Keane's Company (2013)

by Gale, Iain

  Clattering along the road, all need for caution now gone, they headed towards the sound of the guns and found them in a clearing. Below them, just off the road, the squadron of hussars were engaged in a running battle. But it was not guerrillas who were their opponents. Standing in a ragged square was a group of perhaps fifty French infantrymen. They were dressed in a variety of uniforms, white and blue, some of which were infantry, some artillery, while others wore a light-blue coat with top boots which suggested they must be wagon drivers. The hussars, fired up by their new wealth, had attacked the wagon train. The French were fighting one another, killing their own. As one the party stopped and stared down at the carnage. Keane watched as a hussar charged at the square, only to be shot from the saddle. Another followed him and careered into his friend’s killer, knocking him off his feet, and then raising his glinting sabre, brought it down on the man’s head, slicing through the black shako and deep into his skull.

  All around the square the story was the same. Men were locked in fierce hand-to-hand fighting, the hussars desperate to get to the booty, the infantry just as desperate to save their lives from the evil hiss of the slicing, razor-edged sabres. Every few minutes the hussars would wheel away from the square and retire behind a line of their comrades who sat on their horses by the treeline. These would then fire their carbines at the square and when they did, several men would fall among the defenders. It was clear to all of them which side was winning and that soon, give or take a few more dead or wounded hussars, the infantry must be annihilated.

  Fabier stared in disbelief. ‘Oh my God, my God. What are they doing? Why do they kill each other? You fools.’

  It was all that Keane could do to stop him from rushing off down the slope to tell them so. He grabbed at Fabier’s bridle. ‘Stay here, captain. There really is nothing you can do. They would simply kill you in turn, hussar or not. It’s hopeless. You can see for yourself, we can’t do anything. Even if we helped the infantry, how do we know they wouldn’t turn on us?’

  ‘How can you think that? They are soldiers. Honourable soldiers of the emperor.’

  Keane shook his head. ‘Like those hussars, captain. Look at them. Are they honourable?’

  Fabier paused. Then he spoke, gravely. ‘They have lost their honour. They have thrown it away. They soil the uniform of the hussar.’ He swore and went to draw his carbine, forgetting that it had been removed by the guerrillas. ‘My God, Keane, stop them. We must do something.’

  Silver spoke. ‘Why bother, they’re all Frenchies, aren’t they? Just leave them to kill each other. Save us the trouble.’

  Keane ignored him. ‘I don’t see how we can do anything to help. All we can do is wait till the end and hope the hussars lose more men, then attack them when they are weakened and hope that we have a better chance.’

  ‘That’s a coward’s way.’

  Keane bristled, but did not take up the insult. ‘No, captain, it’s a reasoned way and one that will not unduly endanger the lives of my men.’

  Fabier looked him in the eyes. ‘Captain, I respect you and since we met, I have always thought that for you, like me, something is more important than the fact that we fight on different sides. That there is something about humanity that matters more. That is why I know that you do not believe what you are saying. I know that you know what is the right thing to do here, just as well as I do.’

  Keane knew. The Frenchman had given voice to the very thoughts that were in his own mind. He knew what must be done. Keane turned to the others.

  ‘Garland, stay here with the prisoner. Captain Fabier, I’m sorry. You cannot come with us. But I have your word not to attempt anything. Garland will shoot you should you try.’ Fabier nodded. ‘The rest of you, come with me. Draw swords.’

  Silver shook his head. ‘No, sir. It’s not right. I’m not dying for some bastard Frenchmen. This was done deliberate. It’s a trap. We’ll all be killed.’

  Keane stared at him. ‘Silver, that’s an order.’

  ‘We should kill him now, sir. Be done with it.’

  Heredia spoke. ‘No. That’s not the way. We are human, thinking men. Honourable men. We do not kill each other like dogs.’

  Keane stood close to Silver. ‘No, you’re right. We don’t.’ He turned to Silver. ‘Private, will you obey an order?’

  Silver stared at Heredia and cursed, then looked at Morris and at Keane. He nodded. ‘Sorry, sir. Not my place to say that.’

  Then, on Keane’s command, they drew their weapons. Most were the standard pattern, curved light cavalry sabres with which they had been issued by Scovell. Morris, of course, had his own fine hand-crafted blade and Keane his Egyptian scimitar. Together they shuffled into line as Keane and Heredia the cavalryman had taught them and then, with Keane in the lead, trotted as fast as they could towards the mass of fighting men. Although there were only five of them, they took the hussars by surprise, and, slashing as they went in, managed to dispatch three of the cavalry before they knew what had hit them. Four other French horsemen had disengaged from the fight and were turning to make their escape when they found Keane and the others blocking their way.

  The sergeant was among them. His gaze met Keane’s and Keane knew instantly the eyes of the deserter. Contempt for authority and hatred, coupled with fear and the desperation of hopelessness. The man made for Keane and raised his sabre. But Keane parried and pushed the blade aside, so that it slid down off his own, which he then brought back to cut at the sergeant’s head. But the big Frenchman was quick and intercepted Keane’s sword, sweeping it up and away from his body. For an instant Keane was exposed, and seeing this the man to the right of the sergeant pulled his horse across and lunged. But that left him open to attack and hardly had he made the move, his blade inches from Keane’s body, than Morris pushed into him and with a deft move thrust forward with the point of his weapon and skewered the Frenchman beneath his raised arm. The man screamed and dropped his sword so that it dangled from the knot around his wrist. Grabbing at his arm he stared at Morris in horror, just as the artilleryman raised his weapon again and brought it down in a cross-stroke across the man’s face, blinding him and sending him from the saddle.

  Meanwhile Keane had recovered his posture and, turning in the saddle, made a back cut at the sergeant. It caught the man off guard and Keane felt his blade slice into the man’s back. The sergeant grinned with confidence and pulled back before making a mad cut at Keane. But it was ill timed and again Keane’s blade hit, this time slicing into the golden frogging across the sky-blue tunic, cutting it open and making a deep slash that ran from the sergeant’s left collarbone to his waist. The man yelled and grabbed at his stomach. Keane cut again and it was over. He looked around and saw that Heredia and Martin were locked in combat with another two of the hussars. Silver, though, had made it through the cavalry and was fending off a bayonet attack from two infantrymen. Keane spurred across to him and caught one of his attackers a clean blow on the head that bisected his shako and killed him. Silver parried the other bayonet but the Frenchman was fast and caught him with it on the arm, tearing open his coat and drawing blood. Silver cursed then moved his blade fast, circling the bayonet and slashing with a savage uppercut that sent it through the man’s jawbone to bisect his face. Then, seeing Keane, he rode over to join him.

  Keane spurred on into the melee and in front of him saw one of the hussars, a tall man, rise high in the stirrups and raise his carbine one-handed to take aim at one of the infantrymen. And then, just as the man’s finger seemed to be on the trigger, he fell, a black hole in his temple. But the shot had not come from the square. It came from the right, and looking across to that direction Keane saw the killer. He was a civilian, dressed in a tall hat, and Keane recognized him instantly as Cuevillas’s chief of staff.

  At that moment the trees to his right erupted in a sea of musketry as the guerrillas poured fire into the mass of the French with no care as to whether they might be killing infantrymen or hussars.

&nb
sp; Keane yelled, ‘Get back. Pull back,’ and turned his horse away from the melee, followed by Silver.

  They watched as the hussars, realizing what was happening, tried to break off from the infantry. There were fewer of them left now; barely a score forming what was left of the square. The hussars too had lost heavily and a good dozen of the sky-blue-clad figures lay motionless on the ground, with the same number again wounded, dead and dying, horses among them.

  The guerrillas loosed off another volley into the melee and four men fell, and then they were upon them. Screaming, they came out of the woods, swords of all types waving above their heads. Some, still with their guns, knelt to take a final shot. The rest whooped like so many savages as they crashed into the confused mass of the French.

  *

  All around them the guerrillas were fighting hard, and dying where they stood. But from what Keane could see they seemed to be taking more of the French with them. He saw a party of the hussars making off on the other side of what was left of the square, in the direction of Spain. Back to Soult’s army, he thought. You’ll find no solace there.

  But to his surprise, a few moments later the hussars re-emerged from the trees into which they had retreated, accompanied by more horsemen. The newcomers wore bright gold helmets and green tunics and their swords were drawn.

  ‘Dragoons,’ cried Keane. ‘Look to your left. Dragoons in the trees.’

  His men had seen them, and having won their individual fights, reined around to join him. But the guerrillas at the rear of what had been the square stood no chance. The big men in green coats were upon them in a moment and their world dissolved in a welter of blood and flashing steel as the dragoons’ huge bay horses reared and kicked, their hooves dealing as much death as the long, straight, razor-sharp swords of their riders.

  More deserters, thought Keane. There looked to be a dozen of them and obviously they had been waiting to see the outcome of the fight between the hussars and the infantry. He looked to his right, at the direction from which the guerrillas had come, and saw only a few more of their number in the trees, and among them Cuevillas himself. The leader could see as well as Keane that the fight was not going according to plan. At that moment Cuevillas saw him, and, followed by a handful of his men, ran towards him from the cover of the trees. He was raving.

  ‘What are you doing? You don’t bring any more men. Don’t you fight them? Look. Dragoons.’

  Keane yelled back. ‘You should retreat. You can’t win. We’ll come with you. Disengage.’

  The Spaniard stared at him. ‘Fight them. We must fight them.’ He turned towards the melee and waved his men on just as the dragoons, having dispatched the last of the guerrillas at the rear, began to pick off the few remaining infantrymen.

  Keane was about to order his own men to pull back when for a second time there was a commotion in the trees to the rear of the dragoons and through the undergrowth appeared more guerrillas. But there was a difference to these men. They wore the same ragged part-military costume as Cuevillas’s bandits, but these men were mounted and armed with lances. They fell upon the Frenchmen from the rear, pig-sticking them on their lance points. The dragoons turned and tried to hack their way through the newcomers, but there were too many of them. Keane could make out twenty or thirty of the mounted lancers now. The dragoons, realizing that they were outnumbered, began to panic, and he knew that this was the end. A green-clad cavalryman came riding towards him across the bodies of the infantry and instinctively Keane raised his sword to parry the attack. But he saw that the man’s uniform had a new feature. A flower of red had spread across the yellow plastron of his green coat and at its centre there protruded the point of a lance and a foot of its wooden staff. The dragoon screamed past Keane, trailing the lance behind him, and looking back he saw the others trying to beat off the newcomers. The remnants of the hussars were also in trouble now. Unable to escape through the lancers and harried by the newly invigorated guerrillas to their front, they died between the two and fell on the bodies of their erstwhile comrades. It was quickly over. Keane watched as the last half-dozen of the French, standing back to back, raised their hands in surrender. He pitied them, for he knew it was of no use. The lancers advanced upon them, sword-armed now, and the sabres whistled and sang as they came down and the woods rang with the cries of the dying.

  Cuevillas and his men stood and watched the carnage. He turned to Keane. ‘You brought them here?’

  Keane shook his head. ‘Not me. Aren’t they your men?’

  Cuevillas shook his head. ‘No. Not mine. His.’

  He pointed to the trees and Keane saw a man emerge on a grey horse. He looked familiar, and as he grew closer to them, moving towards the lancers, he saw that it was Morillo.

  The Spaniard shouted a word of command and the lancers, who had been holding back from the surviving French, went in again and cut down the men, even as they held up their arms. Keane looked away and heard Cuevillas swear.

  He turned back to him. ‘You knew about the silver?’

  ‘Of course. Do you think I’m an idiot, Captain Keane? We trailed you here.’

  ‘You were watching?’

  Cuevillas shrugged. ‘Yes, we were waiting.’

  ‘Waiting for my men to die. So you could take the booty.’

  ‘We saved you, didn’t we?’

  ‘You waited until we were in the fighting. You might just as easily have killed us.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. But we still saved you. Tell that to your general.’

  Morillo rode up to them. ‘Captain Keane. Ignacio. I see that we arrived just in time. You might have lost.’

  Cuevillas snarled. ‘I don’t think so. I was about to lead my men.’

  ‘Too bad you waited so long, Ignacio. If I didn’t know you better I would say it was deliberate.’

  ‘What are you saying, Morillo? That I am a coward?’

  Morillo held up his hand and smiled. ‘No, no. How could I say that? I merely wondered why you allowed Captain Keane here to attack before letting him know of your presence.’

  ‘What does it matter? We’re all alive, aren’t we?’

  ‘Some of your men are dead.’

  ‘You take losses. We’ve done what we came to do. Haven’t we?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ignacio. What did you come to do?’

  Cuevillas said nothing. Keane spoke. ‘You know, colonel, why we are here. Why, I suspect, we are all here. The answer is over there.’

  He pointed across to where beyond the carpet of dead and dying men and horses, two wagons stood where the square had been.

  ‘That is why we are here. Is it not?’

  Morillo nodded. ‘You knew about the silver. Me too. But how will you get it away, with just five men?’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  Cuevillas spoke. ‘Once we have divided it between the three of us, it won’t be a big problem, will it?’

  Keane shook his head. ‘I don’t think you understand, captain. I am claiming this treasure in the name of King George and General Wellesley and the British army.’

  Cuevillas laughed. ‘How can you do that? With five men? Look at my men. Even with those we have lost we still outnumber you ten to one. Be sensible, Captain Keane.’

  Morillo spoke. ‘Gentlemen, neither of you appears to have noticed that if we are talking about force of numbers, my men outnumber either of yours. Besides, this is not a question of who has more men. It’s a question of principle. I am a colonel in the army of Spain and I reserve the right to claim this silver for my country.’

  Cuevillas held up his hands. ‘My men died for this silver. Look. There they are. We need it, Morillo. And I intend to take my share.’

  Morillo shook his head. ‘Calm yourself, Ignacio. Did I say that you were not entitled to a share? Perhaps you too, Captain Keane, will have a share. But for the most part this is Spain’s treasure.’

  Cuevillas spoke quietly. ‘How much? How much do you say we can take?’


  ‘Shall we say a thousand crowns?’

  ‘A thousand crowns? But there must be over thirty thousand in the wagons.’

  ‘I think that’s generous. Take nothing, if you will.’

  Cuevillas said nothing. Keane too held his tongue. His men had gathered together a short distance away and the silence was broken by the sound of horses neighing and the moans of the wounded, but a third sound was that of gunshots as the guerrillas walked among the fallen French, dispatching each of them in turn. And gradually the moaning became less.

  At length Cuevillas spoke. ‘Very well. I’ll take my thousand and go. But I don’t like it, colonel. And don’t think you have heard the last of this. I intend to speak to General Cuesta and he will be made aware of exactly what you have taken.’

  ‘Yes, Ignacio, that he will. But by me.’

  Cuevillas walked away and directed his men towards the carts. And as he did so Morillo whispered a command to his own chief of staff, who set off after Cuevillas to ensure that he did not exceed his quota.

  Morillo turned back to Keane. ‘So, Captain Keane. What are you to do?’

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘I presume that part of your mission was to secure the treasure for General Wellesley. I am right?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And what will you do now?’

  ‘I shall take my share of the silver. Half, I presume.’

  ‘You presume too much, captain. What makes you think that I might give you some of what is rightfully Spain’s?’

  ‘The fact perhaps that we are fighting and dying on Spanish soil to save your country from the French.’

  ‘We did not ask you to come.’

  ‘No, but we have come.’

  ‘Is that worth 25,000 crowns?’

  ‘You tell me. All I know is that there is an army of British soldiers now near Braga, waiting for their pay. Pay earned in the liberation of your country. This is rightfully theirs.’