02 - Keane's Challenge (8 page)

‘I am only a sous-lieutenant, sir.’

‘Monsieur, the French army, it is well known, is very different from our own. Any officer or even a man in Napoleon’s army knows or can guess what his commander intends. I could ask you again.’

‘He does not know. He saw some of your patrols. Here to the west. That is why he ordered General Junot to send us after you. To find out.’

‘So your friends and maybe more besides will return to see how strong we are and if we mean to raise the siege.’

The man shrugged. ‘If you say so, captain.’

‘Thank you. You have been most helpful. Archer, stay with
him and see that Gabriella does nothing untoward. We need to get him back to General Craufurd in one piece. Call Silver if you need to, if she tries anything.’

Archer looked across at her and she shot him a smile. ‘Will she?’

‘Who knows. She hates the French.’

He walked to the door, where Ross had been standing during the interrogation.

‘Do you think he was lying, sir?’

‘No, I think he was terrified. He was telling the truth, sarn’t.

‘Well, Sainte-Croix can come. We’ll fall back on the Light Division. Perhaps he will think we really are the vanguard of the main army. It will waste time and that is precisely what Wellington wants – anything that wastes time and pins down Massena while we finish the defences.’

As they walked from the building Ross asked him, ‘Would you have left him to her, sir? Really?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t think you would, sir. You’re not made that way. You don’t like cruelty or pain.’

‘I’ll not be known as soft, sarn’t. I’m as happy as the next man to dish out any amount of pain if it has a purpose. But I got more with the threat of pain then than any amount of torture could have uncovered. Besides, he would have died and then we would have less than nothing.’

‘You’re no fool, captain, sir. I’ll say that.’

‘I’ll take that as the compliment it was intended, sarn’t.’

‘Others would have tried to beat it out of him.’

‘And others would have failed. I happen to believe that there is more to soldiering than brute force. Right. We’d better get saddled up before his friends come back. We need to beat them to General Craufurd.’

The road took them west, from Gallegos, towards the river Côa, away from the plains of León, through a parched landscape of brush and barren rock. Keane’s horse trod carefully, picking her way through the scrub and the boulders that lay across the roads, which, little used before, had lately seen the passage of thousands of travellers.

Such was the discipline of both Keane’s men and the Germans that they had managed to leave the village before the dragoons had returned, though not, Keane guessed, with much margin of error. He and his men rode at the head of the column, with the German hussars following. Keane himself took the lead, with Ross beside him and the others tucked in close behind. Trotting quickly, as they climbed the long hill road out of the village he spoke to Ross.

‘Did you know that Archer was a physician?’

‘No, sir. No idea. He kept that quiet, right enough.’

‘We’re damned lucky to have him, sarn’t. It’s not just the enemy who’ll benefit. We might all have to put that skill to good use before long.’

‘Yes, sir. Things are getting hotter, ain’t they? Them dragoons are close behind and half the French army with them.’

‘Not quite half, sarn’t, but certainly a good portion, according to our green friend there.’

‘Sooner we reach General Craufurd, sir, the better.’

‘Yes, he needs to know the extent of the force on its way to him. And even he will be hard pressed to hold them up.’

Brigadier General Robert Craufurd, or ‘Black Bob’ as he was affectionately known to the rank and file, on account of his volatile temper and liking for strict discipline, had positioned his command, the recently formed ‘Light Division’, just before the village of Alameda. Although a division by name, it was actually no more than an oversized brigade, comprising two English battalions – the 43rd and 52nd – two of Portuguese ‘cacadores’ riflemen and the 95th Rifles.

Keane knew that Craufurd was their only hope. If he could make it to the Light Division’s lines then at least they had a chance of halting the pursuing French. If not, it would all be up for them. Even the Hanoverian hussars, attacked on the march in column by enemy cavalry, would stand little chance. A handful of guides and a couple of squadrons of hussars, however bravely they fought, could not hope to take on an entire brigade.

He yelled back to the men, ‘Spur on, come on,’ and dug his own spurs into the flanks of the mare. Within a few minutes they had picked up speed and were galloping fast. Looking into the distance Keane could see the village, which he knew from his map must be Alameda, beyond which lay the Portuguese border.

Before it an old stone bridge lay across a narrow river – the Duas Casas. He could make out a body of troops now, formed up in line behind the bridge. Craufurd’s men, surely.

He yelled again: ‘Across the bridge. Get across.’ Turning, he glanced behind and what he saw filled him with dread. For there, still distant but nevertheless closing fast with the rear of
the column, he could see another body of horsemen. ‘Dragoons to your rear. Come on.’

Lashing both sides of his horse’s neck now with his reins, Keane again dug in the spurs and muttered oaths. The animal pushed herself hard and Keane could feel her limbs throbbing and sense her distress. All of them were riding hard now, Silver holding the wounded dragoon in the saddle as they neared the bridge. From behind, the crackle of gunfire told him that the French dragoons had opened up from the saddle with their weapons and he wondered whether von Krokenburgh’s hussars would have replied. He was on the bridge now, and beyond, in front of the village, he could see the line of battle deployed in green and red with the brown of the Portuguese cacadores. Craufurd’s vanguard was formed up two deep across a wide front and Keane counted the four battalions, with the Rifles in front in skirmish order. He noticed that there were cavalry too, posted on the wings. He laughed and shouted to Martin, ‘See, Will, there we are. Salvation.’

Martin gave a whoop and pushed past Keane, arriving at the lines first. He jumped from his horse and turned to pull off his carbine before sending the animal to the rear. Keane followed suit and with him the others. Gabriella alone remained with the horses, and the wounded dragoon.

Keane called, ‘Silver, make yourself known to General Craufurd. Tell him that we’re here and that there’s a French division on our heels.’

Silver nodded. ‘Sir,’ and went to find the general.

Keane turned to Ross. ‘Sarn’t, we’ll join the line. Stop those bastards a second time.’

There was a shot as a rifleman on picket, seeing Keane and his men, discharged his weapon above their heads.

‘Who goes there? Friend or foe?’

Keane yelled back, ‘Friend, rifleman. Captain Keane, Corps of Guides.’

The rifleman waived them on into the lines.

The hussars were coming in now along with a few riderless horses that told a tale of their own. Von Krokenburgh led them off to the left flank and Keane reported to the first redcoat officer he could find, a callow lad of the 43rd who greeted him with a stammer and a grin.

‘Good day, sir. We thought you might be French. You’re fortunate that you were not killed.’

Keane stared at him. ‘Really, Lieutenant… ?’

‘Steerforth, sir.’

‘Lieutenant Steerforth, it is you that are fortunate that you still live. We might as well have taken you for red-coated Swiss in the French service, might we not? And you should know, lieutenant, that my men are not particular. They prefer to fire first and then ascertain their target.’ He paused. ‘May we join you? We do have an enemy, as you can see, and not a minute to waste.’

He pointed across the bridge to the dragoons, and the boy, dumbfounded, nodded before turning to his men. ‘Company, ready. Prepare to receive cavalry.’

As he had been talking, Keane’s men had formed up two deep at the end of a file and there he joined them, preferring to stand in the ranks. They readied their weapons and waited for the dragoons, who were now less than two hundred yards distant.

Keane watched as Leech, the gunner, bit the end of his cartridge, spat the ball down the barrel and rammed it home with the expertise of an infantryman.

‘Ready, Leech?’

‘Ready as ever I’ll be to die, sir.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘I know, sir, but you might as well be ready for it, mightn’t you?’

The French were on them now, near as dammit. He could hear their yells and their officers’ commands. The sun glinted on their drawn sabres.

In their own lines he heard the young lieutenant bark the command to ‘present’ and a company of muskets were pointed at the enemy as his own men raised their carbines. But then, to his surprise, the dragoons veered away across the lines and towards the north and it was there they struck at the line, the 43rd’s volley hitting them at an angle as they went. Looking more closely he realized they had gone deliberately for a regiment of brown-coated Portuguese.

He waited for the clash as sabre met bayonet, but instead there was another crashing volley, and as Keane watched, still waiting for the attack, through the white smoke he saw dozens of green-coated cavalry in retreat. streaming back across the bridge.

Steerforth had seen them too and waved his hat in the air. ‘Hoorah. Well done, my brave lads.’

Led by their sergeant, his men, whose trust and affection he had not yet gained, gave a ragged, reluctant chorus.

Heredia spat on the ground and then turned to Keane. ‘Did you hear him? He thinks that was his doing, does he? Doesn’t he know it was my countrymen? The cacadores?’

Keane chose to ignore the insubordination. ‘No, Heredia, I don’t think he does, and if you told him he wouldn’t believe you. That sort will never hold that any Portuguese soldier is the equal of the worstled Englishman.’

Keane knew Heredia was right. It had been the Portuguese riflemen, albeit British trained and equipped, who had driven off the French, and the enemy would know next time not to expect an easy victory from them. They watched as the French turned tail, a few shots chasing them across the bridge.

Heredia had turned to Keane and was about to speak again when a red-coated British officer rode up and cut him short. The colonel wore a hat cocked fore and aft and what looked as if it might be a permanent sneer. His coat was trimmed with gold bullion and he was heavy-set, with a shock of grey hair that almost matched the coat of the handsome hunter on which he rode and which Keane rightly guessed had come from his own stable in the shires. He looked down at Keane. ‘Who the devil are you?’

‘James Keane, sir, captain, Corps of Guides.’

‘Oh, guides, are you? A spy, eh, captain? We shall have to watch ourselves.’ Keane ignored him and the man continued. ‘Well, being a spy, you probably know it already, but the news is, we’re on the move, Captain Keane. Whatever your business may be here. General Craufurd’s orders. We’re all to fall back. Including your lot. There’s a brigade of the French coming up here.’

Keane smiled. ‘I know, sir, I passed the general that message. We came from the front. From the outposts above Ciudad.’

The man’s face, already florid, grew even redder. ‘You did, did you? And then I suppose you joined our lines?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you engaged the enemy and drove them off?’

‘Yes, sir, although we did not see them off. That was done by the cacadores.’

Heredia smiled.

The man, seeming at a loss for words, stared at Keane’s brown uniform. ‘What the devil d’you call that guise? That’s no uniform for an English officer. You’re Portuguese yourself, aren’t you?’

‘No, sir. Corps of Guides, as I said before.’

He stared at Heredia. ‘But this man here’s a Porto isn’t he? How’s that?’

‘He is one of my men, sir. Late of the Portuguese cavalry. We have all sorts in our company.’

The colonel frowned. ‘Yes, so I can see. Well, you’re to join us now, for our sins.’

Silver arrived. ‘Sir, General Craufurd asks if you will attend him at once. He would know more of the French force.’

The colonel stepped back in astonishment, stuck for speech. Keane smiled. ‘Thank you, Silver. Right, lads, you’d better follow me.’ He turned and looked up at the colonel. ‘Colonel, I think you might be as well to follow your own advice and General Craufurd’s orders and retire before the French arrive. They have a division on its way, you know.’ He turned before the officer could reply and led the way at the head of his men, knowing the air behind him would be blue with oaths.

Once they were out of earshot, Ross laughed. ‘You’re a danger to yourself, sir. One of these days you’ll go too far.’

‘But not today, Ross, eh?’

‘Even so, sir, you’d be better not to do the same to Black Bob.’

They found Craufurd standing on a large rock which gave a view out over the plain below them. He was raking the landscape with the telescope and it seemed at first as if he had not noticed them. But after a few moments, still with the glass to his eye, he looked down at them and spoke.

‘You’re Keane?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The face was instantly familiar and yet at the same time not that of anyone he could call friend. General Sir Robert Craufurd was a legend in the army, as feared as he was loved. Black Bob, along with the late Sir John Moore, had created the Light Division as it now existed.

The Light Division. A division of light infantry. A relatively new concept of units which fought using the tactics that had been developed in America during the revolution with such devastating results. There was something more. The individual intelligence of each and every one of the men was far above that of the rank and file. It took them, it was said, a mere seven minutes to get themselves under arms at night-time and just a quarter of an hour to form line of battle, day or night. The Light Division was Crawford’s child and he used it with care and good judgement. Wellington trusted him completely.