Sharpe's Sword s-14

by Бернард Корнуэлл

  “Patrick?”

  “Are you called Patrick now? And us thinking you was a Frenchie.” Connelley stroked the dark hair.

  “Patrick?”

  “And a good name it is, lad. Connelley’s my name, and Kilkieran Bay’s my country, and you and I will walk on the cliffs there.”

  “Dying.” Sharpe had meant it as a question, but the word came as a statement.

  “And sure you’re not! You’ll be chasing the women yet, Paddy, so you will.” Connelley took his rum bottle, lifted Sharpe’s head gently, and poured the smallest amount between the lips. “You sleep now, Paddy, you hear me?”

  “I’m not going to die.” Each word was soft, each almost edged with a sob.

  “Sure you’re not!” Connelley lowered the head. “They can’t kill us Irish.” He backed into the aisle and stood up. The room was quieter now, but Connelley knew that the noise could break cut-again. They were like puppies the dying. Once one was excited, the whole litter began yelping, and a man deserved some quiet to drink and die in. He sang to them, walking up and down the aisle, and he sang the Corporal’s Song that told of the soldier’s life and he repeated the refrain over and over again as if he wanted to sing them softly into a soldier’s death. “It’s a very merry, hey down deny, sort of life enough. A very merry, hey down deny, sort of life enough.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The next morning Lieutenant Price marched the Company to the field, west of the city, where a common grave had been dug for the French. The Company were shocked, unbelieving. They stopped by the pit. Price stared into the hole. It looked as if dogs had been clawing at the part where the shrouded bodies had been already covered with earth. A sentry shrugged. “We caught some bloody madman here this morning, sir. He was trying to dig up the bodies.”

  They were in two ranks. Price nodded at McGovern. “Carry on, Sergeant.”

  It seemed terribly inadequate. The commands were given, the muskets and rifles went into the shoulders, the volley echoed back from the houses. It all seemed so flat, so wrong, so inadequate.

  As the volley and its echo died away there came a sudden burst of bells from the city, pealing bells, victorious and joyful, and the Company marched away from them, going north, leaving a small cloud of smoke that hung over the grave.

  Hogan heard the volley, very distantly, and then came the bells clamouring and he straightened his uniform, took off his bicorne hat, and went into the Cathedral. It was Sunday. A Te Deum was to be sung for the liberation of Salamanca, for the destruction of the forts, yet it was a half-hearted celebration. The Cathedral was full, packed with gaudy uniforms, sombre citizens, and robed priests, and the organ thundered in the great space, yet Hogan knew nothing but an immense sadness. The congregation sang and responded, went through the motions, yet they knew that Salamanca was only temporarily freed, that the army of Marmont still had to be destroyed, and some of them, the better informed, knew that four other French armies were in Spain and that no city would be free till all had been defeated. And the price would be high. Already a great part of Salamanca had been destroyed to clear a space around the fortresses. The city had lost cloisters, courts, colleges, and houses; all ground to rubble.

  After the service, Wellington stood beneath the fantastic carvings of the great western doors, opposite the Bishop’s palace, and acknowledged the applause of the crowd. He pushed through them, nodding and smiling, sometimes waving with his plain hat, but his eyes flicked over the faces looking for someone. He saw Hogan, and the hat gestured at the Irishman.

  “My lord?”

  “Is it done?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Wellington nodded. “We march tonight.”

  Hogan was left behind by the General’s progress. What had been done was to put a discreet guard on El Mirador. It had not been an easy decision. To guard El Mirador meant telling the chosen guard who their ward was and why he was important, yet with Leroux at liberty it was the only course left. Lord Spears, his arm mending, but not yet fully fit for normal duties, had been given the task. At first he had been reluctant, but when told that El Mirador was not to be close-guarded at home, only out in public places, he relented. He would still have time, it seemed, for his relentless gambling. Then he was told El Mirador’s identity and he shook his head, disbelieving. “Bless my soul, sir! One would never have guessed!” No one at Headquarters, apart from Wellington himself and Hogan, knew what Lord Spears’ new duties were. Hogan was mindful that Leroux had a source within the British Headquarters.

  All had been done, then, that could be done, and it had been done heavily, reluctantly, because Hogan still had not fully understood that Sharpe was dead. Twice that morning he had seen Rifle Officers walking in the streets and both times his heart had leapt because he thought he saw Sharpe, and then he remembered. Richard Sharpe was dead, and the army would march on without him, and Hogan let the crowds disperse and walked slowly, disconsolately through the streets.

  “Sir! Sir!” The voice shouted at him from down the hill. “Major Hogan!”

  Hogan looked down the steep street he had been passing. A group of chained prisoners were being led by Provosts, one of whom clubbed with reversed musket at a shackled man. Hogan had recognised the voice. He ran. “Stop it! Stop it!”

  The Provosts turned round. They were the police force of the army, universally disliked, and they watched Hogan’s approach with silent truculence. Sergeant Harper, who had shouted, was still on the ground. He looked up at Hogan. “Would you be telling this scum to let me go, sir?”

  Hogan felt an immense relief when he saw Patrick Harper. There was something intensely reassuring about his fellow Irishman, and Harper was so inseparable from Sharpe that Hogan felt a sudden, crazy hope that if Harper lived, then Sharpe must, too. He crouched beside the Sergeant who was rubbing his shoulder where the Provost had clubbed him. “I thought you were in the hospital.”

  “So I was. I got the hell out.” Harper was angry. He spat on the ground. “I woke up this morning, sir, early, with a head like the very devil. I went to look for the Captain.”

  Hogan wondered if Harper did not know yet. He wondered how the big Sergeant came to be arrested. The Provosts stirred sullenly and one suggested to the other that he go and find their own Captain. The man left. Hogan sighed. “I think he’s dead, Patrick.”

  Harper shook his head stubbornly. “He’s not, sir.” The chains clinked as he held up a hand to silence Hogan. “The guard on the gate told me he was, he said that he’d been buried with the French.”

  “That’s right.” Hogan had told the gate Sergeant at the Irish College. “I’m sorry, Patrick.”

  Harper shook his head again. “He’s not there, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I looked. He’s not there.”

  “You looked?” Hogan noticed for the first time that Harper’s trousers were stained with earth.

  Harper stood up, towering over the other prisoners. “I slit up more than twenty shrouds, sir, right down to the ones that stank. He wasn’t there.” He shrugged. “I thought at the very least the man should have a proper burial.”

  “You mean?” Hogan stopped. The hope fluttered in him, and he pushed it down. He turned to the Provost. “Set him free.”

  “Can’t do that, sir. Regulations.”

  Hogan was a small man, usually mild, but he could be roused to a wrath that was awesome. He released it on the Provost, threatened him with the same shackles, threatened him with punishment Battalions in the Fever Isles, and the Provost, wilting under the onslaught, knocked the bolts out of the manacles. Harper rubbed his wrists as the other Provost, with his Captain, came back. The Captain took one look at the freed prisoner, saluted Hogan, and launched into an explanation. “The prisoner was found this morning, sir, desecrating the dead…‘

  “Quiet.” Hogan’s voice cracked with anger. He looked at Harper. “Where are your weapons?”

  Harper jerked his head at the Provosts. “These bastar
ds have them, sir.”

  Hogan looked at the Captain. “Sergeant Harper’s weapons are to be delivered to me, Major Hogan, at Army Headquarters, within one hour. They are to be cleaned, polished, and oiled. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harper stepped on the foot of the man who had hit him with a musket. Hogan saw the man’s face flinch in agony, Harper leaned harder, then the Sergeant stepped away with a surprised look on his face. “Sorry.” He looked at Hogan. “Should we go and look for him, sir?”

  Hogan had seen the lump and the blood on Harper’s head. He gestured at it. “How is it?”

  “Bloody terrible, sir. Feels as if some bastard scraped my brains out. I’ll live.” Harper set off up the street.

  Hogan caught up with him. “Don’t be too hopeful, Patrick.” He did not like saying it, but it had to be said. “He was shot, and the surgeons didn’t see him.” Hogan had to hurry to keep up with the huge Sergeant. “He’s probably buried with the British, Patrick.”

  Harper shook his head. “He’s not buried at all, sir. He’s probably sitting up in bed screaming for his breakfast. He always did have a terrible tongue in his head in the morning.”

  Hogan shook his head. “You didn’t hear me. They didn’t treat a British officer with a bullet wound.” He hated puncturing Harper’s hopes, yet still the Irish Sergeant seemed unmoved.

  “You searched, sir?”

  “Yes. Officers’ wards, surgery, the dead in the courtyard.”

  “Other ranks’ wards?”

  Hogan shrugged. “Sergeant Huckfield looked for you, he didn’t see Sharpe. Why should Sharpe be there?”

  Harper screwed his face up with the pain of his head. “They didn’t treat an officer?”

  Hogan felt sorry for Harper. At last the truth had sunk in. “I’m sorry, Patrick. They didn’t.”

  “Like as not. The bugger wasn’t wearing his jacket, and doubtless they saw the scars on his back.”

  “He what?” Hogan dodged round a water-seller who was waving his leather spout hoping the Major would buy.

  Harper shrugged. “He left his jacket with the Lieutenant, didn’t he? It was so damned hot out there. Then the surgeons must have seen his back. Like mine.” Both Sharpe and Harper had been flogged and the scars never went.

  Hogan swore at the absent Lieutenant Price who had never thought to mention Sharpe’s jacket. He began to run, the hope suddenly giddy inside him, and they took the steps of the college in two leaps. The hope stayed with him as they went into the mens’ wards. Hogan imagined Sharpe’s face when he saw them, the relief, the joking that he had been mistaken for a Private, even a Frenchman, but there was no Sharpe there. They searched each room, twice, and the faces on the floor stayed the same. Harper shrugged. “Perhaps he woke up, told them who he was?”

  The orderlies said no. They had seen no officers, no patient complaining about being in the ward. There was no Sharpe. The hope went. Even Harper seemed to be resigned. “I can dig up the British, sir.”

  “No, Patrick.”

  One of the orderlies had become involved in their search. He still wandered, hopeful, among the crammed wounded. He looked at Hogan and seemed reluctant to speak. “Was he shot bad, sir?”

  Hogan nodded. “Yes.”

  “Connelley’s kingdom, sir?”

  “What?” The orderly pointed out of the window to a small door at the far side of the courtyard. “The death room, sir. The cellar.”

  They crossed the grass, beneath the awnings that were still rigged round the wellhead, and Harper pulled open the door.;A stench came up into the sunlight, a stench of pus, blood, vomit, foulness and death. There was a light at the bottom of the steps, a feeble, flickering rushlight, and a great bulk of a man peered up in its illumination.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Friends. Who are you?”

  “Connelley, your honour. Sergeant. Would you be relieving me, of your kindness?”

  “We would not.” Harper went down the steps, treading carefully because they were slippery, and the stink of disease and death grew worse. The room was filled with moaning, with small cries, but the bodies lay utterly still as if, in the darkness, they were rehearsing for the grave. “We’re looking for a man with a scarred face, and scarred back. He was shot yesterday.”

  Connelley swayed slightly, the drink rank on his breath. “Would you be Irish?”

  “I would. Now do you know the man?”

  “A scar, you say? They all have scars. They’re soldiers, not milkmaids.” Connelley groaned and sat heavily on his bench. He waved a hand towards the small barred window. “We had an Irish lad in yesterday, shot he was. Patrick he calls himself. He was alive an hour ago, but he won’t last. They never do.” Hogan had come down the stairs and the fat, drunken Sergeant peered at the officer’s uniform. “Oh, my God, and it’s an officer, to be sure.” He lumbered to his feet and his hand wavered to a salute. The salute turned into an expansive wave round the room. “Ah, and they’re all good lads. They know how to die like men, so they do, and there’s no call for you to be officering them, sir, they’re doing their duty.”

  Harper pushed Connelley gently back onto his bench. He took the torch from its bracket and set off to search the room. Hogan watched him and felt the hope inside him shrivel to nothingness. The bodies were so still, so hopeless. The room was like a grave.

  Harper crouched under the brick ceiling and held the torch over the bodies. He went left first, into the darkest part of the cellar, and the faces he saw were pale. Some slept, some were dead, and some watched the light go past and there was a terrible hope in their eyes that the torch presaged some help, some miracle. Many shivered beneath their blankets. Fever would kill them if their wounds did not.

  Harper could not imagine a man being in this room and living, but this was the death room and they were here to die. The big Sergeant, Connelley, seemed decent enough. Some death-room attendants simply stifled their charges, or slipped a dagger between their ribs, because they could not endure the endless crying, the moans, the helpless, childlike ways of the dying. Harper turned at the end wall and carried the torch down the far side. He stopped a few times and pulled damp blankets away from hidden faces, and he saw the fever and smelt their deaths. He went past the stairs where Hogan stood by Connelley’s bench. “Anything, Sergeant?” Hogan’s whisper was an expression of worry. Harper did not reply.

  He stopped beside another man whose face was hidden, whose legs were drawn up, and Harper pulled back the blanket that lay right up to the dark hair. There was a second blanket beneath and the man was clutching it, hiding his face, and Harper had to prise the fingers open so he could pull it down.

  The eyes were red. Already the cheeks seemed sunken. The face was pale, the hair soaking with sweat and water. Harper could not detect any breath, yet the fingers had not been cold, and the huge Irishman put a single finger onto the long scar. The eyes did not move. They were staring into blankness, into the space where the rats had been in the night. Harper’s voice was very soft. “You silly bugger. What are you doing here?”

  Sharpe’s eyes moved, slowly, up to the face that flickered in the light of the torch. “Patrick?” There was no strength in the voice.

  “Yes.” Harper looked round at Hogan. “He’s here, sir.”

  “Alive?” Hogan’s voice was just above a whisper.

  “Yes, sir.” But only just, Harper thought, by the thickness of the merest thread, but alive.

  CHAPTER 16

  Marmont had marched north, away from the River Tonnes, forty miles to the valley of the River Douro. The dust of the French retreat spiralled high from the wheels, boots and hooves of the army; dust that plumed in the sun over the wheatfields. It was like the thin smoke trail of an unimaginably large grass fire. It faded, carried eastwards by a breeze from the far Atlantic, and the plains of Leon were left empty except for the hovering hawks, the lizards, and the poppies and cornflowers that smeared colour on a bleached land.


  On Monday, June 29th, the feast of St. Peter and St. Paul, the British army was swallowed up in the haze of the immense plain. They went north, following Marmont, and all that came back were rumours. One day the people of Salamanca said that there had been a great battle, that the sky had lit up with the flashes of the great guns, but it wasjust a summer storm sheeting the dark horizon with silver and the next day there was another rumour. It was said Wellington was beaten, his head cut off, and then it was the French who had lost, who had soaked the Douro red with their blood, dammed it with their corpses. They were just rumours.

  The Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary came and went, then St. Martin’s Day, and a peasant girl in BarbadillO said an angel had appeared to her in a dream. The angel had been armoured in gold and carried a scarlet sword with two blades. The angel had said that the last battle would be fought in Salamanca, that the armies of the north would harrow the city, pour blood in its streets, desecrate the Cathedrals, trample the host, until, in desperation, the earth would open up and swallow the evil and righteous alike. Her village priest, a lazy and sensible man, had her locked away. There was trouble enough in the world without hysterical women, but the rumour spread, and the peasants looked at their young olives and wondered if they would live to see an autumn harvest.

  In the north, beyond the Douro, beyond Galicia, across the Pyrenees and France itself, and still further north, a small man led a vast army into Russia. It was an army the like of which the world had not seen since the hooves of the Barbarians came out of the dawn. The war had become unimaginable, so vast that the dreams of a Barbadillo peasant girl were not so far removed from the fears of sober statesmen. Across the Atlantic, beyond the shredded wave crests, the Americans prepared their forces to invade British Canada. It was a world war now, fought from the Great Lakes to the Indian Ocean, from the Russian steppes to the plains of Leon.

  Sharpe was alive. A message went north to the South Essex, and another went further north to La Aguja, “the needle‘, and it told of her husband’s injury and urged her to come south. Hogan was not hopeful that his messenger could reach Teresa; the journey was long and the Partisans used secret paths and hiding places.