by Gale, Iain
Keane spoke up. ‘Sir, it would seem prudent, were it possible, to send a detachment of men somehow into the city to make contact with the populace and perhaps obtain some means of ferrying over the greater part of the army.’
Paget nodded and at that moment another round came crashing into the monastery. This time it overshot the walls and landed with some force in the centre of the courtyard, throwing up cobblestones as lethal shrapnel. Two of Danvers’ men were hit, one in the neck. Blood began to spurt from the wound as the man fell to the cobbles.
The general pointed to him. ‘Someone help that man.’
He turned back to Keane. ‘Indeed, captain, were it possible. Do you suppose that it might be?’
‘A small party of men, sir, perhaps in disguise or otherwise rendered inconspicuous, might do so.’
‘You are suggesting, I presume, Captain Keane, that you and your men might constitute that party?’
‘That was in my plan, sir.’
‘You are willing then to have a go?’
‘More than willing, sir. I think we can do it.’
Paget shrugged. ‘Then by all means, Keane. You have my blessing on the enterprise. You’re better doing that than standing here penned up and waiting for the French. In truth I wish I could go with you.’
*
Keane assembled the men in the courtyard. As he did so, another French round screamed in overhead, higher now. Nevertheless they all ducked as it took away part of the tower. The stones crashed into the yard and Keane spoke above the noise. ‘I have some good news for you. We’re getting out of here.’ There was a cheer. ‘The bad news is that we’re going into the city. And more bad news is that we’re going to get dressed up as Frenchmen again.’
Someone swore. Ross’s eyes flashed across them, but missed the culprit.
Keane went on. ‘We’ll leave through a window on the south side and come round the wall beneath the line of the cliff. From there it should be plain sailing until we reach the city.’
Silver moaned. ‘Do we have to wear these clothes again, sir? I can’t be doin’ with it.’
Ross growled. ‘You’ll be done with it when I’m done with you, Silver. We’re wearing them and that’s that.’
Keane smiled. ‘Yes, I’m afraid we do have to wear them. At least until we’re safely in the city and we’ve done what we need to do.’
Martin spoke. ‘And what is that, sir?’
‘We’re after more boats, Martin. We need to find boats big enough to get more of our men across. Many, many more. The whole army if they can manage it. And for that we’ll need some of the locals. Such men as Father Sanchez have no love for the French and they’re sure to help us. Most of you have Spanish, some of you can speak French. What we have to do is let the local people know who we are without making ourselves known to the French.’
Heredia shook his head. ‘Sir, do you really think that we will manage it? Of course I can pass as both a Portuguese and a Frenchman. But what of the others?’ He indicated them with his hand as if to emphasize the hopelessness of their situation. ‘I think it’s madness.’
It was much as Keane had come to expect from the trooper and he brushed it off.
Silver spoke up. ‘You’re talking out of your arse as usual, Heredia. You know it’s the only way.’
The trooper turned on Silver, and Ross stepped forward, but Keane was quick to speak. ‘You might think that but it is not open to discussion, Heredia. Just remember where I found you and what your fate might have been. Now get yourselves changed. We’ve no time to lose. And make sure you put on the French clothes over your own. When we meet the good people of Oporto we’ll have to get these bloody blues off before they have time to shoot us.’
*
The French uniform was as itchy and twice as uncomfortable as it had been before. It had never been a good fit, but now, over Keane’s red coat, it was almost intolerable. He presumed that the others must feel the same and told himself it would not be for long. Nevertheless, as they crawled through the grass beneath the line of the cliff top Keane wondered for a moment whether Heredia might not in fact have been right. Perhaps this was madness. Still, it was as mad to remain in the seminary and be blown to pieces by French cannon before the army got across.
He wondered when the French would open up with shell. Not long. And then the buildings of the seminary would be set ablaze and the redcoats would die in that burning hell.
And then he heard it. On their right. The earth beneath them shook and a familiar, repetitive noise clattered out. He knew what it was. Drums. The sound of French columns advancing into battle. Keane rolled across to the bank and, raising himself up on his elbows, peered over and through the parched grass on top. Three columns of French light infantry, headed by mounted officers and drummer boys in their imperial green and gold, were advancing upon the seminary, two from the road they had used before and the other from a road to the north. And with them came two more guns, and this time Keane could make out the short, stubby barrels of howitzers.
He squinted and tried to reckon the numbers of the infantry and decided that they must be three full battalions, each with a colonel riding at its head. Twelve hundred men and a full battery of guns against – how many had they left in the seminary? Perhaps five boatloads of the Buffs. Barely a hundred and fifty men. The odds were worse than ten to one and he began to sweat, horribly aware that apart from the penny parcels still coming ashore from the barges, his mission was the only way in which the French might abandon their assault on the seminary and reprieve Paget and his garrison.
Ross was with him now. ‘By God, sir. Will you look at that? All them Frenchies just to take that little place? And it’s not as if it would be of any use to anyone, is it, sir?’
‘But it must be taken, sarn’t, if the French are to prevent us retaining a bridgehead on this side of the river. If Wellesley is right, if Marshal Soult intends to escape, then he will not want his rear harassed by the likes of us. That is why he must take this place. And that is why we must stop him.’
As he spoke the battery of British guns opposite them on the hill at Villa Nova opened up again, hurling roundshot into the advancing French columns. Keane watched as the first of the balls, perfectly placed by the gunners, landed before the flank of the lead column and then bounced up and into it, scything its way in a welter of gore through the files. He felt for them. He himself knew what it was to be in that mess of mangled flesh and part of him could not help but feel the sympathy for his enemy, French or not, that only a soldier knows. The French continued to march forward, walking on and across the broken bodies of the dead and dying, and all the time the drums at the head of the column pattered out their familiar tattoo.
Spellbound, they gazed at the columns for a moment longer. Keane spoke. ‘I’ll wager you’re happy we didn’t stay in there now, sarn’t.’
‘Aye, sir, damn happy. I don’t envy them one bit.’
The two of them slid back down and rejoined the men on the track that skirted the cliff top. Slowly and silently they made their way along the tiny path. Keane had ordered them to stow their canteens, lest they should clatter and give them away. Their muskets too were without their flints. They had taken muskets rather than carbines, and any muskets, French or English, were unpredictable tools at the best of times: the slightest knock might send a spark from a flint or cock the hammer. It sounded unlikely, but he had seen it happen. A hammer snagged on an overhanging branch and the man in front killed on the march.
Not that any of that mattered now, with all the din the French were making and the boom of their own guns. They were closer to the town now, only some five hundred yards away from the first house. Keane tapped Ross on the shoulder and signalled him to halt.
‘We’ll stay out here. No point in going in before we have to.’ He pointed ahead towards a road that led away from the river, beyond which they could see the spires and towers of the city proper. ‘We’ll make for a point over there. That road must
lead down to the river. If we move in through there and pass ourselves off as French, we can make ourselves known to the townspeople and try our luck in finding those boats.’
On Keane’s command the men rose slowly and assembled on the road, trying to look for all the world like a French patrol returning from the river. They shouldered their muskets in the French manner at high port and with Keane, as sergeant, leading them forward, began to march into the city. Any keen-eyed observer would have noticed telltale signs about them. The fact that their sergeant carried at his side a curved sword with an elaborate mother-of-pearl hilt, the glimpse of scarlet tunic beneath the tails of Gilpin’s coat and the red stripe on Morris’s grey artillery overall trousers were the most obvious giveaways. But from a distance and to the untutored eye they looked the part, and even if they had not, as they entered the town it became evident that no one would be looking. The place was in an uproar, with soldiers running in all directions and commands being shouted. The French were attempting to restore some order to their semi-mutinous troops and Keane knew that they had done the right thing in coming here. The most important thing, he thought, is not to get caught up in the French chaos. At all costs they must avoid being ordered to join a unit. He turned to Ross. ‘In a moment I’m going to slip away down a side street. All of you, follow me.’
Keane timed his moment well, waiting until they were halfway along one of the narrow streets and could not see any French officers. Then he ducked left and into a side alley. The others followed and they stood leaning against the walls, waiting for his orders.
‘We’ll carry on along here and then double back left and head down towards the river. There are some big houses there. We’re sure to find someone to help us.’
Heredia spoke. ‘Are you sure, sir? I mean that this is the right thing to do?’
Silver rounded on him. ‘Course it is. The captain’s as good as his word. Has he got it wrong before?’ He paused and smiled. ‘Perhaps you’re just scared.’
Heredia moved towards him and Ross held him back. Keane spoke. ‘We’re all scared, Silver. You too, I suspect. Thank you for your faith in me. That’s what we’re going to do. Follow me.’
They advanced along the narrow passageway, encountering no one as they went. Twice they saw bodies of French hurrying past the far end, but none bothered to glance in their direction. At last they emerged into a wide street dominated by a single huge house with a high garden wall. Keane heard French voices from the garden and looked back down the passageway, but their line of retreat had been cut off by a group of French soldiers moving fast towards them.
He turned to Morris. ‘Come on.’
Putting on his best air of confidence, he led them into the street and past the walled house. They were going downhill now, heading towards the river as they passed the gate, and knowing that he could not look behind Keane walked on, praying that they would not be stopped. Still the voices spoke in the garden, rising in tone in what he guessed must be an argument. He led them left into a street that curved down the hill, past tall houses with tiled walls and ornate wrought-iron balconies that spoke of the wealth of their departed owners.
Reaching the bottom of the street they emerged into another wide boulevard facing the cathedral. Looking to their left they saw the river and the place where until recently the bridge had stood, now destroyed by the French.
‘Down there,’ said Keane. ‘If there are boats to be had they’ll be down there, at the harbour.’
He led them across the road. The French were everywhere now, but somehow with so many he felt more secure. Surely there was less likelihood of their being challenged here?
Two well-ordered companies advanced past them up the street, heading north and led by a colonel on a horse. One of the sergeants cast a quizzical glance at Keane, who smiled back through gritted teeth, his hand hovering over his sword hilt. But the sergeant turned and marched on.
He was turning to Ross when someone spoke to him, in French.
‘The sooner we get out of this pisshole the better, that’s what I say, eh?’
Keane smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Let’s hope it’s soon.’
The man, a fellow sergeant, looked at him. ‘What mob are you from?’
Keane thought fast. He remembered that the shako plate of the hat he was wearing said 108. ‘Hundred and eighth. God knows where the rest of us are. We were down by the river.’
‘You too? Your lot were ordered up with the rest of us. We’ve got to take the seminary. Bloody British are in there. They killed Colonel Hesdin, you know. Jules Hesdin of the 45th. He was a good man. They should suffer, but my lads are in no mood for a fight. How about yours?’
‘No. Mine too. Just want to get out of here. We’d better find our own lot.’
‘I’m telling you, they’re up there on the hill. That’s where you’ll find them.’
‘Thanks, I’ll take your advice. But first I’m going back to where we last saw them. Good luck.’ He turned to the men. ‘Come on.’
The sergeant nodded but Keane had the impression that he was staring after them as they made their way down the hill towards the river. Had he guessed? Had he seen through his accent? Perhaps he suspected they were deserters and was thinking of challenging them. Keane waited for the shout. But none came, and after a few dozen yards he turned and the sergeant had gone.
Morris looked at him. ‘That was a little too close, I think, James. Well done.’
Keane shook his head. ‘I can’t help thinking that our luck is bound to run out.’
*
The street, as Keane had predicted, gave out onto the river, and as they went so they passed more French hurrying against them, up the hill. A corporal shouted out to them. ‘Where are you going? We’re all ordered to the seminary. You’re going the wrong way.’
‘Orders,’ said Keane and smiled, but he knew what this might mean.
Sure enough, as they reached the city’s harbour area the Frenchmen gave way to groups of local civilians. Realizing that this would be their only chance, Keane made for a group of seven men who stood out from the rest, being as close in appearance to guerrillas that Keane could see. And, what was more important, two of them were holding billhooks and oars. They had boats.
They were standing on the quay, watching the French leave, as Keane and the others approached. One of them, a tall man in his early thirties wearing a black cloak and a tall black hat, fixed Keane directly with his eyes and smiled at this French officer. Then he pushed back his cloak to reveal a pistol tucked into his belt. Keane stopped. His men levelled their muskets and as they did so the Portuguese drew swords and knives. Two of them had pistols. Now, thought Keane, was the time.
Keane raised his hands and then with a swift movement plucked at the buttons of his tunic and pulled it apart to reveal the red coat beneath. The man in black stared hard still, but his expression now had changed from defiance to puzzlement. His hand though remained hovering over the pistol.
Keane spoke, in Spanish. ‘My name is James Keane, sir. I am a captain in King George’s army.’
‘Then why are you dressed as a French pig?’
‘We have come from the monastery.’ He wondered if he should continue, but realized that now there was no going back. ‘We hold it against the French. But we need boats for the rest of the army. If we cannot get the rest of the army across, the French will push us out and we will lose.’
The man thought for a moment.
‘A captain, you say?’
‘Yes, sir. And these are my men.’
Keane signalled to them and reluctantly they lowered their muskets and undid their tunics to reveal the scarlet beneath. The Portuguese hesitated again but after a pause, turned and nodded to his men to put away their weapons.
‘I believe you, Captain Keane.’
‘Thank you. I take it the French have gone from this part of the town?’
‘All except you, Captain Keane.’ He laughed. ‘Alonzo del Vaga. Tell me what
boats you need. We have many. The French were guarding them, but now … they are at your disposal, captain.’
9
Within half an hour the river was filled with boats of all sorts, ferrying the army across. Keane, who had sent Gilpin back with the news of the boats, watched, as the first to come, the 29th and the Foot Guards, crossing lower than the monastery, on the site of the old bridge, ferried over on the larger port barges and on the boats used to take livestock down the river. They swarmed up the steep streets into the heart of the city, moving from district to district and house to house, mercilessly mopping up pockets of French resistance as they went.
It had not taken long for Soult to realize that he was beaten, and faced with the threat of an overwhelming flank attack, he had called off the assault on the monastery and ordered a general retreat along the road to Valongo.
Then it had been a bloody business, the British cannon maintaining a relentless fire on the retreating French columns. Keane and his men, their job done, had taken a welcome rest and watched it from the window of an empty mansion, dining on the sausage, wine and bread they had found in the pantry. But as soon as the entire army was across, Keane had known that he would have to find the general and make his report and, inevitably, invite another assignment.
He had known exhaustion before, of course, but never, he thought, like this. Dragging himself away from his men, he made his way through the streets, which were filled with the aftermath of battle. Dead Frenchmen lay against the walls, contorted like grotesque puppets, dragged there to clear the way for the army. Victory was never a pretty sight, he thought. He passed the hospital where, Morris had told him that the victorious redcoats had found close on two hundred French wounded. According to a friend of Tom’s in the Blues, it had taken all the power of the provosts and their officers to prevent some of the men, the worse for drink, and for that matter the good people of Oporto themselves, from butchering the French in their beds.
At length, arriving at Wellesley’s new headquarters in the Palacio das Carrancas, in the centre of the city, Keane began to wonder what the general had in mind for him. He stood in the courtyard of the Palazzo and wondered for a few moments quite where he should go.