Keane's Company (2013)

by Gale, Iain

  Heredia was smiling. ‘We hurt them, captain. Look at the blood.’

  Keane looked from the window and watched the French go. They left the corpses behind them, all save the young officer, who they carried between them as quickly as they could away from the monastery. They counted sixteen dead and Keane guessed they might have put a good ten others hors de combat.

  Ross was smiling, grimly. ‘That was deadly work, sir. Proper deadly. My barrel’s red hot.’

  ‘Piss in it, sarge,’ Silver offered. ‘That’s what we used to do on the ships. Hot work on them.’

  ‘When I want your advice, Silver, I’ll ask for it.’

  ‘They’ll cool down soon enough,’ said Keane. ‘And just in time to welcome those buggers back, I would guess. Now they know we’re here, we’ll have no rest. But we must hold, boys. Our lads won’t be long in coming.’

  He ordered Gilpin to keep a watch on the city and walked back to the west side of the upper storey. Reaching the window, he looked out again across the Douro and this time his patience was rewarded. For there on the opposite bank he could at last make out ranks of men in red coats. There were at least a battalion of them with another coming up to the rear. Clearly, he thought, Wellesley is doing all he can to keep as much of his force as possible hidden in the dead ground behind the big hill to the east of Villa Nova. The French would not spy them from the city. But from his vantage point here, up in the monastery, they were as clear as day, and Keane had never seen a more welcome sight.

  He called down to the others. ‘They’re here, boys. The army’s come up.’

  The men rushed up the stairs and pushed towards the window.

  Silver whooped and slapped the window frame. ‘Christ, sir. In the nick of time, an’ all. Just as I was thinking we’d never make it out of this bloody place. Sorry, sir.’

  There was a shout from above, from Gilpin up in the tower. ‘They’re coming again, sir. The Frenchies are coming again.’

  They all ran to the west window and saw that sure enough a French column was making its way out of the east end of the city. This time, though, even at this distance it was possible to see that there was no officer on a horse at their head. There were skirmishers in front now and behind a column which as it left the confines of the buildings fanned out into a dense line of blue figures, their muskets carried at the high port of the marche d’attaque.

  Keane swore. ‘That’s bad. They want to take this place and to pay us back for killing their comrades. Either way, we’re in a spot. Sarn’t Ross, how much ammunition do we have?’

  Ross looked in his cartridge bag. ‘Two strips of ten, sir. Twenty rounds.’

  ‘You others?’

  ‘Fifteen, sir.’

  ‘Twenty, sir.’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Seventeen, sir.’

  ‘And I have … ’ He reached into his own bag. ‘I have nineteen rounds. That’s just over a hundred rounds. We’ll have to make them count.’

  Keane was well aware of the poor killing-power of the cavalry carbines with which they had been issued. He would even have preferred to have the old Brown Bess muskets of the infantry. He knew that, either way, if they fired down as they had done before into a dense mass of the enemy, their bullets, propelled at God knew what angles from the barrels, would stand a good chance of hitting someone. If the French opened out and if the skirmishers stayed as they were then many rounds would be lost, for it was almost impossible to aim accurately. Martin would have to do his stuff and take out the skirmishers before they came into range. Then the rest of them would join in with the carbines. That was how they would play this one. But it was going to need careful timing.

  Martin said, ‘Am I still to use your rifle, sir?’

  Keane smiled. ‘I can’t think of a better use for it.’ He wondered how quickly Wellesley would get his men across on the barges. Soon, he reckoned. There was no point in delaying and risking the French destroying them with cannonfire. He hoped for their sakes that he was right.

  ‘Same positions as before. But we’ll do it differently. Volley fire this time. Hold your fire until you hear my command. Martin can deal with the skirmishers and then we’ll let the rest of them come on until they’re in range and give it to them just as hot as we did before. And remember, make every shot count.’

  Again they stood at the windows and watched the French come on at them across the dusty white earth. The skirmishers moved quickly, zigzagging across in front of the main body, moving in pairs, expecting that at any moment they might be picked off. The French who had survived the first assault would have gabbled to those in the city something at least about how their captain was shot clean through the heart, and whoever was in charge would have guessed that at least one of the men in the palace must be armed with a rifle. That explained their tactics now. And also why their officer came on on foot.

  What they would not know, though, Keane thought, was the size of the force that opposed them. Sixteen men dead was no little butcher’s bill for such a short engagement. The French officers might be reckoning on perhaps as many as forty men firing at them from the windows. The force they had now sent seemed to confirm his supposition, for as he watched another French column began to move out of the town. Two companies with skirmishers and at a greater strength than before. He wondered how far the redcoats had got with their barges. Now, though, was not the time to find out. Gilpin was no longer in the tower, having come down to join them, so there was no way of knowing. They would just have to stand their ground and hope for the best.

  The skirmishers were nearing them now. At a hundred and fifty yards Keane said, ‘Right, Martin, now’s your time. Steady. Get as many as you can.’

  The boy took aim at the man nearest to him and squeezed the trigger of the rifle. The Frenchman toppled backwards and Martin reloaded fast and was on another of them as they scuttled for the meagre cover of the rocks. Another shot and the man crumpled forward, a thick black stain spreading beneath him. Martin reloaded. The skirmishers were pressing on now although the four-deep line to their rear had stopped. The officer gave the order to load and the French reached into their cartouche bags and inserted their cartridges. Still Martin continued. The skirmishers were firing back now, taking it in turns in their pairs to find cover and get in a shot. It did not do them any good. Within a minute Martin had accounted for another two of them.

  Keane muttered, ‘Good, Martin, very good. Keep it steady.’

  He watched as the skirmishers, still moving forward, began to move faster. He’ll have to finish them now, he thought, or they’ll be at the windows. Martin fired and another went down. And then another. The main body of the French were loaded now and Keane saw the reserve company gaining on them. The French officer barked another command and the men came on, again at the marche d’attaque, with fixed bayonets.

  Keane called out, ‘Ready.’

  Martin was still going at it. Keane stopped him. He had put paid to some ten of the skirmishers and the remaining few, perhaps five of them, had gone to ground in the lee of the wall beneath the monastery windows.

  ‘Hold your fire now. Keep some of the ammunition. We’ll need it later. You’ve done well, Martin.’

  He yelled again so that those across at the other window could hear. ‘Present.’

  From below he could hear the French officer barking a command. The halt. They were preparing to fire. But he would get in the first volley before they had a chance.

  Again he shouted, ‘Fire.’

  The five carbines, including his own, crashed out and tore into the ranks below. Five of the Frenchmen fell. The officer shouted again and the French made ready their weapons while Keane and the others reloaded as fast as they could. Four rounds a minute, his men could manage in the Inniskillens. He wondered how fast this lot would be. Before the French could fire the carbines loosed off again and another five men fell. The officer was shouting now, trying desperately to push his men forward, to do the undoable. But the Frenc
h were shaken. There was a crash of musketry and a few rounds smashed into the stonework and the wood around the window.

  Keane yelled, ‘Everyone all right?’

  ‘Sir.’

  They had all reloaded again and on his word of command the carbine muzzles flashed. This time only three of the French went down, but Martin was as good as ever and with a clean shot he felled the red-faced officer in mid command.

  The French stood for an instant and stared. It was time enough. One more volley, he thought, before your friends arrive to help.

  ‘Fire.’

  Five guns opened up and three more Frenchmen died. And that was enough. Twenty-six of their eighty men dead and wounded, and along with them their officer. They had no stomach left for a fight. The others turned and fled back towards their advancing comrades.

  Keane wiped the sweat from his forehead but did not put down his gun. This was no time to rest. The reserve company were closing fast and he was unsure of where the remainder of the skirmishers had got to. And that was a real worry now, as he could not see them retreating with the others.

  ‘Not bad. Two attacks beaten off. Gilpin, quickly up in the tower. Tell me what you can see. Are the army crossing?’

  He turned to the others. ‘The rest of you, with me. We’ll give them a few shots and then get down to the barricade. You all have swords?’

  ‘Sir.’

  They had been issued with light cavalry sabres, curved and not unlike his own Mameluke sword. Swords would befit their new mounted role and Keane had made sure that when they swapped clothes they should not take the Frenchmen’s weapons, but retain their own. The French muskets he thought worse even than British army issue. While Keane and Morris had given them some tuition in swordplay, he was not sure how they would get on in a melee.

  They had worked well against the patrol, but that had been dirty fighting. Now would be the first real test for the men in a proper hand-to-hand engagement. Sabre against bayonet.

  There was a shout from Gilpin, who came careering down the steps from the tower.

  ‘They’re crossing, sir. The army. Using all four of our boats, and the Frenchies ain’t seen them yet. Leastwise, they ain’t firing at them.’

  ‘Good. Now at least we have a chance. Come on.’

  Keane ordered them back to the windows and they watched in rapt anticipation as the French second column moved forward. They had turned back the retreating skirmishers and now they were in front of the front rank. As they neared the field of corpses that now lay before the walls, the French began to slow down. Keane heard the officers and sergeants shout at the men and watched as they whirled around at the front exhorting them to attack the closed gates.

  ‘Fire on my command. Ready.’

  The guns came up. Martin’s too, this time.

  ‘Present. Fire.’

  Again the carbines and the rifle spat fire from their muzzles and more of the Frenchmen fell. Martin had not been idle, and the French officer lay sprawled in a twisted heap in front of his men, his brains and half his head spread across the dust. The French sergeants, though, had taken over along with another junior officer, who was pushing forward from the rear.

  ‘One more round,’ shouted Keane. ‘Then down to the barricade.’

  He watched them. Made certain they were steady. ‘Present. Ready. Fire.’

  They did not wait for the smoke to clear to survey their handiwork but led by Keane clattered down the steps and into the courtyard. By the time they reached it the French were already hammering at the gate.

  Keane stopped. ‘Stand where you are, men, and when they break through the gate fire and reload.’

  He had placed the barricade deliberately at the rear of the courtyard, leaving a good hundred yards between it and the gate. That would allow more than enough time for them to manage another two shots before the French closed with them.

  The gate was moving now as if some great titanic force were pushing against it from without, the heavy crossbar bending in its brackets.

  ‘Steady,’ called Keane, his voice strong and steadfast. ‘Steady. Wait for them.’

  There was a commotion from behind him and then hammering on the windows to the south. Christ, he thought. It’s those damned skirmishers. The ones who had managed to get away in the lee of the wall. They’ve been smashing at the windows. In a matter of minutes, they’ll break through and come round behind us.

  He shouted to Martin. ‘Will, get over to those windows. See if you can find a hole in them and shoot anyone you see outside. We’ve got to stop the French from getting in through them. The rest of you stay with me. They’ll be in through the gate soon enough. Hold steady.’

  Martin ran across to the south wall and stopped at the first window. It was being pushed through, splintering with every blow of musket butt and bayonet, and the timbers were hanging ragged on the shutters. He looked for the best place to fire his rifle and found a splintered hole in the upper part of the shutter. The main gates were moving more openly now, the crossbar straining as the French leant all their weight against it.

  Keane saw Martin. ‘Shoot the buggers, Will. Keep them out, for God’s sake.’

  This was it. In a moment they would be inside. Two more volleys, and then it would be the clash of steel and steel. But he knew it was a fight they could not hope to win. At best they would take down more of the French with them before they were overwhelmed by numbers. And then their foothold would be gone and the men in red who would struggle up the slope would find the place alive with French muskets. All for the sake of a few blessed minutes.

  He cursed. Why had Wellesley taken so long?

  Martin shouted something from the window. But Keane couldn’t hear above the din, the noise of which seemed to swell and ebb like a wave crashing against the rocks.

  ‘Shoot them, Martin. Shoot.’

  Martin shouted again and this time he heard the words, above the sound of splintering wood as the front gates gave way. ‘I said, they’re red, sir. They’re redcoats. It’s our men, sir.’

  With those words the gates opened and the French swarmed in. Keane, his head fuddled with Martin’s words, came back to his senses. ‘Fire.’

  The five guns opened up and all hit their mark. The gate was wide enough to accommodate only seven Frenchmen standing abreast and so the dead stopped the attack in its tracks. But within a few seconds the French were climbing over the bodies of their dead and dying comrades.

  But it had been long enough for Keane’s men to reload and as the French moved forward another volley hit them full on. Keane had not relaxed but had leapt across to join Martin, and, ripping open the shutters, had seen the British outside trying to get in. And with them, distinctive in his blue artilleryman’s tunic, came Tom Morris. Now the redcoats were climbing through the open window: a sergeant followed by four men, and as they did so Keane was aware that the French were closing on the barricade. He pushed the sergeant across to it.

  ‘Quick. Hurry, man.’ The redcoats ran to help the others and as he struggled to open a second window and a third, Keane could hear the sound of bayonets clashing.

  More redcoats were pouring in through the windows now and there was another commotion from outside the walls. Keane guessed that the remainder of the force that had been the first to scale the cliff after the crossing had taken the French in the flank at the gate.

  He turned and ran to the barricade. All of his men were still on their feet, fighting for their lives with sabres parrying away the thrusts of the French bayonets. He drew his own scimitar and plunged in, aware of Martin making a neat thrust and skewering a French sergeant in the ribcage.

  ‘Hot work, Martin.’

  The boy grinned and turned to fight another of the French as Keane saw Morris take on a big man in a blue coat and tall black shako, topped with a green plume. One of the voltigeurs that had escaped Martin’s rifle. The man did not thrust immediately but waited, trying to anticipate Morris’s move, and amid the melee around the ba
rricade for an instant theirs became a personal fight, one on one. Morris, experienced swordsman that he was, would not make a move but feinted, trying to draw the man on. Finally, he decided that his next feint would be the real thrust. Sure enough he sidestepped and made a lunge at the Frenchman’s left. The man, tricked by so many feints, parried to the right and Morris’s blade sank home in the Frenchman’s side. The man shrieked and clutched at the cut, trying to staunch the blood and push back the huge flap of flesh, but now his guard was down, and with another blow to the man’s chin Morris finished him off.

  Keane had but a second to marvel at the elegance of his friend’s swordplay before he himself was in the thick of it again and turned to face another Frenchman whom he had sensed, with an instinct honed in battle, was closing on him. This time the man thrust with his musket, pushing the long steel shaft of the bayonet fast towards Keane’s chest. But Keane was quick, quicker than the Frenchman, and in turning he used the base of his sword – the strongest part – to deflect the bayonet. Then, bending his arm hard over the top of the useless musket, he hacked at the Frenchman’s left arm, cutting it to the bone. The man screamed and dropped his musket to grab at his mangled limb. Keane left him as useless and turned on another of them. The courtyard looked like a sea of blue uniforms, punctuated by red, but with every second the scarlet tide seemed to be growing.

  As the British came on, appearing apparently from nowhere to the bewildered French, the blue-coated ranks began to fall back.

  Keane yelled, ‘That’s it. We’ve got them. They’re retreating. Come on, boys.’

  Together, Keane’s men and the newly arrived British swarmed across the barricade and pushed against the French. Keane watched as a huge corporal from the reinforcements plunged his bayonet into a Frenchman with such force that he was lifted off his feet, screaming and grasping at the shaft.

  Martin and Silver were cutting in all directions with their sabres, fighting like demons as the French raised their arms to protect themselves against cuts which severed wrists and fingers.

  They were almost at the gate now and the French had turned to run through the opening. Three of them still stood facing the defenders, two with muskets and bayonets levelled. Keane saw Martin make a deft sabre cut at one who, parrying with his musket, was then wrong-footed and suffered for his mistake by taking the full force of a sabre blow to his neck, which gouted spurts of bright-red blood. The second man looked uncertain. Then he threw down his musket and raised his hands. Heredia was closest to him. But rather than accept the man’s surrender, he walked up to him and having stood staring into his eyes for more than a few moments, raised his sabre and made a hard and deft cut across the man’s chest. The Frenchman, taken by surprise, looked on as the blood flowed freely through the slash in his blue-and-white tunic and then fell to the ground without so much as a groan.