02 - Keane's Challenge Read Online Free
Author: Iain Gale
recommended to them directly by Morris. Leech was no criminal, but handy with explosives and it was just possible that he might come in useful. He was a cool fellow, thought Keane, and inclined to swings of temper, but the men seemed to have taken to him well enough.
The other man was newly arrived just before they had set out on their current expedition.
Jack Archer had come to them expressly on Major Grant’s orders and Keane was still unsure why. Certainly he seemed to satisfy enough of the criteria for their force; he could speakpassable Spanish and was a good shot and a fine horseman. Keane supposed that was enough, but he wondered why Grant had been so insistent.
Keane looked at them all as they laughed together at the conclusion of Ross’s ghost story and he knew they were his men now. Even the newcomers. They would ride on tomorrow, and the next day, he knew, would reach the lines. And then he would hand over the Frenchman to his superiors and learn from them what new task they had dreamt up for him.
Undoubtedly it would be some form of intelligence gathering. But as to whether he might be sent to persuade a guerrilla captain to aid them or merely to intercept another courier, he did not know. It was not of any great consequence.
The French were massing for an attack. Not under Napoleon. The sort of fighting they engaged in here was not, Keane supposed, to the liking of a man who had made his name on the plains of central Europe. Instead the Corsican had entrusted the taking of the Peninsula to his great captains, Soult, Ney, Massena. Soon they would come, and it was Keane’s role to discover when and where they would make that attack. It was late June now and the campaigning season had only a few months left to run before the weather closed in and it became impossible for an army to operate effectively, let alone fight and win a battle.
He had come to relish his role, although at times he longed for the old life and action in line, meeting the enemy in battle.
The only actions left to him now were those such as today’s – harassing actions and skirmishes. That was all they had seen since Talavera, and Keane presumed it would be all the action he would be destined to see for the foreseeable future. It all depended upon the commander-in-chief and whether or not he should choose to meet the French in battle. The men were keenfor it certainly and Keane had heard talk that London was split in two as to what should be done. Some said that Wellington should sail home with his army. Beresford too, and abandon the Portuguese to their fate. Others, though, wanted action. He wondered which side Old Nosey would take in his wisdom.
All he knew was that he would take his orders and gather the intelligence that would give Wellington the all-important upper hand when the French push finally came. It was a waiting game they were playing now, and one thing Keane had learned since he had taken on his new role was that waiting gave them time, and while time might be the common soldier’s everyday enemy, for the intelligencer it was the most precious commodity in the world.
2
The distinct clatter of spurred riding boots on a marble floor rang out shrilly through the salon of the large house in the town of Celorico that had been recently appropriated as the headquarters of the allied army. Sir Arthur Wellesley, lately created Viscount Wellington of Talavera, was agitated. Placing his hands together behind the small of his back, he turned to the similarly red-coated man who had been standing to one side for the last ten minutes as he had paced the room.
‘Grant, I need to know more. Where is Massena and with how many men? I need numbers. Foot, horse ordnance, supplies. And I need to know where he intends to cross from Spain and when.’
Almost the duke’s equal in height, Major Sir Colquhoun Grant nodded, an engaging smile lighting a fine-boned face whose most prominent feature, though not as distinctive as the
The other man was newly arrived just before they had set out on their current expedition.
Jack Archer had come to them expressly on Major Grant’s orders and Keane was still unsure why. Certainly he seemed to satisfy enough of the criteria for their force; he could speakpassable Spanish and was a good shot and a fine horseman. Keane supposed that was enough, but he wondered why Grant had been so insistent.
Keane looked at them all as they laughed together at the conclusion of Ross’s ghost story and he knew they were his men now. Even the newcomers. They would ride on tomorrow, and the next day, he knew, would reach the lines. And then he would hand over the Frenchman to his superiors and learn from them what new task they had dreamt up for him.
Undoubtedly it would be some form of intelligence gathering. But as to whether he might be sent to persuade a guerrilla captain to aid them or merely to intercept another courier, he did not know. It was not of any great consequence.
The French were massing for an attack. Not under Napoleon. The sort of fighting they engaged in here was not, Keane supposed, to the liking of a man who had made his name on the plains of central Europe. Instead the Corsican had entrusted the taking of the Peninsula to his great captains, Soult, Ney, Massena. Soon they would come, and it was Keane’s role to discover when and where they would make that attack. It was late June now and the campaigning season had only a few months left to run before the weather closed in and it became impossible for an army to operate effectively, let alone fight and win a battle.
He had come to relish his role, although at times he longed for the old life and action in line, meeting the enemy in battle.
The only actions left to him now were those such as today’s – harassing actions and skirmishes. That was all they had seen since Talavera, and Keane presumed it would be all the action he would be destined to see for the foreseeable future. It all depended upon the commander-in-chief and whether or not he should choose to meet the French in battle. The men were keenfor it certainly and Keane had heard talk that London was split in two as to what should be done. Some said that Wellington should sail home with his army. Beresford too, and abandon the Portuguese to their fate. Others, though, wanted action. He wondered which side Old Nosey would take in his wisdom.
All he knew was that he would take his orders and gather the intelligence that would give Wellington the all-important upper hand when the French push finally came. It was a waiting game they were playing now, and one thing Keane had learned since he had taken on his new role was that waiting gave them time, and while time might be the common soldier’s everyday enemy, for the intelligencer it was the most precious commodity in the world.
2
The distinct clatter of spurred riding boots on a marble floor rang out shrilly through the salon of the large house in the town of Celorico that had been recently appropriated as the headquarters of the allied army. Sir Arthur Wellesley, lately created Viscount Wellington of Talavera, was agitated. Placing his hands together behind the small of his back, he turned to the similarly red-coated man who had been standing to one side for the last ten minutes as he had paced the room.
‘Grant, I need to know more. Where is Massena and with how many men? I need numbers. Foot, horse ordnance, supplies. And I need to know where he intends to cross from Spain and when.’
Almost the duke’s equal in height, Major Sir Colquhoun Grant nodded, an engaging smile lighting a fine-boned face whose most prominent feature, though not as distinctive as the
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