Sharpe's Battle s-12

by Бернард Корнуэлл

  "Too much news, my Lord, and none of it good," Hogan said. He took off his hat and fanned his face. "Marshal Bessiиres has joined Massйna, my Lord. Brought a deal of cavalry and artillery with him, but no infantry as far as we can gather."

  "Your partisans?" Wellington was inquiring about the source of Hogan's information.

  "Indeed, my Lord. They shadowed Bessiиres's march." Hogan took out his snuff box and helped himself to a restorative pinch while Wellington digested the news. Bessiиres commanded the French army in Northern Spain, an army devoted wholly to fighting partisans, and the news that Bessiиres had brought troops to reinforce Marshal Massйna hinted that the French were readying themselves for their attempt to relieve the seige of Almeida.

  Wellington rode in silence for a few yards. His route took him up a gentle slope to a grassy crest that offered another view of the enemy fortress. He took out a spyglass and gave the spreading, low walls and the artillery-shattered rooftops a long inspection. Hogan imagined the gunners handspiking their guns around to lay on their new target. Wellington grunted, then snapped the spyglass shut. "So Massйna's coming to resupply these rascals, is he? And if he succeeds, Hogan, they'll have enough supplies to last out till hell goes cold unless we storm the place first, and storming it will take until midsummer at least, and I can't storm Almeida and Ciudad Rodrigo at the same time, so Massйna will just have to be stopped. It'll go low, I warrant." This last remark referred to a cannon that had just fired from the walls. The smoke jetted out across the ditch as Hogan tried to catch sight of the missile. The roundshot arrived a second before the sound of the gun. The ball bounced on the slope below the General's party and ricocheted high over his head to crack against an olive tree. Wellington turned his horse away. "But you know what it will mean, Hogan, if I try to stop Massйna in front of Almeida?"

  "The Coa, my Lord."

  "Exactly." If the British and Portuguese army fought the French close to Almeida then they would have the deep, fast-flowing River Coa at their backs, and if Massйna succeeded in turning Wellington's right flank, which he would assuredly try to do, then the army would be left with one road, just one road, on which it could retreat if it suffered defeat. And that one road led across a high, narrow bridge over the Coa's otherwise uncrossable gorge, and if the defeated army with all its guns and baggage and women and pack-horses and wounded were to try and cross that one narrow bridge then there would be chaos. And into that chaos would plunge the Emperor's heavy horses with their sword-wielding troopers and thus a fine British army that had thrown the French out of Portugal would die on the frontier of Spain and there would be a new bridge over the Seine in Paris and it would bear the odd name of Pont Castello Bom in commemoration of the place where Andrй Massйna, Marshal of France, would have destroyed Lord Wellington's army. "So we shall have to beat Marshal Massйna, won't we?" Wellington said to himself, then turned to Hogan. "When will he come, Hogan?"

  "Soon, my Lord, very soon. The stores in Ciudad Rodrigo won't allow them otherwise," Hogan answered. With the arrival of Bessiиres's men the French now had too many mouths to feed from Ciudad Rodrigo's supply depots, which meant they would have to march soon or starve.

  "So how many does Massйna have now?" Wellington asked.

  "He can put fifty thousand men into the field, my Lord."

  "And I can't put forty thousand against them," Wellington said bitterly. "One day, Hogan, London will come to believe that we can win this war and will actually send us some troops who are not mad, blind or drunk, but till then…?" He left the question unanswered. "Any more of those damned counterfeit newspapers?"

  Hogan was not surprised by the sudden change of subject. The newspapers describing the fictional atrocities in Ireland had been intended to disaffect the Irish soldiers in the British army. The ploy had failed, but only just, and both Hogan and Wellington feared that the next attempt might be more successful. And if that attempt came on the eve of Massйna's crossing of the frontier to relieve Almeida it could be disastrous. "None, sir," Hogan said, "yet."

  "But you've moved the Real Companпa Irlandesa away from the frontier?"

  "They should be arriving at Vilar Formoso this morning, my Lord," Hogan said.

  Wellington grimaced. "At which juncture you will apprise Captain Sharpe of his troubles?" The General did not wait for Hogan's answer. "Did he shoot the two prisoners, Hogan?"

  "I suspect so, my Lord, yes," Hogan answered heavily. General Valverde had reported the execution of Loup's men to the British headquarters, not in protest at the actual deed, but rather as proof that Loup's raid on the San Isidro Fort had been provoked by Captain Sharpe's irresponsibility. Valverde was riding a high moral horse and loudly proclaiming that Spanish and Portuguese lives could not be trusted to British command. The Portuguese were unlikely to worry overmuch about Valverde's allegations, but the juntain Cadiz would be only too eager for any ammunition they could use against their British allies. Valverde was already passing on a litany of other complaints, how British soldiers failed to salute when the Holy Sacraments were being carried through the streets, and how the freemasons among the British officers offended Catholic sensibilities by openly parading in their regalia, but now he had a more bitter and wounding allegation: that the British would fight to the last drop of their allies' blood and the massacre at San Isidro was his proof.

  "Damn Sharpe," Wellington said.

  Damn Valverde, Hogan thought, but Britain needed Spanish goodwill more than it needed one rogue rifleman. "I haven't talked to Sharpe, my Lord," Hogan said, "but I suspect he did kill the two men. I hear it was the usual thing: Loup's men had raped village women." Hogan shrugged as if to imply that such horror was now commonplace.

  "It may be the usual thing," Wellington said acidly, "but that hardly condones the execution of prisoners. It's my experience, Hogan, that when you promote a man from the ranks he usually takes to drink, but not in Mister Sharpe's case. No, I promote Sergeant Sharpe and he takes to conducting private wars behind my back! Loup didn't attack the San Isidro to destroy Oliveira or Kiely, Hogan, he did it to find Sharpe, which makes the loss of the caзadores all Sharpe's fault!"

  "We don't know that, my Lord."

  "But the Spanish will deduce it, Hogan, and proclaim it far and wide, which makes it hard, Hogan, damned hard for us to blame Runciman. They'll say we're hiding the real culprit and that we're cavalier with allied lives."

  "We can say the allegations against Captain Sharpe are malicious and false, my Lord?"

  "I thought he admitted them?" Wellington retorted sharply. "Didn't he boast to Oliveira about executing the two rogues?"

  "So I understand, my Lord," Hogan said, "but none of Oliveira's officers survived to testify to that admission."

  "So who can testify?"

  Hogan shrugged. "Kiely and his whore, Runciman and the priest." Hogan tried to make the list sound trivial, then shook his head. "Too many witnesses, I'm afraid, my Lord. Not to mention Loup himself. Valverde could well attempt to get a formal complaint from the French and we'd be hard put to ignore such a document."

  "So Sharpe has to be sacrificed?" Wellington asked.

  "I fear so, my Lord."

  "God damn it, Hogan!" Wellington snapped. "Just what the devil was going on between Sharpe and Loup?"

  "I wish I knew, my Lord."

  "Aren't you supposed to know?" the General asked angrily.

  Hogan soothed his tired horse. "I've not been idle, my Lord," he said with a touch of tetchiness. "I don't know all that happened between Sharpe and Loup, but what does seem to be happening is a concerted effort to sow discord in this army. There's a new man come south from Paris, a man called Ducos, who seems to be cleverer than the usual rogues. He's the fellow behind this scheme of counterfeit newspapers. And I'll guess, my Lord, that there are more of those newspapers on the way, designed to arrive here just before the French themselves."

  "Then stop them!" Wellington demanded.

  "I can and shall stop them
," Hogan said confidently. "We know it's Kiely's whore who brings them over the frontier, but our problem is finding the man who distributes them in our army, and that man is the real danger, my Lord. One of our correspondents in Paris warns us that the French have a new agent in Portugal, a man of whom they expect great things. I would dearly like to find him before he fulfils those expectations. I'm rather hoping the whore will lead us to him."

  "You're sure about the woman?"

  "Quite sure," Hogan said firmly. His sources in Madrid were explicit, but he knew better than to mention their names aloud. "Sadly we don't know who this new man in Portugal is, but given time, my Lord, and a touch of carelessness on the part of Kiely's whore, we'll find him."

  Wellington grunted. A rumble in the sky announced the passage of a French roundshot, but the General did not even look up to see where the shot might fall. "Damn all this fuss, Hogan, and damn Kiely and his damned men, and damn Sharpe too. Is Runciman trussed for the sacrifice?"

  "He's in Vilar Formoso, my Lord."

  The General nodded. "Then truss Sharpe too. Put him to administrative duties, Hogan, and warn him that his conduct will be the subject of a court of inquiry. Then inform General Valverde that we're pursuing the matter. You know what to say." Wellington pulled out a pocket watch and clicked its lid open. An expression of distaste showed on his thin face. "I suppose, if I'm here, that I'll have to visit Erskine. Or do you think the madman is still in bed?"

  "I'm sure his aides will have apprised Sir William of your presence, my Lord, and I can't think he'd be flattered if you were to ignore him."

  "Touchier than a virgin in a barracks room. And mad as well. Just the man, Hogan, to conduct Sharpe and Runciman's court of inquiry. Let us see, Hogan, whether Sir William is experiencing a lucid interval and can thus understand what verdict is required of him. We must sacrifice one good officer and one bad officer to draw Valverde's fangs. God damn it, Hogan, God damn it, but needs must when the devil drives. Poor Sharpe." His Lordship gave one backward glance at the town of Almeida, then led his entourage towards the besieging force's headquarters.

  While Hogan worried about the narrow bridge at Castello Bom, about Sharpe and, even more, about a mysterious enemy come into Portugal to sow discord.

  The house with the smoking chimney lay where the street opened into the small plaza before the church, and it was in there that the howling had begun. Sharpe, who had been rising to his feet, had crouched instantly back into the shadows as a gate beside the house creaked open.

  Then the hounds had poured out. They had been pent up too long and so ran joyously up and down the deserted street. A figure wearing uniform led a horse and a mule out and then turned away from Sharpe, evidently planning to leave San Cristobal by the gated entrance on the village's far side. One of the hounds leaped playfully at the mule and received a curse and a kick for its trouble.

  The curse sounded plainly in the street. It was a woman's voice, the voice of the Dona Juanita de Elia who now put her foot in the stirrup of the saddled horse, but the hound came back to plague the mule again just as she tried to haul herself up into the saddle. The mule, which was loaded with a pair of heavy panniers, brayed and shied away from the hound and pulled its leading rein out of Juanita's grip then, frightened by the excited dogs, it trotted towards Sharpe.

  Juanita de Elia cursed again. Her plumed bicorne hat had fallen off in the commotion so that her long black hair began to come out of its pins. She pushed it roughly into place as she hurried after the frightened mule which had come to a stop just a few paces from Sharpe's hiding place. The hounds ran in the other direction, baptizing the church steps in their joy at being released from confinement in the yard.

  "Come on, you bastard," Juanita told the mule in Spanish. She was wearing the elegant uniform of the Real Companпa Irlandesa.

  She leaned to pick up the mule's leading rein and Sharpe stepped out into the moonlight. "I never know," he said, "whether Dona is a title or not. Do I say "good morning, milady"? Or just good morning?" He stopped three paces from her.

  It took Juanita a few seconds to recover her poise. She straightened up, glanced at the rifle in Sharpe's hands, then at her horse thirty paces away. She had left a carbine in the saddle holster, but knew she had no chance of reaching the weapon. She had a short sword at her side and her hand went to the hilt, then stopped as Sharpe raised the rifle's muzzle. "You wouldn't kill a woman, Captain Sharpe," she said coldly.

  "In the dark, milady? With you in uniform? I don't think anyone would blame me."

  Juanita watched Sharpe carefully, trying to judge the veracity of his threat. Then a means of salvation occurred to her and she smiled before giving a brief tuneless whistle. Her hounds stopped and pricked their ears. "I'll set the dogs on you, Captain," she said.

  "Because that's all you've got left here, isn't it?" Sharpe said. "Loup has gone. Where?"

  Juanita still smiled. "I've seen my bitches pull down a prime stag, Captain, and turn it into offal in two minutes. The first to reach you will go for your throat and she'll hold you down while the others feed on you."

  Sharpe returned the smile, then raised his voice. "Pat! Bring 'em in!"

  "Damn you," Juanita said, then she whistled again and the hounds began loping down the street. At the same time she turned and began running towards her horse, but she was slowed by the spurs on her heavy riding boots and Sharpe caught her from behind. He put his left arm round her waist and held her body in front of his like a shield as he backed against the nearest wall.

  "Whose throat will they go for now, my lady?" he asked. Her tousled hair was in his face. It smelt of rosewater.

  She kicked at him, tried to elbow him, but he was much too strong. The fastest hound came running towards them and Sharpe lowered the rifle with his right hand and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot was brutally loud in the confined street. Sharpe's aim had been confused by Juanita's struggles, but his bullet caught the attacking animal in the haunch and sent it spinning and yelping to the ground just as Harper led the riflemen through the entrance maze. The Irishman's sudden appearance confused the other hounds. They slowed down, then whined as they clustered about the wounded bitch.

  "Put the bugger out of its misery, Pat," Sharpe said. "Harris? Go back to Captain Donaju, give him my compliments and tell him to bring his men into the village. Cooper? Get her ladyship's horse. And Perkins? Take her ladyship's sword."

  Harper waded into the hounds, drew his sword bayonet and stooped to the bleeding, snapping bitch. "Be still, you bugger," he said gently, then sliced once. "You poor beast," he said as he straightened up with his bayonet dripping blood. "God save Ireland, sir, but look what you found. Lord Kiely's fancy lady."

  "Traitor!" Juanita said to Harper, then spat at him. "Traitor! You should be fighting the English."

  "Oh, my lady," Harper said as he wiped the blade on the skirt of his green jacket, "some time you and me must enjoy a long talk about who should be fighting on whose side, but right now I'm busy with the war I've already got."

  Perkins gingerly extracted the short sword from Juanita's slings, then Sharpe released his grip on her. "My apologies for manhandling you, ma'am," he said very formally.

  Juanita ignored the apology. She stood straight and stiff, keeping her dignity in front of the foreign riflemen. Dan Hagman was coaxing the mule out of the street corner where it had taken refuge. "Bring it with you, Dan," Sharpe said, then led the way up the street towards the house Juanita had vacated. Harper escorted her, making her follow Sharpe into the yard.

  The house must have been one of the largest in the village for the gate led into a spacious courtyard that possessed stabling on two sides and an elaborately crowned well in its centre. The kitchen door was open and Sharpe ducked inside to find the fire still smouldering and the remains of a meal on the table. He found some candle stubs, lit them from the fire, and placed them back on the table amidst the litter of plates and cups. At least six people had eaten at the table
, suggesting that Loup and his men had left very recently. "Look round the rest of the village, Pat," Sharpe told Harper. "Take half a dozen men and go carefully. I reckon everyone's gone, but you never know."

  "I'll take care, sir, so I will." Harper took the riflemen out of the kitchen leaving Sharpe alone with Juanita.

  Sharpe gestured at a chair. "Let's talk, my lady."

  She walked with a slow dignity to the far side of the table, put a hand on the chair back, then suddenly broke away and ran for a door across the room. "Go to hell," was her parting injunction. Sharpe was encumbered by the furniture so that by the time he reached the door she was already halfway up a dark flight of stairs. He scrambled after her. She turned right at the stairhead and ran through a door that she slammed behind her. Sharpe kicked it a split second before it would have latched and hurled himself through the opening to see, in the moonlight, that Juanita was sprawled across a bed. She was struggling to free an object from a discarded valise then, as Sharpe crossed the room, she turned with a pistol in her hand. He threw himself at her, slamming his left hand at the pistol just as she pulled the trigger. The bullet cracked into the ceiling as he landed full on her. She gasped from the impact, then tried to claw at his eyes with her free hand.

  Sharpe rolled off her, stood and backed to the window. He was panting. His left wrist hurt from the impact of striking the pistol aside. The moonlight came past him to silver the haze of pistol smoke and to shine on the bed that was nothing but a raft of straw-filled mattresses on which a jumble of pelts provided the covers. Juanita half sat up, glared at him, then seemed to realize that her defiance had run its course. She let out a disgruntled sigh and collapsed back onto the furs.