Sharpe's Escape s-10

by Бернард Корнуэлл

  Forrest cleared his throat and stared pointedly at a blade of grass by his right toe. Lawford took the hint. "Major?"

  "I rather think Lieutenant Slingsby had taken the light company a bit too far, sir," Forrest observed mildly.

  "Audacity and aggression," Lawford said, "are not reprehensible in an officer. I applaud Lieutenant Slingsby for his enthusiasm, and that is no reason, Sharpe, for you to insult him."

  Time to bite his tongue again, Sharpe thought, so he kept quiet.

  "And I will not abide dueling between my officers"-Lawford was back in stride-"and I will not abide gratuitous insults. Lieutenant Slingsby is an experienced and enthusiastic officer, an undoubted asset to the battalion, Sharpe, an asset. Is that understood, Sharpe?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "So you will apologize to him."

  I bloody well will not, Sharpe thought, and kept staring at the spot between Lawford's eyes.

  "Did you hear me, Sharpe?"

  "I did, sir."

  "So you will apologize?"

  "No, sir."

  Lawford looked outraged, but for a few seconds was lost for words. "The consequences, Sharpe," he finally managed to speak, "will be dire if you disobey me in this."

  Sharpe shifted his gaze so that he was looking at Lawford's right eye. Looking straight at Lawford and making the Colonel feel uncomfortable, Sharpe saw weakness there, then decided that was wrong. Lawford was not a weak man, but he lacked ruthlessness. Most men did. Most men were reasonable, they sought accommodation and found mutual ground. They were happy enough to fire volleys, but shrank from getting in close with a bayonet. But now was the time for Lawford to wield the blade. He had expected Sharpe to apologize to Slingsby, and why not? It was a small enough gesture, it appeared to solve the problem, but Sharpe was refusing and Lawford did not know what to do about it. "I will not apologize," Sharpe said very harshly, "sir." And the last word had all the insolence that could be invested in a single syllable.

  Lawford looked furious, but again said nothing for a few seconds. Then, abruptly, he nodded. "You were a quartermaster once, I believe?"

  "I was, sir."

  "Mister Kiley is indisposed. For the moment, while I decide what to do with you, you will assume his duties."

  "Yes, sir," Sharpe responded woodenly, betraying no reaction. Lawford hesitated, as though there was something more to be said, then crammed on his cocked hat and turned away. "Sir," Sharpe said.

  Lawford turned, said nothing.

  "Mister Iliffe, sir," Sharpe said. "He fought well today. If you're writing to his family, sir, then you can tell them truthfully that he fought very well."

  "A pity, then, that he's dead," Lawford said bitterly and walked away, beckoning Knowles to accompany him.

  Forrest sighed. "Why not just apologize, Richard?"

  "Because he damned well nearly had my company killed."

  "I know that," Forrest said, "and the Colonel knows it, and Mister Slingsby knows it and your company knows it. So eat humble pie, Sharpe, and go back to them."

  "He"-Sharpe pointed at the retreating figure of the Colonel-"wants rid of me. He wants his goddamned brother-in-law in charge of the skirmishers."

  "He doesn't want rid of you, Sharpe," Forrest said patiently. "Good God, he knows how good you are! But he has to bring on Slingsby. Family business, eh? His wife wants him to make Slingsby's career, and what a wife wants, Sharpe, a wife gets."

  "He wants rid of me," Sharpe insisted. "And if I apologize, Major, then sooner or later I'd still be out on my ear, so I might as well go now."

  "Don't go far," Forrest said with a smile.

  "Why not?"

  "Mister Slingsby drinks," Forrest said quietly.

  "He does?"

  "Far too much," Forrest said. "He's holding it in check for now, hoping a new battalion will give him a new beginning, but I fear for him. I had a similar problem myself, Richard, though I'll thank you not to tell anyone. I suspect our Mister Slingsby will revert to his old behavior in the end. Most men do."

  "You didn't."

  "Not yet, Sharpe, not yet." Forrest smiled. "But think on what I've said. Mutter an apology to the man, eh? And let it all blow over."

  When hell froze over, Sharpe thought. Because he would not apologize.

  And Slingsby had the light company.

  Major Ferreira had read his brother's letter shortly after the last French column had been defeated. "He wants an answer, senhor." Miguel, Ferragus's messenger, had said. "One word."

  Ferreira stared through the cannon smoke that hung in skeins over the hillside where so many French had died. This was a victory, he thought, but it would not be long before the French found the road looping about the ridge's northern end. Or perhaps the victorious British and Portuguese would sweep down Bussaco's long hillside and attack the French in the valley? Yet there was no sign of such an attack. No gallopers rode to give generals fresh instructions, and the longer Wellington waited the more time the French had to throw up earthworks beyond the stream. No, the Major thought, this battle was over and Lord Wellington probably intended to fall back towards Lisbon and offer another battle in the hills north of the city.

  "One word," Miguel had prompted the Major again.

  Ferreira had nodded. "Sim," he said, though he said it heavily. Yes, it meant, and once the fatal word was spoken he turned his horse and spurred northwards past the victorious Light Division, behind the windmill that was pocked with the marks left by musket balls and then down through the small trees growing on the northern end of the ridge. No one remarked his going. He was known to be an occasional explorer, one of the Portuguese officers who, like their British counterparts, rode out to scout the enemy's position, and besides, there were Portuguese militia in the Caramula hills north of the ridge and it was not surprising that an officer rode to check on their position.

  Yet Ferreira, even though his departure from the army had appeared quite innocent, rode with trepidation. His whole future, the future of his family, depended on the next few hours. The Major had inherited wealth, but he had never made any. His investments had failed, and it had only been his brother's return that had restored his fortunes, and that fortune would be threatened if the French took over Portugal. What Major Ferreira must do now was change horses, leap from the patriotic-saddle into a French one, yet do it in such a way that no one would ever know, and he would do it only to preserve his name, his fortune and his family's future.

  He rode for three hours and it was past midday when he turned eastwards, climbing to a prominent hill. He knew that the Portuguese militia guarding the road about the northern end of the ridge were well behind him, and as far as he knew there were no British or Portuguese cavalry patrols in these hills, but he still made the sign of the cross and composed a silent prayer that he would not be seen by anyone from his own side. And he did think of the British and Portuguese army as his side. He was a patriot, but what use was a penniless patriot?

  He stopped at the hilltop. Stopped there for a long time until he was certain that any French cavalry vedettes would have seen him, and then he rode slowly down the hill's eastern face. He stopped halfway down. Now, anyone approaching him could see that he was not luring them to an ambush. There was no dead ground behind him, nowhere for a cavalry unit to hide. There was just Major Ferreira on a long, bare hillside.

  And ten minutes after he stopped, a score of green-coated dragoons appeared a half-mile away. The horsemen spread into a line. Some had their carbines out of their holsters, but most had drawn swords and Ferreira dismounted to show them that he was not trying to escape. The officer in charge of the dragoons stared upwards, searching for danger, and finally he must have concluded that all was well for he rode forward with a half-dozen of his men. The horses' hooves left puffs of dust on the dry hillside. Ferreira, as the dragoons came nearer, spread his arms to show he carried no weapons, then stood quite still as the horsemen surrounded him. A blade dipped near his throat, held by the officer, whose u
niform had been faded by the sun. "I have a letter of introduction," Ferreira said in French.

  "To whom?" It was the officer who answered.

  "To you," Ferreira answered, "from Colonel Barreto."

  "And who in the name of holy Christ is Colonel Barreto?"

  "An aide to Marshal Massena."

  "Show me the letter."

  Ferreira brought the piece of paper from a pocket, unfolded it and handed it up to the French officer, who leaned from his saddle to take it.

  The letter, creased and dirty, explained to any French officer that the bearer could be trusted and should be given every help possible. Barreto had given Ferreira the letter when the Major had been negotiating the gift of the flour, but it came in more useful now. The dragoon officer read it swiftly, glanced once at Ferreira, then tossed the letter back. "So what do you want?"

  "To see Colonel Barreto, of course," Ferreira said.

  It took an hour and a half to reach the village of Moura where Ney's men, who had attacked towards the windmill above Sula, were resting. The surgeons were busy in the village and Ferreira had to steer his horse past a pile of severed arms and legs that lay just outside an open window. Next to the stream, where the flat stones provided a place for the village women to do their laundry, there was now a heap of corpses. Most had been stripped of their uniforms and their white skin was laced with blood. Ferreira averted his eyes as he followed the dragoons to a small hill just beyond the village where, in the shadow of Moura's windmill, Marshal Massena was eating a meal of bread, cheese and cold chicken. Ferreira dismounted and waited as the dragoon officer threaded his way through the aides, and, as he waited, the Major stared at the ridge and wondered that any general would think to throw his men up such a slope.

  "Major Ferreira!" The voice was sour. A tall man in the uniform of a French colonel of dragoons approached him. "Give me one reason, Major," the Colonel said, pointing to the mill, "why we shouldn't put you against that wall and shoot you." The Colonel, though dressed as a Frenchman, was Portuguese. He had been an officer in the old Portuguese army and had seen his home burned and his family killed by the ordenanga, the Portuguese militia that had turned on the privileged classes in the chaos of the first French invasions. Colonel Barreto had joined the French, not because he hated Portugal, but because he saw no future for his country unless it was rid of superstition and anarchy. The French, he believed, would bring the blessings of modernity to Portugal, but only if the French forces were fed. "You promised us flour!" Barreto said angrily. "And instead there was British infantry waiting for us!"

  "In war, Colonel, things go wrong," Ferreira said humbly. "The flour was there, my brother was there, and then a British company arrived. I tried to send them away, but they would not go." Ferreira knew he sounded weak, but he was terrified. Not of the French, but in case some officer on the ridge saw him through a telescope. He doubted that would happen. The ridge top was a long way away and his blue Portuguese jacket would look much like a French coat at that distance, but he was still frightened. Treachery was a hard trade.

  Barreto seemed to accept the explanation. "I found the remnants of the flour," he admitted, "but it's a pity, Major. This army is hungry. You know what we found in this village? One half barrel of lemons. What damn good is that?"

  "Coimbra," Ferreira said, "is full of food."

  "Full of food, eh?" Barreto asked skeptically.

  "Wheat, barley, rice, beans, figs, salt cod, beef," Ferreira said flatly.

  "And how, in God's name, do we reach Coimbra, eh?" Barreto had switched to French because a group of Massena's other aides had come to listen to the conversation. The Colonel pointed to the ridge. "Those bastards, Ferreira, are between us and Coimbra."

  "There is a road around the ridge," Ferreira said.

  "A road," Barreto said, "which goes through the defile of Caramula, and how many damn redcoats are waiting for us there?"

  "None," Ferreira said. "There is only the Portuguese militia. No more than fifteen hundred. In three days, Colonel, you can be in Coimbra."

  "And in three days," Barreto said, "the British will empty Coimbra of food."

  "My brother guarantees you three months' supply," Ferreira said, "but only… " He faltered and stopped.

  "Only what?" a Frenchman asked.

  "When your army enters a town, monsieur," Ferreira spoke very humbly, "they do not behave well. There is plundering, theft, murder. It has happened every time."

  "So?"

  "So if your men get into my brother's warehouses, what will they do?

  "Take everything," the Frenchman said.

  "And destroy what they cannot take," Ferreira finished the statement. He looked back to Barreto. "My brother wants two things, Colonel. He wants a fair payment for the food he will supply to you, and he wants his property guarded from the moment you enter the city."

  "We take what we want," another Frenchman put in, "we don't pay our enemies for food."

  "If I do not tell my brother that you agree," Ferreira said, his voice harder now, "then there will be no food when you arrive in Coimbra. You can take nothing, monsieur, or you can pay for something and eat."

  There was a moment's silence, then Barreto nodded abruptly. "I will talk to the Marshal," he said and turned away.

  One of the French aides, a tall and thin major, offered Ferreira a pinch of snuff. "I hear," he said, "that the British are building defenses in front of Lisbon?"

  Ferreira shrugged as if to suggest the Frenchman's fears were trivial. "There are one or two new forts," he admitted, for he had seen them for himself when he was riding north from Lisbon, "but they are small works," he went on. "What they are also building, monsieur, is a new port at Sao Juliao."

  "Where's that?"

  "South of Lisbon."

  "They're building a port?"

  "A new harbor, monsieur," Ferreira confirmed. "They fear trying to evacuate their troops through Lisbon. There might be riots. Sao Juliao is a remote place and it will be easy for the British to take to their ships there without trouble."

  "And the forts you saw?"

  'They overlook the main road to Lisbon," Ferreira said, "but there are other roads."

  "And how far were they from Lisbon?"

  "Twenty miles," Ferreira guessed.

  "And there are hills there?"

  "Not so steep as that." Ferreira nodded towards the looming ridge.

  "So they hope to delay us in the hills, yes, as they retreat to their new port?"

  "I would think so, monsieur."

  "So we will need food," the Frenchman concluded. "And what does your brother want besides money and protection?"

  "He wants to survive, monsieur."

  "It is what we all want," the Frenchman said. He was gazing at the blue bodies that lay on the ridge's eastern slope. "God send us back to France soon."

  To Ferreira's surprise the Marshal himself returned with Colonel Barreto. The one-eyed Massena stared hard at Ferreira who returned the gaze, seeing how old and tired the Frenchman looked. Finally Massena nodded. "Tell your brother we will pay him a price and tell him Colonel Barreto will take troops to protect his property. You know where that property is, Colonel?"

  "Major Ferreira will tell me," Barreto said.

  "Good. It's time my men had a proper meal." Massena walked back to his cold chicken, bread, cheese and wine while Barreto and Ferreira first haggled over the price to be paid, then made arrangements to safeguard the food. And when that was all done Ferreira rode back the way he had come. He rode in the afternoon sun, chilled by an autumn wind, and no one saw him and no one in the British or Portuguese army thought it strange that he had been away since the battle's end.

  And on the ridge, and in the valley beneath, the troops waited.

  Part Two

  COIMBRA

  CHAPTER 6

  The British and Portuguese army stayed on the ridge all the next day while the French remained in the valley. At times the rattle of muskets or rifl
es started birds up from the heather as skirmishers contested the long slope, but mostly the day was quiet. The cannons did not fire. French troops, without weapons and dressed in shirtsleeves, climbed the slope to take away their wounded who had been left to suffer overnight. Some of the injured had crawled down to the stream while others had died in the darkness. A dead voltigeur just beneath the rocky knoll lay with his clenched hands jutting to the sky while a raven pecked his lips and eyes. The British and Portuguese picquets let the enemy undisturbed, only challenging the few voltigeurs who climbed too close to the crest. When the wounded had been taken away, the dead were carried to the graves being dug behind the entrenchments the French had thrown up beyond the stream, but the defensive bastions were a waste of effort, for Lord Wellington had no intention of giving up the high ground to take the fight into the valley.

  Lieutenant Jack Bullen, a nineteen-year-old who had been serving in number nine company, was sent to the light company to replace Iliffe. Slingsby, Lawford decreed, was now to be addressed as Captain Slingsby. "He was brevetted as such in the 55th," Lawford told Forrest, "and it will distinguish him from Bullen."

  "Indeed it will, sir."

  Lawford bridled at the Major's tone. "It's merely a courtesy, Forrest. You surely approve of courtesy?"

  "Indeed I do, sir, though I value Sharpe more."

  "What on earth do you mean?"

  "I mean, sir, that I'd rather Sharpe commanded the skirmishers. He's the best man for the job."

  "And so he will, Forrest, so he will, just as soon as he learns to behave in a civilized manner. We fight for civilization, do we not?"

  "I hope we do," Forrest agreed.

  "And we do not gain that objective by behaving with crass discourtesy. That's what Sharpe's behavior is, Forrest, crass discourtesy! I want it eradicated."

  Might as well wish to extinguish the sun, Major Forrest thought. The Major was a courteous man, judicious and sensible, but he doubted the fighting efficiency of the South Essex would be enhanced by a campaign to improve its manners.

  There was a sullen atmosphere in the battalion. Lawford put it down to the casualties of the battle, who had either been buried on the ridge or carried away in carts to the careless mercies of the surgeons. This was a day, Lawford thought, when the battalion ought to be busy, yet there was nothing to do except wait on the long high summit in case the French renewed their attacks. He ordered all the muskets to be cleaned with boiling water, the flints to be inspected and replaced if they were too chipped, and every man's cartridge box to be replenished, but those useful tasks only took an hour and the men were no more cheerful at its end than they had been at the beginning. The Colonel made himself visible and tried to encourage the men, yet he was aware of reproachful glances and muttered comments, and Lawford was no fool and knew exactly what caused it. He kept hoping Sharpe would make the requisite apology, but the rifleman stayed stubbornly out of sight and finally Lawford sought out Leroy, the loyal American. "Talk to him," he pleaded.