by Gale, Iain
Willoughby smiled. ‘You’re right, James, of course. It was good fortune for you and it will most certainly be his best chance. The only way he’ll make officer with us is if he joins the forlorn hope, and we all know what chance he’ll have there, storming a breach against enemy fire. Take him, with my blessing. He’s an eye for the ladies, though, James. Damn near cost him his life already. That run-in in Lisbon.’
‘Yes, he’s rather too much governed by his heart.’
‘His heart be damned. It’s his fondness for a tumble that’s his undoing. Needs to keep it buttoned up, eh?’
‘Quite right, sir. I’ll need to watch him.’
‘Take care of the lad, James. His father asked me to look out for him. I would never have allowed him to go in the forlorn hope. You know that.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind, sir.’
He found Martin where the colonel had directed him. The boy was sitting on a barrel throwing dice with two comrades on a blanket laid out on the dust. As Keane approached Martin saw him and stood to attention. The other two followed suit. He recognized one of them as Sean Macguire, a notorious gambler and cheat with whom he had had some dealings in the past, accounting for twenty-five of the scars that the man carried on his back. Macguire looked sheepish.
‘It’s all right, lads. I’ll not trouble you long. It’s Will here I’m after.’
Martin frowned. ‘Me, sir?’
‘Don’t worry, Martin. I’m not here to punish you. I’m here to make you an offer. How would you like to join my company?’
‘What, leave the 27th sir?’
Keane nodded. ‘Yes. I’m forming a new company, directly answerable to the commanding general. Scouts, you might say. I thought you might fit with it well.’
Martin shrugged. ‘Don’t know, sir. I’m not inclined to leave the regiment. It’s home to me now, sir. Like family.’
‘Yes, I realize that. And I know it’s hard. But you know me, Will. And I’m in command. So you’ll be among friends. It might offer you the chance of advancement and fortune.’
At this Martin brightened. ‘Really, sir? Advancement?’
‘Well, more than you’re likely to get here, with these ne’er-do-wells.’
The others forced a laugh but Macguire looked cynical.
There was a noise from behind them and Keane turned and locked eyes with another friendly face. ‘Mister Keane, sir. Good to have you back. You here to stay, sir?’
Keane shook his head. ‘Sorry, Sarn’t McIlroy. I’m afraid that much as I would like to, I have not returned. Fact is I’ve come to steal one of your men.’
‘Oh, you can take Macguire, sir. Any time you want. Welcome to him. And that one too.’
‘It’s not them I’ve come for, sarn’t, and you know it. It’s Will here.’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘That’s a shame, sir. A real shame. I had high hopes for him.’
‘And so do I, sarn’t. That’s why I’m taking him.’
‘What exactly are you doing, sir? Can I ask?’
‘You can ask, sarn’t, but I don’t think I can tell you. Let’s just say I’m doing something for the general. Something very important, and Will here is going to be a part of that.’ He thought for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact, I wonder if you might consider joining us. All I can tell you is that we will be operating close to the enemy and that we will be entirely independent of regimental command. What do you say?’
McIlroy shook his head and smiled. ‘Sorry, sir. I don’t think that’s the life for me. Too tied to the regiment here, sir. I’m a soldier through and through, Mister Keane. It’s not for me to creep about. I’m best facing the enemy in a fight. Like you, sir. With the men in the line.’
Keane nodded and realized for an awful moment that McIlroy might indeed have hit a truth. That he was himself a fighting soldier, a man of battles, better facing the enemy. He wondered whether he was doing the right thing but decided that he was now in too deep to go back.
Martin piped up. ‘I’ll come with you, sir. ’Course I will. I can’t do better than that and though I shall miss my friends here, I must think of my prospects.’
‘Good lad, Will. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
‘No, nor never I will, sir.’
*
Morning broke over Coimbra with a clap of thunder. The heat of the past days had finally come to its end and as Keane awoke the heavens opened.
Ross, who, used to it from his time in the mess, had happily turned to the duties of Keane’s soldier-servant, opened the tent flap. ‘I’ve made some tea, sir. Mister Morris is about and the others too. He’s gone off to find someone, he said. But we were wondering what you want us to do, sir.’
Keane cursed himself for sleeping after the others were up. It was not like him. ‘Wake me earlier tomorrow, Ross, if you would.’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Yes, sir. And you’ve had a message, sir. You’re needed at General Wellesley’s headquarters. Soon as you like, sir.’
Keane smiled. ‘You can stand the men easy then, sarn’t. Just tell them to make sure everything’s in order. They might practise their skills at arms or their riding. You might do so too if you’ve a mind to it.’
Ross laughed. ‘You’ll have seen then that I’m not one of nature’s horsemen, sir. Some work to do there. I’ll just fetch that tea and a pail of hot water.’
Keane shaved fast and gulped down the tea as he did so. There was no time to waste, and much as he knew he must not keep the general waiting, there was also another matter to which he knew he must first attend.
*
The Royal Dragoons were encamped some distance away from the infantry, as befitted their status, and the difference was evident from the moment Keane saw their bivouac. In fact, he heard it before he saw it. The air was filled with the sound of whinnying horses and not least with the unmistakable smell of them, made all the more pungent by the damp. The rain had stopped now and throughout the dragoons’ lines grooms and troopers were busy rubbing down their mounts. But it was not just the horses or the smell that struck him, but the way in which through the haze of smoke from the campfires the whole place shone as the watery sun glanced off the leather straps and highly polished brass harness hung from specially constructed frames. To Keane’s mind, though, all was just too perfect. There was no mistaking the work of a martinet in command here and he had been dreading his encounter with their colonel ever since Grant had suggested that one of his number might be a man in their ranks who was currently under a sentence of flogging.
Sam Gilpin had impersonated an officer. Of that there was no doubt, nor of the gravity of his crime. But even Keane felt that a battalion punishment – a proper public flogging – for such a crime seemed overzealous. However, Colonel the Honourable Sidney Hackett had never been renowned for his clemency in such matters. Keane, with Morris at his side for moral support, advanced towards the officers’ tents with some trepidation. At least, he thought, he had the authority of Grant and ultimately Wellesley to back him up. But to be honest, at this moment he felt that he would rather have been assaulting an enemy position than about to encounter a brother officer.
Reaching the tents, he sought out the adjutant, a major whom he knew by sight, but could not find him. There was no alternative but to enter unannounced. As he had done at Willoughby’s tent, Keane coughed, but this time there was no cheery response. A voice from within snarled, ‘Yes. What?’
Sidney Hackett was sitting in his shirtsleeves smoking a cheroot. ‘Who the devil are you?’
‘Captain Keane, sir. Late of the the Inniskillens.’
‘And you want?”
‘I want a man, sir. One of your men, sir. That is, I have orders from the commanding general to request the transfer of a man from your battalion.’ Nothing like getting to the point, he thought. Play the trump card first.
‘You have, have you? Let’s see them, then.’
Keane reached into his pocket and withdrew the letter that Grant had
given him for use in such a situation. He gave it to Hackett and recalled its wording.
You will give Captain Keane every possible assistance in his request. It was signed Arthur Wellesley.
Hackett looked at the paper, turned it over and examined the reverse, and for a moment Keane thought that he might be about to crumple it and throw it to the floor. But he seemed to have second thoughts and handed it back.
‘Well, captain, that seems to be in order. Who is it you want?’
‘Private Gilpin, sir. Sam Gilpin.’
Hackett laughed and shook his head. ‘Gilpin? What could you possibly want with Gilpin? He’s nothing but a rogue, as useless a piece of shit as ever took the King’s shilling. You are quite sure that you actually want him? Are you quite certain, captain?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s Gilpin that I want.’
Hackett called, ‘Sarn’t Bates. In here, now.’
The tent flap opened and a sergeant of horse entered, a rough-looking fellow with a scar on his left cheek. ‘Sir?’
‘The captain here wants Gilpin. Isn’t he on a charge?’
‘Yes, sir. 300 lashes, sir. Lack of respect due to an officer.’
‘Oh yes, remind me of it.’
‘He, er … he impersonated you, sir.’
‘So he did. Yes. That was it. Insolent blackguard. Knew I had reason to hate him. Well, I’m very much afraid you shan’t have your Mister Gilpin, captain.’ Hackett took a long drag on the cheroot. ‘He’s mine for now. At least until he’s undergone his punishment.’
‘And then, sir?’
‘Oh, then you can have him, captain.’
Bates sniggered.
Keane asked, ‘Might I ask what his punishment is, sir?’
‘What was it, sarn’t?’
‘Three hundred lashes, sir.’
Keane frowned.
Morris spoke up. ‘Three hundred lashes? Good God. I mean, I’m sorry, sir, but three hundred lashes. That will surely kill him.’
Hackett smiled and took a drag of his cigar. ‘Uh … yes, I suppose that it probably will. What say you, Sarn’t Bates?’
‘Oh yes, sir. I’ve known men to die under the lash at a hundred. Three hundred will do for him, sir. Sure enough.’
Keane shook his head. ‘Then I’m afraid, sir, that I shall have to appeal to the commanding general. I’ve no use for a dead man.’
Hackett’s face turned purple and for an instant he was speechless. Then, ‘No, captain? Well, nor have I for a man who treats his betters with such contempt as you would reserve for a dog.’
Keane turned on him. ‘And that’s how you treat him, sir. Whip him till he’s dead.’
Hackett looked down at the desk and picked up a piece of paper. ‘Captain Keane, I think both you and I know that this interview is at an end.’
Keane knew when it was pointless to continue. Hackett had military law on his side, whatever Wellesley might have said and whatever the value of the piece of paper in his pocket. This time there was no escape.
He nodded to the colonel and he and Morris took their leave, hearing as the tent flap dropped the laughter of the colonel and his sergeant behind them.
Morris turned to him. ‘James. We must do something. That is absurd. Killing a man by flogging for such an offence.’
‘Yes, I agree, but we are not in the right and for once I wonder whether the general will be able to do anything.’ He thought for a moment. ‘That’s it, Tom. Wellesley must know full well that even he can’t do anything about this. Always did. Don’t you see? He’s set us a test. We’ll have to get Gilpin ourselves.’
*
Gilpin was being held in the dragoons’ camp, in a small enclosure close to the horses. Morris, who had left Keane and taken a stroll through the lines, reported back that there were only two guards, although from the look of it Gilpin was tied with rope to a wooden beam.
It had been Silver who had suggested that they might use Gabriella. Not in any sordid way, but just as a decoy, to distract the guard. Then Heredia would go for him from behind. Anyone glimpsing his uniform would blame it on the Portuguese. He would knock the man unconscious, nothing more, and then the two of them would be in. Slash the rope with Heredia’s sabre and hurry him off into the night. It was as sound a plan as any and just as likely to fail.
Of course, Keane himself could not be seen to be involved and so, reluctantly, he sent them off into the night with words of warning. ‘If you are caught I cannot possibly be associated with you. I’m sorry, but it would jeopardize the whole operation.’
They left quickly, with no scabbards or bags to rattle or encumber them, Heredia’s sabre tucked into his belt, wrapped in a scarf. Keane waited for them to go and then, unbuckling his own sword belt, followed on.
He tracked them at a distance of some twenty yards, taking cover at every opportunity, ducking between tents and wagons as he went. At length they came close to the dragoons’ encampment and the enclosure where Gilpin was being held. He watched as Heredia seemed to melt into the shadows and Gabriella alone walked forward. Keane saw her smile at the sentry and watched as he returned it. She was talking to the man now, using her broken English as best she could to tell him, Keane guessed, how fine he looked, and asking when he would be free. There was little time before someone would spot her. And as he watched a shadow appeared from behind the sentry and in an instant the man was on the ground, unconscious. The enclosure gate was secured only with a wooden catch, which was quickly slipped, and then Heredia was inside. With a single slash of his sabre he cut the rope securing Gilpin and then all three of them were out and running back towards the camp.
Keane pushed himself into the shadows as they came past and then, emerging slowly, returned himself to their encampment, as if on no more than a stroll.
*
In the event he arrived back before them, as he knew he would, for they had taken a circuitous route around the camp to throw off the scent any dragoons who might have followed them.
Keane was in mid conversation with Morris when they came, and there was no sign of any pursuit. Gabriella was first, her body heaving, her face glowing red in the firelight. And then, behind her, pushed forward by Heredia, came a bewildered Sam Gilpin.
Keane looked at him carefully. Square set, with powerful shoulders, Gilpin looked the very picture of a heavy cavalryman. A man who, wielding one of the straight-edged swords its owners had christened ‘the butcher’s cleaver’, would bring down his full strength in the swing and cut a man clean in two. But this evening Sam Gilpin was far from being a master of the battlefield. In the firelight, he looked around at them all with frightened, ferret eyes.
Keane spoke. ‘Don’t worry, Gilpin. You’re quite safe now.’
Catching his breath at last, Gilpin saw the gold braid on Keane’s coat and managed to speak. ‘Thank you, sir. But what’s going on? Why am I here? Who are you, sir?’
‘You’re safe, Gilpin. My name is James Keane. Captain Keane. I’m your new officer and these are your comrades.’
The man looked even more puzzled and stared at the others. ‘You ain’t dragoons, sir. You ain’t even cavalry. What are you?’
Keane ignored the question. ‘Tell me, Gilpin, where are you from? Originally, I mean. Your home.’
‘Somerset, sir. I worked on a farm before I took the shilling. As a wheelwright.’
‘I see. And your age?’
‘Twenty-six, sir. So I believe.’
‘Now tell me. What did you think you were doing, mimicking your colonel?’
Gilpin looked worried again. ‘Oh, it weren’t nothing, sir. Just a bit of harmless fun really. Colonel took it real bad, though.’
‘I’ll say he did. A bit of harmless fun? Good God. You’re a cool ’un, Gilpin. I’ll say that for you. It almost cost you your life, man.’
Gilpin nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I think I went a bit far.’
‘You could say that. Well, thank God we’ve saved you. And where I come from mimicry is a skill to be us
ed to advantage. That’s what we’re about. Apart from your talent, what else can you do? You were recommended to me from high up.’
‘I was?’ Gilpin smiled. ‘Thank you, sir. I can speak French, sir. Not half bad, and I can manage a bit of the Spanish too.’
Keane thought for a moment and then turned to Silver. ‘Try him.’
Silver nodded and spoke to the man quickly in Spanish. From what Keane could make out it was a complex series of sentences involving the weather, the price of grain and not least the virtue of Gilpin’s sister.
He was surprised to hear what seemed to be a perfect reply. He turned to Silver. ‘Well?’
‘Very good, sir. He speaks a form of Galician. He’s clever, sir. Even dropped in one or two of them local words when I quizzed him about his sister.’ He smiled.
‘That’s good, Gilpin. That’s very good.’
Then, sensing an opportunity, Keane himself passed quickly into French and again Gilpin took him up, this time in a guttural accent that Keane thought quite convincing. He nodded. ‘Yes, we can certainly use you.’
‘Use me, sir? How? For what?’ Gilpin looked puzzled. ‘Anyway, I don’t yet know why you saved me.’
‘I’m forming a new company and you come highly recommended.’
He looked amazed. ‘Recommended, sir? Me?’
‘You, Gilpin. That is why we saved you from being flayed alive. We saved you so that you can be of more use to General Wellesley’s army.’
‘I’m very touched, sir. But what am I to be doing?’
‘What you do best, Gilpin. Making use of your talents. But this time you’re going to use them to beat Boney.’
*
Keane was pleased. He had accomplished what he had set out to do and had come away with the bones of a command the like of which the army had never seen. Felons, Wellesley had said, and that was for the most part what Keane had got. Save for Martin, of course, and Gabriella.
He was sitting on a tree stump considering the achievement when Ross found him.
‘Evening, sarn’t. I think we’ve done quite well with our little band, don’t you?’
Ross nodded. ‘Very well, sir. Not bad at all.’ He paused. ‘But in my own opinion, there is one more man we should have. If you don’t mind my saying so, sir.’