Sharpe's Sword s-14

by Бернард Корнуэлл

  Hogan looked with some fondness at the cavalryman. “Jack! How’s the arm?”

  “Totally mended, sir. As good as the day it was born. I’m keeping it in a sling so you won’t send me back to work. Richard Sharpe! I watched your Company at work. They were hungry!”

  “They’re good.”

  “And you’re both invited to a pique-nique. Now.” He grinned at them.

  “A what?” Hogan frowned.

  “A pique-nique. It’s a French word, but I suppose we’ll all be using it soon. For you peasants who don’t speak French it means a simple, light repast taken in the open air. We’ve got chicken, ham, spiced sausages, some delicious cake, and best of all some wine. We, of course, are myself and La Marquesa de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba. You’re both specifically invited.”

  Hogan smiled. It seemed that Sharpe accepting the responsibility for Leroux had lifted a weight from his shoulders. “La Marquesa! It’s time I rubbed shoulders with the aristocracy!”

  “What about me?” Spears looked aggrieved. “Am I not noble enough for you? Good Lord! When my ancestors ate the forbidden fruit in Eden they insisted on having it served on a silver platter. You’re coming?” This last he addressed to Sharpe.

  Sharpe shrugged. Hogan was insisting on going, so Sharpe was forced to follow, and though part of him yearned to see La Marquesa again, another, greater part of him was scared of the encounter. He hated being tempted by things he could not have, and he could feel his mood becoming surly as he climbed the hill behind Hogan and Spears.

  La Marquesa watched them come. She raised a languid hand in greeting. “Captain Sharpe! You’ve at last accepted one of my invitations!”

  “I’m with Major Hogan, Ma’am.” The instant he said it, he regretted it. He had been trying to say that he had not come willingly, that he was not her slave, but his words made it sound as though he had need to be forced into her company. She smiled.

  “I owe Major Hogan my thanks.” She turned her lavish beauty onto the Irishman. “We’ve met, Major.”

  “Indeed we have, Ma’am. At Ciudad Rodrigo, I remember.”

  “So do I, you were most charming.”

  “The Irish usually are, Ma’am.”

  “Such a pity the English haven’t learned from their neighbours.” She looked at Sharpe who sat, miserable, on his uncomfortable horse. She smiled again at Hogan. “You’re well?”

  “Indeed, Ma’am, and thank you, Ma’am. Yourself? Your husband?”

  “My husband, ah!” She fanned her face. “Poor Luis is in South America, suppressing one of our Colonial rebellions. It seems so silly. You’re here to liberate our country while Luis is busy doing the opposite somewhere else.” She laughed, then looked again at Sharpe. “My husband, Captain Sharpe, is a soldier, like you.”

  “Indeed, Ma’am?”

  “Well not quite like you. He’s much older, much fatter, and he dresses much better. He’s also a General, so perhaps he’s not quite like you.” She patted the leather seat of the barouche between herself and her perspiring chaperone. “I have some wine, Captain, won’t you join me?”

  “I’m quite comfortable, Ma’am.”

  “You don’t look it, but if you insist.” She smiled. She was, as he remembered, dazzlingly beautiful. She was a dream, something of exquisite fineness, someone of whom Sharpe was resentful for he found her beauty overwhelming. She still smiled at him. “Jack tells me you’re a true hero, Captain Sharpe.”

  “Not at all, Ma’am.” He was wondering if he should go and fetch his Company, and make his excuses to Major Forrest who would be hugely unhappy at losing his Light troops.

  Lord Spears guffawed with laughter. “Not a hero! Listen to him! I love it!”

  Sharpe frowned, embarrassed, and looked to Hogan for help. The Irishman grinned at him. “You took an Eagle, Richard.”

  “With Harper, sir.”

  “Oh God! The modest hero!” Lord Spears was enjoying himself. He imitated Sharpe’s reluctant voice. “It was all an accident. Eagle just dropped off its staff, straight into my hands. I was picking wild flowers at the time. Then I lost my way at Badajoz. Thought I was going to church parade and just happened to climb this breach. Very awkward.” Spears laughed. “God damn it, Richard! You even saved the Peer’s life!”

  “Arthur’s life?” La Marquesa asked. She looked with interest at Sharpe. “When? How?”

  “The Battle of Assaye, Ma’am.”

  “Battle of Assaye! What’s that? Where was it?”

  “India, Ma’am.”

  “So what happened?”

  “His horse was piked, Ma’am. I happened to be there.”

  “Oh, God help us!” Spears’ smile was friendly. “He only fought off thousands of bloody heathens and says he happened to be there.”

  Sharpe’s embarrassment was acute. He looked at Hogan. “Should I fetch my Company, sir?”

  “No, Richard, you should not. It can wait. I’m thirsty, you’re thirsty, and her Ladyship is kindly offering wine.” He bowed to La Marquesa. “With your permission, Ma’am?” He held his hand out for the bottle that the chaperone held.

  “No, Major! Jack will do it. He has the manners of a servant, don’t you Jack?”

  “I’m a slave to you, Helena.” Spears took the bottle happily, while Hogan brought Sharpe a glass. Sharpe’s horse had moved some feet away from the carriage in search of greener grass and Sharpe was glad to be out of La Marquesa’s earshot. He drank the wine quickly, finding himself to be parched, and discovered Hogan at his elbow. The Irishman smiled sympathetically.

  “She’s got you in full retreat, Richard. What’s the matter?”

  “It’s not my place, sir, is it? That’s my place.” He nodded down the hill to where the South Essex relaxed on their knoll. The French were not moving.

  “She’s just a woman, trying to be friendly.”

  “Yes.” Sharpe thought of his wife, the dark haired beauty who would despise this aristocratic luxury. He glanced at La Marquesa. “Why does she speak such good English?”

  “Helena?” Even Hogan, Sharpe noted, seemed to know her well enough to use her Christian name. “She’s half English. Spanish father, English mother, and raised in France.” Hogan drank his own wine. “Her parents were killed in the Terror, very nasty, and Helena managed to escape to an Uncle in Spain, in Saragossa. Then she married the Marques de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba, and became as rich as the hills. Houses all over Spain, a couple of castles, and a very good friend to us, Richard.”

  “What are you talking about?” Her voice carried to them and Hogan turned his horse.

  “Business, Ma’am, just business.”

  “This is a pique-nique, not an Officers’ Mess. Come here!”

  She made Spears give Sharpe more wine that he drank just as fast as the first glass. The crystal goblet was ridiculously small.

  “You’re thirsty, Captain?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “I have plenty of bottles. Some chicken?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  She sighed. “You’re so hard to please, Captain. Ah! There’s Arthur!”

  Wellington was, indeed, returning westward along the track behind the ridge.

  Spears twisted in his saddle to look at the General. “Ten to one he comes up here to see you, Helena?”

  “I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”

  “Sharpe!” Spears grinned at him. “Two guineas he won’t come?”

  “I don’t gamble.”

  “I do! Christ! Half the bloody estate’s gone.”

  “Half of it?” La Marquesa laughed. “All of it, Jack. All of it, and a lot more. What will you leave your heir?”

  “I’m not married, Helena, thus none of my bastards can be described as an heir.” He blew her a kiss. “If only your dear husband would die I would be on my knees to you. I think we’d make a handsome couple.”

  “And how long would my fortune last?”

  “Your beauty is your fortune, Hele
na, and that is safe for ever.”

  “How pretty, Jack, and how untrue.”

  “The words were said by Captain Sharpe, my dear, I just repeated them.”

  The huge blue eyes looked at Sharpe. “How pretty, Captain Sharpe.”

  He was blushing because of Spears’ lie and he hid it by wrenching the reins harshly about and staring at the quiescent French. Lord Spears followed him and spoke softly. “You fancy her, don’t you?”

  “She’s a beautiful woman.”

  “My dear Sharpe.” Spears leaned over and led the Rifleman’s horse forward a few paces. “If you want her, try her.” He laughed. “Don’t worry about me. She won’t look at me. She’s very discreet, our Helena, and she’s not going to endure Jack Spears boasting round the city that he tucked his feet in her bed. You should mount an attack, Sharpe!”

  Sharpe was angry. “You mean lovers from the servant’s hall keep quiet, because they’re so grateful?”

  “Your words, friend, not mine.”

  “True.”

  “And if you must know, you may be right.” Spears was still friendly, but his words were low and forceful. “Some people think the meat in the servant’s hall is better than the thin stuff served in the banquet hall.”

  Sharpe looked at the handsome face. “La Marquesa?”

  “She gets what she wants, you get what I want.” He grinned. “I’m doing you a favour.”

  “I’m married.”

  “God help me! Do you say your prayers every night?” Spears laughed aloud, then turned for hoofbeats presaged Wellington’s arrival at the head of his staff. The General reined in, doffed his bicorne hat, then cast a cold glance at Spears and Sharpe.

  “You’re well escorted, Helena!”

  “Dear Arthur!” She offered him her hand. “You have disappointed me!”

  “I? How?”

  “I came for a battle!”

  “So did we all. If you have any complaints you must address them to Marmont. The fellow absolutely refuses to attack!”

  She pouted at him. “But I so hoped to see a battle!”

  “You will, you will.” He patted his horse’s neck. „I’ll lay you odds that the French will sneak away tonight. I gave them their chance and they turned it down, so tomorrow I’ll take those forts.“

  “The forts! I can watch from the Palacio!”

  “Then pray Marmont sneaks away tonight, Helena, for if he does I’ll lay on a full assault for you. All the battle you could wish!”

  She clapped her hands. “Then I will give a reception tomorrow night. To celebrate your victory. You’ll come?”

  “To celebrate my victory?” Wellington seemed positively skittish in her presence. “Of course I’ll come!”

  She waved a hand round all the horsemen gathered about the elegant barouche. “You must all come! Even you, Captain Sharpe! You must come!”

  Wellington’s eyes met Sharpe. The General gave a thin smile. “Captain Sharpe will be busy tomorrow night.”

  “Then he will come when his business is finished. We shall dance till dawn, Captain.”

  Sharpe felt, though he did not know if it was meant, a subtle mockery in the eyes that watched him. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would face Leroux, tomorrow he would fight that sword, and Sharpe felt the desire to fight. He would beat Leroux, this Colonel who had put a chill of fear into the British, he would face him, fight him, and he would drag him captive from the wasteland. Tomorrow he would fight, and these foppish aristocrats would watch from La Marquesa’s Palacio and suddenly Sharpe knew what reward he wanted for facing Colonel Philippe Leroux. Not just the sword. He would have that anyway as the spoils of war, but something else. He would have the woman. He smiled at her for the first time, and nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Tired cavalry scouts came back to the city in the early Tuesday hours. Marmont’s army had gone north in the night. The French had abandoned the garrison of the forts in the city, they would bide their time now and hope that at some point in the summer they would catch Wellington flat-footed and fight a battle more on their own terms.

  The fortresses served no purpose now for Wellington. They had failed to bring Marmont to battle for their rescue, and they stopped his supply trains using the long Roman bridge, so the fortresses would be destroyed. La Marquesa would get her battle, and Sharpe would have to seek Leroux among the prisoners.

  If there were prisoners. It had seemed a light thing for the General to promise La Marquesa an assault of the three buildings, but Sharpe could see that the defenders would not easily give in. He had stared long and hard at the buildings, marooned in their waste ground, and the more he looked, the less he liked.

  The waste ground was split by a deep gorge that ran southwards towards the river. On the right of the gorge was the largest of the French forts, the San Vincente, while to the left were the forts of La Merced and San Cayetano. An attack on any one of the three forts would be savaged by gunfire from the others.

  The three buildings had been convents until the French evicted the nuns and turned this corner of the city into a stronghold. For nearly a week now the convents had been under fire from British guns, yet the artillery had done remarkably little damage. The French had prepared the buildings well.

  Out of the levelled houses that had surrounded the convents they had made a crude glacis that bounced the round-shot up and over the defensive works. They had buttressed walls behind the deep ditch which surrounded each convent and over their gun emplacements and troop shelters they had made huge, thick roofs. Each roof was like a massive box filled with earth, designed to soak up the British howitzer shells that fell with fluttering smoke from the sky. The French garrisons were surrounded, trapped, but it would be hard for the British to break in.

  Sharpe paraded his Company, not entirely by chance, outside the Palacio Casares. The huge gates stood open, revealing the central courtyard in the middle of which a fountain splashed into a raised pool. The courtyard was paved, filled with flowers in ornate tubs, and Sharpe stared through the shadows of the archway at the great door above the formal steps. The house seemed deserted. Thickly woven straw mats had been lowered over the windows, blotting the sun, and the water in the fountain was the only sign of movement in the great, rich house.

  Above the gateway, on the tall, blank, outer wall, the coat of arms that decorated the barouche door was carved in pale gold stone. Above that, high above, Sharpe could see plants growing at the wall’s top, evidence perhaps of a balcony or even roof garden and it was there, he knew, that La Marquesa would get her view, above the rooftops, of the wasteland and the forts. Not that she would see much. The attack would be made at last light. Sharpe would have preferred a night attack, but Wellington distrusted them, remembering the closeness of disaster to success that the night had brought in Seringapatam so long ago.

  He turned away from the house, to his Company, and he knew that he had become obsessed with this woman. It seemed to him to be ridiculous, to be an ambition of impossible proportions, but now he was snagged on it. His job was to kill Leroux, to protect the unknown figure of El Mirador, yet his mind stayed with La Marquesa.

  “Sir?” Harper came to formal attention. “Company ready for inspection, sir!”

  “Lieutenant Price!”

  “Sir?”

  “Weapons, please.” Sharpe trusted his men. None would go into battle with unserviceable weapons. Price could look at them, tug at screwed flints, feel bayonet edges, but he would find nothing. Sharpe could hear the assault troops being paraded. They were all Light troops, the best of their Battalions, and they were assembling way back from the wasteland, hoping that the sudden eruption of the attack would take the French by surprise. The siege guns still fired. Four eighteen pounders had been dragged across the fords and brought to the city and the huge, iron guns hammered at the forts.

  “Listen to me.” He spoke quietly. “We’re not here for heroics. It’s not our job to capture the forts, understand?” They nodded
. Some grinned. “The other Light companies do that. Our job is to find one man, the man we captured. So we stay behind the attack. If we can we move to one side, out of the firing line. I don’t want casualties. Keep your heads down. It’s skirmish order all the way. If we capture the forts, then our job is to search the prisoners. Normal squads. I don’t want anyone going off on their own. There’s no bloody reward so don’t go in for heroics. And remember. This bastard killed young McDonald and he killed Colonel Windham. He’s dangerous. If you find him, or if you think you’ve found him, tie the sod up. And I’m paying ten guineas for his sword.”

  “What if it’s worth more, sir?” It was Batten’s voice; the whining, grumbling, never satisfied Batten. Harper started towards him, but Sharpe held up a hand.

  “It is worth more, Batten, probably twenty times more, but if you sell it to anyone else but me I’ll have you digging latrines for the rest of the bloody war. Clear?”

  The others grinned. A private soldier could hardly expect to sell a valuable sword on the open market. He would be accused of stealing it, and the penalty for theft could be hanging. Some Sergeants would pay more, but not much more, and make their profit in Lisbon. Ten guineas was a big sum, more than a year’s wages after deductions and the Company knew it was a fair offer. Sharpe raised his voice again. “No bayonets. Load, but flints down. We don’t want them knowing we’re coming. One musket banging off and they’ll be giving us canister for supper.” He nodded at Harper. “Right turn, you know where we’re going.”

  Harper kept his voice low. “Right turn!”

  “Captain Sharpe!” It was Major Hogan, hurrying towards the main battery where the eighteen pounders sounded.

  “Sir!” Sharpe snapped to attention, saluted. In front of the Company they were formal, correct.

  “Good luck!” Hogan grinned at the men. They knew him well, the Riflemen had spent weeks with him before they were forcibly joined to the South Essex, the redcoats remembered him from Badajoz or nights when he had come to seek Sharpe’s companionship. The Irish Major looked at Sharpe, turned his back to the men, and made a resigned gesture. “Good luck to you.”