Sharpe's Rifles s-6

by Бернард Корнуэлл

  Sharpe watched their arrival from the window of Louisa Parker’s room. He had gone to see her to discover why she had fled from her family. She had slept all morning and now seemed entirely recovered from the night’s exertions. She looked past him at the dismounting priests and gave an exaggerated shudder of pretended horror. “I can never properly rid myself of feeling there’s something very sinister about Romish clergy. My aunt is convinced they have tails and horns.” She watched as the priests advanced through a guard of honour to where Bias Vivar waited to greet them. “I expect they do have tails and horns, and cloven hooves. Don’t you agree?”

  Sharpe turned away from the window. He felt embarrassed and awkward. “You shouldn’t be here.” Louisa widened her eyes. “You do sound grim.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sharpe was speaking more abruptly than he would have liked. “It’s just that…“ His voice tailed away. ”You think your soldiers will be unsettled by my presence?“ Sharpe did not like to say that Bias Vivar had already been unsettled by Louisa’s impulsive act. ”It isn’t a fit place for you,“ he said instead. ”You’re not used to this kind of thing.“ He waved his hand around the room, as though to demonstrate its shortcomings, though in truth Vivar’s Cazadores had done everything they could to make the foreign girl comfortable. Her room, though small, had a fireplace in which logs smouldered. There was a bed of cut bracken and crimson saddle blankets. She had no other belongings, not even a change of linen.

  She seemed crestfallen by Sharpe’s strict tone. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

  “No.” Sharpe tried to dismiss her apology, even though he had elicited it.

  “My presence embarrasses you?”

  Sharpe turned back to the window and watched the Cazadores gather about the two priests. Some of his Riflemen looked on in curiosity.

  “Would you like me to go back to the French?” Louisa asked tartly.

  “Of course not.”

  “I think you would.”

  “Don’t be so damned stupid!” Sharpe turned on her viciously, and was instantly ashamed. He did not want her to know just how glad he was that she had run from her aunt and uncle and, in his effort to disguise that gladness, he had let his voice snap uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, miss.”

  Louisa was just as contrite. “No, I’m sorry.”

  “I shouldn’t have sworn.”

  “I can’t imagine you giving up swearing, even for me.” There was a trace of her old mischievousness, a hint of a smile, and Sharpe was glad of it.

  “It’s just that your aunt and uncle will worry about you,” he said lamely. “And we’re probably going to have to fight again, and a fight’s no place for a woman.”

  Louisa said nothing for a moment, then shrugged. “The Frenchman, de l’Eclin? He offended me. I think he perceived me as a spoil of war.”

  “He was offensive?”

  “I imagine he thought he was being very gallant.” Louisa, dressed in the blue skirts and coat in which she had fled the travelling coach, paced about her small room. “Would I offend you by saying that I preferred your protection to his?”

  “I’m flattered, miss.” Sharpe felt himself being drawn into her conspiracy. He had come here to warn Louisa that Bias Vivar disapproved of her presence, and to tell her to avoid the Spaniard as much as was possible; instead he felt the attraction of her vivacity.

  “I was tempted to stay with the French,” Louisa confessed, “not because of the Colonel’s intrinsic charms, but because Godalming would surely have been agog to hear of my adventures with the army of the Corsican ogre, would it not? Perhaps we would have been sent to Paris and paraded before the mob like Ancient Britons displayed before the Romans.”

  “I doubt that,” Sharpe said.

  “I rather doubted it, too. Instead I foresaw a most tedious time in which I would be forced to listen to my aunt’s interminable complaints about the war, the lost testaments, her discomforts, French cooking, your shortcomings, her husband’s timidity, my forwardness, the weather, her bunions — do you wish me to continue?”

  Sharpe smiled. “No.”

  Louisa teased out her dark curls with her fingers, then shrugged. “I came, Lieutenant, because of a whim. Because if I am to be stranded in a war then I would rather be stranded with my own side than with the enemy.”

  “I think Major Vivar fears you’ll be a hindrance to us, miss.”

  “Oh,” Louisa said with mock foreboding, then walked to the window and frowned down at the Spaniard who still stood with the two priests. “Does Major Vivar not like women?”

  “I think he does.”

  “He just thinks they get in the way?”

  “In battle, they do. If you’ll pardon me, miss.”

  Louisa mocked Sharpe with a deprecating smile. “I promise not to stand in the way of your sword, Lieutenant. And I’m sorry if I have caused you inconvenience. Now you can tell me just why we’re here, and what you plan to do. I can’t stay out of the way unless I know exactly where the way leads, can I?”

  “I don’t know what’s happening, miss.”

  Louisa grimaced. “Does that mean you don’t trust me?”

  “It means I don’t know.” Sharpe told her about the strongbox and Vivar’s secretiveness, and about their long journey which had been dogged by the French Dragoons. “All I know is that the Major wants to take the box to Santiago, but why, I don’t know, and what’s in it, I don’t know.”

  Louisa was delighted with the mystery. “But you will find out?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I shall ask Major Vivar directly!”

  “I don’t think you should, miss.”

  “Of course not. The ogre-ish Papist Spaniard doesn’t want me interfering in his adventure.”

  “It’s not an adventure, miss, but war.”

  “War is the moment, Mr Sharpe, when we loose the bonds of convention, do you not think so? I do. And they are very constricting bonds, especially in Godalming. I insist upon knowing what is in Major Vivar’s box! Do you think it is jewels?”

  “No, miss.”

  “The crown of Spain! The sceptre and orb! Of course it is, Mr Sharpe. Napoleon wishes to put the crown on his head, and your friend is denying it him! Don’t you see? We are carrying a dynasty’s regalia to safety!” She clapped her hands with delight. “I shall insist upon seeing these treasures. Major Vivar is going to reveal everything to you, is he not?”

  “He said he might tell me after supper. I think it rather depends on those priests.”

  Tn that case we might never know.“ Louisa grimaced. ”But I can have supper with you?“

  The request embarrassed Sharpe, for he doubted whether Vivar would want Louisa present, but nor did he know a tactful way of telling the girl that she was being too persistent. “I don’t know,” he said weakly.

  “Of course I can dine with you! You don’t expect me to starve, do you? Tonight, Mr Sharpe, we shall look upon the jewels of an empire!” Louisa was enchanted with the whole idea. “If only Mr Bufford could see me now!”

  Sharpe recalled that Mr Bufford was the ink-manufacturing Methodist who hoped to marry Louisa. “He would doubtless pray for you?”

  “Most devoutly.” She laughed. “But it is cruel to mock him, Mr Sharpe, especially as I merely delay the time when I must accept his hand.” Her enthusiasm visibly evaporated in the face of reality. “I presume that once you have solved this mystery, you will go to Lisbon?”

  “If there’s still a garrison there, yes.”

  “And I shall have to go with you.” She sighed, as a child might sigh for the ending of a treat that had yet to begin. Then her face cleared, reverting to an expression of mischievous delight. “But you will ask Major Vivar’s permission for me to dine with the gentlemen? I promise to behave myself.”

  To Sharpe’s surprise, Bias Vivar was not at all disconcerted by Louisa’s request. “Of course she may have supper with us.”

  “She’s very curious about the strongbox,” Sharpe warn
ed.

  “Naturally, aren’t you?”

  Thus Louisa was present that night when Sharpe at last discovered why Bias Vivar had lied to him, why the Cazadores had ridden to rescue him, and why the Spanish Major had journeyed so obsessively westward through the chaos of winter and defeat.

  That night, too, Sharpe felt himself drawn ever more deeply into a world of mystery and weirdness; a world where the estadea drifted like flames in the night and sprites inhabited streams; Bias Vivar’s world.

  Sharpe, Louisa, Vivar and Lieutenant Davila dined in a room punctuated by thick pillars which supported a barrel-vaulted ceiling. They were joined by the two priests. A fire was lit, blankets were spread on the floor, and dishes of millet, beans, fish, and mutton were served. One of the priests, Father Borellas, was a short, plump man who spoke passable English and seemed to enjoy practising it on Sharpe and Louisa. Borellas told them that he had a parish in Santiago de Compostela; a small, very poor parish. Pouring Sharpe wine and ever eager that the Rifleman’s plate did not empty, he seemed at pains to exaggerate his humble status. The other priest, he explained, was a rising man, a true hidalgo, and a future prince of the church.

  That other priest was the sacrist of Santiago’s cathedral, a canon and a man who, from the very first, made it plain that he disliked and distrusted Lieutenant Richard Sharpe. If Father Alzaga spoke English then he did not betray that skill to Sharpe. Indeed, Alzaga barely acknowledged his presence, confining his conversation to Bias Vivar whom he perhaps perceived as his social equal. His hostility was so blatant, and so jarring, that Borellas felt constrained to explain it. “He does not love the English.”

  “Many Spaniards don’t,” Louisa, who seemed unnaturally subdued by the evident hostility in the room, commented drily.

  “You’re heretics, you see. And your army has run away.” The priest spoke in soft apology. “Politics, politics. I do not understand the politics. I am just a humble priest, Lieutenant.”

  But Borellas was a humble priest whose knowledge of Santiago de Compostela’s alleyways and courtyards had saved the sacrist from the French. He told Sharpe how they had hidden in a plasterer’s yard while the French cavalrymen searched the houses. “They shot many people.” He crossed himself. “If a man had a fowling gun, they said he was an enemy. Bang. If someone protested at the killing, bang.” Borellas crumbled a piece of hard bread. “I did not think I would live to see an enemy army on Spanish soil. This is the nineteenth century, not the twelfth!”

  Sharpe looked at the haughty-faced Alzaga who clearly had not expected, nor liked, to see protestant English soldiers on Spanish soil. “What is a sacrist?”

  “He is the cathedral’s treasurer. Not a clerk, you understand,” Borellas was eager that Sharpe should not underesti-mate the tall priest, “but the man responsible for the cathedral’s treasures. That is not why he is here, but because he is a most important churchman. Don Bias would have liked the Bishop to come, but the Bishop would not talk to me, and the most important man I could find was Father Alzaga. He hates the French, you see.” He flinched as the sacrist’s voice was raised in anger and, as if to cover his embarrassment, offered Sharpe more dried fish and began a long explanation of the kinds offish caught on the Galician coast.

  Yet no discussion offish could hide the fact that Vivar and Alzaga were involved in a bitter altercation; each man deeply entrenched in opposing views which, equally plainly, involved Sharpe himself. Vivar, making some point, would gesture at the Rifleman. Alzaga, refuting it, seemed to sneer in his direction. Lieutenant Davila concentrated on his food, evidently wanting no part in the fierce argument while Father Borellas, abandoning his attempts to distract Sharpe’s attention, reluctantly agreed to explain what was being said. “Father Alzaga wants Don Bias to use Spanish troops.” He spoke too softly for the other to overhear.

  “Spanish troops for what?”

  “That is for Don Bias to explain.” Borellas listened for another moment. “Don Bias is saying that to find Spanish infantry would mean persuading a Captain-General, and all the Captain-Generals are in hiding; and anyway a Captain-General would hesitate, or he would say he must have the permission of the Galician Junta, and the Junta has fled Corunna, so he might apply to the Central Junta in Seville instead, and in one or two months’ time the Captain-General might say that perhaps there were men, but then he would insist that one of his own favourite officers be placed in charge of the expedition, and anyway by that time Don Bias says it would be too late.” Father Borellas shrugged. “I think Don Bias is right.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “That is for Don Bias to explain.”

  Vivar was speaking adamantly now, chopping his hand down in abrupt, fierce gestures that appeared to mute the priest’s opposition. When he finished, Alzaga seemed to yield reluctantly on some part of the argument, and the concession made Bias Vivar turn towards Sharpe. “Would you mind very much describing your career, Lieutenant?”

  “My career?”

  “Slowly? One of us will translate.”

  Sharpe, embarrassed by the request, shrugged. “I was born…“

  “Not that bit, I think,” Vivar said hastily. “Your fighting career, Lieutenant. Where was your first battle?”

  “In Flanders.”

  “Start there.”

  For ten uncomfortable minutes Sharpe described his career in terms of the battles he had fought. He spoke first of Flanders, where he had been one of the Duke of York’s unfortunate ten thousand, then, with more confidence, of India. The pillared room, lit by its pinewood fire and cheap rushlights, seemed an odd place to be talking of Seringapa-tam, Assaye, Argaum, and Gawilghur. Yet the others listened avidly, and even Alzaga seemed intrigued by the translated tales of far-off battles on arid plains. Louisa, her eyes shining, followed the story closely.

  When Sharpe had finished his description of the savage assault on the mud walls of Gawilghur, no one spoke for a few seconds. Resin flared in the fire. Alzaga, in his harsh voice, broke the silence and Vivar translated. “Father Alzaga says he heard that the Tippoo Sultan had a clockwork model of a tiger mauling an Englishman to death.”

  Sharpe looked into the priest’s eyes. “A lifesize model, yes.”

  Vivar translated again. “He would dearly like to have seen that model.”

  “I believe it’s in London now,” Sharpe said.

  The priest must have recognized the challenge in those words for he said something which Vivar did not interpret.

  “What was that?” Sharpe asked.

  “It was nothing,” Vivar said a little too carelessly. “Where did you fight after India, Lieutenant?”

  “Father Alzaga said, ”Louisa astonished the room by raising her voice, and by her evident knowledge of Spanish which she had concealed till this moment, “that this night he will pray for the soul of the Tippoo Sultan, because the Tippoo Sultan slew many Englishmen.”

  Till now Sharpe had been embarrassed in describing his career, but the priest’s scorn touched his soldier’s pride. “And I killed the Tippoo Sultan.”

  “You did?” Father Borellas’s voice was sharp with disbelief.

  “In the water gate’s tunnel at Seringapatam.“

  “He had no bodyguard?” Vivar asked.

  “Six men,” Sharpe said. “His picked warriors.” He looked from face to face, knowing he need say no more. Alzaga demanded a translation, and grunted when he heard it.

  Vivar, who had been pleased with Sharpe’s performance, smiled at the Rifleman. “And where did you fight after India, Lieutenant? Were you in Portugal last year?”

  Sharpe described the Portuguese battlefields of Rolica and Vimeiro where, before he was recalled to England, Sir Arthur Wellesley had trounced the French. “I was only a Quartermaster,” he said, “but I saw some fighting.”

  Again there was silence and Sharpe, watching the hostile priest, sensed he had passed some kind of a test. Alzaga spoke grudgingly, and the words made Vivar smile again. “You have t
o understand, Lieutenant, that I need the blessing of the church for what I have to do, and, if you are to help me, then the Church must approve of you. The Church would prefer that I use Spanish troops, but that, alas, is not possible. With some reluctance, therefore, Father Alzaga accepts that your experience of battle will be of some small use.”

  “But what…“

  “Later.” Vivar held up a hand. “First, tell me what you know of Santiago de Composteta.”

  “Only what you’ve told me.”

  So Vivar described how, a thousand years before, shepherds had seen a myriad of stars shining in a mist above the hill on which the city was now built. The shepherds reported their vision to Theudemirus, Bishop of Iria Flavia, who recognized it as a sign from heaven. He ordered the hill to be excavated and, in its bowels, was found the long lost tomb of Santiago, St James. Ever since the city had been known as Santiago de Compostela; St James of the field of stars.

  There was something in Vivar’s voice that made Sharpe shiver. The taper flames shimmered uncertain shadows beyond the pillars. Somewhere on the ramparts a sentry stamped his boots. Even Louisa seemed unnaturally subdued by the chill in the Spaniard’s voice.

  A shrine had been built above the long lost tomb and, though the Muslim armies had captured the city and destroyed the first cathedral, the tomb itself had been spared. A new cathedral had been built when the heathen were repulsed, and the city of the field of stars had become a destination second only to Rome for pilgrims. Vivar looked at Sharpe. “You know who Santiago is, Lieutenant?”

  “You told me he was an apostle.”

  “He is far more.” Vivar spoke softly, reverently, in a voice that made Sharpe’s skin creep. “He is St James, brother of St John the Evangelist. St James, the patron saint of Spain. St James, Child of the Thunder. St James the Great. Santiago.” His voice had been growing louder, and now it rang out to fill the high-arched ceiling with the last, the greatest, and the most resonant of all the saint’s titles: ‘Santiago Matamoros!“