02 - Keane's Challenge (12 page)

Keane nodded. ‘Well done, Martin.’

Sanchez walked across to where they stood and stooped to pick up the cap. The shot had taken out the crown completely. Somehow, against all odds, Martin had contrived to get his shot to travel up through the hat. It was as central as anyone could have hoped.

Sanchez stood staring at it. He smiled at Martin. ‘Good shooting, boy. Very nice. I will have to admit defeat.’ Then he looked at the gun. ‘Now that is a remarkable weapon. A truly magnificent gun, captain.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Keane. ‘It was my father’s, so I’m told.’ It was in fact one of the few things he owned which had come to him from his father.

Keane still remained unaware of his identity. It was his father who had purchased him his ensign’s commission those twenty years ago, and his mother had told him that he had been a high-ranking military man, but more than that she would not say. The mystery of his father’s identity troubled him. It was Keane’s burning ambition to learn who his father might be. But for the moment, all that he had to link him was the gun,
mysteriously sent to his mother before his fifteenth birthday, along with a lock of hair in a locket, a silver snuffbox and an ivory-backed hairbrush.

Sanchez held out his hand to Martin. ‘May I hold it?’ The boy handed it over and the Spaniard ran his fingers along the walnut stock. ‘It is something any man would be proud to own.’

Keane smiled, with a little apprehension, wondering where this was going. ‘Yes, indeed it is.’

‘I don’t suppose I could make you an offer… ?’

‘No, I’m afraid the gun is most definitely not for sale.’

Sanchez looked at it again in his hands, raised it to his shoulder and placed his cheek against the stock. ‘Truly wonderful. Such a weapon.’ He thought for a moment and then turned to Keane. ‘Another wager, captain?’

‘By all means, Don Sanchez. New targets?’

‘Yes, of course.’

He clapped his hands and a man brought two small leather cartridge boxes and gave them to the giant.

‘And another stake, captain.’

‘Shall we say twenty livres, colonel?’

Sanchez shook his head. ‘No, I have something else in mind. Your gun, captain. We shall play for your gun. Double or quits. If I win, then it is mine. If you win, then I will give you one tenth of all the gold I hold in this camp. And let me tell you that is not a little.’

Keane went suddenly cold. He would do all that he could not to lose that gun. But how to keep the friendship of Sanchez without agreeing to the wager?

Sanchez clapped his hands and two men appeared dragging a handcart. Looking at it, Keane could see that it was piled high with gold ornaments of every kind. Looted, he presumed, from
French and Portuguese alike. It was clear that Sanchez had been planning this since their first wager. The gun had ever been his objective.

He answered. ‘Very well. I accept your wager. One tenth of all the gold.’

Then walking across to Martin, he spoke quietly. ‘You must lose.’

Martin looked at him incredulously. ‘Sir?’

‘I said, you must lose. You have to lose if we are to keep Sanchez on our side. He has to win the gun. Don’t worry, I’ll get it back somehow. And it shan’t be your fault. But for now, you have to lose.’

‘Don’t know if I can, sir. I just shoot and it works.’

‘Martin, listen to me, you have to lose.’

Sanchez called across to them. ‘Captain Keane, are you ready?’

‘Quite ready, colonel. I was just offering Martin some advice.’

They walked over to where the thrower was standing. Sanchez spoke. ‘You may shoot first this time, captain.’

Keane shook his head. ‘No, why don’t you? We prefer to follow on.’

‘Very well.’

Sanchez looked at Garcia, who had loaded his gun. Once again the man took up his position and the thrower made ready. On the given signal the big man hurled one of the cases high into the air. Garcia brought up the weapon and squeezed the trigger. The gun spat flame and shot and the box stopped short in mid-flight and fell to ground. Keane watched it fall and saw the hole neatly drilled through the centre.

‘Good shot, colonel.’

‘Now you.’

Martin took up his post and gave a nod to Keane. Once again
Sanchez nodded his head and the giant threw the second box up into the air. Martin brought the gun up and followed through the trajectory of the fall, then pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the box on the top lid and spun it around. Keane gasped as the box fell. And Martin let out a low curse.

It hit the ground and Sanchez ran across to pick it up. There was a small nick taken out of the flap, but apart from that it was intact.

‘Captain Keane, I claim the victory. Fair?’

Keane walked over and took the box from Sanchez, staring at it intently in disbelief. ‘Good God. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. Martin, what’s this? You missed.’

He looked across at the boy who was standing a little way off, his head down. ‘Sir. Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

Keane looked back to Sanchez. ‘Yes, colonel, quite fair. The gun, it seems, is yours. Martin, give it to the colonel.’

Martin surrendered Keane’s gun and the Spaniard took it, his face suffused by a look of pure, almost childish joy. ‘Thank you. What a prize. I am a lucky man, captain, am I not?’

‘Indeed you are, colonel, and fortune is evidently not with me today.’

Sanchez clapped him on the back. ‘That is the way of life, as we soldiers know. It is perhaps fortunate that today did not find you on the battlefield. A lack of luck there can mean something far worse than losing a gun. Now come and eat with us and console yourself in fine wine and good company.’

They ate together in the shadow of the old fortress and, while Keane dined with the colonel and his officers, the men, as they had been instructed, contrived to socialize with Sanchez’s guerrillas.

Silver took Martin to task over his poor marksmanship. ‘How
the deuce did you do that? You’re a dead shot any day. You couldn’t have missed that if you’d tried.’

Martin said nothing.

Silver narrowed his eyes and stared at him. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You did try. You missed on purpose.’

Martin remained silent. Silver shook his head. ‘Was that the captain’s doing? I’ll be bound it was. He lost his own gun to keep Sanchez on our side.’ He looked across to where Keane was sitting drinking wine with Sanchez. ‘He’s a clever man, our captain, and no mistake. Sell his own mother to trick the Spanish into our hands or bugger the French.’

Martin smiled. ‘I really thought he was angry with me, Silver.’

‘No, lad. It was his doing. He told you to pull the shot. He’d not be angry with you for that. He’s just a good play-actor. Decent man he is. Might be a sharp one otherwise, but not with us, his own men. He won’t do us wrong, lad. Loves you too, he does. Specially, like his own son, if he had one.’

Martin shook his head and smiled. ‘You’re talking twaddle, Silver, and you know it.’

Now Silver shook his head. ‘Ask Gabby. She sees it. Sees it all. Mister Keane looks after you, lad. You mind that. And he’ll get that gun back. You’ll see. After he’s used Sanchez, or got him by other means.’

Keane listened to Don Sanchez’s tales of his career as a soldier. How he had come from humble origins and risen to fame and fortune and how he had sworn to drive the last Frenchman from his country or die doing it with the last drop of his life’s blood. As more wine flowed, they drank toasts. To Spain. To the death of the French. To Lord Wellington. To Sanchez. To Keane. And by the time they finally crawled away to sleep, where there had been suspicion there was friendship, and where there had
been fear there was trust. And Keane, who had been making sure that he drank half of what the Spaniard put away, knew that in Sanchez’s command there were a hundred and fifty horsemen in two squadrons and a troop of lancers, along with three hundred foot soldiers split into five companies of sixty apiece. This private army was well organized. Far better so than those he had encountered in the hills last year. Officers and NCOs were aplenty and Sanchez had told him that he was careful to promote on merit where it was due. Of course some of his officers owed their position to purchase. But that did not mean he thought them any worse. They had come with him from Ciudad. He had seen them murder the French. Lying awake in his blanket, by daybreak Keane had gained a good impression of Sanchez’s strengths and weaknesses. He also reckoned that, in the gift of the gun, he had won him over. That and the promise of silver that he had felt obliged to make in the course of their evening. Now perhaps, he thought, he might be able to return to Celorico.

Of course, it was not that simple.

They were compelled, by courtesy as much as anything else, and by a semblance of duty, to pass another two days in Sanchez’s camp. It was, though, time well spent. Keane observed his daily routine and instructed his men to do likewise. In the early morning after the night-watch had stood down, Sanchez would send out scouts into the hills and others down into the plains. At around midday these men would report back, sometimes with news of the French, and would be replaced by others who would remain on patrol until evening. On the second day two of the parties did not return. Keane quizzed Sanchez. ‘Are they in trouble?’

‘No, they are merely making camp further out.’

‘Advance positions.’

‘Is that what you would call them? They will lie low and then in the night will creep into the French camp and take one or two Frenchmen and bring them here.’

‘And then?’

‘Then we find out what we need to know.’

The following morning, as predicted, the two parties returned and with them three French prisoners. Two of them were of little value and Sanchez berated his men for their poor choice. The third man, though, was as good a prisoner as they might have taken. A French major of artillery.

‘You plan to torture him?’

‘I will interrogate him.’

‘I know what that means. I’ve seen your countrymen too many times.’

Keane found himself floundering. He knew that Don Sanchez was a vital ally to Wellington and had already sacrificed much to keep him. But his conscience refused to coerce in barbarity. Nevertheless, where before swift action and brute force had sufficed to save the skins of French prisoners, this time he knew that such tactics would not work. He could not lift his hand against this man.

Sanchez looked at him. ‘You are weak, captain. You don’t approve of our methods. But they work.’

Keane said nothing, then, ‘Give him a choice.’

One of Sanchez’s officers spoke. A neatly scrubbed moustachioed young man in red breeches and on his head a French lancer’s czapka. ‘What? He’s a prisoner. He deserves no choice. I say we strip him and use the knife.’

Sanchez waved him down. ‘No, wait. Captain, what do you mean?’

‘By all means strip him, but do no more. It’s my bet that he will be so terrified that if you give him the option of talking to me or submitting to you, he will choose the former. Try it. What do you have to lose? If he refuses then he’s yours and God have mercy on him.’

At least I have tried, thought Keane. It was all he could do.

*

Sanchez nodded to one of his men and while two of them held down the French major, another man ripped his clothes from him until he stood before them naked. He spat on the ground and cursed them, but Keane could see the terror in his eyes. The men bound the major’s hands tightly behind him and led him across to Don Sanchez.

The Frenchman stared at Keane, trying to work out what his uniform might mean, with its Portuguese brown tunic and British light cavalry helmet. He spoke. ‘English?’ Keane nodded. ‘Help me.’

Don Sanchez spoke. ‘There is no help for you. But I, Don Sanchez da Estrella, I will give you a choice. I am a man of peace and mercy. To prove that, I am willing to let you choose your fate. We need to know what plans your marshal has. You can tell the captain here and we will not harm you. If you choose not to do so, then my men will make you talk. Either way you will tell us in the end. But I have decided to give you the chance to avoid the agony of torture. You see, I am a most thoughtful and intelligent man.’

Keane smiled at the way in which Don Sanchez had used his offer. The Frenchman said nothing. Don Sanchez spoke again.

‘Well, what’s it to be? Will you talk or would you have me hand you over to them?’ He pointed to his men, who were waiting close by. One of them, the giant who had presided over the
shooting competition, was holding a length of rope, another a long knife.

‘Oh, very well, you may have him.’

Suddenly the Frenchman began to speak. At such a rate that neither Keane nor any of the others could make out what he was trying to say.

Keane said, ‘Begin again,’ and the major began to talk more slowly now.

Twenty minutes later, Keane covered him with a blanket and left him to sob. He went across to Don Sanchez.

‘He says that they have a plan to outflank your General Craufurd.’

‘You have a map?’

Keane took the map from his valise and laid it out across a flat rock, Ross helping him weigh it down with stones.

Sanchez pondered it for a moment and then pointed and spoke.

‘He says they will move here. To this bridge.’

‘We can do something about this. Have you any explosive?’

Sanchez looked at him. ‘Of course.’

Keane addressed Ross. ‘Find Leech and send him to me.’

Don Sanchez looked intent, ‘What do you intend to do, captain?’

‘I intend to blow the bridge. To stop the French getting across.’

‘It’s a good idea. Can you do it?’

‘I have an expert in such things.’

‘Your men have many talents, captain.’

‘That’s why I chose them, colonel.’

Ross brought Leech, and Keane briefed him quickly.

‘We will patrol by the river. Leech, you’re to take two men of the hussars and destroy the bridge at Nava d’Aver. There. Across
the Duas Casas river. That at least will prevent the French from crossing and taking General Craufurd in the flank.’

‘The explosive, sir?’

‘A present here, from Colonel Sanchez. Just make sure that you blow it. And then return.’