Conspiracy

by Iain Gale

  The previous day Keane had heard the tally. Almost three thousand dead. And that had been before this bloody night. Of the 27,000 men who had attacked it, he reckoned that almost one in five must surely be killed or maimed.

  ‘Yes, they’ve done it for Wellington. But who’s to stop them now?’

  Keane worried more about what their ‘brave lads’ might do. He knew the British soldier. Knew him well. Most of them had ’listed for drink. His own band of mavericks was made up mostly of criminals he had plucked from the jails of Lisbon some three years ago.

  But Keane’s men were not bad men. Not evil. He had seen evil in the eyes of men before. In his own regiment, the 27th Inniskilling Fusiliers, a corporal who had managed to break every rule in the book and had invented some of his own, until the truth had caught up with him. Every regiment had such men.

  Keane knew that at the heart of all regiments in the British army lay a cadre of hardened criminals and he knew that it was these men who would command in the streets of Badajoz and that all the gold lace and swagger of the officers would count for nothing.

  Passing through the second breach and what had once been a gate, they found themselves within the walls. Parties of redcoats were everywhere, some under command of an officer, others with an NCO. Some with no command. Many were wounded. Several seemed drunk.

  They were in the San Vincente fort, a place they hadn’t tried before. And here at last it seemed that they had met with success. As they pushed on, it was clear that ahead of them Leith’s men were now pouring into the city from their own assault on the opposite side, and he guessed that in the north too the other divisions of the army would be pushing through the breaches where for days they had been mown down in their hundreds.

  Somerset stopped and turned to Keane. ‘Before we reach the French, I don’t know what your purpose here is, Keane. What are your directions?’

  ‘I need to find a certain colonel on the French staff, sir. That’s all I know. I’m told that he might be in the governor’s house.’ He reached into his coat. ‘I have a sketch map.’

  Somerset waved it aside. ‘Indeed. Well, I’m sure that the peer knows his purpose.

  ‘In fact you’re in luck. I’m better than any map. I know this place well, you know, from earlier days. I intend to find the French commander, General Philipon, and it’s my betting that he too will be in the governor’s house. Shall we go?’

  Keane needed no further prompting and trotted on behind Somerset, followed by his men, as they went deeper into the enemy stronghold.

  The buildings showed the evidence of a month of relentless British bombardment. Some had gone entirely, others stood roofless or with part of the walls blown away, others were still smoking from the most recent shelling and everywhere lay bodies. And among it all men were wandering or standing in groups.

  Instantly, however, and bewilderingly, they suddenly found themselves at a point where those around them changed from British redcoats to the French. Keane stopped but noted that Somerset had not, seemingly undeterred by the presence of the enemy. And the French appeared to be ignoring him. It occurred to Keane that this must be the reason for the two officers wearing cloaks and he was thankful for once that he and his men wore the brown of their corps, the Guides, rather than British scarlet.

  Keane turned to Silver. ‘Follow me but don’t speak. They’re done for and they know it, but best not to give them the chance. Just follow. Pass the word.’

  Silver nodded and whispered Keane’s command to the next man. They hurried after Somerset and Clarke and soon found themselves in a wide square, the Place de Saint-Jean, at the end of which stood an imposing neo-classical building, enclosed with an iron fence.

  Somerset called back, ‘There that’s it. That’s the governor’s house,’ and leading the way, he walked towards it. There was no sign of any enemy presence around the building, nor any sentries posted on the gates which lay open, and Keane now realized that they had not encountered any French soldiers for several streets. Somerset walked to the main doors and pushed.

  They swung open to reveal a large marble entrance hall with a check floor, hung with chandeliers and lined with portraits. It seemed to him for a moment that he had by some miracle walked into a ball. For the room was filled with women, well-dressed women in fine silk dresses, all of them in some degree of agitation. There were eighteen women in all: ten, two very young, in fine clothes and dripping with jewellery, who were perhaps the wives of French officers; the others, less well dressed, probably their servants. Seeing Somerset enter, one of them shrieked.

  Ignoring her, the aide de camp waved his hand and gave a bow. ‘Don’t be afraid, ladies. We are British officers.’

  There was another shriek and Keane realized that most of the women were, of course, French. Instantly he announced himself in French, and hearing their native tongue the ladies seemed to relax a little. Somerset smiled at him before turning to the ladies and himself addressing them in perfect French:

  ‘I’m looking for the commander, General Philipon.’

  ‘He is no longer here, sir. He has gone.’

  ‘Well, he can’t have gone far. We have the city surrounded. I have come here to accept his surrender. Where has he gone?’

  None of the women spoke, until one of them, a tall handsome woman in a bright green silk dress, came forward. ‘Of course he’s gone.’ She looked at the others. ‘What’s the use? We might as well tell him. He’s gone to the fort of San Cristobal.’

  ‘And left you here? All of you? Alone?’

  ‘He said we would be safe. Safe with the British.’

  ‘I’m sure of that, madame. But there are others in this town. We shall leave you a guard.’

  ‘Captain Keane?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Post four of your men to remain here with the ladies until we return.

  ‘Ladies, Captain Keane’s men will look after you. Isn’t that so, Keane?’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course. Sarn’t Ross, take three men and guard the ladies. We’re off to find Colonel Hulot.’

  One of the women, a small blonde close to the front of their group, gave a little cry of surprise.

  Somerset turned to her, ‘Madame? Something is wrong?’

  ‘This is my husband. Colonel Hulot is my husband.’

  ‘Then be assured, madame, that Captain Keane will bear him safe to you here while I accept the surrender of the city from the governor.’

  Keane looked at him. ‘Accept his surrender, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Keane. Didn’t you guess that was my purpose in coming here? I intend to put an end to all this. General Philipon would be a fool to refuse. He’s run his course. I’d value your company, Keane. Come, Major Clarke – if we are to parley we need to find ourselves a drummer.’

  The two men left the house and Keane hesitated a moment before joining them.

  He addressed the women in French. ‘Ladies, you have nothing to fear. My men will protect you. Sergeant Ross is in command. You are free to do as you wish, but you must stay inside.’

  Madame Hulot approached him, ‘Captain, you were sent to take my husband?’

  ‘Yes. But not as a prisoner, madame. He has information we need and which we believe he intends us to have.’

  ‘You say he is a traitor?’

  ‘No, not a traitor. But he does have important information that will help the future of France.’

  She nodded. ‘I see. He is a true Frenchman, sir, a truly loyal son of France.’

  Keane looked at her and saw a passion in her eyes, mixed with fear. So that was it, he thought. The colonel’s great secret. Not all Frenchmen were Bonapartists. There were still some, thank God, like Captain Hulot and his pretty wife, who believed in the old order or perhaps, like others who after years of striving for Bonaparte’s empire, were simply now disillusioned. Keane realized at once why he
had not been given more information on Hulot. This was merely the latest in a series of actions intended to sow disunity in the French command by finding royalist collaborators on the staff of every one of Napoleon’s marshals. The idea had come from St James’s, from the Prince Regent himself apparently, via his spokesman at Wellington’s headquarters, an odious man named Cavanagh, Colonel Rupert Cavanagh. Keane, along with not a few others, disliked him intensely. The problem was that Cavanagh held influence at court and had the ear of the prince. He knew well that Cavanagh’s intention was ultimately to discredit Wellington and it was for this reason that he continued to advance hare-brained schemes. Thankfully most of them had been put to rest. But occasionally even Wellington had to kowtow to London, and this was one of those moments. In fact the idea, thought Keane, was not so bad. But he was damned if he would let Cavanagh take the credit for it. He looked again at Madame Hulot.

  ‘As you say, madame. And there is always honour in following our true beliefs.’

  Keane was interrupted by a din from the doorway. Somerset had returned, and with him a drummer boy who was beating a tattoo. ‘Come along Keane. We’ve no time to lose.’

  Keane summoned the men who were not remaining and together they left the house. Immediately they were out, Ross secured the doors.

  Somerset led them northwards through the streets where already the victorious redcoats were beginning to break into shops. Keane paid them no heed but hurried on behind Somerset, who did indeed appear to know the way. At length they came to a causeway, littered with the bodies of the dead, French and British.

  It was now six o’clock in the morning and Somerset, advancing with Clarke and his drummer ahead of the others, stopped at the doors of the San Cristobal and called up to General Philipon to surrender. It happened quickly and remarkably, without fuss, given the appalling suffering which the French had inflicted in their stubbornness.

  With a white handkerchief tied to a bayonet, held by a sergeant before him and his remaining staff officers and perhaps fifty men, General Philipon marched out to surrender. Keane was surprised at his age and, as he drew close to the man, his abundant grey hair. Somerset accepted the general’s sword with customary grace and Keane approached him. ‘I beg your pardon, general, but I would be most obliged if you could indicate to me Colonel Hulot.’

  The general looked at Keane with weary eyes and pointed towards an officer behind him. ‘There, captain, that’s Hulot.’

  Keane walked across to the colonel. ‘Colonel Hulot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At last. I do confess, I thought I wouldn’t find you, sir. James Keane. I come direct from Wellington.’

  *

  They made their way quickly back from the fort through the violent, darkened streets, lit with the orange light of the burning city. There was no other way to reach the British camp save to return through the shattered citadel. Keane was shocked that in just the past half an hour since they had come this way before, the situation had become ten times worse. Every street corner now witnessed some new outrage, some act of cruelty, and several times Keane was of a mind to stop and help. But he knew it was impossible and pointless, so glancing away he pushed ahead, mindful of the task in hand.

  *

  As they turned into the square where they had left Ross and the Frenchwomen, Keane was aware of a commotion coming from outside the house. Shouting and raised voices in English.

  He turned to Hulot. ‘That’s coming from your house, colonel.’ He quickened his pace, ‘What the devil’s going on?’

  As they neared the door Keane saw that there was a mob of soldiers outside, redcoats, and after a few more paces heard the sound of splintering wood.

  ‘Christ, they’ve got inside. Let’s go.’

  Keane, followed by his men and the others, ran to the doors, but already they had crashed open and several dozen redcoats were now in the hallway. Keane moved fast and together with his men, Hulot, Somerset and a dozen of the French prisoners, pushed through the crowd towards the women. He could see Sergeant Ross and the other men he had left forming a ragged line in front of the Frenchwomen and headed straight towards them.

  ‘Ross, hold hard.’

  Ross, seeing Keane, drew his line together and had them level their carbines so that they were pointed at the advancing redcoats, who stopped just as Keane reached them. They were led by a sergeant whose filthy tunic, like that of several of the others, bore green facings. All showed the signs of the battle, blood and soot mixed in equal measure on the washed-out brick red of their coats and across their grey overall trousers. While the sergeant still wore his stovepipe shako, others had adopted other headgear, a French shako, an officer’s bicorne and, most bizarrely, a turban, and all were armed with a variety of weapons, ranging from muskets and bayonets to swords of all nations and an axe. The sergeant held a long curved light cavalry sabre with an ivory grip, clearly a prize taken from a dead Frenchman. He stared at Keane and then at the women, who were now screaming with terror.

  Keane looked the man straight in the eye. ‘Sergeant, you seem to have lost your way. The French here are already our prisoners.’

  The man sneered and grinned at Keane. ‘Well, that’d be a strange thing, sir, wouldn’t it? And how do we know that you’re not French yourself – you in yer shite-brown coat.’

  The man spoke in an Irish brogue and reeked of alcohol. Rum, thought Keane, brandy most certainly and a copious quantity of wine. He replied, anxious to keep the situation in control, ‘The name is Keane, Captain Keane to you, sergeant, and this shit-brown coat, as you call it, is my uniform. The uniform of His Majesty’s Corps of Guides.’

  To his right and left his ten men now stood on guard, their cavalry carbines having been lowered until they were pointing directly at the leading redcoats. From beyond the open doors came the sound of gunshots, mingled with the shouts of soldiers’ shrieks and women’s screams.

  The army had been pushed harder in these last few days than he had ever seen. All the officers knew it. Knew that at any time keeping discipline was like sitting on a powder keg, just waiting for the spark to set it alight. And now, it seemed to Keane, someone had lit that fuse. And when the fuse burnt down, there would be only one result: mutiny.

  He smiled at the sergeant. ‘Sergeant, would you mind taking your men back out into the street. The ladies are becoming agitated.’

  ‘Is that so, sir?’ Again the man said the word in a sneer. ‘Well, if that’s them looking agitated, let’s give them something to be agitated about. We’ll agitate them right enough. Won’t we, lads? We’ll give them a proper seeing-too. And we’ll have that gold and them sparklers off them first.’

  The soldiers shouted their agreement and together the mob of redcoats took a step towards Keane and the women. The sergeant grinned again, and waving his looted sabre in the air looked back at his men before starting to move forward again. But then he stopped, his eyes still fixed on his men. For as the sergeant had glanced away, Keane too had stepped forward, and as he had done so his right hand had flashed to his left side and in an instant had drawn his own sword, a light cavalry model with a razor-sharp butcher’s blade, which he now pressed, with the light touch of a fencer, to the man’s throat. Keane spoke slowly, deliberately.

  ‘You will take your men and you will leave this place now. Do not return, and consider yourself fortunate to take away your life.’

  The sergeant was breathing heavily now, partly from fear of the blade at his throat and partly from fury. He managed to twist his face to stare at Keane, who held the blade close enough to draw a spot of blood. As he did so, however, one of the man’s men moved forward and, raising the sword he held in his hand, aimed a clumsy, drunken blow at Silver. It was a bad mistake to make and the worst choice of adversary. With a single deft movement, Silver raised his carbine, swung it round and holding the heavy, brass-capped butt high, used it as a club against
the redcoat, bringing it down with ferocious strength and splitting his head clean open. The man crumpled to the floor, spilling blood and brains, and Keane edged the point of his sword a millimetre closer to the sergeant’s jugular. Three of the women screamed and one fainted, but was caught by her maid as she fell to the floor.

  The redcoats froze, panic on their faces, uncertain of what to do. At length, one of them bent over the fallen man before looking up at the sergeant. ‘He’s dead, Sergeant O’Gara.’

  The sergeant, trying not to move Keane’s blade any closer to his throat, managed to mutter, ‘You’ll pay for this, whoever you are.’

  Keane smiled and kept the blade where it was. ‘Now, now, Sergeant O’Gara, don’t get so agitated. You’ll hurt yourself if you’re not careful. Now call off your dogs before anyone else gets hurt.’

  O’Gara mouthed the command and whispered the words, ‘Right, boys, get out. They’re not worth it.’

  At last Keane relaxed the blade and O’Gara grabbed at his throat, rubbing it where the blade had touched. Keane kept the sword levelled and pointed at the dead redcoat. ‘Now get out and take this pile of shit with you, and thank God it wasn’t you.’

  Two of the redcoats picked up the corpse and together they backed out of the room and into the madness of the street.

  O’Gara stared hard at Keane’s eyes. ‘I know you, sir. And I’ll see you again. Mind if I don’t.’

  Then he turned, and with his men was lost in the mass of redcoats who now filled the streets outside. Keane shouted, ‘Shut those doors and bar them. Garland, Martin, get upstairs. Check the windows. Archer, Silver, you others, cover this floor. Check the doors. I want anyone you find in here with us.’

  Colonel Hulot approached Keane, holding his wife, ‘Thank you, captain. That was well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’m only pleased that we arrived when we did. A few minutes later and it would have been very different.’