by Gale, Iain
‘Gone. He’s pulled back towards Madrid.’
‘So surely we must follow him and give battle?’
Grant shook his head. ‘Wellesley would have done so, but now he will not. It is as you said. We cannot trust the Spanish to advance alongside us. They are wholly undependable.’
‘So we have no alternative but to sit here?’
‘For the present, yes. General Cuesta is in a flying rage. Having refused to advance this morning, he now believes that we can chase Victor all the way to Madrid.’
‘That’s not good, sir, as I understand it.’
‘It’s not good at all, Keane. And I shall tell you what’s worse. I believe that Cuesta will want to carry it off himself. I’ll wager that even now his army is striking camp and going after Victor. He wants all the glory, Keane, and damn the consequences.’
Keane grinned. ‘I have a feeling, sir, that you are about to detail my instructions.’
Grant laughed. ‘James, you read me like a book. Am I so very transparent?’
‘Not at all, sir. I merely presume that my men and myself might have some special function in this operation.’
‘Your presumption is well made, James. General Wellesley has a task for you. He wants nothing to do with Cuesta’s folly. But he must know exactly what the man is doing.’
‘So he wants us once again to be his shadow?’
‘Well, yes, you might say that. A discreet reconnaissance is how we might put it. And you are to take a squadron of Portuguese horse with you. They’re good men, tried and tested.’
‘Yes, you perhaps forget, sir, I have one of them among my own. Heredia.’
‘Ah, yes. And for the moment, James, we must delay the matter of which we spoke yesterday. Lieutenant Morris’s new appointment.’
‘I presumed as much, sir. And when do we start on this mission?’
‘Precisely now, I’m afraid, James. You have no time to lose. We believe that Cuesta is on the move and you must get across to him immediately.’
*
Blackwood had found Victor. And he would contrive to claim the glory for himself. Of course, he would not take in his own men until Cuesta’s soldiers had done the job. Oh, there would be losses, but not among his squadron. They would charge in as the French lay prone and cut them to pieces.
And Keane knew that there was more than martial glory here for Blackwood.
He knew that by now Cuevillas would have told him of his feelings for Kitty, and Keane knew that his sister’s honour was excuse enough to finish a business. Somehow, when their paths next crossed – and he knew it would be soon – one of them would die.
*
Keane had been watching General Cuesta’s army for a while now. He had watched from the surrounding hills, above the marching columns, as the man had blundered boldly and blindly onwards until at last he had stumbled upon Marshal Victor.
As he watched, the Spanish army to his right began to move into assault formation. It always impressed him to see such a manoeuvre. How seamlessly the move could be made from column of march to column of attack and then, when the time came, to line. As he looked at the Spanish, however, he realized with a sinking feeling just how different they were from the redcoats. Even the Portuguese he had seen move better.
Keane watched as the first Spanish attack went in, only to be pushed back, and now a second was taking its place. The French gunners were cutting swathes through the white-coated ranks, but much to their credit the Spaniards were pushing forward. Perhaps, he thought, this would do it, and then Cuesta would unleash his own cavalry and he would lead his men in with them, cutting and slashing at the French foot until the fields ran with their blood.
Then, as he watched, a third Spanish column marched into the attack and he could see to his right a regiment of Cuesta’s cuirassiers preparing to follow up.
Behind them he could make out what looked like a regiment of British Light Dragoons. He rubbed at his eyes and then raised the glass again. Sure enough, that was exactly what they were. He wondered whether they might be Blackwood’s men.
The French had broken now, were fleeing back towards the rear. The Light Dragoons, though, did not stop, but went after them, bringing them down even as they ran.
*
Keane had seen the new French army that had cut across from the north and had sent two men, Martin and Silver, to identify it. Their news, on their breathless return, had been grim.
They had made out the insignia of two units, the 28th Infantry and a regiment of Polish lancers. Keane had checked with the written descriptions given him by Scovell. These were Sebastiani’s men. The general had come to Victor’s aid. The listed strength lay at 30,000 all arms. That made a total of more than 50,000 Frenchmen before them. And Cuesta had found them with no more than his own wing of barely 30,000. But it was too late now. Much too late to retreat. The Spanish general had committed his men to the battle.
They had gone in in force, unaware of the threat to their flank. It had taken time, but it seemed to Keane for a moment that Cuesta might just have a chance against Victor before Sebastiani closed in. He even spotted a charge by a unit of blue-coated cavalry as they smashed their way though a French battalion. But then Jerome had begun to move and within minutes the field presented a very different prospect.
Morris caught the mood. ‘What should we do, James? We can hardly hope to turn back that tide single-handed, can we?’
Keane shook his head. ‘No. I do not intend to sacrifice these men. If there were something – anything – I could do, believe me, I would.’
As he spoke he saw a block of French horsemen slip down a hill on the army’s left flank and charge into the turning flank of the Light Dragoons who had laid into the French with such gusto only a short time ago. Their fight seemed to be a little divorced from the main fight and it was clear that they were outnumbered by the French to the tune of three squadrons to one. Keane thought for a moment and then spoke again to Morris. ‘You know, I do think there could be something we might do. We might save those poor brave devils down there from being cut to pieces by the French. We have a squadron. We could take them in the flank. Counter-attack and drive them off.’
He looked for Martin. ‘You and Gilpin ride like the devil back to Wellesley. Tell him that Sebastiani has come across and Cuesta’s in trouble.’
As the two men sped off, Keane turned his horse and rode back to the young officer in command of the squadron of Portuguese cavalry. ‘Lieutenant, I intend to support that unit down there against attack. Have your men follow me.’ The young man looked terrified and merely nodded at Keane, who found Heredia and spoke low, pointing to the Portuguese officer. ‘Take care of him, will you. He’ll listen to you.’
He looked to Ross. ‘Sarn’t Ross, we are going into that melee. We are to stay just as long as it takes to give those French hussars a bloody nose and turn them away, and then we are to retire. Is that clear?’
‘Clear enough, sir.’
‘Right, draw sabres.’
The men drew their swords from their scabbards and Keane was gratified to hear the Portuguese do the same. He gave the command, ‘Advance,’ and began to trot forward down the slope. They followed him, all of them, and within a few seconds they had broken into a canter. Reaching the foot of the hill they sped up, and the French hussars barely had the chance to look before Keane and the Portuguese were upon them. And it was then that he saw him. There was no mistaking that aquiline, aristocratic nose. For a moment he was tempted to wonder whether there might not be some way in which, in the fog of battle, he might kill Blackwood. But then he remembered his promise to Kitty and knew that he could never face her again, let alone make love to her as he longed to, and still play the lie. So he spurred on and called to the others.
And then he was lost in the crush.
For a few minutes their world became a heaving mass of men on horses, all of them wearing blue coats, distinguishable only by the shape of their headgear. Arms rose and fel
l, and as they did so the dreadful sabres found their mark. The chop and slice of so many cleavers became a blur as Keane was aware of the tiredness in his arm and the smell of sweat and blood, and the look of fear and hatred in the eyes of his enemies.
And just when he thought that they might be giving way and that the day was lost, there was a sudden surge from the right and the French seemed to judder in their disorganized mass. He managed to look through the men and saw on the far side of the melee a new element in the crush. Scores, perhaps hundreds, of peasants, armed with all manner of guns and weapons, had run into the French cavalry and were bringing down men, hauling them from their mounts and driving staves and lances into the beasts themselves like some vision of a medieval battle. Guerrillas, he thought. These must be Cuevillas’s men. And it occurred to him that here in this melee were the two men who in all the world had most cause to hate him.
And then quite suddenly it seemed that the hussars were pulling back. Keane found himself on the other side of the melee, facing no one but the Spanish army. And Cuesta’s regiments too were on the move. Coming backwards, in as orderly a fashion as they could manage, most of them. But certainly also as fast as they could get away from the French.
Silver found him. ‘You all right, sir? Look, they’re bloody running away. After we tried to help them.’
‘We didn’t help them, Silver, but a squadron of our own men. And it is the guerrillas who have helped us.’
Keane pulled Rattler back towards the fight but he knew that the French had had enough. He rode on in search of his men and had just spotted Silver and Martin when he felt a sudden thump in his arm. Looking down, he saw that he had been shot. It was not bad: a pistol shot, not that of a carbine, but it was enough to make him drop his sword so that it hung useless from the knot around his wrist. Silver had seen it. ‘Sir. You’re hit.’ He reached over and grabbed hold of Keane, and as he looked up towards where the bullet had come from saw not a Frenchman but a British dragoon. An officer. The man was reloading his pistol, as if he planned to take another shot at Keane. Silver, keeping his hand on Keane, pushed him away, trying to move him back towards where the Portuguese were reforming to see off the French. ‘That was one of ours, sir, what took a shot at you. I swear it. One of our officers.’
Keane turned his head and saw Blackwood, red-faced and waving one hand in which he held a pistol, as he tried to push through the press of horsemen in the direction of Keane and Silver.
‘I know. I know who it was.’ Silver was still pulling at Rattler’s harness, but Keane was having none of it. ‘Let go, Silver. This is my fight.’
‘Sir, I don’t understand. That’s one of our officers, ain’t it?’
‘Yes. One of ours. Now let me go, man.’
Blood streaming down his arm, Keane at last pulled Rattler free from Silver’s grasp and turned her towards Blackwood. Using his left hand for a moment, he placed his sword hilt in his bloody right hand and grasped it as firmly as he could. He could see Blackwood aiming his pistol again, trying to focus on Keane through the melee of bodies. Keane was closing now through the sweaty, bloody crush, driving Rattler on with his spurs. There was a flash, and in front of him a French dragoon jolted in the saddle. He looked through the smoke and saw Blackwood beyond the dead dragoon, desperately reloading the pistol. Keane pushed on, screaming at the horse and digging in with his irons. His sword was held in a vice-like grip now although the blood had soaked his white glove and the sword knot. And then suddenly there was a space, just big enough for him and Rattler, directly in front of Blackwood. The man was still reloading, fumbling with the hammer. He looked up and Keane could see the one thing in his eyes he had never seen there before. Fear. Keane raised his sword arm with the last of his strength and brought the blade down upon Blackwood’s shoulder, cutting through the bone and flesh and deep into his chest. Blackwood froze for an instant, his eyes still wide and staring at Keane. His expression seemed to change to one of bewilderment and then he dropped the gun. And as he did so the wound opened up, spurting blood across his tunic. One last look into Keane’s eyes and he had fallen from the saddle, and then all that Keane knew was that he had a strong hand on his shoulder and someone was pulling him away. His mind, still alert, began to fill with awful thoughts of what he had just done, but then the pain from his wound kicked in and he became less clear.
And now they were among friends. The young Portuguese officer was still alive, although his tunic was bloody from a sabre cut. Heredia was with him and Morris. Morris turned to Keane and his eyes were wide with horror. ‘I saw it, James. Saw Blackwood try to kill you. I’ll testify. Self-defence, James.’
Keane tried to smile through the pain in his arm, which had kicked in after the shock. ‘Do you suppose so? Let’s get out of this place while we still can. We have too many enemies here.’
The guerrillas were in among the French wounded now, slitting throats and stabbing and cutting off fingers and ears to take the gold rings. The Light Dragoons were scattered, some still in the French lines where they had gone in pursuit of the infantry, some intermingled with the guerrillas and some – too many, even after Keane’s intervention – lying dead and dying on the ground among their horses and their foes. And the guerrillas dispatched them too. Death made no distinction between friend and enemy, and British gold was worth just as much as that of the French.
Quickly, urged on by Morris and Ross, the men made a square of horses around Keane and, at the suggestion of the Portuguese officer, positioned themselves in the centre troop of the squadron. Then, in column of march, they started off on the road, away from the retreating Spanish and back to the British lines.
*
General Wellesley’s camp lay less than a day’s march away. Nevertheless, it was with great relief that Keane found himself, bandaged and refreshed, standing before the tent lines. His men stood before him as Sergeant Ross had lined them up. Silver, Gilpin, Martin, Garland, Heredia and Ross himself. Morris stood a little way off, and Gabriella close to one of the tents.
Keane cradled his bound arm. ‘I wanted to thank you, all of you. We’ve come through a good deal in the last few months. We started as nothing, no more than two officers and a group of men on whom the army had given up. There were some who said that what we were doing was pointless. But some believed in us. I can tell you now that they are pleased with what we have achieved. And so am I. I’m proud to call you my company and I know that soon our numbers will swell. You were nothing, worse than nothing, in the army’s eyes. Well, now you’re something. You’re my men. James Keane’s company, and you should be proud of that.’
Martin spoke. ‘We are, sir, damn proud.’ There was a chorus of ayes and as Keane acknowledged them he was conscious of someone riding up behind him. He turned to see Grant.
‘Sir?’
‘Keane. Don’t let us disturb your parade. You have done well, men.’
Keane looked up at Grant and saw that his face was as grave as he had ever seen it.
Nevertheless, Keane met it with a smile. It was not returned. ‘You need me, sir?’
‘This is a bad business, Keane. A proper bad business.’
‘I quite agree, sir.’
‘A word, if you will.’
Grant dismounted and was followed by Scovell, who had ridden up behind.
‘Lieutenant Morris. Will you join us?’
The four men, led by Grant, walked a little distance from where the men were standing. Keane called to Ross. ‘Stand the men easy, sarn’t.’
Grant turned on him. ‘What have you to say of this matter? Sir Arthur is most distressed.’
‘You know the facts, sir, as outlined in my report.’
‘I have read the report. It does not read well. You say that Captain Blackwood attempted to shoot you?’
‘He did, sir. Here, and then again.’
Grant said nothing. Then, ‘And you are quite sure of this? Be honest, man.’
‘As sure as I have ever been of anything,
sir.’
‘And you, Lieutenant Morris. You say that you saw Captain Blackwood shoot Captain Keane? You swear to it?’
Morris nodded, solemnly. ‘I am afraid that I did, sir, and I do. I should not have reported it thus, otherwise.’
Grant stroked his chin. ‘Well, it’s a bad business. A bad business, that is what it is. Sir Arthur is, to say the least, surprised. He has known Blackwood’s father these many years, since they were boys. He always found Captain Blackwood a most amiable young man. And his sister too, most charming.’
He suddenly fixed Keane with a stare so piercing and so deliberate that the latter blanched. But realizing that he was being tested, he did not flinch from returning it.
‘You do know, Keane, that there are several witnesses who saw you kill Captain Blackwood?’
‘I imagine there must be, sir. Do you suppose they will be called?’
Grant looked at him. ‘Do you suppose they will, Captain Keane?’ He shook his head. ‘A bad business, gentlemen, but we have no time for it now. Nor for other matters. We know, Keane, thanks to you, that we have a spy in our own camp. And that too we shall deal with presently, along with the matter of Captain Blackwood. For the moment, however, I have more pressing work than either of these unpleasantnesses. We have a battle to fight and we must beat the French. And on that count, Keane, I have a task for you.’
‘An order, sir?’
‘Yes, Keane. I should be obliged once again if you would take your men out in advance of the army.’
‘Sir?’
‘A reconnaissance. I need intelligence.’
‘Of whom, sir? The guerrillas? Or the Spanish?’
‘Neither, Keane. We require fresh intelligence of the French forces up ahead. Sebastiani and Victor. Both of their armies. Sir Arthur intends to give battle tomorrow and to carry the field. We want numbers, Keane, dispositions, batteries, strengths and weaknesses. The ground we already know. It is about that town of which you told me. On the Tagus, near those two hills.’
Keane recalled instantly the place on the road to Madrid. A place where a valley ran east to west in the shadow of the sierra, and where olive groves covered the gentle slopes of a hill on ground covered with farms and orchards.