Sharpe's Fury

by Bernard Cornwell

  “A duke?”

  “Of Bedford,” Lord William said, grinning. “But don’t worry, I’m not the heir, not even the one after the heir. I’m the one who has to die for king and country. Moon doesn’t like you, does he?”

  “So I hear.”

  “He’s been blaming you for all his ills. Says you lost his saber. One of Bennetts’s eh?”

  “Never heard of Bennetts,” Sharpe said.

  “Cutler in St. James’s, fearfully good, and awfully pricy. They say you can shave yourself on one of Bennetts’s sabers, not that I’ve tried.”

  “Is that why they sent for me? To complain?”

  “Good Lord, no! It was the ambassador who sent for you. He wants to get you drunk, I expect.”

  The isthmus narrowed. Off to Sharpe’s left was the wide Atlantic, while to the right lay the Bay of Cádiz. The edge of the bay looked white in the dusk, and the whiteness was interrupted by hundreds of shining pyramids. “Salt,” Lord William explained. “Big industry here, lots of salt.”

  Sharpe suddenly felt ashamed of his ragged uniform. “I thought British soldiers weren’t allowed in the city?”

  “Officers are, but only officers. The Spaniards are terrified that if we put a garrison into the city we’d never leave. They think we’d turn the place into another Gibraltar. Oh, there is one rather important thing you ought to know, Sharpe.”

  “What’s that, my lord?”

  “Call me Willie, for God’s sake, everyone else does. And the one absolutely important thing, the one never-to-be-forgotten thing, and do not break this rule even if you’re drunk to the roof beams, is never ever mention the ambassador’s wife.”

  Sharpe looked at the ebullient Lord William with bemusement. “Why would I?” he asked.

  “You mustn’t,” Lord William said energetically, “because it would be in the most frightfully bad taste. She’s called Charlotte and she ran away. Charlotte the Harlot. She scampered off with Harry Paget. It was awful really. A horrible scandal. If you spend any time in the city you’re going to see a few of these”—he fished in a pocket and brought out a brooch. “There,” Lord William said, tossing the object to Sharpe.

  The brooch was a cheap little thing made of bone. It showed a pair of horns. Sharpe looked at it and shrugged. “Cow horns?”

  “The horns of the cuckold, Sharpe. That’s what they call the ambassador, el Cornudo. Our political enemies wear that badge to mock him, poor man. He takes it well, but I’m sure it hurts. So, for God’s sake, don’t ask about Charlotte the Harlot, there’s a good fellow.”

  “I’m not likely to, am I?” Sharpe asked. “I don’t even know the man.”

  “But of course you do!” Lord William said cheerfully. “He knows you.”

  “Me? How?”

  “You really don’t know who His Brittanic Majesty’s Envoy Extraordinary to Spain is?”

  “Of course I don’t know!”

  “Youngest brother to the foreign secretary?” Lord William said, and saw that Sharpe still did not know who he meant. “He’s also Arthur Wellesley’s little brother.”

  “Arthur Wellesley’s…you mean Lord Wellington?”

  “Lord Wellington’s brother indeed,” Lord William said, “and it gets worse. Charlotte ran off with the ghastly Paget and Henry got a divorce, which meant he had to have an act of Parliament passed and that, believe me, was a deal of trouble, so then Henry comes here and meets this damnably attractive girl. He thought she was respectable and she absolutely wasn’t, and he wrote her some letters. Poor Henry. And she’s a pretty thing, terrifically pretty! Much prettier than Charlotte the Harlot, but the whole thing is completely embarrassing and we all pretend none of it has ever happened. So say nothing, Sharpe, absolutely nothing. Soul of discretion, Sharpe, that’s the thing to be. Soul of discretion.” He fell silent because they had come to the massive gates and huge bastions that guarded the city’s southern entrance. There were sentries, muskets, bayonets, and long-muzzled cannons in embrasures. Lord William had to produce a pass. Only then did the vast gates crash open and Sharpe could thread the walls and arches and tunnels of the ramparts until he found himself in the narrow streets of the sea-bound city. He had come to Cádiz.

  SHARPE, TO his surprise, liked Henry Wellesley. He was a slender man in his late thirties and handsome like his elder brother, though his nose was less hooked and his chin was broader. He had none of Lord Wellington’s cold arrogance. Instead he seemed diffident and even gentle. He stood as Sharpe came into the embassy’s dining room and appeared to be genuinely pleased to see the rifleman. “My dear fellow,” he said, “have a seat here. You know the brigadier, of course?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Moon gave Sharpe a very cold look and not so much as a nod.

  “And allow me to name Sir Thomas Graham,” Henry Wellesley said. “Lieutenant General Sir Thomas Graham who commands our garrison on the Isla de León.”

  “Honored to make your acquaintance, Sharpe,” Sir Thomas said. He was a tall, well-built Scotsman with white hair, a sun-beaten face, and very shrewd eyes.

  “And I believe you already know William Pumphrey,” Wellesley said as he introduced the last man at the table.

  “Good lord,” Sharpe said involuntarily. He did know Lord Pumphrey, but was still astonished to see him. Lord Pumphrey, meanwhile, blew Sharpe a kiss off the tips of his fingers.

  “Don’t embarrass our guest, Pumps,” Henry Wellesley said, though too late because Sharpe was already embarrassed. Lord Pumphrey had that effect on him, and on a good number of other men too. He was Foreign Office, that much Sharpe knew, and Sharpe had met his lordship in Copenhagen and then in northern Portugal, and Pumphrey was still as outrageous as ever. This night he was dressed in a lilac-colored coat embroidered with silver thread, and on his thin cheek was a black velvet beauty patch. “William is our principal secretary here,” Henry Wellesley explained.

  “Actually, Richard, I was posted here to astonish the natives,” Lord Pumphrey said languidly.

  “At which you’re bloody successful,” Sir Thomas said.

  “You are too kind, Sir Thomas,” Lord Pumphrey said, giving the Scotsman an inclination of his head, “altogether too kind.”

  Henry Wellesley sat and pushed a dish toward Sharpe. “Do try the crab claws,” he urged. “They’re a local delicacy, collected from the marshes. You crack them and suck the flesh out.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late, sir,” Sharpe said. It was plain from the wreckage on the table that the dinner was over, and equally obvious that Henry Wellesley had eaten nothing. He saw Sharpe glance at his clean plate.

  “I have a formal dinner to attend, Sharpe,” the ambassador explained, “and Spanish dinners start extraordinarily late, and I really can’t eat two dinners every night. Still, that crab does tempt me.” He took a claw and used a nutcracker to open the shell. Sharpe realized that the ambassador had only split the claw to show him how it was done, and he gratefully picked up a pair of nutcrackers himself. “So how is your head, Sharpe?” Henry Wellesley asked.

  “Mending, sir, thank you.”

  “Nasty things, head wounds,” the ambassador said. “I had an assistant in India who cracked his head open and I thought the poor fellow was dead. But he was up and about, quite cured, in a week.”

  “You were in India, sir?” Sharpe asked.

  “Twice,” Henry Wellesley said. “On the civil side, of course. I liked the place.”

  “I did too, sir,” Sharpe said. He was ravenous and cracked open another claw, which he dipped into a bowl of melted butter. Lord William Russell, thankfully, was just as hungry and the two of them shared the dish as the other men took cigars.

  It was February, but warm enough for the windows to be open. Brigadier Moon said nothing, content to glower at Sharpe while Sir Thomas Graham complained bitterly about his Spanish allies. “The extra ships haven’t come from the Balearics,” he grumbled, “and I’ve not seen any of the maps they promised.”

  �
��I’m sure both will come,” Henry Wellesley said.

  “And the ships we’ve already got are threatened by fire rafts. The French are building five of the things.”

  “I’m certain you and Admiral Keats will be delighted to deal with the fire rafts,” Henry Wellesley said firmly, then changed the topic by looking at Sharpe. “Brigadier Moon tells me you got rid of the bridge over the Guadiana?”

  “We did, sir.”

  “That’s a relief. All in all, Sir Barnaby”—Wellesley looked at the brigadier—“a most successful operation.”

  Moon shifted in his chair, then winced as pain stabbed at his leg. “It could have gone better, Your Excellency.”

  “How so?”

  “You’d need to be a soldier to understand,” Moon said abruptly. Sir Thomas frowned in disapproval of the brigadier’s rudeness, but Moon would not yield an inch. “At best,” he went on, “it was only a flawed success. A very flawed success.”

  “I served in the 40th Foot,” Henry Wellesley said. “It was not, perhaps, my finest hour, but I am not ignorant of soldiering. So tell me why it was flawed, Sir Barnaby?”

  “Things could have gone better,” Moon said as though that closed the matter.

  The ambassador took a cut cigar from a servant, then bent to light it from the proffered taper. “And there I was,” he said, “inviting you to tell us of your triumph. You’re as reticent as my brother, Sir Barnaby.”

  “I’m flattered to be compared with Lord Wellington, Your Excellency,” Moon said stiffly.

  “Mind you, Arthur did once tell me of an exploit of his,” Henry Wellesley said, “and it’s not one from which he emerges with very much credit.” The ambassador blew a plume of smoke toward the crystal chandelier. Sir Thomas and Lord Pumphrey were sitting very still, as if they knew something was brewing in the room, while Sharpe, sensing the strained atmosphere, left the crab claws alone. “He was unhorsed at Assaye,” the ambassador went on. “I think that’s the name of the place. Whatever, he was pitched into the enemy ranks, and everyone else had galloped on and Arthur told me he knew he was going to die. He was surrounded by the enemy, all of them fierce as thieves, and then from nowhere a British sergeant appears. From nowhere, he says!” Henry Wellesley waved the cigar as though he were a magician who had suddenly made it appear. “And what followed, Arthur says, was the finest piece of soldiering he ever witnessed. He reckons that sergeant put down five men. At least five men, he told me. The fellow slaughtered them! All on his own.”

  “Five men!” Lord Pumphrey said in unfeigned admiration.

  “At least five,” the ambassador said.

  “Recollection of battle,” Moon said, “can be very confusing.”

  “Oh! You think Arthur embellished the tale?” Henry Wellesley asked with exaggerated politeness.

  “One man against five?” Moon suggested. “I’d be very surprised, Your Excellency.”

  “Then let us ask the sergeant who fought against them,” Henry Wellesley said, springing his trap. “How many men do you remember, Sharpe?”

  Moon looked as if he had been stung by a wasp while Sharpe, embarrassed again, just shrugged.

  “Well, Sharpe?” Sir Thomas Graham prompted him.

  “There were a few, sir,” Sharpe said uncomfortably. “But of course the general was fighting beside me, sir.”

  “Arthur told me he was dazed,” Henry Wellesley said. “He told me he was quite incapable of defending himself.”

  “Fighting away, sir, he was,” Sharpe said. In truth Sharpe had pushed a dizzied Sir Arthur Wellesley under one of the Indian cannons and had sheltered him there. Was it truly five men? He could not remember. “And help came very fast, sir,” he went on hurriedly, “very fast.”

  “But as you say, Sir Barnaby”—Henry Wellesley’s voice was silky now—“recollections of battle can be very confusing. I would take it as a favor if you would permit me to see the report on your great triumph at Fort Joseph.”

  “Of course, Your Excellency,” Moon said, and Sharpe understood then what had happened. His Majesty’s Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary had intervened on Sharpe’s behalf, letting Moon know that Lord Wellington was beholden to Sharpe and that it would be sensible if the brigadier were to change his report accordingly. That was a favor, and it was a generous one, but Sharpe knew that favors were given so that other favors could be returned.

  A clock on the mantelpiece struck ten and Henry Wellesley sighed. “I must put on fancy dress for our allies,” he said. There was a scraping of chairs as the guests stood. “Do finish the port and the cigars,” the ambassador said as he moved toward the door where he paused. “Mister Sharpe? Might I have a word?”

  Sharpe followed Henry Wellesley down the passage and into a small room lit by candles. A coal fire burned in the hearth, books lined the walls, and a leather-topped desk stood under the window that the ambassador pushed open. “The Spanish servants insist on keeping me warm,” he said. “I tell them I prefer cold air, but they don’t believe me. Did I embarrass you back there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It was for Brigadier Moon’s benefit. He told me you had let him down, which I somehow doubt. He is a man who is unable to share credit, I think.” The ambassador opened a cupboard and took out a dark bottle. “Port, Sharpe. It’s Taylor’s best and you won’t get finer this side of paradise. May I pour you a glass?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And there are cigars in the silver box. You should have one. My doctor says they’re good for the wind.” Henry Wellesley poured a single glass of port, which he handed to Sharpe. Then he walked to an elegant round table that served as a chess board. He stared at the pieces, which were in midgame. “I think I’m in trouble,” he said. “Do you play?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I play with Duff. He was consul here and he’s rather good.” The ambassador touched a black castle with a tentative finger, then abandoned the game to sit behind his desk from where he gave the rifleman a shrewd inspection. “I doubt my brother ever thanked you adequately for saving his life.” He waited for an answer, but Sharpe was silent. “Obviously not. That sounds like Arthur.”

  “He gave me a very fine telescope, sir,” Sharpe said.

  “Doubtless one that had been given to him,” Henry Wellesley suggested, “and that he didn’t want?”

  “I’m sure that’s not true, sir,” Sharpe said.

  Wellesley smiled. “My brother has many virtues, but the ability to express sentiment is not among them. If it is any consolation, Sharpe, he has frequently expressed his admiration of your qualities.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sharpe said awkwardly.

  The ambassador sighed, suggesting that the pleasantest part of the conversation was now done. He hesitated, as if looking for words, then opened a drawer and found a small object that he tossed across the desk’s leather top. It was one of the horned brooches. “Know what that is, Sharpe?”

  “I’m afraid I do, sir.”

  “I rather thought Willie Russell would tell you. And how about this?” He pushed a newspaper across the desk. Sharpe picked it up, saw it was called El Correo de Cádiz, but the light was too dark and the print too small to attempt to read the ill-printed sheet. He put the paper down. “Have you seen that?” the ambassador asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “It appeared on the streets today and it purports to print a letter I am supposed to have sent to a lady. In the letter I tell her that the British plan to annex Cádiz and make it into a second Gibraltar. It does not name me, but in a city as small as Cádiz it hardly needs to. And I need hardly tell you that His Majesty’s government has no designs on Cádiz either.”

  “So the letter’s a forgery, sir?” Sharpe asked.

  Henry Wellesley paused. “Not entirely,” he said cautiously. He was not looking at Sharpe now, but had twisted in his chair to stare into the dark garden. He drew on his cigar. “I imagine Willie Russell told you of my circumstances?”


  “Yes, sir.”

  “So I shall not describe them further except to say that some months ago I met a lady here and was persuaded that she was of gentle birth. She came from the Spanish colonies and assured me her father was wealthy, respectable indeed, but he was not. And before I discovered that truth I was foolish enough to express my sentiments in letters.” He paused, still staring through the open window, waiting for Sharpe to speak, but Sharpe was silent. “The letters were stolen from her,” the ambassador went on, “and it was not her fault.” He turned and gazed at Sharpe defiantly, as if he half expected Sharpe to disbelieve him.

  “And the thief, sir, tried to blackmail you?”

  “Exactly,” Henry Wellesley said. “The wretch made an arrangement to sell the letters to me, but my envoy was murdered. He and his two companions. The money, of course, vanished and the letters are now in the hands of our political enemies.” Wellesley spoke bitterly and gave the newspaper a blow with his hand. “You must understand, Sharpe, that there are men in Cádiz who believe, quite sincerely, that Spain’s future would be a great deal brighter if they were to make peace with Napoleon. They believe that Britain is the more formidable enemy. They think we are intent on destroying Spain’s colonies and on taking her Atlantic trade. They do not believe that my brother can expel the French from Portugal, let alone from Spain, and they are working diligently to fashion a political future that does not include a British alliance. My job is to persuade them otherwise, and those letters are going to make the task much harder. It may even make it impossible.” Again he paused as if inviting some comment from Sharpe, but the rifleman sat very still and silent. “Lord Pumphrey tells me you are an able man,” the ambassador said quietly.

  “He’s very kind, sir,” Sharpe said woodenly.

  “And he says you have a piquant past.”

  “Not sure what that is, sir.”

  Henry Wellesley half smiled. “Forgive me if I’m wrong and believe my assurance that I am not trying to give offense, but Lord Pumphrey tells me you were once a thief?”