02 - Keane's Challenge (7 page)

It said much for the Germans that they too formed line with ease, and not for the first time Keane admired their ordered
efficiency. But it was not before time. For hardly had they been given the command to load and make ready than the lead dragoons appeared at the entrance to the village. Seeing the line of brown- and blue-coated soldiers across the street between two buildings, the first of the horsemen pulled up and turned to shout to the others. But it was too late. Those behind had already careered into the leaders, and just as they did so Keane gave a command and the carbines blazed.

The leading horses reared up and several of the dragoons recoiled sharply, jerking like puppets as the rounds tore into them. In the crush the following ranks could not advance and there was no need for Keane’s men to be told to reload. It was natural. Four rounds a minute they could manage, as good as any infantry battalion. They raised the carbines to their shoulders again, just beating the Germans by a whisker, and again the bullets whipped into the green-coated enemy.

*

The French were whirling in a confused mass as Keane and Ross yelled at the men to keep firing. Hands fumbled with cartridges as teeth bit paper and spat the ball down the hot barrels. From the windows of the houses the carbines of the German hussars cracked as they caught the horsemen in a deadly crossfire.

It did not take long for the dragoons to realize the hopelessness of their position. A moustachioed captain held up his hand to give the command and the men wheeled around and rode hell for leather away from the village, leaving their comrades dead and dying before the line of exhausted defenders.

Keane yelled, ‘Cease firing.’ And at last the men relaxed.

A dragoon clawed the dust and sank to the ground as an injured horse raised its head and whinnied in agony. One of the hussars walked across and despatched it with a single shot to
the head, and for a moment Keane wondered if he might not do the same to the man who lay beside it, gasping for water. But the hussar knelt down and gave the Frenchman a drink from his own canteen. It was hard, thought Keane, to gauge the Germans. At times they were like men possessed, fighting for their homeland at any cost. At others they displayed all the courtesies of a soldier of a hundred years before. In this case, though, perhaps there was another motive. He walked across to the hussar. ‘Will he live?’

The man replied in a heavy German accent. ‘I think so, sir.’

‘Then bring him in. I need to speak to him.’

Walking over to the house, Keane passed Martin. ‘We did well, Will, to stop them.’

‘Yes, sir. Do you think they’ll try again?’

‘I don’t know, Will. Don’t know why they chased us back here. I’ll let you know when I do.’ He motioned the hussar and another trooper, who was helping him carry the wounded dragoon, to take him into the house. Inside, in the cool dark of the single room which was kitchen and living space, Keane swept the table clear of the few possessions left on it by its owners in their flight and had the men place the Frenchman upon it. The man groaned and Keane looked at his face. He was young, probably still in his teens. A carbine ball, smaller than a musket round, but no less deadly, had hit him in the shoulder, and Keane wondered how mortal a wound it might be. He knew from experience that such a shot could travel towards the heart.

Ross entered. ‘Sir. What was that about, do you think?’

‘That’s what I want to find out, sarn’t. If this lad will tell me. Do you know if any of Captain von Krokenburgh’s men has any medical skills?’

‘No, sir, I don’t, but I could ask.’

‘Yes, do that. And you had better get Gabriella, if you can find her.’

Ross went and as Keane was staring at the pallid face, contorted with pain, another figure appeared at the door. It was Archer, the new arrival. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I heard from Sergeant Ross that you were seeking medical assistance.’

‘Yes, this poor bugger needs help. And I need his help to find out what those French bastards were about.’

‘If I might take a look at him, sir.’

‘You, Archer? What do you know of medicine?’

‘A little, sir. Before I joined the ranks I was training to be a physician. In Edinburgh.’

‘Were you, by God?’ Of course Major Grant had not mentioned the fact. His idea of a joke, thought Keane, allowing him to discover when the time came and not before. It was typical of the man’s dry sense of humour. Nevertheless Archer’s experience would be invaluable now.

‘Can you help him?’

Archer walked to the table and, peering down at the boy, touched the entry wound. The dragoon winced and cried out. Archer whispered an apology in French. ‘
Pardon
.’

‘Is it a bad wound?’ asked Keane. ‘I know with a shoulder a ball may travel to the heart, isn’t that so?’

Archer nodded. ‘The danger, sir, is that the ball will reach the great vessels and cause a fatal haemorrhage. It’s hard to tell how close this ball is without cutting.’

‘Then cut, man, if it will save him. We need to know what the French are about and if they intend to return. For heavens’ sake, cut him if needs be.’

Archer shot him a glance. ‘Sir, with respect, if I cut him he may die. If I do not, he may well die also. I have to take a considered course of action.’

Keane nodded. ‘Yes, of course. You will know best. But make it quick, man.’

Archer reached into his pocket and produced a roll of material. Carefully unrolling it on the table, he revealed an array of steel instruments of the sort that Keane had often seen in the surgeons’ tent. Taking a pointed steel, Archer gently poked at the area around the entry hole. The dragoon screamed.

Ross was in the room now, along with Gabriella and Silver, who spoke. ‘A gag. We need a gag. A bit of wood. Anything.’ Looking around the room he saw a small wooden spoon which he placed across the open mouth of the dragoon. The man’s teeth closed upon it and as Archer probed he began to writhe.

Gabriella found a pitcher standing in a corner and pouring from it into a beaker, tried the water. She poured more and brought it to the dragoon, whose open eyes were rolling in agony.

Silver spoke. ‘Christ, the poor devil. Have we no brandy?’

Archer, still working carefully at the wound, spoke quietly. ‘No, no brandy. It will have little effect on the pain and it will thin the blood. He may have some later, if he lives.’

Keane watched closely and found himself praying for the Frenchman’s life.

Archer changed tools, selecting a pair of tiny silver pincers. Pushing hard on the dragoon’s shoulder he inserted the head of the instrument into the wound. The man’s screams could be heard even through the wooden gag, and for a moment Keane thought he must die. At the crescendo, Archer held the pincers up and Keane could see that in their teeth lay a small lead ball.

Archer grinned. ‘Got it, the little bugger.’

The Frenchman lay motionless and again Keane presumed that he was dead. Archer dropped the ball on to the cloth and, laying down the pincers, leant close to the man’s face. He looked
at him and reached for a small mirror, one of the tools that had been rolled in the fabric, which he held to his mouth. A few seconds later he withdrew it and looked at it before showing it to Keane. It had misted over. ‘He’s alive.’

Keane slapped the table. ‘Thank God. Can we bring him round?’

‘Not for at least an hour, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s impossible. Quite out of the question. The French might return at any moment.’

‘What is even more out of the question, sir, is bringing him round. The man is still in a state of shock and needs rest. To bring him round might result in trauma, even death.’

Keane scowled. ‘Very well. An hour. No more, though.’

He walked to the door and was about to leave when he turned and looked back. ‘Oh, and well done, Archer. Quite a surprise. I would never have guessed. Come and see me when you’ve tidied up.’

Keane walked along the street and watched as the hussars dealt with their few dead and wounded. He thanked God there were not many. He met Archer as he left the house. ‘Where did you say you had studied?’

‘Edinburgh, sir, under Doctor Ramsay.’

‘And you never entered the profession? Why on earth not? What went wrong? And why did you end up here, for God’s sake? What did you do, man?’

‘Didn’t they tell you, sir?’

‘No, evidently not. It was Colonel Grant who appointed you to my unit, was it not?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s one of my mother’s relations.’

‘Well, that would explain something at least. But why? Where did he find you?’

‘In the jail, sir. I stole a loaf of bread.’

‘Well, that’s not a hanging offence, is it?’

‘Not yet, sir, anyways. No, sir. Twenty lashes.’

‘Not so bad. And he managed to get you out, but how did you come to the army in the first place?’

Archer said nothing.

‘You’ll have to tell me, man. I’ll find out somehow if you do not.’

‘I lost my way, sir.’

‘Lost your way?’

‘Fell in with the wrong crowd. I gambled, sir. Debts. Couldn’t see a way out.’

‘But you found one, nevertheless.’

‘Yes, sir, I was a resurrectionist.’

‘You mean you… ?’

‘Yes, sir. I dug up corpses newly dead and sold them to the college of surgeons.’

‘Good heavens, and that made you enough money?’

‘Enough to pay my gambling debts, yes, sir. There’s no law against it. They’re no one’s property, the dead. Long as you strip them of everything. Rings, clothes, anything, they’re fair game.’

‘So how did you come to be here?’

He buried his head in his hands. ‘It all went wrong. It came to it that I was getting them before they were cold and not even buried but straight from their beds. That was when they got me. One night I pronounced a woman dead. She’d stopped breathing and no heartbeat. We stripped her and everything. Got her in the wagon. We were taking her body from the carriage into the college to sell to Doctor Barclay.’

‘What happened?’

‘What happened, sir? She only came round, didn’t she? Sat
up and screamed the place down. Said I was trying to kill her. Of course they took me. Had me for attempted murder.’

‘You were tried?’

He nodded his head. ‘Yes, sir. Convicted for attempted murder and other counts too. People they said I’d killed. They pinned them on me, sir. I never killed anyone.’

‘Nevertheless you were convicted.’

‘Yes. Sentenced to death. The judge offered me the chance to join. Take my chance with the colours. So I did.’

Keane thought for a moment. ‘You stole a loaf of bread, you say?’

‘Yes, sir. From one of the men in my company.’

‘Just a loaf of bread. Nothing more. Is that true?’

Archer looked away. ‘Stole some money too, sir.’

‘Gambling?’

Archer nodded.

‘You’re a bloody fool, Archer. Carry on like that and you will end up on the end of a rope. Major Grant has given you another chance with us. He must have seen something in you.’

‘He’s family, sir. That’s why.’

Keane nodded. ‘Yes, that’ll be it.’

But Keane knew Grant, and he knew that the man would not have plucked the boy and placed him with them, whatever relation he might be, without some further motive. He guessed that it might be his medical skills. Or his expertise as a thief and a grave robber. It was evident from his gambling debts that it was not his skill at cards.

‘You seemed very adept with your instruments.’

Archer smiled. ‘They said I was the best student in my year, sir. That I would go far. Look at me.’

‘You’re young. You have another chance now. Don’t waste it. The dragoon, will he be sufficiently recovered now?’

‘He might be, sir. I couldn’t say for certain. Could go either way.’

‘I’ll take that chance. Come with me.’

Together they walked back to the house, where Gabriella had been sitting with the Frenchman. Like all her compatriots, she had no love for them. But she knew how vital it was for Keane to get information from the man and so she made sure he remained alive. Who knew what might happen later?

They found the man in the same place, but now his eyes were open. Sweat streaked his forehead, and on seeing Keane and the other man a look of panic spread across his face.

Keane spoke, in French. ‘It’s all right, there is no need to fear. All I want is some information.’

The man stared at him, still terror-stricken.

Keane continued. ‘I need to know how many of you there are. Are there more of you?’

The man opened his mouth, but seemed unable to speak. Archer motioned to Gabriella. ‘Get him some water. He’s parched.’

She poured a beaker of water and held it to his lips. The dragoon gulped and swallowed and as he did so the look of fear seemed to slip from his face.

Keane asked again, ‘How many are you? How many more?’

The dragoon said nothing. Merely looked hard at Keane, who asked again, ‘Tell me your strength. I need to know. I’ve saved your life. I need something in return.’

The dragoon continued to stare at him.

Keane tried another tack. He gestured towards Gabriella. ‘She is Portuguese. Do you know what your countrymen did to her family? Can you imagine? And to her? What do you suppose she would like to do to you?’ He paused as the dragoon looked at
Gabriella, who, not understanding a word, smiled back at him. Keane carried on. ‘Perhaps you’re right. You have nothing to tell me. Come on, Archer, we’ll leave this poor bugger to Gabriella. I don’t want to watch her at work. She’s better than one of your surgeons with a knife. Poor bastard.’

Keane led the way to the door and Archer followed.

Suddenly the dragoon called out, ‘Don’t go. Please. I’ll tell you what you need to know.’

Keane turned and retraced his steps. ‘Tell me.’

‘We are brigade strength. Under the command of Général de Brigade Sainte-Croix.’

‘A mixed force?’

‘Yes, sir. Five battalions of infantry, six squadrons of dragoons and artillery. Six-pounders.’

‘How many of you in the advance party?’

‘Two hundred. All dragoons.’

‘Thank you. And one thing more: does Marshal Massena believe that Wellington will raise the siege and come to the rescue of the Spaniards?’