the flank of another dragoon who had raised his sword in a fight with Silver, whose counterstroke was nicely parried by the Frenchman. But he had not seen Keane and the force of the assault caught him off guard. Silver found his moment and the long, razor-sharp blade of his sword slipped quickly into the man’s chest, penetrating his heart.

  Silver smiled and Keane pulled away from the dead man, who slumped over the pommel of his saddle. He saw Morris take a cut to the lower arm and pull back and then, notwithstanding the wound, deliver an expert uppercut at the assailant’s chin, cleaving it in two. Garland looked to be in trouble and was being attacked by two dragoons. Keane shouted to Silver, ‘Help him,’ and glanced at the melee. More shapes were appearing from the crowd now. Many more. Twenty, thirty at least. He looked back at the infantry and saw that the square was formed, then as Silver dispatched one of the dragoons he yelled, ‘Inside the square. Get inside.’

  The others turned and pushed through the parting ranks of Portuguese. Keeping his head, Keane rode up towards the rear of one of the two remaining dragoons, and raising his sword, brought it down heavily, half severing the man’s neck. The other Frenchman cut and ran back towards his oncoming comrades. Watching him go, Keane called to Silver and Garland, whose forehead was bleeding and who was half hanging over his saddle, ‘Get him inside the square. Come on.’ Then, turning and suddenly aware that the advancing dragoons were gaining ground fast, he turned Rattler towards the square. The ranks were closed now, with muskets levelled and bayonets fixed, and knowing that there was no alternative he signalled to the Portuguese to get down. Then, pushing the mare with his stirrups, he quickened his pace and sitting well down drove her at the three ranks of infantry. Rattler responded beautifully to his request and, as she neared the front rank, who had ducked as best they could, leapt up and flew across to land in the middle of the square. Keane pulled up, hearing commands behind him and the shouts of the approaching dragoons. Before he had caught his breath there was a deafening volley of musketry.

  He turned Rattler and peered into the cloud of white smoke produced by the volley. Through it he could see vague shapes of men and horses turning, rearing and collapsing. The smoke began to clear and Keane could see that four horses lay on the ground while another was sitting on its hindquarters. Among them lay a number of green-coated forms, motionless, while in the half distance another horse, minus its rider, was galloping back towards the continuing melee. Close beside it a body of dragoons stood where they had stopped, after having run from the musket fire. The melee was finished now, as were the Spanish cavalry. Looking at where the fight had taken place, all that Keane could see now were mounted dragoons riding slowly through lifeless mounds of men and horses. Occasionally a sword would rise and then fall, signalling another kill. No quarter, he thought. They had spared no one. Most of the French had reformed and clearly now their commander had spotted the Portuguese square.

  Morris rode up, a piece of bloody muslin neckcloth wrapped around his forearm. ‘By God, James. That was damned close. Look at them.’

  ‘Yes. It’s not a pretty sight. They gave no quarter. You’re wounded, Tom.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Not much. Garland took him before he could deliver the second. All I can say is thank God we’re in the square. They won’t attack now.’

  Keane shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Think about it. They’ve just massacred a troop of cavalry. Their blood is up. They don’t give much for the Portuguese. We know that from Fabier. And if they think the square has a chance of breaking, I’m wiling to wager they’ll do it.’

  Morris frowned. ‘Surely, James, the square won’t break, though. They never do.’

  ‘Were you there at Alexandria? Do you know how close we came to breaking then?’

  ‘No, of course. You have the advantage of me, James. But I should be surprised if it broke. At any rate, it is the only chance we have.’

  ‘True. And we shall find out soon enough. Look.’

  The dragoons were on the move. The fugitives from the volley had regrouped and with the bulk of their comrades were forming up in several long lines facing towards the Portuguese. Morris spoke. ‘D’you know, James, I believe you’re right. They do intend to charge us.’

  Keane yelled to his men.

  ‘Dismount. Get down. Draw carbines.’

  The men dismounted and, taking their guns from the saddle holsters, grouped around Keane. ‘Better off horseback. Less of a target. We’ll make a space in their ranks. Not in the front rank. The bayonet does the job there, and we’ve none of those. Take position in the second rank and use your shots well.’

  Keane walked forward and, seeing a Portuguese officer, announced himself. ‘May we join you, captain? You will need every gun.’

  The man nodded and Keane led the men forward to join the second rank of the face of the square that stood opposite the dragoons. They stood together in line, with a rank of the Portuguese in front of them. They smelt of sweat and fear, every man’s eyes focused on the green horror across the sandy landscape. They had planted the butts of their muskets in the earth at a forty-five-degree angle, the bayonets pointing skywards to impale any horse whose rider might persuade it to attack the hedgehog of steel points.

  They loaded their carbines and each made sure that they had another ten cartridges ready to hand in their bags, as Keane and Ross had taught them. Keane stood between Morris on his right and Garland on his left. He bit the top of the cartridge and poured the powde
r down the barrel of the carbine, then spat down the ball. Then, taking the small ramrod from its bracket, he pushed hard on the ball and felt it slip into place.

  The dragoons were advancing on them now, breaking into a gallop, and for the second time that day he felt the ground tremble under their hooves. He cocked the carbine and waited, glancing down the line to make sure that the others were doing the same.

  The French were riding hard and from within their close-set, boot-to-boot ranks he heard a bugle calling the charge. Swords levelled at the horizontal they came on, and at three hundred yards he heard a crash as one of the Portuguese pulled the trigger in his terror. An officer shouted and he knew that they had been trained well by their British superiors. The others would hold their fire until it could have the maximum effect.

  Still the men on the big brown horses came on. Two hundred yards. One hundred and eighty. At around a hundred and fifty yards Keane brought the carbine up to his cheek, its butt resting against his shoulder, and was conscious of his men doing the same. A moment later, the Portuguese officer gave the command. ‘Fuego.’ The face of the square erupted in musket fire and at that moment Keane’s men loosed their own volley. For a moment he was deafened. His world had become a mass of powder smoke and ringing noise. And then it cleared. With a sudden rush, like running water, his ears cleared again and what he heard was awful. Screams of men and horses came from their front, together with the crash of hooves as the ranks behind the first, which had been brought down, continued their charge, reduced to a trot, over and into the bodies of their fallen comrades.

  If the Portuguese are good enough, if our instructors have taught them well, he thought, they will fire again. He and the others were already, automatically, almost at the end of their reload. He brought the carbine up again and sure enough another Portuguese volley rent the air just as his own gun kicked back into his shoulder with the recoil of the shot.

  Again the rush and again the same noise.

  He wondered for an instant whether it would have been enough. Whether the dragoons would carry on and come crashing into the square and perhaps even break them. But they did not. There was nothing but screaming and whinnying and the intermittent fire of carbines as a few of the unhorsed enemy tried to shoot at their assailants through the dense white smoke.