by Iain Gale
3
Keane drew the spyglass from his saddlebag and clicked it open before putting it to his eye to survey the plains of León. The landscape stretched away from him – parched midsummer fields under a blazing sky – and there, rising in the middle distance, the city of Ciudad Rodrigo: isolated, helpless and besieged.
Keane stared at it through the glass and considered the situation. The city of ten thousand souls, with a garrison half that number, had been invested since the end of April, almost two months, and for half that time had been under constant bombardment from some two hundred French guns.
Keane knew how that must feel – the constant whine of the incoming rounds of shell and ball shot which smashed into the masonry or exploded high above your head, raining down death and lethal shards of red-hot metal upon anyone below: soldier and civilian alike. He thought for a moment of the two bodies at the wreckage of Pritchard’s house. His mind was filled with the image of the woman and child, innocent victims, caught in the bomb blast, lying in the gutter in Celorico, and he amplified it a thousand times. This then would be the extent of the human catastrophe that was about to unfold here, at Ciudad. And he was powerless to prevent it.
It was relentless, although Keane knew too that General Herrasti must still hold out hope that Wellington would march to lift the siege. But if what Wellington had told them was to be believed, those hopes would soon be dashed. Keane slid the glass together and replaced it in his bags, then looked at the surrounding countryside. León was as flat as any place he had ever seen, even the deserts of Egypt. It would have been suicide for Wellington, with his inferior numbers, attempt to relieve the place. It was precisely what Massena would have wanted. The ground was perfect for his large, mobile army and for the French tactics. The British and their Portuguese allies would have been swallowed up and run down by Massena’s cavalry, arguably the finest in the world.
No. It was impossible to think that Wellington would come. He would sacrifice the city and its inhabitants to safeguard his army. There were times, thought Keane, when the end justified the means. And times when he thanked God that he was not in the general’s place.
He thought of the people of Ciudad, the women and children, and recalled not only Celorico now but what he had witnessed the previous year at Oporto, when the army had liberated the city after it had been ravaged by the French. Eight thousand people, they said, had been butchered, the women raped, the houses ransacked. He had no doubt that the same must happen in Ciudad. And then the name of the British would be cried out by the dying and a curse called down upon the name of Wellington.
*
He and his men, together with the German hussars, were based at the town of Gallegos, some three miles distant from his current position overlooking Ciudad. This morning he had taken a small patrol out to the hill. Just six of them, all his own men. His boys.
There was, though, one man missing. He had left Morris at Celorico. The excuse had been that, even with the death of Pritchard, he had things to resolve about the spy. Paperwork which must be completed and allegations to be addressed in order at last to secure Heredia’s lasting innocence.
But Keane knew that there was more to his absence. He had seen it at the blast site. Something in Morris’s eyes that he had not seen before and which troubled him. Something hidden and new.
In fact, he felt, with no little guilt, glad that his friend was not here. There would have been nothing worse than having to deal with Morris’s lack of faith in their mission and their command in the open, before the men.
*
They were under orders to observe and, if he saw an opportunity, seize information. But in the ten days he had been here no such opportunity had arisen. Keane had watched the French from the rear as they went about their business. Today was no different, he thought. Some time soon, surely, the place would fall. But not today.
Sam Gilpin was beside him. The gutter thief he had liberated from jail and whose talent at mimicry had already been used to good effect as a spy.
‘Queer, ain’t it, sir, how we can’t do nothing to help them. Makes you feel useless as a whore’s rosary.’
‘Yes, Gilpin, I know exactly what you mean. If only there was some means of aiding them. But all we can do is sit here and watch. And we know what must happen in the end.’
It’s a bloody shame, sir. And those poor women and wee children in there too.’
‘We have our orders. There is nothing we can do.’
‘The general’s not going to come is he, sir?’
‘No, Gilpin, I don’t think we need have any fear of that.’
*
He was about to turn and head back once again to join the others at Gallegos, when there was a shout from behind him, where Will Martin, keen-eyed as a hawk, had been looking out across the barren landscape.
‘Sir, over there, on the right. In the distance, there. Something’s moving.’
Keane took out the glass again and put it to his eye. A dust cloud was billowing across the plain, suggesting men on the move. The boy was right. From the French lines it appeared that someone or something was moving in their direction. And it was moving fast. He handed the glass to Ross.
‘There, sarn’t. What d’you make of that?’
The Scotsman put the telescope to his eye. ‘Someone’s coming, sir, I’d say so. Horsemen. Quite a few of them too, by the look of it. Can’t see who they are.’
Keane stared at the dust cloud. ‘But I think we might guess. Best not take any chances, eh?’
He took the glass back from Ross and, having stowed it, pulled on the reins and turned his horse. ‘We’ll pull back. We may have been seen.’ He cast a glance behind him and saw that, as he had feared, the dust cloud was drawing ever nearer. He could see horses in it now, and above them something catching the light of the sun which sat high in the sky. Something glistening. A touch of gold.
‘Dragoons. They’re dragoons, lads. Come on.’
The word was enough. They needed no other command. Together the six horsemen dug their spurs into the flanks of their mounts and headed away down the far slope of the slight hill on which they had been standing to observe the city.
They were certainly dragoons, thought Keane, but why the devil would Massena send them out from the French lines?
*
He was well aware that their mounts were not the equal of those ridden by the dragoons. In fact, they were hugely inferior animals and could not hope to outrun the French for long. He prayed that they would make it back to Gallegos and the rest of the force.
They reached the bottom of the slope and rode on, spurring into the flanks of their horses. Though sorely tempted, Keane did not look behind. The slightest delay might cost everything. He wondered why the dragoons were bothering to give chase. Surely Massena would simply want the observing British and Portuguese to be driven off their post overlooking the city?
Then another thought struck him. What if it was not merely the forward positions Massena wanted but the outposts as well. The marshal must know about his and others like it which formed a half-circle around the French lines. If that were the case, then it was possible that not even his full force would be a match for whatever men Massena had despatched to take their post.
He dug his spurs in deeper and urged on his horse. And at last the roofs of Gallegos came into view. Keane overtook the others and as soon as he entered the village pulled up and swung himself out of the saddle. He looked around and at last saw the man he sought.
Von Krokenburgh was leaning against the door of a deserted village house, puffing on a cigar.
‘Keane, what news?’
Keane was breathless. ‘The French… French dragoons… on our tail. They’ll be here in minutes. Stand your men to, quick, man.’
The German needed no retelling. He turned and barked an order to his sergeant major, then, finding a lieutenant, directed him towards his men.
Keane’s men were dismounting now; pulling their carbines
from their long leather holsters, they left their horses to one of the German farriers, who led them to the rear with those of his own regiment. This was no work for mounted men.
Ross shouted, ‘Carbines. Draw carbines and form a line across the street, two deep.’
Keane turned to von Krokenburgh and pointed to the first four houses in the street. ‘We need men up in those houses, captain. At the upper windows.’ Unquestioning, the German yelled a command and two of his sergeants ran for the houses, followed by a dozen hussars, carbines in their hands.
This was the sort of fighting Keane knew best. For although he was handy with a sabre, he was no cavalry officer but an infantryman through and through. Twenty years with the colours in the Inniskillens had seen to that. He was never more at his ease than when standing behind a line two deep with muskets levelled at the French. His men, while drawn from various arms, were likewise at their best when used as infantry. Their role was that of skirmishers, though. They were, almost to a man, keen shots, and he often thought that, had they been equipped with the Baker rifles issued to the riflemen of the 95th, they might have accounted for a great deal more of the enemy.
It said much for the Germans that they too formed line with ease, and not for the first time Keane admired their ordered efficiency. But it was not before time. For hardly had they been given the command to load and make ready than the lead dragoons appeared at the entrance to the village. Seeing the line of brown- and blue-coated soldiers across the street between two buildings, the first of the horsemen pulled up and turned to shout to the others. But it was too late. Those behind had already careered into the leaders, and just as they did so Keane gave a command and the carbines blazed.
The leading horses reared up and several of the dragoons recoiled sharply, jerking like puppets as the rounds tore into them. In the crush the following ranks could not advance and there was no need for Keane’s men to be told to reload. It was natural. Four rounds a minute they could manage, as good as any infantry battalion. They raised the carbines to their shoulders again, just beating the Germans by a whisker, and again the bullets whipped into the green-coated enemy.
*
The French were whirling in a confused mass as Keane and Ross yelled at the men to keep firing. Hands fumbled with cartridges as teeth bit paper and spat the ball down the hot barrels. From the windows of the houses the carbines of the German hussars cracked as they caught the horsemen in a deadly crossfire.
It did not take long for the dragoons to realize the hopelessness of their position. A moustachioed captain held up his hand to give the command and the men wheeled around and rode hell for leather away from the village, leaving their comrades dead and dying before the line of exhausted defenders.
Keane yelled, ‘Cease firing.’ And at last the men relaxed.
A dragoon clawed the dust and sank to the ground as an injured horse raised its head and whinnied in agony. One of the hussars walked across and despatched it with a single shot to the head, and for a moment Keane wondered if he might not do the same to the man who lay beside it, gasping for water. But the hussar knelt down and gave the Frenchman a drink from his own canteen. It was hard, thought Keane, to gauge the Germans. At times they were like men possessed, fighting for their homeland at any cost. At others they displayed all the courtesies of a soldier of a hundred years before. In this case, though, perhaps there was another motive. He walked across to the hussar. ‘Will he live?’
The man replied in a heavy German accent. ‘I think so, sir.’
‘Then bring him in. I need to speak to him.’
Walking over to the house, Keane passed Martin. ‘We did well, Will, to stop them.’
‘Yes, sir. Do you think they’ll try again?’
‘I don’t know, Will. Don’t know why they chased us back here. I’ll let you know when I do.’ He motioned the hussar and another trooper, who was helping him carry the wounded dragoon, to take him into the house. Inside, in the cool dark of the single room which was kitchen and living space, Keane swept the table clear of the few possessions left on it by its owners in their flight and had the men place the Frenchman upon it. The man groaned and Keane looked at his face. He was young, probably still in his teens. A carbine ball, smaller than a musket round, but no less deadly, had hit him in the shoulder, and Keane wondered how mortal a wound it might be. He knew from experience that such a shot could travel towards the heart.
Ross entered. ‘Sir. What was that about, do you think?’
‘That’s what I want to find out, sarn’t. If this lad will tell me. Do you know if any of Captain von Krokenburgh’s men has any medical skills?’
‘No, sir, I don’t, but I could ask.’
‘Yes, do that. And you had better get Gabriella, if you can find her.’
Ross went and as Keane was staring at the pallid face, contorted with pain, another figure appeared at the door. It was Archer, the new arrival. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I heard from Sergeant Ross that you were seeking medical assistance.’
‘Yes, this poor bugger needs help. And I need his help to find out what those French bastards were about.’
‘If I might take a look at him, sir.’
‘You, Archer? What do you know of medicine?’
‘A little, sir. Before I joined the ranks I was training to be a physician. In Edinburgh.’
‘Were you, by God?’ Of course Major Grant had not mentioned the fact. His idea of a joke, thought Keane, allowing him to discover when the time came and not before. It was typical of the man’s dry sense of humour. Nevertheless Archer’s experience would be invaluable now.
‘Can you help him?’
Archer walked to the table and, peering down at the boy, touched the entry wound. The dragoon winced and cried out. Archer whispered an apology in French. ‘Pardon.’
‘Is it a bad wound?’ asked Keane. ‘I know with a shoulder a ball may travel to the heart, isn’t that so?’
Archer nodded. ‘The danger, sir, is that the ball will reach the great vessels and cause a fatal haemorrhage. It’s hard to tell how close this ball is without cutting.’
‘Then cut, man, if it will save him. We need to know what the French are about and if they intend to return. For heavens’ sake, cut him if needs be.’
Archer shot him a glance. ‘Sir, with respect, if I cut him he may die. If I do not, he may well die also. I have to take a considered course of action.’
Keane nodded. ‘Yes, of course. You will know best. But make it quick, man.’
Archer reached into his pocket and produced a roll of material. Carefully unrolling it on the table, he revealed an array of steel instruments of the sort that Keane had often seen in the surgeons’ tent. Taking a pointed steel, Archer gently poked at the area around the entry hole. The dragoon screamed.
Ross was in the room now, along with Gabriella and Silver, who spoke. ‘A gag. We need a gag. A bit of wood. Anything.’ Looking around the room he saw a small wooden spoon which he placed across the open mouth of the dragoon. The man’s teeth closed upon it and as Archer probed he began to writhe.
Gabriella found a pitcher standing in a corner and pouring from it into a beaker, tried the water. She poured more and brought it to the dragoon, whose open eyes were rolling in agony.
Silver spoke. ‘Christ, the poor devil. Have we no brandy?’
Archer, still working carefully at the wound, spoke quietly. ‘No, no brandy. It will have little effect on the pain and it will thin the blood. He may have some later, if he lives.’
Keane watched closely and found himself praying for the Frenchman’s life.
Archer changed tools, selecting a pair of tiny silver pincers. Pushing hard on the dragoon’s shoulder he inserted the head of the instrument into the wound. The man’s screams could be heard even through the wooden gag, and for a moment Keane thought he must die. At the crescendo, Archer held the pincers up and Keane could see that in their teeth lay a small lead ball.
Archer grinned. ‘Got i
t, the little bugger.’
The Frenchman lay motionless and again Keane presumed that he was dead. Archer dropped the ball on to the cloth and, laying down the pincers, leant close to the man’s face. He looked at him and reached for a small mirror, one of the tools that had been rolled in the fabric, which he held to his mouth. A few seconds later he withdrew it and looked at it before showing it to Keane. It had misted over. ‘He’s alive.’
Keane slapped the table. ‘Thank God. Can we bring him round?’
‘Not for at least an hour, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s impossible. Quite out of the question. The French might return at any moment.’
‘What is even more out of the question, sir, is bringing him round. The man is still in a state of shock and needs rest. To bring him round might result in trauma, even death.’
Keane scowled. ‘Very well. An hour. No more, though.’
He walked to the door and was about to leave when he turned and looked back. ‘Oh, and well done, Archer. Quite a surprise. I would never have guessed. Come and see me when you’ve tidied up.’
Keane walked along the street and watched as the hussars dealt with their few dead and wounded. He thanked God there were not many. He met Archer as he left the house. ‘Where did you say you had studied?’
‘Edinburgh, sir, under Doctor Ramsay.’
‘And you never entered the profession? Why on earth not? What went wrong? And why did you end up here, for God’s sake? What did you do, man?’
‘Didn’t they tell you, sir?’
‘No, evidently not. It was Colonel Grant who appointed you to my unit, was it not?’
‘Yes, sir. He’s one of my mother’s relations.’
‘Well, that would explain something at least. But why? Where did he find you?’
‘In the jail, sir. I stole a loaf of bread.’
‘Well, that’s not a hanging offence, is it?’
‘Not yet, sir, anyways. No, sir. Twenty lashes.’
‘Not so bad. And he managed to get you out, but how did you come to the army in the first place?’