02 - Keane's Challenge (11 page)

Craufurd himself had elected to fall back to a better position by the ramparts of the old Fort Concepcion to the north of Almeida and to await Massena’s onslaught there.

Keane consulted his master map and traced a line between Sanchez’s reported location and the bridge. It was not far. Perhaps a day’s march at most.

From experience, Keane knew that the guerrillas would have spotted his column long before he was aware that they were near their camp at San Pedro. He would not attempt to outwit Sanchez, but allow them to be taken. The only way to ingratiate yourself with these people, he had come to learn, was to let them believe that they had the upper hand. Be taken by their sentries without protest.

He turned to Ross. ‘Don’t concern yourselves about the guerrillas. We’ll let them take us, sarn’t.’

‘Yes, sir, just as we always do.’ Ross recalled their first encounters with the guerrilla leaders Morillo and Cuevillas the previous year. That had been an eye opener and no mistake. He turned to Keane. ‘Sir, what d’you reckon to this Sanchez? Will he be the same as Cuevillas, do you think?’

‘I’ve heard, sarn’t, that he’s somewhat more civilized. But we can take nothing for granted, as you well know.’

‘More civilized. That would be easy. Those heathen bastards.’

Keane had come to understand that this was his sergeant’s way of describing any Catholics. A natural trait for a man who had been brought up a strict Presbyterian among Glasgow’s Ulster Scots.

They climbed steadily. This was not the huge rocky outcrops of the Serra da Estrela that they had negotiated the previous
year. They were further north and these hills were more forgiving and seemed less inclined to put Gabriella into the cold sweat that had been engendered by the eerie atmosphere and massive, lowering presence of the ‘mountains of the stars’. At the same time, though, Keane felt a sense of apprehension. It was all very well for the duke to offer the opinion that he knew how to deal with guerrillas, but in truth he still felt something of a novice. He wished he had Grant’s consummate coolness, or even the bluff confidence of George Scovell.

What troubled him most, however, was the knowledge that they would not be able to return to Celorico until they had carried out the duke’s instructions with regard to Sanchez. He had decided on one course of action at least. He would send a rider off to Morris and tell him to explore the ruins of Pritchard’s house. Apart from that, there was nothing he could do, save disobey a direct order from the commander-in-chief. And while Keane was capable of going against orders and using his own initiative at all times, even he knew at what point he would be overstepping the mark.

They travelled to the north-west in a long, snaking column, Keane and his men as usual at the front, the hussars following on.

After four hours Keane began to have the feeling that he was being observed. He pulled back until he was level with Ross and spoke in a whisper. ‘We’re being watched, sarn’t.’

‘Yes, sir. I felt the same myself, since a mile back.’

Von Krokenburgh came riding up from the rear. ‘Keane, do you feel it? The eyes in the hills?’

‘Yes, we both do. Sanchez’s men, no doubt. Just do as we agreed. Let them take us.’

Von Krokenburgh dropped back and they carried on until they
came to where the road crossed a little stone bridge and then split, the left forking up towards San Pedro. Without warning, four horsemen appeared from either flank. All were dressed in a form of uniform, a combination of elements of Spanish, French and British items and all had drawn sabres. Keane pulled up and barked, ‘Halt.’ As the column came to a stop more men appeared to their left and right armed with a variety of weapons. One of the leading horsemen, a gaudily dressed young man in a purple-and-blue lancer’s dolman, a scarlet French hussar pelisse, grey British overall trousers and the bicorne hat of a Spanish officer, presented himself to Keane.

‘Sir, you are to come with us, please. Follow me.’

Keane nodded and signalled to the others to follow. They rode behind the four horsemen, followed by the hussars, and climbed up the narrow road towards San Pedro. Above them the old citadel towered, silhouetted against a clear blue sky.

The town had been deserted many centuries before, after the Portuguese forces, keen to stamp out the Spanish influence and sympathies of the local lord, had attacked and razed the fine palace to the ground. But Keane could see what it once must have been. The stronghold of a warlord, dominating the surrounding countryside and exercising his rule by force and reputation. It seemed to him that Don Sanchez might be attempting to do the same. As he had discovered in his previous dealings with other guerrilla leaders, while their common purpose might be the saving of their nation, ultimately these men operated as individuals whose priority was their own interest. He wondered whether Sanchez might be any different.

*

The man who now called himself Don Julian Sanchez sat close to the ruins of the main tower of San Pedro in a tented area
which one of his men had constructed by throwing a scarlet blanket between two trees. He was a little under medium height with a distinctive shock of curly black hair and a moustache and side whiskers to match. He was dressed in what bore a close resemblance to the uniform of a French hussar or a British Light Dragoon, with dark blue overall trousers and a matching pelisse trimmed with brown fur. Around his waist he wore a broad scarlet sash and on his head a shako which had undoubtedly once belonged to a French officer, although this had been subtly and wittily altered by turning the brass eagle plate, the symbol of the triumph of the emperor’s armies, upside down. On either side of him stood a young man, similarly dressed and of a smart appearance. Aides de camp, thought Keane, who liked to think he could recognize the breed, to whatever army they belonged.

Sanchez grinned widely at Keane and rose from his bower to greet him. ‘Captain. It is Captain Keane, is it not? Welcome, captain. My scouts have been tracking you.’

Going against his own advice, Keane found himself answering, ‘Yes, I know; we were watching you also.’ Why, he wondered by all that was holy, had he said that?

Sanchez smiled. ‘Really, captain? You surprise me. My men are masters of disguise and fieldcraft. Where did you first see them?’

Keane was thinking on his feet. ‘I have been aware of their presence, colonel. My general sends his best wishes, sir, and offers his sincere congratulations on your escape from the city.’

‘Your general Wellington is kind. It was in truth the hardest thing I have ever done. But we managed it. Me and twelve others. The men you see here.’ He indicated the louche young men who seemed to Keane an unlikely group to have escaped in such a daring exercise. But perhaps their looks belied their worth.

Keane chose his words with care. ‘How on earth did you
manage it? It must have been almost impossible to evade their sentries.’

‘We have our ways, captain. The garrotte and the knife are our friends.’ He made a gesture with his hands as if pulling on an invisible rope held taut between them. ‘We stole some horses and here we are. Not like those poor devils we left behind.’

‘Have you had any word from the city?’

Sanchez shook his head. ‘Nothing. It is not good. We know what has happened to them. And so do you, captain. You know the French as well as we do.’ Keane knew what was coming. ‘Perhaps your general Wellington should have helped them. It would have been better for the way the people of this country feel about him, and all of you.’

‘He did it for the greater good.’

‘Tell that to the innocent women and children in Ciudad. He swore that he was coming back to save Portugal, and to send the French from my homeland also. And what has he done? First he destroys all the crops and ruins people’s lives, and now he refuses to come to the aid of five thousand innocent people and leaves them to their fate.’

‘As I said, colonel, it was for the greater good.’

‘Yes, I heard you. You and I understand that. But not the peasants.’ Sanchez paused and, extracting a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end and spat it on the ground before lighting it by striking a long match upon a nearby stone. Then he spoke again. ‘I think I will make a unit of men like yours. But maybe without those hats. I will have my own explorers as Wellington has his. Then I will know all the movements of the
inglêses
. Just as you know all of the French, and then we will know where we are. No?’

‘Yes, sir. A splendid idea. You must have a great many men here if you are able to make a corps of guides such as ours.’

‘I have many men. Horse and foot. Many men.’

‘How many would you say. Two hundred? More?’

‘You are clever, Captain Keane. Perhaps I will tell you, soon. Just how many men I have. Perhaps I myself do not know.’

A rider, dressed like a French lancer in what was mostly captured uniform, came galloping up to Sanchez and spoke fast, gasping for breath. ‘Don Sanchez, sir, French infantry and artillery have been seen at the Quinta Buralda. Their cavalry are at Barquillos.’

Keane took out his map and opened it. Don Sanchez looked down with the others and Keane spoke, pointing to the villages.

‘Craufurd was right to move back across the river. The French have made some ground.’ He traced a line to Quinta and the road from it that led south across the river Turonnes. ‘This is dangerous. He might well be heading for Almeida, but Marshal Massena believes that there is a sizeable force of British and our allies here and he is not inclined to let it go.’

Sanchez spoke. ‘Stay with us. You must stay with us if you want to discover how well we know the French. I would have you return to Wellington with a good impression. I am anxious that we should become friends and allies. I am sure that there is much that we will be able to do for one another.’ He paused. ‘I did hear tell that you had succeeded in liberating a great deal of silver coin from Marshal Soult’s train last year. You were in the company of one of my brethren?’

‘We worked with a guerrilla leader, yes.’

‘Name of Morillo, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. You are well informed, Don Sanchez.’

‘I make it my business to be nothing less. How shall I put it?
Should a similar possibility arise again, we would be only too pleased to work alongside you. For a consideration, of course. I’m sure that you would do no less.’

Keane let the insinuation drop. He had not come here to pick a fight. But he recognized it for what it was. So, he thought, Sanchez is against the French but on his terms. He wants money from us. A straight deal.

He smiled. ‘Of course, Don Sanchez, if I ever have the opportunity again, I will think of you first.’

‘Till then we wait. Always we wait. What do you do to pass the time, captain? I hear you play cards.’

‘Yes, but not today, I’m afraid.’

‘But we still have time for some fun, yes? Something to take our minds off the horrors of this war.’ He thought for a moment or two and then smiled at Keane.

‘We will have a contest. A contest of marksmanship, no? You will put in the man who is your best shot and I will do the same. The prize will be… what? The pretty girl in your party?’ Keane could sense Silver bristle. Sanchez went on, laughing. ‘No, of course, I was joking. The prize will be ten silver pieces. Yes?’

Keane smiled and nodded. ‘It seems fair.’

It did indeed seem a harmless enough wager and one that he was guaranteed to win. On past performance, Keane suspected that Will Martin could outshoot anyone in the army and carrying Keane’s own gun, as he did, he would have more than a good chance of trouncing Sanchez’s man.

*

Sanchez’s man shot first. The targets were to be two French infantrymen’s shakos, thrown into the air by one of Sanchez’s men, a giant, with huge hands and muscles to match. The marksman by contrast was a wiry fellow. Thin and gaunt, with
taut skin the colour of a walnut, he walked towards the two men and shot them a grin that slit his face with a flash of yellowed teeth. Sanchez introduced him. ‘This is Ramon Garcia. Surely he is one of the finest shots in all of Spain. He will go first. Show your man what he has to beat. Where is your man, captain?’

Keane beckoned Martin towards them. As he approached, Sanchez raised an eyebrow.

‘But he’s hardly more than a boy. Are you sure of this, captain?’

‘Never been more certain.’

Garcia squared up and held his gun before him at the ready. Keane could see now that it was a Baker rifle, clearly appropriated from some poor rifleman who no longer had need of it. Its owner fondled it with the care one would accord a woman, rubbing his hand over the polished stock. It was already loaded and as he cradled it against his thigh, Garcia pulled back the lock to cock the weapon. He looked across at the big man and nodded. With a huge throw, the Spaniard sent the shako soaring up beyond the trees into the blue sky. Garcia brought up the rifle to his shoulder and fired just as the target reached the apex of its climb. The shako came tumbling to earth like a wounded game bird and landed close to his feet. Sanchez walked over and picked it up. Keane could see that the shot had gone through the front of the hat, just where the eagle had been attached, and exited at the rear. Had a Frenchman been wearing it his brains would have been blown away.

Sanchez smiled in triumph. ‘There. What do you think of that? A kill, wouldn’t you say, captain?’

Keane nodded. ‘Yes, without a doubt a kill. Very nice shooting.’

Garcia smiled and nodded and patted his gun with affection.

The big man had found the second hat by now and stood ready and waiting for the command.

Martin let the gun hang loose in his hands, although it had been loaded and was already primed and cocked. At a signal from Sanchez, the second shako flew high in the air and in what seemed almost like slow motion, but was the work of an instant, the boy raised the fowling piece to his cheek and pulled the trigger. The cap seemed to stop in mid-air, like a felled cock pheasant. Then it fell to ground, hard-hit and as the smoke cleared, Martin walked across to see the damage. ‘A hit, sir. I hit it.’