Sharpe's Fury

by Bernard Cornwell

  “For that, sir?” Sharpe said, and laid the copy of El Correo de Cádiz on the ambassador’s desk. “I believe it’s a new edition, sir.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Henry Wellesley said. He was blushing as he turned the pages and saw column after column filled with his letters. “Oh, dear God.”

  “That’s the only copy,” Sharpe said. “I burned the rest.”

  “You burned”—the ambassador began, then his voice faltered because Sharpe had begun laying the ambassador’s imprudent letters on top of the newspaper, one after the other, as if he were dealing cards.

  “These are your letters, sir,” Sharpe said, still in his sergeant’s tone of voice, “and we’ve ruined the press that printed them, sir, and we’ve burned their newspapers, and we’ve taught the bastards not to take us lightly, sir. As Lord Pumphrey told me, sir, we have frustrated their knavish tricks. There, sir.” He laid the last letter down.

  “Good God,” Henry Wellesley said, staring at the letters.

  “Dear Lord above,” Lord Pumphrey said faintly.

  “They might have copies, sir,” Sharpe said, “but without the originals they can’t prove the letters are real, can they? And, anyway, they don’t have a way of printing them now.”

  “Good God,” Wellesley said again, this time looking up at Sharpe.

  “Thief, murderer, and arsonist,” Sharpe said proudly. The ambassador said nothing, just stared at him. “Have you ever heard of a Spanish officer called Captain Galiana, sir?” Sharpe asked.

  Wellesley had looked back to the letters and seemed not to have heard Sharpe. Then he gave a start as if he had just woken. “Fernando Galiana? Yes, he was a liaison officer to Sir Thomas’s predecessor. A splendid young man. Are those all the letters?”

  “All they had, sir.”

  “Good God,” the ambassador said, then stood abruptly, took hold of the letters and the newspaper, and carried them all to the fire. He threw them on the coals and watched them blaze bright. “How—” he began, then decided there were some questions better not answered.

  “Will that be all, sir?” Sharpe asked.

  “I must thank you, Sharpe,” Wellesley said, still staring at the burning letters.

  “And my men, sir, all five of them. I’ll be taking then back to the Isla de León, sir, and we’ll wait there for a ship.”

  “Of course, of course.” The ambassador hurried across to his bureau. “Your five men helped?”

  “Very much, sir.”

  A drawer was opened and Sharpe heard the sound of coins. He pretended not to be interested. The ambassador, not wanting his generosity or lack of it to be obvious, wrapped the coins in a piece of paper that he brought to Sharpe. “Perhaps you’d convey my thanks to your fellows?”

  “Of course, sir, thank you, sir.” Sharpe took the coins.

  “But you rather look as if you should go back to bed now,” Wellesley said.

  “You too, sir.”

  “I’m well awake now. Lord Pumphrey and I will stay up. There’s always work to do!” Wellesley was happy suddenly, suffused with relief and the realization that a nightmare was over. “And of course I shall write to my brother commending you in the very highest terms. Be certain I’ll do that, Sharpe.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good God! It’s over.” The ambassador stared at the last small flames flickering above the blackened mess of the papers lying on the coals. “It’s over!”

  “Except the lady, sir,” Sharpe said, “Caterina. She has some letters, doesn’t she?”

  “Oh no,” the ambassador said happily, “oh no. It really is over! Thank you, Sharpe.”

  Sharpe let himself out. He went into the courtyard where he sniffed the air. It was a dull morning, exhausted after the night’s rain. The weathervane on the embassy’s watchtower betrayed that the wind was from the west. A cat rubbed itself against his ankles and he leaned down to stroke it, then unwrapped the coins. Fifteen guineas. He guessed he was supposed to give one each to his men and keep the rest. He pushed them into a pocket, not sure whether it was a generous reward or not. Probably not, he decided, but his men would be happy enough. He would give them two guineas apiece and that would buy them a lot of rum. “Go and find a mouse,” he told the cat, “because that’s what I’m doing.”

  He walked through the archway to the smaller courtyard where servants were sweeping steps and the embassy cow was being milked. The back door to Lord Pumphrey’s house was open and a woman came down the steps to fetch milk. Sharpe waited till her back was turned, then ran up the steps and through the kitchen where the stove had just been relit. He took the next stairs two at a time and opened the door at the top to find himself in a tiled hallway. He climbed more stairs, these deep carpeted, past pictures of Spanish landscapes of white houses, yellow rocks, and blue skies. A white marble statue of a naked boy stood on the landing. The statue was life-size and had a cocked hat on its head. A door stood open and Sharpe saw a woman dusting a bedroom, which he supposed was His Lordship’s. He crept past and she did not hear him. The next flight of stairs was narrower and led to a landing with three closed doors. The first opened onto another stairway, which presumably climbed to the servants’ quarters. The second was the door to a box room that was heaped with unused furniture, valises, and hat boxes. The last door led into a bedroom.

  Sharpe crept inside and closed the door. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, for the shutters on both tall windows were closed, but then he could see an empty tin bath in front of the hearth where the remnants of the night’s fire smoldered. There was a bureau, two sofas, a great wardrobe with mirrored doors, and a four-poster bed that had its embroidered curtains drawn.

  He crossed the deep rugs and pulled open the nearest shutters to find himself staring across the roofs to the Bay of Cádiz where errant slants of watery sunlight were finding their way through gaps in the cloud to silver the small waves.

  Someone grunted in the bed, then moaned slightly, as if resenting being woken by the new light filtering past the bed’s curtains. Sharpe went to the second window and opened its shutters. Arrayed on the window seat, mounted on mahogany stands, were six golden wigs. A blue dress had been discarded on one of the sofas along with a necklace of sapphires and a pair of sapphire earrings. The moan sounded again and Sharpe went to the bed and yanked back the curtains. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

  And Caterina Veronica Blazquez opened her mouth to scream.

  “MY NAME is Sharpe,” Sharpe said before she could alarm the household.

  Caterina closed her mouth.

  “Richard Sharpe,” he added.

  She nodded. She was clutching the bedclothes to her chin. The bed was wide and it was plain a second person had occupied it through the night, for the pillows still showed the mark of his head. The ambassador’s head, Sharpe was certain. Brigadier Moon had seen him come to the house, and Sharpe could not blame Henry Wellesley for being unable to surrender his whore because Caterina Blazquez was a beauty. She had short golden curls that were pretty even in disarray, wide blue eyes, a small nose, a generous mouth, and a smooth pale skin. In a land of dark-eyed, dark-haired, dark-skinned women she glowed like a diamond.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Sharpe said, “and I’m not the only one.”

  She gave the smallest shake of her head, which, together with her scared expression, conveyed that she was frightened of whoever looked for her.

  “You do understand me, don’t you?” Sharpe asked.

  A tiny nod of the head. She pulled the covers higher, covering her mouth. This was a good place to hide her, Sharpe thought. She was in no danger here, certainly in no danger from Lord Pumphrey, and she lived in the comfort that a man would want his mistress to enjoy. She was safe enough, at least until the servants’ gossip betrayed her presence in Pumphrey’s house. Caterina was examining Sharpe, her eyes traveling down his shabby uniform, seeing the sword, rising again to his face, and her eyes, if anything, were now s
lightly wider.

  “I was busy last night,” Sharpe said. “I was fetching some letters. Remember those letters?”

  Another tiny nod.

  “But I got them back. Gave them to Mister Wellesley, I did. He burned them.”

  She lowered the bedclothes an inch and rewarded him with a flicker of a smile. He tried to work out how old she was. Twenty-two? Twenty-three? Young, anyway. Young and flawless as far as he could see.

  “But there are more letters, darling, aren’t there?”

  There was a slight rising of her eyebrows when he called her darling, then a barely discernible shake of her head.

  Sharpe sighed. “I know I’m a British officer, darling, but I’m not daft. You know what daft means?”

  A nod.

  “So let me tell you a bedtime story. Henry Wellesley wrote you a lot of letters that he shouldn’t have written and you kept them. You kept them all, darling. But your pimp took most of them, didn’t he? And he was going to sell them and share the money with you, but then he got murdered. Do you know who murdered him?”

  She shook her head.

  “A priest. Father Salvador Montseny.”

  The slight rise of eyebrows again.

  “And Father Montseny murdered the man sent to buy them back,” Sharpe went on, “and last night he tried to murder me, only I’m a much harder man to kill. So he lost the letters and he lost the newspaper that printed them and he’s now a very angry priest, darling. But he knows one thing. He knows you didn’t destroy all the letters. He knows you kept some. You kept them in case you needed the money. But when your pimp got murdered you became scared, didn’t you? So you ran to Henry and told him a pack of lies. You told him the letters were stolen, and told him there weren’t any more. But there are more, and you’ve got them, darling.”

  The tiniest and most unconvincing denial, just enough to shiver her curls.

  “And the priest is angry, my love,” Sharpe went on. “He wants those other letters. One way or another he’ll find a printing press, but first he has to get the letters, doesn’t he? So he’s coming after you, Caterina, and he’s a wicked man with a knife. He’ll slit your pretty belly from bottom to top.”

  Another shiver of the curls. She pulled the bedclothes higher to hide her nose and mouth.

  “You think he can’t find you?” Sharpe asked. “I found you. And I know you’ve got the letters.”

  This time there was no reaction, just the wide eyes watching him. There was no fear in those eyes. This was a girl, Sharpe realized, who had learned the enormous power of her looks and she already knew that Sharpe was not going to hurt her.

  “So tell me, darling,” Sharpe said, “just where the other letters are, and then we’ll be done.”

  Very slowly she drew the sheet and blankets down to uncover her mouth. She stared at Sharpe solemnly, apparently thinking about her answer, then she frowned. “Tell me,” she said, “what did you do to your head?”

  “It got in the way of a bullet.”

  “That was very silly of you, Captain Sharpe.” The smile flickered and was gone. She had a languorous voice, her vowels American. “Pumps told me about you. He said you’re dangerous.”

  “I am, very.”

  “No, you’re not.” She smiled at him, then half rolled over to look at the face of an ornate clock that ticked on the mantel. “It’s not even eight o clock!”

  “You speak good English.”

  She lay back on the pillow. “My mother was American. Daddy was Spanish. They met in Florida. Have you heard of Florida?”

  “No.”

  “It’s south of the United States. It used to belong to Britain, but you had to give it back to Spain after the war of independence. There’s nothing much there except Indians, slaves, soldiers, and missionaries. Daddy was a captain in the garrison at St. Augustine.” She frowned. “If Henry finds you here he’ll be angry.”

  “He’s not coming back this morning,” Sharpe said. “He’s working with Lord Pumphrey.”

  “Poor Pumps,” Caterina said. “I like him. He talks to me such a lot. Turn around.”

  Sharpe obeyed, then edged sideways so that he could see her in the mirrors of the wardrobe doors.

  “And move away from the mirrors,” Caterina said.

  Sharpe obeyed again.

  “You can turn around now,” she said. She had pulled on a blue silk jacket that she laced to her chin, giving him a smile. “When they bring breakfast and water you’ll have to wait in there.” She pointed to a door beside the wardrobe.

  “You drink water for breakfast?” Sharpe asked.

  “It’s for the bath,” she said. She pulled on a ribbon that rang a bell deep in the house. “I’ll have them revive the fire as well,” she went on. “You like ham? Bread? If the chickens have laid then there’ll be eggs. I’ll tell them I’m very hungry.” She listened until she heard footsteps on the stairs. “Go and hide,” she ordered Sharpe.

  He went into a small room filled with Caterina’s clothes. A table with a mirror was cluttered with salves and cosmetics and beauty patches. Behind the mirror was a window and Sharpe, peering into the clearing air, could see the fleet weighing anchor and sailing north out of the bay. The army was on the move. He stared at the ships and thought his place was there, with men, muskets, cannons, and horses stalled in the holds. Men going to war, and here he was in a whore’s dressing room.

  The breakfast came a half hour later, by which time the fire was blazing and the bath filled with steaming water. “The servants hate filling the bath,” Caterina said, sitting up on banked pillows now, “because it’s so much work for them, but I insist on having a bath every day. The water will be too hot now, so it can wait. Have some breakfast.”

  Sharpe was ravenous. He sat on the bed and ate, and in between mouthfuls he asked questions. “When did you leave, what did you call it, Florida?”

  “When I was sixteen, my mother died. Daddy had run away long before that. I didn’t want to stay there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Stay in Florida?” She shuddered at the thought. “It’s just a hot swamp filled with snakes, alligators, and Indians.”

  “So how did you come here?”

  “By ship,” she said, her big eyes serious. “It was much too far to swim.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Gonzalo brought me.”

  “Gonzalo?”

  “The man who died.”

  “The man who was going to sell the letters?”

  She nodded.

  “And you’ve been working with Gonzalo ever since?”

  She nodded again. “In Madrid, Seville, and now here.”

  “The same game?”

  “Game?”

  “Pretend to be well-born, get letters, sell them back?”

  She smiled. “We made a lot of money, Captain Sharpe. More than you could ever dream of.”

  “I don’t need to dream, darling. I once stole the jewels of an Indian king.”

  “So you’re rich?” she asked, eyes brightening.

  “Lost it all.”

  “Careless, Captain Sharpe.”

  “So what will you do without Gonzalo?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “Stay with Henry? Be his mistress?”

  “He’s very kind to me,” Caterina said, “but I don’t think he’d take me back to London. And he will go back eventually, won’t he?”

  “He’ll go back,” Sharpe confirmed.

  “So I’ll have to find someone else,” she said, “but not you.”

  “Not me?”

  “Someone rich,” she said with a smile.

  “And you have to stay away from Father Salvador Montseny,” Sharpe said.

  She gave another shudder. “He is really a killer? A priest?”

  “He’s as nasty as they come, darling. And he wants your letters. He’ll kill you to get them.”

  “But you want my letters too.”

  “I do.”

>   “And Pumps says you’re a killer.”

  “I am.”

  She seemed to consider her dilemma for a moment, then nodded at the bath. “It’s time to get clean,” she said.

  “You want me back in that room?” Sharpe asked.

  “Of course not. That bath’s for you. You stink. Get undressed, Captain Sharpe, and I’ll wash your back.”

  Sharpe was a good soldier. He obeyed.

  “I LIKE Henry Wellesley,” Sharpe said.

  “So do I,” Caterina said, “but he is”—she paused, thinking—“earnest.”

  “Earnest?”

  “Sad. His wife hurt him. Pumps says she was not beautiful.”

  “You can’t trust everything Pumps says.”

  “But I think he is right. Some women are not beautiful yet they drive men mad. She has driven Henry sad. Are you going to sleep?”

  “No,” Sharpe said. The bed was the most comfortable he had experienced. A feather mattress, silk sheets, big pillows, and Caterina. “I have to go.”

  “Your uniform isn’t dry.” She had insisted on washing his uniform in the used bath water and it was now propped on two chairs before the fire.

  “We have to go,” Sharpe corrected himself.

  “We?”

  “Montseny wants to find you. And to get the letters he’ll hurt you.”

  She thought about that. “When Gonzalo died,” she said, “I came here because I was frightened. And because this is safe.”

  “You think Pumps will protect you?”

  “No one would dare come in here. It’s the embassy!”

  “Montseny will dare,” Sharpe said. “There’s no guard on Lord Pumphrey’s front door, is there? And if the servants see a priest they’ll trust him. Montseny can get in here easily. I did.”