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 areawhich 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 youmanage 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
‘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 areawhich 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 youmanage 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
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