Free 02 - Keane's Challenge by Iain Gale Page A

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