Sharpe's Sword s-14

by Бернард Корнуэлл

  Sharpe reached the head of the stairs as Leroux came back past the place where he had lunged at Harper. Sharpe felt an immense anger. He did not know if Harper was alive or dead, but he knew he was hurt, and Harper was a man who would have given his life for Sharpe, a friend, and Sharpe now faced the man who had wounded Harper. The Rifle Captain came up the last curved steps, his face terrifying in its rage, and his long sword sounded in the air as he swept it backhanded at the Frenchman and Leroux parried. Leroux’s left hand was grasping his right wrist and all his own strength was in the Kligenthal, and the blades clashed.

  Sharpe felt the blow of steel on steel like a sledgehammer strike numbing his right arm. He was rigid with the effort of the blow and the recoil of the blades checked his rush, threatened to topple him backwards, but Leroux too had been stopped, jarred by the two swords meeting, and the French Colonel was astonished at the force of the attack, by the strength that had come at him and still threatened him.

  The Kligenthal lunged while the echo of the first clangorous strike still came back from the far side of the courtyard. Sharpe parried the lunge, point downwards, and then turned his own heavy blade with such speed that Leroux jumped back and the tip of Sharpe’s blade missed the Frenchman’s face by less than a half inch. Again, and again, and Sharpe felt the surge of joy because he had the speed of this man, and the strength, and Leroux was parrying desperately, going backwards, and the Kligenthal could only block the attacks of the old cavalry sword. Then Leroux’s back heel touched stone, he was against the wall, and there was no escape from Sharpe. The Frenchman glanced to his right, saw the way he had to go, and then he saw Sharpe’s face screwed up with the effort of one last hacking swing that would cut him in half. He brought up the Kligenthal, swinging too, a cut that owed nothing to the science of fencing, just a killing swing in his last defence, and the blades sang in the air, the Kligenthal went past Sharpe and the Rifleman’s swing was parried.

  The blades met, edge to edge, and again the shock jarred into their arms, shook their bodies, and the sound of it was not a clang, no harsh music, and Sharpe was falling because the sound was dull and his blade, that had been on every battlefield for four years, broke on the impact of the beautiful, silken, grey steel of the Kligenthal. Sharpe felt it go, felt the jarring shock turn into a lurching fall, and he saw the top half of his blade break and tumble as if the steel was no more than baked sugar. It broke, grey and splintered, and the tip fell, harsh onto the flagstones, and Sharpe was left with a handle and a jagged vicious stump. He hit the stones, rolled towards Leroux and stabbed upwards with the stump at the Frenchman’s groin, but Leroux laughed in his relief, stepped away, and brought up his sword, point downwards, for the stabbing, killing blow.

  The sentry who had not fired his gun pounded around the corner of the cloister, elbowed aside two wounded French officers, and shouted at the blood-stained man whose sword was poised. The sentry jerked up his musket, Leroux saw it, and the Frenchman abandoned Sharpe and ran. The Rifleman hurled the useless sword fragment, missed, and rolled to his feet with his rifle coming off his shoulder.

  “Hey!” The sentry’s protest was lost as his musket fired. He jerked the barrel up as the flint sparked and he just managed to avoid Sharpe who had erupted into his line of fire. The ball thumped past Sharpe, the pressure of it on his cheek, past Leroux, and flattened itself against the far wall. Leroux was running, no enemies before him, and the Kligenthal was long in his hand.

  Sharpe’s arm was slow, numbed by the blade-shock, and he fumbled with the rifle flint. Leroux had reached a door at the far end and he tugged at the handle, then beat at the door with his fist. It stayed shut. He was trapped again.

  Sharpe stood up. The flint came back and the feeling of the heavy spring compressing was satisfying. It clicked into place, the rifle was ready, and he walked towards Leroux who still hammered at the door just twenty paces from Sharpe. Sharpe jerked with the barrel. “Still!”

  The Frenchman reached down to his boot and as he did the door opened. Sharpe saw the hand come up and in it was a pistol, the barrel octagonal, and he knew Leroux had a duelling pistol. He shouted, began running, and then the Irish priest, Curtis, was standing in the doorway and Leroux pushed the old man aside, went through, and Sharpe shouted at the old man to get out of the way and the door was closing and Sharpe had no time to aim, but just pulled the trigger and the Rifle bullet drove a long splinter from the door’s edge. He had missed.

  Leroux pulled the door open again and his right hand I, came up slowly, the pistol barrel foreshortened, and then he I smiled, lowered the hand so that the pistol was aimed low at Sharpe and the Rifleman saw the flame in the pan, threw himself sideways, saw the smoke blossom in front of Leroux, and he felt a great blow shudder on his body. Then it seemed as if everything was happening at only half the speed of ordained time. The door closed on his enemy. Sharpe was still running, the rifle falling, clattering, bouncing, and the pain was filling all the world, yet still he tried to run. There was a scream of pure agony, a scream that slashed round the I courtyard, and Sharpe did not know it was his own scream, but he was still trying to run and then a knee struck the flagstones, and still he tried, and his hands clutched at warm fresh blood, bright red, and he was screaming, falling, and he slid on the stones, scrabbling still, and the blood spurted behind him, was fanned and smeared by his flailing legs, and the scream still went on.

  He slid to a stop at the foot of the door, curled up, clenched against a world of pain that he could never have imagined, and he pumped the scream futilely, and the blood welled between his fingers that clutched into his stomach as if they could reach inside him and pluck the horror that tore at him. Then, blessedly, he stopped screaming and was still.

  The Cathedral clock struck three.

  CHAPTER 13

  Private Batten was annoyed, and let the rest of the Company know it. “Doesn’t give a bugger, does he? Know what I mean?” No one answered. They waited on the glacis of the San Vincente fort and Lieutenant Price looked at his watch and kept glancing at the empty San Cayetano fort. Batten waited for a response. He scratched his armpit. “Used to be a bleedin‘ private, he did, and that’s what he bloody should be now. Keeping us waiting.” Still no one answered and Batten was encouraged by their silence. “Always buggering off, have you noticed? Our company’s not good enough for him, no, not Mr. Bloody Sharpe. Know what I mean?” He looked round for support.

  Sergeant Huckfield had gone to look for Sharpe. The men could see his red coat climbing up the ravine’s side towards the San Cayetano. One or two of the men slept. Price sat down on a huge masonry block and folded Sharpe’s coat beside him. He was worried.

  Private Batten picked his nose and licked the result off his fingernail. “We could sit here all bleedin‘ night for all he bleedin’ cares.”

  Daniel Hagman opened one eye. “He kept you from swinging by your bloody neck two years ago. He shouldn’t have bothered.”

  Batten laughed. “They couldn’t have hung me. I was innocent. He don’t care, Sharpe. He’s forgotten us, till he bleedin‘ needs us again. He’s probably sitting with Harps getting drunk. T’ain’t fair.”

  Sergeant McGovern, slow and Scottish, stood up and stretched his arms. He marched formally to Private Batten and kicked his ankles. “On your feet.”

  “What for?” Batten dropped into the aggrieved tone of surprise that was his main defence against an aggravating world.

  “Because I’m going to smash your bloody face in.”

  Batten edged away from the Scotsman and looked at Lieutenant Price’s back. “Hey! Lieutenant, sir!”

  Price did not look round. “Carry on, Sergeant.”

  The men laughed. Batten looked up at McGovern. “Sarge?”

  “Shut your bloody face.”

  “But, Sarge?”

  “Shut it, or get up.”

  Batten subsided into what he considered injured but righteous dignity. He busied himself with his right nostril, keeping his
remarks just out of the Company’s hearing. Sergeant McGovern crossed to the Lieutenant and stood formally at attention. Price looked up. “Sergeant?”

  “It’s a bit strange, sir.”

  “Yes.” They both watched Huckfield cross the ditch of the central fort. Price suddenly realised that McGovern, formal always, was still at attention. “Stand easy, Sergeant. Stand easy.”

  “Sir!” McGovern let his shoulders drop an eighth of an inch. “Thank you, sir.”

  Price looked at his watch. A quarter to four. He did not know what to do and felt helpless without Sharpe or Harper to guide him. He knew that the Scottish Sergeant was hinting that a decision ought to be made and he knew McGovern was right. He stared at the San Cayetano, saw Huckfield’s red jacket appear on a parapet, then disappear, and after a long wait Huckfield came to the top of the crude breach and spread his hands emptily. Price sighed. “We wait till five, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Major Hogan had waited for Sharpe, first at the ravine’s head, then at Headquarters, but the fate of Colonel Leroux was not the Irishman’s only concern. Wellington, now that the forts were taken, was eager to be out of the city. He wanted reports from the north, from the east, and Hogan worked late through the afternoon.

  It was not till half past six that Lieutenant Price, awed by approaching Headquarters on his own responsibility, entered Hogan’s room. The Major looked up, smelt trouble, and frowned. “Lieutenant?”

  “It’s Sharpe, sir.”

  “Captain Sharpe?”

  Price nodded miserably. “We’ve lost him, sir.”

  “No Leroux?” Hogan had almost forgotten Leroux. He had assumed that it was now Sharpe’s problem while he could concentrate on discovering what fresh levies of troops were joining Marmont. Price shook his head.

  “No Leroux, sir.” Price sketched in the afternoon’s events.

  “What have you done since?”

  It did not add up to much. Lieutenant Price had searched the San Cayetano again, then La Merced, and afterwards taken the Company back to their billets in the hope that Sharpe might have turned up. There was no Sharpe, no Harper, just a lost Lieutenant Price. Hogan looked at his watch. “Good God! You’ve lost him for four hours?” Price nodded. Hogan shouted. “Corporal!”

  A head came round the door. “Sir?”

  “Daily reports, are they in?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything odd, apart from the forts. Quick, man!”

  It did not take long. A shooting and a fight at the hospital, one Frenchman had escaped and the town guard had been alerted, but there was no sign of the fugitive.

  “Come on, man!” Hogan pulled on his jacket, snatched his hat, and led Lieutenant Price down to the Irish College.

  Sergeant Huckfield, who had gone with Price as far as Headquarter’s front door, joined them and it was he who pounded on the gate that was still shut against the revenge of the townspeople. It did not take long to hear the story from the guards in the gate-lodge. There had been a chase. One man was wounded, probably in the wards, as to the other? The guards shrugged. “Dunno, sir.”

  Hogan pointed at Price. “Officers’ wards. Search them. Sergeant?”

  Huckfield stiffened. “Sir?”

  “Other ranks’ wards. Find Sergeant Harper. Go!”

  Leroux at liberty. The thought haunted Hogan. He could not believe that Sharpe had failed, he needed to find the Rifleman because, he thought, surely Sharpe could throw light on the episode. It was impossible that Leroux was free!

  The surgeons were still at work, dealing now with the less wounded men, taking out scraps of stone that the bombardment had splintered and driven into French defenders. Hogan went from room to room and none could remember a Rifle Captain. One remembered Sergeant Harper. “Out of his senses, sir.”

  “You mean mad?”

  “No. In a faint. God knows when he’ll recover.”

  “And his officer?”

  “I didn’t see an officer, sir.”

  Was Sharpe still on Leroux’s trail? It was a hope, at least, and Hogan clung to it. Sergeant Huckfield had found Harper, had shaken the huge Irishman’s shoulder, but Harper was still dead to the world, still snoring, still unable to say a thing.

  Lieutenant Price came down the curving stairs. He was blinking, almost unable to speak. Hogan was impatient. “What is it?”

  “He’s not there, sir.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Price nodded, took a deep breath. “But he was shot, sir. Really bad, sir.”

  Hogan felt a chill spread through him. There was a silence for a few seconds. “Shot?”

  “Bad, sir. And he’s not in the wards.”

  “Oh, God.” Huckfield shook his head, unwilling to believe it.

  Hogan had held to a live Sharpe, a Sharpe chasing Leroux, a Sharpe who could help him, and he could not adjust to the new information. If Sharpe had been shot, and was not in the officers’ wards, then he was… „Who saw it?“

  “A dozen French wounded, sir. They told the British officers. And the priest.”

  “Priest?”

  “Upstairs, sir.”

  Hogan ran, the same path that Sharpe had run, and he took the stairs two at a time, his sword rapping the stone, and he ran to Curtis’ rooms. It seemed to Price and Huckfield, left outside, that he was in the rooms a long time.

  Curtis told his story, what there was of it, of how he had opened the door and found a French officer. “Terribly wounded, he looked. Blood from top to toe. He pushed me in, turned and fired, and then he closed the door. He went out the window.” He gestured to the tall window that opened onto the back street. “There was a man there, with a spare horse, and a cloak.”

  “So he’s gone.”

  “Clean away.”

  “And Sharpe?”

  Curtis clasped his hands, then extended the fingers as if in prayer. “He screamed, screamed terribly. Then he stopped. I opened the door again.” He shrugged.

  Hogan dared hardly use the word. “Dead?”

  Curtis shrugged. “I don’t know.” There was not much hope in the old man’s voice.

  Hogan insisted on going back over the story, harrying it, as if some detail might emerge that would somehow change the ending, but it was with a harsh expression that he left Curtis’ door and walked, slowly, down the curved staircase. He offered no explanations to Price, but just went back to the surgeons. He bullied them, ordered them, used all the weight of Headquarters, but still no news emerged. One of them had treated an officer with a bullet wound and the man had survived, a Lieutenant in the Portuguese Army, but they were quite sure they had seen no bullet-wounded British officers. “We had a few privates.”

  “Ye Gods! A Rifle Officer! Captain Sharpe!”

  “Him?” The last surgeon shrugged. “We’d have been told about him. What happened?”

  “He was shot.” Hogan kept his patience.

  The surgeon shook his head. His breath smelt of the wine he had been drinking through the long afternoon. “If he was shot here, sir, we’d have seen him. The only explanation is that he never got this far.” The man shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “You mean dead?”

  The surgeon shrugged again. “You’ve looked in the wards? He’s not here?” Hogan shook his head. The surgeon gestured over the courtyard with his bloody knife. “Try the body-men.”

  At the side of the college was a small yard where the servants had lived in the better times when the Irish College had been full of students training for the English-banned Irish priesthood. In the yard Hogan found the body-men. They were working, nailing up crude coffins, sewing rough shrouds for the French dead, and they did not remember Sharpe. The smell in the small courtyard was overpowering. Bodies lay where they had been dumped, the body-men seemed to live on a diet of rum and Hogan found the soberest man he could discover. “Tell me what you do here.”

  “Sir?” The man had only one eye, part of a cheek missing, but he was unde
rstandable. He seemed proud that an officer should be interested. “We burys ‘em, sir.”

  “I know. I want to know what happens.” If Hogan could at least find Sharpe’s body then the worst question would be answered.

  The man sniffed. He had a needle and coarse thread in his hand. “We shrouds the frogs, sir, ’less they’re officers, of course, an‘ they get a coffin. Nice coffin, sir.“

  “And the British?”

  “Oh, a coffin, sir, of course, sir, if we got enough, if not they get sewn up like this. Unless we ain’t got shrouds, sir, then we just stick ‘em and bury ’em.”

  “Stick them?”

  The man winked with his good eye, he was warming to his explanation. By his knees was a French soldier, the face already waxen in death, and the shroud was half closed with big, crude stitches. The man took the needle and plunged it through the Frenchman’s nose. “See, sir? Don’t bleed. Means ‘is not alive, if you follow me, sir, and if he were then ’e’d like as not give a twitch. We ‘ad one four days ago.” He looked at one of his ghoulish mates. “Four days ago, Charlie? That Shropshire sat up an’ bloody puked?” He looked back at Hogan. “Not nice to be buried alive, sir.” He gestured at the needle. “Sort of comfort, really, to know we’re ‘ere, sir, looking after you and makin’ sure you’re really gone.”

  Hogan’s gratitude seemed less than heartfelt. He pointed at a stack of rough-cut coffins. “Do you bury them?”

  “Lord love you, no, sir. The Frenchies, now, we might sling ‘em in the pit, or at least the burial detail does, sir. I mean there’s no point in making a folderol about them, sir, not seein’ as ‘ow they’ve been trying to do us, sir, if you follow me. Their officers, now, they’re different. They might get the…’

  Hogan cut him off. “The British, you fool! What happens to them?”