by Iain Gale
Conspiracy
Also By
Also by Iain Gale
James Keane series
KEANE’S COMPANY
KEANE’S CHALLENGE
KEANE’S CHARGE
Jack Steel series
MAN OF HONOUR
RULES OF WAR
BROTHERS IN ARMS
Peter Lamb series
BLACK JACKALS
JACKALS’ REVENGE
ALAMEIN
FOUR DAYS IN JUNE
A novel of Waterloo
Title
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Heron Books
An imprint of
Quercus Editions Limited
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © 2016 Iain Gale
The moral right of Iain Gale to be
identified as the author of this work has been
asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any
information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library
HB ISBN 978 1 84866 484 5
EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78429 222 5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and events portrayed in it, while at times based
on historical figures and places, are the product
of the author’s imagination.
Typeset by CC Book Production
Dedication
For
Susan Watt
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
Historical Note
1
The bright orange flames leapt high above the smoking ramparts and lit the sky over the city and castle of Badajoz, casting a glow over the weary faces of the attackers. Two distant explosions and a chorus of screams tore through the Spanish night, and mingled with the crackle of musket fire almost drowning out the words of an unseen British soldier, as he yelled a dying curse against the French. One man had heard it, however, and mouthing a passing blessing for the soldier’s soul, echoed its sentiments in his own mind.
Sitting on an empty powder barrel, apparently oblivious to the symphony of agony around him, his back resting against the dry earth wall of a narrow trench, James Keane rubbed thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin and pulled out his gold pocket watch, snapping open the lid and scanning the clock face in the firelight. It was four minutes after three o’clock in the morning. Five hours had passed since their latest attack had begun and Keane still had no idea as to its success.
Somewhere close by, to his rear, a solitary horse whinnied in its death throes, and from far below his position in the siege lines, where the darkness shrouded the killing ground of the ditches, the groans and cries of scores of wounded and dying reached up to make the living shudder. Along the trench the black forms of red-coated soldiers moved in purposeful silence, but Keane remained where he was. He sat listening, conscious only of the task in hand and of his own men sitting, standing and lying close by. All of them staring, listening waiting. It seemed to Keane momentarily that they had been transported from the daylight world into some other place, some forgotten corner of hell. A place where chaos ruled and where the great ragged, gaping jaws of the breach they had blown in the city’s blackened, burning ramparts swallowed up column after column of attacking redcoats. This was bloody Badajoz, the meat-grinder of Wellington’s army, its every stone tainted with British blood and the unmistakable stench of death.
Since Keane and his men had been waiting here, over the past five hours, successive messengers from the storming party had relayed news, good and bad. But none of it had yet given him the information he needed. General Picton’s 3rd Division of Viscount Wellington’s Peninsular army had been assaulting the ramparts of the castle, and during the same time, on the other, west, side of the town, the 4th and Light divisions had been beaten back time and again while Leith’s 5th Division was escalading the bastion of San Vincente. It was with the 4th though that Keane had chosen to advance, against the huge Trinidad redoubt on the eastern side of the city. And it was in the shadow of this mighty bastion that he and his men now found themselves waiting for their moment.
Just half an hour ago, another courier had come down the line and told them that Picton’s men had gained a foothold inside the town. But from the sound of the fighting and the stream of wounded who had somehow made it to the lines, Keane was not so sure. It was very clear to him that the battle was still going on, unabated. The French had made a good job of the defences here. They had used everything at their disposal to ensure that the city would not fall. They had constructed lethal obstacles, flooded the ditches and placed explosive mines along the ramparts. And there had been nothing for Wellington to do but storm the place head-on.
Keane turned to one of the men beside him, seeing his features now in the growing light of dawn. ‘I wish I knew what the devil was going on, Archer. It’s as much of a mess as I’ve ever seen this army get itself into. And, dammit, we’re the ones who are meant to know, aren’t we?’
It was true – James Keane and his men were the eyes and ears of Wellington’s army. Observers, trained to go deep behind enemy lines and discover everything they could, from the dispositions of the French troops, their corps, divisions, brigades and regiments, to what their generals had ordered for dinner. But for once they were as much in the dark as anyone else.
Archer spoke. ‘Damned if I know, sir. Perhaps we should just go ahead. Follow the storming party. If they’ve got into the town, we need to be with them before we lose our chance, and our quarry.’
‘Yes, that’s my worry. Finding the man before they do. We can’t allow him to be killed.’ Over the past few years Keane and his men had been given some strange tasks, but this, he thought, must be one of the most bizarre. They had been ordered to get into Badajoz, in the wake of the attack which they had been told must surely, eventually, succeed, but before the place was completely secure and armed with the most rudimentary of clues as to his location, to extricate alive at all costs a French colonel who must then be returned to Wellington’s headquarters. The orders had come directly from Wellington himself. The colonel, Keane had been told, had in his possession important intelligence. That was all he needed to know, for now. He sat still again for a moment, listening with a trained ear to the noises now and any subtle differences. There was a curious lull in the volume of the explosions. A change which, while imperceptible to the untrained ear, to Keane was quite clear in what it said. It signalled an opportunity. He turned to his right. ‘Sarn’t Ross. It’s time. Now, man.’
He turned the other way and looked for the rest of his men. ‘Come on, follow me.’ Then, leaping up and sword in hand, he ran towards where the attacking force had entered the breach and, followed by his men close up, he led them forward.
The adrenalin was pumping now, and Keane was caught up
in the thrill of the moment. This was their time. This was what they did. But it was more than just that. Yes, they had been tasked with rescuing a French colonel. But here was a chance. A chance for Keane to be back at the front line of a battle. And it felt good. For the past three years he had largely been denied real soldiering, and he missed it. That was a hard thing to countenance, he knew, when one looked about the charnel house of Badajoz. But it was most certainly the truth.
*
In the past three years he had led his men in search of code books, chasing French spies and befriending ruthless guerrilla captains. They had made a name for themselves as a unique force operating deep behind enemy lines, often cut off, relying on their ingenuity and all the guile they had. He had chosen them for this and had made them what they were. Had plucked them from the jails of Portugal, even from the hangman’s noose, and given each of them a second chance. And they had repaid him fourfold. They believed in him. Would, he knew, have died for him. Some of them had. And now new faces had come in their place. And they too would follow him. Not from the threat of the cat like the rest of the army. But because they all trusted him. He hoped that now, here, leading them into God knew what, that trust would not be tested.
Looking quickly to his rear, Keane counted off nine forms, crouched and running in the darkness.
He led them down the snaking line of the British trenches, past the sleeping sentries and the dying heroes, and then without a word but raising his hand to point, altered his course over the counter scarp into the ditch in front of the curtain wall. Although the dawn was rising, the darkness was still sufficient to allow them to pass unchallenged by the British, who, exhausted stood and lay around them. He had timed it within a whisker. There was a moment when the battle would be won and the town taken, but before the enemy had time to escape in their euphoria and before the looting began. He hoped that he had judged it right. Later, and it would be too late. Earlier, and he would be leading his men into the heart of the battle. And that was expressly what he had been told not to do.
Archer, ever quick on the uptake, whispered to him, ‘Isn’t this just what Major Grant said not to do, sir?’
‘Yes, Archer. That’s quite correct. And that’s precisely why I’m doing it.’
Archer smiled. It was only what he would have expected from his officer. Keane had never been one to go by the book. Hunch, guesswork and gut instinct were his way of soldiering. And they hadn’t failed him yet. Keane was a gambler at heart, but sometimes, as any gambler will tell you, it helps to bend the cards or load the dice. And Keane had been known to do both.
He turned to Archer again. ‘You know why we’re here as well as I do. Like it or not, we’ve got to rescue a bloody Frenchman. There’s good reason for it. That’s for certain. But don’t tell any of these buggers.’ He nodded towards one of the British redcoats standing en garde as they passed by. ‘As far as they’re concerned, the only good Frenchman is a dead one. Why confuse them?’
As they turned into the traverse of the trench, ahead of them Keane saw two figures standing in their way with their backs to them, blocking their path. Both wore blue boat cloaks.
Hearing Keane’s men approach, one of the figures turned and Keane saw that beneath his cloak he wore the scarlet uniform of a British officer. The other man turned and was similarly dressed and both carried their swords unsheathed, the blades catching the dawn light. Looking at the figure on the left, Keane caught his sharp, birdlike features, and within seconds he had recognized the man as Fitzroy Somerset, Wellington’s military secretary, a familiar face from Keane’s frequent visits to headquarters.
The man, who had been staring at Keane, spoke. ‘Keane? It is Captain Keane, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. James Keane.’
‘Of course, Keane. This is Captain Richard Clarke of the 3rd Guards.’ He turned to his companion, ‘Richard, this is the fellow I was talking about. The spy chap. Damn good at it too. What the devil are you doing here, Keane? I thought your place was among the observing officers. Not here in the front line.’
‘I’m here at the orders of the peer, sir.’
‘Well I’m here to discover what the devil’s going on. You’re quite welcome to join us.’
‘It would seem prudent, sir.’
At that moment from all around them men began to cheer, as along the communications trench that led from the rear of the position a column of men moved forward. Led by a lieutenant and a captain and two drummer boys beating out the attack, they marched without packs, their muskets held with bayonets fixed at the ‘present’. Behind the officers came six pioneers, all armed with axes.
The officers of the attack column acknowledged the cheers as they passed.
One of Keane’s new men, a light-fingered Geordie named Batty, turned to Ross. ‘Is that the forlorn hope, sarge? I don’t envy them.’
Keane replied for the sergeant. ‘That’s no forlorn hope, Batty. That’s the leading column of the rest of the army. We’ve got inside, lad. And now we intend to keep the place. It’s up to this lot to make sure we do.’
Somerset nodded. ‘You’re right. It would seem that we have gained a hold in the redoubt. It’s now or never, Keane. Are you with me?’
Keane smiled. ‘All the way, sir.’
As the attack column disappeared into the breach, Somerset and Clarke led the way to follow them and with them went Keane and his men. They moved fast across the causeway and into the breach where the rubble lay as if some giant infant had thrown it around in a tantrum. Emerging through the wall, they shuffled together and crossed in single file the plank which had been laid across the trench beyond. Keane wondered at how the men of the original storming party had ever managed to get past this point. It must have been hell, he thought, to go in single file under constant fire from the battlements. But the French were gone from here now and all was silent, save for the groans of the wounded, with the measure of the continuing tumult of battle coming from the city which lay before them.
They were almost across the plank when Keane looked round and caught his sergeant, Ross, a brawny Scot, gazing down into the ditch below them. He followed the man’s stare and saw what seemed for a moment to be a thick, dark liquid, a river perhaps, but within seconds he realized that it was in fact a mass of writhing bodies. Men who had fallen or been blown off the narrow causeway beyond the curtain wall and had fallen into the ditch. Men who had tumbled off ladders set to mount the walls, onto the blades of the wickedly sharp chevaux de frise below, spikes embedded in tree trunks left by the French to line the ditches into which any attackers were bound to jump or fall. For a moment he was transfixed, rooted to the spot by this ghastly vision of human agony. As he stared the mass took proper human forms and he began to see contorted faces and the full horror of their condition.
Ross swore. ‘Christ almighty, sir, look what the French have done to our boys. It’s bloody hell, sir. Look at them.’
But Keane didn’t look. He walked forward, determined to get into the city and get the job done. This was no place for regret and no place for sentiment. They were in, but at what expense? he wondered. Keane had never seen such wholesale slaughter.
There was another huge explosion a little distance ahead of them. Keane and the others cowered instinctively and shielded their eyes as the ground rocked. Looking up, his ears ringing, he searched for the attacking column they had been following, but saw instead only smoke and flame. There were Somerset and Clarke, standing together and similarly shaken. But of the column there was no sign. Then, slowly, figures began to emerge from the smoke. A horrifying procession of wounded and dying, some of them on fire and shrieking, others blackened and charred, sightless or holding bloody stumps of arms. Even as the city seemed about to fall at last, the French had blown a mine and the column had caught the impact. The survivors pushed past him and his men, stumbling blindly on to get back to the lines. Keane tried to stop
them, but it was in vain and he could only look helplessly as too many of them missed the narrow plank bridge and fell to join their dying comrades in the ditch. Ross managed to catch hold of one of them, a drummer boy who had lost a hand. The boy looked at Keane, his blackened face a mask of terror and shock. ‘The captain. He was talking to me. Then he was gone. Just gone.’
Surely, thought Keane, the French must stop now. Stop the killing. Now they must realize that Badajoz had fallen, that further fighting was foolish. Ross handed the boy to a redcoat, part of another column that had crossed the causeway and was pushing on towards the city, and told him to take him back and help the others.
Keane turned back. Spoke to the men directly to his rear: ‘Silver, Martin, all of you, stay close. This place isn’t ours yet. We may have taken the city, but the French are still in there. Remember our task.’
They were climbing now, Somerset leading the way, up the huge pile of debris that filled the breach. Treading on the fallen stones, he realized that he was also, with every second step, walking on softer stuff, the bodies of the attacking redcoats which had somehow, in successive explosions, been incorporated into the rubble.
Then, reaching the top of the stones, they began to descend, making their way down the storming ladders, which had been placed to take them down into the ditch before the fortress.
He had caught the stench now. The sweet, foul smell of death. And the lower they got into the ditch, the more unbearable it became. For three terrible weeks the British had besieged Badajoz. Three of the bloodiest weeks that the army had ever seen. Looking behind he saw a thin line of men following him up the rock pile, his men. Ahead of him the battle still raged, but now they knew that the forlorn hope had broken through and the British were pouring into the city.
Silver, one of his most trusted men, who had come through the last three years astonishingly unscathed, Silver shook his head. ‘God knows what the lads’ll be about, sir. They’ll slaughter every Frenchman they see. Who knows what else. They’ve no love for the dagos. You remember what the Portuguese did at Coimbra? I’ve never known a battle like it.’