Sharpe's Escape

by Bernard Cornwell

  There was a sullen atmosphere in the battalion. Lawford put it down to the casualties of the battle, who had either been buried on the ridge or carried away in carts to the careless mercies of the surgeons. This was a day, Lawford thought, when the battalion ought to be busy, yet there was nothing to do except wait on the long high summit in case the French renewed their attacks. He ordered all the muskets to be cleaned with boiling water, the flints to be inspected and replaced if they were too chipped, and every man's cartridge box to be replenished, but those useful tasks only took an hour and the men were no more cheerful at its end than they had been at the beginning. The Colonel made himself visible and tried to encourage the men, yet he was aware of reproachful glances and muttered comments, and Lawford was no fool and knew exactly what caused it. He kept hoping Sharpe would make the requisite apology, but the rifleman stayed stubbornly out of sight and finally Lawford sought out Leroy, the loyal American. "Talk to him," he pleaded.

  "Won't listen to me, Colonel."

  "He respects you, Leroy."

  "It's kind of you to suggest as much," Leroy said, "but he's stubborn as a mule."

  "Getting too big for his boots, that's the trouble," Lawford said irritably.

  "Boots he took from a French colonel of chasseurs, if I remember," Leroy said, staring up at a buzzard that circled lazily above the ridge.

  "The men are unhappy," Lawford said, deciding to avoid a discussion of Sharpe's boots.

  "Sharpe's a strange man, Colonel," Leroy said, then paused to light one of the rough, dark brown cigars that were sold by Portuguese peddlers. "Most of the men don't like officers up from the ranks, but they're kind of fond of Sharpe. He scares them. They want to be like him."

  "I can't see that scaring men is a virtue in an officer," Lawford said, annoyed.

  "Probably the best one," Leroy said provocatively. "Of course he ain't an easy man in the mess," the American went on more placidly, "but he's one hell of a soldier. Saved Slingsby's life yesterday."

  "That is nonsense." Lawford sounded testy. "Captain Slingsby might have taken the company a little too far, but he would have retrieved them, I'm sure."

  "Wasn't talking about that," Leroy said. "Sharpe shot a fellow about to give Slingsby a Portuguese grave. Finest damned piece of shooting I've ever seen."

  Lawford had congratulated Sharpe at the time, but he was in no mood to consider mitigating circumstances. "There was a good deal of firing, Leroy," he said airily, "and the shot could have come from anywhere."

  "Maybe," the American said, sounding dubious, "but you have to admit Sharpe was damned useful yesterday."

  Lawford wondered whether Leroy had overheard Sharpe's quiet advice to turn the battalion around and then wheel them onto the French flank. It had been good advice, and taking it had retrieved a distinctly unhealthy situation, but the Colonel had persuaded himself that he would have thought of turning and wheeling the battalion without Sharpe. He had also persuaded himself that his authority was being deliberately challenged by the rifleman, and that was quite intolerable. "All I want is an apology!" he protested.

  "I'll talk to him, Colonel," Leroy promised, "but if Mister Sharpe says he won't apologize then you can wait till doomsday. Unless you get Lord Wellington to order him. That's the one man who scares Sharpe."

  "I will not involve Wellington!" Lawford said in alarm. He had once been an aide to the General and knew how his lordship detested being niggled by minor concerns, and, besides, to make such a request would only betray Lawford's failure. And it was failure. He knew Sharpe was a far finer officer than Slingsby, but the Colonel had promised Jessica, his wife, that he would do all he could to press Cornelius's career and the promise had to be kept. "Talk to him," he encouraged Leroy. "Suggest a written apology, perhaps? He won't have to deliver it in person. I'll convey it myself and tear it up afterwards."

  "I'll suggest it," Leroy said, then went down the reverse slope of the ridge where he found the battalion's temporary quartermaster sitting with a dozen of the battalion's wives. They were laughing, but fell silent as Leroy approached. "Sorry to disturb you, ladies." The Major took off his battered cocked hat as a courtesy to the women, then beckoned to Sharpe. "A word?"

  He led Sharpe a few paces down the hill.

  "Know what I'm here to say?" Leroy asked.

  "I can guess."

  "And?"

  "No, sir."

  "Reckoned as much," Leroy said. "Jesus Christ, who is that?" He was looking back at the women and Sharpe knew the Major had to be referring to an attractive, long-haired Portuguese girl who had joined the battalion the week before.

  "Sergeant Enables found her," Sharpe explained.

  "Christ! She can't be more than eleven," Leroy said, then stared at the other women for a moment. "Damn," he went on, "but that Sally Clayton is pretty."

  "Pretty well married, too," Sharpe said.

  Leroy grinned. "You ever read the story of Uriah the Hittite, Sharpe?"

  "Hittite? A prizefighter?" Sharpe guessed.

  "Not quite, Sharpe. Fellow in the Bible. Uriah the Hittite, Sharpe, had a wife and King David wanted her in his bed, so he sent Uriah to war and ordered the general to put the poor bastard in the front line so some other bastard would kill him. Worked, too."

  "I'll remember that," Sharpe said.

  "Can't remember the woman's name," Leroy said. "Weren't Sally. So what shall I tell the Colonel?"

  "That he's just got himself the best damned quartermaster in the army."

  Leroy chuckled and walked uphill. He paused and turned after a few paces. "Bathsheba," he called back to Sharpe.

  "Bath what?"

  "That was her name, Bathsheba."

  "Sounds like another prizefighter."

  "But Bathsheba hit below the belt, Sharpe," Leroy said, "well below the belt!" He raised his hat again to the battalion wives and walked on.

  "He's thinking about it," he told the Colonel a few moments later.

  "Let us hope he thinks clearly," Lawford said piously.

  But if Sharpe was thinking about it, no apology came. Instead, as evening fell, the army was ordered to ready itself for a retreat. The French could be seen leaving, evidently going towards the road that looped about the ridge's northern end and so the gallopers pounded along the ridge with orders that the army was to march towards Lisbon before dawn. The South Essex, alone among the British battalions, received different orders. "It seems we're to retreat, gentlemen," Lawford said to the company commanders as his tent was taken down by orderlies. There was a murmur of surprise that Lawford stilled with a raised hand. "There's a route round the top of the ridge," he explained, "and if we stay the French will outflank us. They'll be up our backsides, so we're dancing backwards for a few days. Find somewhere else to bloody them, eh?" Some of the officers still looked surprised that, having won a victory, they were to yield ground, but Lawford ignored their puzzlement. "We have our own orders, gentlemen," he went on. "The battalion is to leave tonight and hurry to Coimbra. A long march, I fear, but necessary. We're to reach Coimbra with all dispatch and aid the commissary officers in the destruction of the army's supplies on the river quays. A Portuguese regiment is being sent as well. The two of us are the vanguard, so to speak, but our responsibility is heavy. The General wants those provisions brought to ruin by tomorrow night."

  "We're expected to reach Coimbra tonight?" Leroy asked skeptically. The city was at least twenty miles away and, by any reckoning, that was a very ambitious march, especially at night.

  "Wagons are being provided for baggage," Lawford said, "including the men's packs. Walking wounded will guard those packs, women and children go with the wagons. We march light, we march fast."

  "Advance party?" Leroy wanted to know.

  "I'm sure the quartermaster will know what to do," Lawford said.

  "Dark night," Leroy said, "probably chaotic in Coimbra. Two battalions looking for quarters and the commissary people will mostly be drunk. Even Sharpe can't do that al
one, sir. Best let me go with him."

  Lawford looked indignant for he knew Leroy's suggestion was an expression of sympathy for Sharpe, but the American's objections had been cogent and so, reluctantly, Lawford nodded. "Do that, Major," he said curtly, "and as for the rest of us? I want to be the first battalion into Coimbra, gentlemen! We can't have the Portuguese beating us, so be ready to march in one hour."

  "Light company to lead?" Slingsby asked. He was fairly bursting with pride and efficiency.

  "Of course, Captain."

  "We'll set a smart pace," Slingsby promised. "Do we have a guide?" Forrest asked.

  "We can find one, I'm sure," Lawford said, "but it's not a difficult route. West to the main road, then turn south."

  "I can find it," Slingsby said confidently.

  "Our wounded?" Forrest asked.

  "More wagons will be provided. Mister Knowles? You'll determine those arrangements? Splendid!" Lawford smiled to show that the battalion was one happy family. "Be ready to leave in one hour, gentlemen, one hour!"

  Leroy found Sharpe, who had not been invited to the company commanders' meeting. "You and I are for Coimbra, Sharpe," the Major said. "You can ride my spare horse and my servant can walk."

  "Coimbra?"

  "Billeting. Battalion's following tonight."

  "You don't need to come," Sharpe said. "I've done billeting before."

  "You want to walk there on your own?" Leroy asked, then grinned. "I'm coming, Sharpe, because the battalion is marching twenty goddamn miles in the twilight and it's going to be a shambles. Twenty miles at night? They'll never do it, and two battalions on one narrow road? Hell, I don't need that. You and I can go ahead, mark the place up, find a tavern, and ten guineas says the battalion won't be there before the sun's up."

  "Keep your money," Sharpe said.

  "And when they do get there," Leroy went on happily, "they're going to be in one hell of a God-awful temper. That's why I'm appointing myself as your assistant, Sharpe."

  They rode down the hill. The sun was low and the shadows long. It was almost the end of September and the days were drawing in. The first wagons loaded with wounded British and Portuguese soldiers were already on the road and Leroy and Sharpe had to edge past them. They went through half-deserted villages where Portuguese officers were persuading the remaining folk to leave. The arguments were shrill in the dusk. A black-dressed woman, her gray hair covered in a black scarf, beat at an officer's horse with a broom, evidently screaming at the rider to go away. "You can't blame them," Leroy said. "They hear we won the battle, now they want to know why the hell they have to leave home. Nasty business leaving home."

  His tone was bitter and Sharpe glanced at him. "You've done it?"

  "Hell, yes. We were thrown out by the damned rebels. Went to Canada with nothing but the shirts on our backs. The bastards promised restitution after the war, but we never saw a goddamned penny. I was only a kid, Sharpe. I thought it was all exciting, but what do kids know?"

  "Then you went to England?"

  "And we thrived, Sharpe, we thrived. My father made his money trading with the men he once fought." Leroy laughed, then rode in silence for a few yards, ducking under a low tree branch. "So tell me about these fortifications guarding Lisbon."

  "I only know what Michael Hogan told me."

  "So what did he tell you?"

  "That they're the biggest defenses ever made in Europe," Sharpe said. He saw Leroy's skepticism. "Over a hundred and fifty forts," Sharpe went on, "connected by trenches. Hills reshaped to make them too steep to climb, valleys filled with obstacles, streams dammed to flood the approaches, the whole lot filled with cannon. Two lines, stretching from the Tagus to the ocean."

  "So the idea is to get behind them and thumb our noses at the French?"

  "And let the bastards starve," Sharpe said.

  "And you, Sharpe, what will you do? Apologize?" Leroy laughed at Sharpe's expression. "The Colonel ain't going to give in."

  "Nor am I," Sharpe said.

  "So you'll stay quartermaster?"

  "The Portuguese want British officers," Sharpe said, "and if I join them I get a promotion."

  "Hell," Leroy said, thinking about it.

  "Not that I want to leave the light company," Sharpe went on, thinking about Pat Harper and the other men he counted as friends. "But Lawford wants Slingsby, he doesn't want me."

  "He wants you, Sharpe," Leroy said, "but he's made promises. Have you ever met the Colonel's wife?"

  "No."

  "Pretty," Leroy said, "pretty as a picture, but about as soft as an angry dragoon. I watched her ream out a servant once because the poor bastard hadn't filled a flower vase with enough water, and by the time she'd done there was nothing left of the man but slivers of skin and spots of blood. A formidable lady, our Jessica. She'd make a much better commanding officer than her husband." The Major drew on a cigar. "But I wouldn't be in too much of a hurry to join the Portuguese. I have a suspicion that Mister Slingsby will cook his own goose."

  "Drink?"

  "He was liquored to the gills on the night of the battle. Staggering, he was. Fine next morning."

  They reached Coimbra long after dark and it was close to midnight before they discovered the office of the Town Major, the British officer responsible for liaison with the town authorities, and the Major himself was not there, but his servant, wearing a tasseled nightcap, opened the door and grumbled about officers keeping unseasonable hours. "What is it you want, sir?"

  "Chalk," Sharpe said, "and you've got two battalions arriving before dawn."

  "Oh, Jesus Christ," the servant said, "two battalions? Chalk?"

  "At least four sticks. Where are the commissary officers?"

  "Up the street, sir, six doors on the left, but if it's rations you're after help yourself from the town quay. Bloody tons there, sir."

  "A lantern would be useful," Major Leroy put in.

  "Lantern, sir. There is one somewhere."

  "And we need to stable two horses."

  "Round the back, sir. Be safe there."

  Once the horses were stabled and Leroy was equipped with the lantern they worked their way up the street chalking on the doors. SE, Sharpe chalked, meaning South Essex, 4-6, which said six men of number four company would be billeted in the house. They used the small streets close to the bridge over the Mondego, and after a half-hour they encountered two Portuguese officers chalking up for their battalion. Neither of the battalions had arrived by the time the work was done, so Sharpe and Leroy found a tavern on the quay where lights still glowed and ordered themselves wine, brandy and food. They ate salt cod and, just as it was served, the sound of boots echoed in the street outside. Leroy leaned over, pulled open the tavern door and peered out. "Portuguese," he said laconically.

  "So they beat us?" Sharpe said. "Colonel won't be pleased."

  "The Colonel is going to be one very unhappy man about that," Leroy said and was about to close the door when he saw the legend chalked on the woodwork. SE, CO, ADJ, LCO, it said, and the American grinned. "Putting Lawford and the light company officers in here, Sharpe?"

  "I thought the Colonel might want to be with his relative, sir. Friendly like."

  "Or are you putting temptation in Mister Slingsby's path?"

  Sharpe looked shocked. "Good lord," he said, "I hadn't thought of that."

  "You lying bastard," Leroy said, closing the door. He laughed. "I don't think I'd want you as an enemy."

  They slept in the taproom and, when Sharpe woke at dawn, the South Essex had still not reached the city. A sad procession of wagons, all with men wounded on Bussaco's slope, was crossing the bridge and Sharpe, going to the quayside, saw that the sills of the wagon beds were stained where blood had dripped from the vehicles. He had to wait to cross to the river bank because the convoy of wounded was followed by a smart traveling coach, drawn by four horses and heaped with trunks, accompanied by a wagon piled with more goods on which a half-dozen unhappy servants clung, and bo
th vehicles were escorted by armed civilian horsemen. Once they were gone Sharpe crossed to the vast heaps of army provisions that had been brought to Coimbra. There were sacks of grain, barrels of salt meat, puncheons of rum, boxes of biscuit, all unloaded from the river boats that were tied to the wharves. Each boat had a number painted on its bow beneath the owner's name and town. The Portuguese authorities had ordered the boats to be numbered and labeled, then listed town by town, so they could be sure that all the craft would be destroyed before the French arrived. The name Ferreira was painted on a half-dozen of the larger vessels, and Sharpe assumed that meant the craft belonged to Ferragus. The boats were all under the guard of redcoats, one of whom, seeing Sharpe, slung his musket and walked along the quay. "Is it true we're retreating, sir?"

  "We are."

  "Bloody hell." The man gazed at the vast heaps of provisions. "What happens to this lot?"

  "We have to get rid of it. And those boats."

  "Bloody hell," the man said again, then watched as Sharpe marked dozens of boxes of biscuit and barrels of meat as rations for the South Essex.

  The battalion arrived two hours later. They were, as Leroy had forecast, irritable, hungry and tired. Their march had been a nightmare, with wagons obstructing the road, clouds across the moon and at least two wrong turns that had wasted so much time that in the end Lavvford had ordered the men to get some sleep in a pasture until dawn gave them some light to find their way. Major Forrest, sliding wearily from his saddle, looked askance at Sharpe. "Don't tell me you and Leroy came straight here?"

  "We did, sir. Had a night's sleep too."

  "What a detestable man you are, Sharpe."

  "Can't see how you could get lost," Sharpe said. "The road was pretty well straight. Who was leading?"

  "You know who was leading, Sharpe," Forrest said, then turned to gaze at the great piles of food. "How do we destroy that lot?"

  "Shoot the rum barrels," Sharpe suggested, "and sling the flour and grain into the river."

  "Got it all worked out, haven't you?"

  "That's what a good night's sleep does for a man, sir."