Conspiracy

by Iain Gale

  It was a natural fortress, cut off from the rest of the mountains by its own stone defences and unobserved by anyone riding past.

  *

  They dined well on spit-roasted sheep, olives, potatoes with garlic and onions, washed down with the robust red wine of Navarre. Over dinner Morillo made a simple offer of help.

  ‘I myself will make sure that the French know you are close by.’

  Keane was puzzled. ‘How exactly, colonel, will you manage that? Are you in communication with Marshal Marmont?’

  Morillo laughed. ‘Better than that, my dear James. Much better. I have a double agent working for me in Almanaz – a Spaniard whom the French considered to be that rarest of things, a French sympathizer. How innocent they are. The man hates them so much that he has sacrificed his own reputation. Every day he risks his life and at any moment might be killed by his own people. There are very few of us who know his true sentiments. I have already sent a messenger with news of your presence in the area.’

  Keane smiled, unsure as to whether he might not have been consulted on such a move. ‘Go on, colonel.’

  Morillo smiled. ‘He might even now be passing on the information to his French masters. Of course he will be amply rewarded for his trouble.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Keane could see now the nature of Morillo’s help. ‘In gold, presumably?’

  Morillo nodded. ‘Naturally as he is my employ, I expect to receive most of the French payment. And so everyone is happy.’ The guerrilla leader laughed. ‘You see, James, I have not changed at all. I always do things for the good of my country. I am a true patriot. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I’m sure that there are many things that drive you, Morillo, but certainly one of them is gold. And if it’s not Wellington’s gold, then I suppose I must be grateful that it’s French gold.’

  ‘We all need to live, James. Gold is gold, wherever it comes from.’

  *

  They left the camp the following morning, having said farewell to Morillo, and, escorted by a party of his men, under Ramon Sanchez, rode back towards the west in the direction of Almanaz. It had been agreed that the guerrillas would follow at a suitably discreet distance and ensure that, in the event of something not going according to plan, Keane and his men could be taken to safety. But as Keane explained, the whole point of the exercise was to be taken prisoner and so the only thing that could go awry would be if the French opened fire. Otherwise the mission must be considered a success. Nevertheless, it was reassuring for Keane to have Sanchez and his men behind them.

  Keane was explicit in his orders to Archer and Silver. ‘When they see us make sure that you both act surprised and above all as if you intend to escape. They will want to take us alive. But you must put up as convincing a play as possible. Morillo has done his work, and the French know that I am in the country. Marmont will have doubled the numbers of his patrols. I’m sure that we shall have little trouble now.

  *

  Shadowed by the guerrillas at some distance, the trio rode along the ridgeway and entered the village of La Cueva. Morillo had told them that a house at the eastern end of the village was empty and would provide accommodation. It also seemed likely that this might be the place where they would be taken by the French. As they rode into the village Keane spotted the house on their right, just as Morillo had described it. He motioned them across and they dismounted and led the horses into the stables which stood below the house’s bedrooms. Opening the door, Keane found a bottle of wine on the table with a loaf of bread and a cured sausage. With scarcely a word, the three men sat down and began to eat. It was curious, thought Keane, waiting like this, in the knowledge that at some point French soldiers were likely to burst in and take them.

  He wondered where Sanchez and his men had positioned themselves and presumed that it must be somewhere in the high ground above the village, from where they would be able to observe what was going on.

  *

  There was a desperate hammering at the door and then it opened. Keane turned fast and placed his hand on his sword but was careful not to draw it. Archer did the same. But it was no French soldier who appeared in the doorway but a Spanish villager, a small man wrapped in a black cloak, his face a mask of fear.

  ‘Señor, the French are here. They know you are in the village. You must go.’

  This was a hard one to play. Keane hesitated. ‘Are you sure?’

  The Spaniard stared at him. ‘Of course, sir. You must go, now. They will find you. Come with me.’

  There was no alternative but to obey, and Keane and the others gathered up their weapons and cloaks and went after him, moving towards the stables.

  At first Keane thought that if they were slow they might be taken. But the man was at their horses now, and there to Keane’s horror stood another three peasants, leading their horses towards them along with their own. The villagers hoisted themselves into the saddle and looked at Keane and his men as they hesitated.

  The leader spoke again. ‘Quick, ride. You must come with us.’

  There was nothing for it but to follow suit. At Keane’s signal, his two men mounted up and with the villagers made for the street. They could hear a commotion at the other end of the village. Entering the street, Keane saw that the French had put a cordon of infantry around the town. The four villagers were riding for it and in Keane’s mind there was only one course of action. Yelling to Archer and Silver to do the same, he rode directly for one of the French infantrymen who, seeing him, began to level his musket, but as Keane closed on him, gathering pace all the time, thought the better of it and stood aside at the last moment, allowing Keane to pass through. The others followed and Keane saw that the four Spaniards had done exactly the same and had cleared the cordon. From behind them several shots rang out and one of the Spaniards fell. This was just what Keane had hoped to avoid. He did not want to risk the lives of Archer or Silver, or indeed his own, in an exercise that had been meant to be bloodless.

  *

  They were all riding away from the village now, and after leaping a stone wall and a stream were away up in the hills that rose above the houses. He presumed that Sanchez’s men had seen all that had happened but wondered how they would react. Their orders were to intervene only if Keane’s life and those of his men were seriously at risk, and as they had now cleared the cordon with the loss of only the one Spaniard, he presumed that that would not apply. Slowing his horse he turned in the saddle and acknowledged the two villagers and then, looking beyond them, a hundred yards away saw a flash of steel and green uniforms as a patrol of French dragoons emerged from a field to their left. For a few seconds Keane pretended that he had not seen them, giving the dragoons just sufficient time to close by another fifty yards. Then he turned and began to ride again, first calling out a warning to the villagers. They turned and saw the dragoons, but it was too late. The French were upon them now and one of them tried to turn his horse and push it further up the slope. He managed to get twenty yards before two of the Frenchmen were on him. Keane saw him fall to a sabre blow and then rode towards the second and third villagers. As he did, two more dragoons reached them, one with only a pistol and the other an officer, who, with his sabre in one hand, had also drawn his pistol from its saddle holster.

  The villagers raised their arms in surrender and the officer smiled at them and nodded. Then, raising their arms, the Frenchmen took careful aim at close range and squeezed their triggers. One ball hit the first villager in the forehead and exploded from the exit wound, blowing off the back of his skull, killing him instantly. The other took the second man below the heart and threw him backwards.

  As the dragoons reloaded their pistols and replaced them in their holsters, the officer turned to Keane. ‘Shall we go, Captain Keane?’

  Keane looked at him. ‘You know my name?’

  ‘Everyone knows your name, captain, but few h
ave seen your face. All that is about to change.’

  Keane spoke quietly to the officer of the dragoons. ‘Captain, may I enquire where we are to be taken?’

  ‘Naturally. My apologies. You are very honoured, captain; you are being taken directly to Marshal Marmont. At his express orders. It won’t take long.’

  *

  But it was not before Marmont that Keane, Archer and Silver found themselves initially. Keane had not been entirely convinced by Grant’s assurance that in scarlet tunic he would at least not be hanged as a spy. The French, knowing who he was, would know very well that he was a spy, and that might be enough for them to execute rough justice upon all three of them. Napoleon’s marshals, including notoriously that arch-spymaster Davout, were very single-minded on the issue of spies, and Davout had been quoted as saying that he had lost count of how many he had hanged during his campaign in the low countries. Might not Marmont be the same? The three men, each shadowed by a pair of dragoons and kept at the point of a carbine, made their way on horseback along the road that wound through the hillside where the laurel trees grew in thick groves. At last, having climbed with difficulty to the top of a ridge, Keane looked down and saw in the valley below a small town, its modest houses grouped around a fortress. Led on by the dragoons, they found themselves descending the hillside, through the trees and then across a stone bridge. From here the road climbed again, in a wide curve, leading to the gate into the town.

  They passed through the gate and came to stop in the looming shadow of the castle. The officer turned to Keane. ‘Dismount, please, captain, lieutenant. Your servant also.’

  They did so, and immediately Keane and Archer found themselves surrounded by French officers, all of whom had a question to ask.

  ‘How many men did you lose at Badajoz?’

  ‘How is your morale?’

  ‘Where is your army? Is it across the Tagus?’

  ‘Do you know Wellington’s plans?’

  ‘What is Wellington like?’

  ‘Is it true that Wellington has engaged with Marshal Soult?’

  Keane’s head began to swim with questions. He ignored all of them. Said nothing. The dragoon officer tried to calm the situation, with little effect.

  At length a moustachioed French staff officer appeared, in the dark blue and gold uniform of an aide de camp to a general, topped off with white kid gloves and a gaudy sky-blue shako.

  ‘Captain Keane?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘You are to come with me. Your friends can wait here for you.’

  He led Keane past the gaggle of officers and through the castle gate into a building at the foot of the main tower.

  The room was decorated sparsely, its walls covered with maps of Spain and Portugal. In its centre stood a large, leather-­covered table, on which was spread another map of the area. Behind the table stood a French colonel.

  ‘Captain Keane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I am pleased. We’ve been trying to find you for so very long. And now here you are, at last.’

  The man spoke slowly and wore a smile, but the words were said in such a way that the pleasantry of their content sounded uniquely menacing. For one of the few times in his life, Keane felt genuine fear.

  The general spoke again. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, captain. General de la Martinière, chief of staff to Marshal Marmont.’

  Keane looked at him. Marmont’s deputy was ugly in the extreme. He was bloated, his face a nasty shade of purple crowned by thinning hair with eyes that peered through folds of flesh. It was instantly clear that he had nothing but loathing for Keane.

  ‘So you are the great English spy? I thought you might be more impressive, captain, more dynamic.’ He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘The marshal, for some reason, wants to meet you. But before that happens, I have a few questions for you. Simple questions.’

  Keane said nothing.

  ‘We’ll start with a very easy one. What is the size of Wellington’s army?’

  Again Keane said nothing.

  ‘Tell me how many men Wellington has. I want to know everything. How many regiments, their names and numbers? How many English, Scottish, Portuguese? How many light infantry? How many accursed rifles? How many cavalry? Dragoons, hussars. And how many guns, their calibre? Horse or foot?’

  Keane remained silent.

  ‘I tell you, captain, I am not a man to be played with. I mean to get this information. I intend to have it and I will get it from you. Now, shall we try again? Let’s start with the guns, shall we? How many nine-pounders?’

  Keane did not open his mouth.

  The purple of de la Martinière’s complexion grew darker in intensity and his eyes became larger. When he spoke again it was almost in a shout. ‘You will tell me now.’ He brought his fist crashing down upon the table.

  Keane remained silent, his gaze fixed on the colonel.

  ‘Captain Keane, you should have no doubt that it is well within my power to have you taken out right now, and with your friend and your soldier servant, have you hanged as a spy.’

  Keane spoke at last. ‘I do not think that would be politic, colonel, do you? Considering that Marshal Marmont has asked to see me.’

  De la Martinière’s face became puce with rage. Now it was his turn to say nothing and Keane could see the rage boiling within him. Finally he managed to speak. ‘You English are no better than dogs, in bed with those Spanish savages. You foul the very space you inhabit. It reviles me to have to stand in the same room as you.’

  Keane shrugged. ‘I’m terribly sorry. In that case perhaps I should leave.’

  De la Martinière smashed his fist hard down on the table a second time and shouted at Keane, ‘You will not leave this room, until you have answered all my questions. You will not.’

  He was about to shout again when the door opened and the aide entered. ‘Colonel, I’m sorry to disturb you. Marshal Marmont has asked to see the captain.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’

  ‘At once, sir.’

  De la Martinière looked down at his fists, both of which were now pushing down on the desk, supporting him. ‘Very well then, go. Go, captain. But don’t think that I have finished with you.’

  The aide held the door open for Keane.

  As he left the room, Keane looked back at the colonel. ‘Oh, and just to make it quite clear, I’m not English; I’m Irish. Though we seem to have the same effect upon you.’

  *

  His Excellency the Duke of Ragusa, otherwise known as Marshal Auguste-Frédéric-Louis Viesse de Marmont, sat in his castle headquarters and smiled at the two British officers who had been brought before him.

  Marmont, who had taken over from Marshal Massena after the disastrous debacle on the lines of Torres Vedras the previous year, had made his headquarters in a small Moorish castle and it was here that they had been brought by the dragoons. Never the type of commander to be content with the sort of rustic casserole enjoyed, or rather tolerated, by his men, Marmont did everything in style. On his arrival to relieve Massena he had brought with him from France his own kitchen staff of twelve cooks along with thirty valets and footmen whom he insisted should wear the full livery of his dukedom.

  It was nothing of course on the Imperial travelling household. His old friend the emperor never embarked upon a campaign with less than sixty-five coaches of kitchen staff and equipment.

  Keane was shown into Marmont’s office, a high room in the Moorish style of the castle, its walls decorated with ceramic tiles in blue, white and turquoise. The late afternoon sunshine poured in through the open window with its heavy studded wooden shutters, flooding the room with light. Archer was already in the room, and Keane wondered if the two men had been speaking already and how good his officer impersonation had been. The aide had informed him that S
ilver had been placed in another room and was being cared for by one of the French sergeants.

  Entering the room, Keane found Marmont standing in full dress uniform, in a pool of sunlight in the centre of the floor. He smiled as Keane entered and gave a polite nod. It was extraordinary, but it seemed to Keane’s eye that, with his ­aquil­ine Roman nose, slightly supercilious expression and high forehead, Marmont bore more than a passing resemblance to Wellington himself.

  The marshal spoke. ‘Gentlemen, may I say what an intense pleasure it is to meet you – particularly you, Captain Keane – at long last. You know you’ve been quite a thorn in our side these past few years. I have to say that in a sense I am deeply sorry for your capture. Sorry on your behalf, as now you have left your commander exposed. Who knows what will happen? I trust that my men were courteous with you?’

  Keane nodded. ‘The dragoons who took us prisoner were most polite. Although their officer did surprise me a little by having Spanish villagers shot in cold blood.’

  Marmont sighed. ‘It is the way with the men and many of the officers. They have seen too much savagery here. Life is cheap. You become . . . brutal.’

  He paused and looked regretful. ‘I am a great admirer of yours, captain. Your bravery and resourcefulness are exemplary.’ He turned to Archer. ‘You are a lucky man, lieutenant, to have such a man as your comrade, your commander, even your friend.’

  ‘Yes, sir, indeed I am.’

  ‘May I invite you, both of you, to dine with me this evening? It would be my great pleasure.’

  Keane nodded. ‘I should be delighted to dine with the most distinguished marshal of the empire.’ He turned to Archer. ‘Won’t we, Charles?’