Sharpe 3-Book Collection 4: Sharpe's Escape, Sharpe's Fury, Sharpe's Battle

by Bernard Cornwell

  “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 both 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 Lawford 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.”

  “Damn you, too.”

  The Colonel would dearly have liked to rest his battalion, but the brown-jacketed Portuguese troops were starting work and it was unthinkable that the South Essex should collapse while others labored, and so he ordered each company to start on the piles. “You can send men to make tea,” he suggested to his officers, “but breakfast must be eaten as we work. Mister Sharpe, good morning.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “I hope you have had time to consider your predicament,” Lawford said, and it took a deal of courage to say it for it stirred up an unhappy situation, and the Colonel would have been much happier if Sharpe had simply volunteered to apologize and so clear the air.

  “I have, sir,” Sharpe said with a surprising willingness.

  “Good!” Lawford brightened. “And?”

  “It’s the meat that’s the problem, sir.”

  Lawford stared incomprehensibly at Sharpe. “The meat?”

  “We can shoot the rum barrels, sir,” Sharpe said cheerfully, “throw the grain and flour into the river, but the meat? Can’t burn it.” He turned and stared at the huge barrels. “If you give me a few men, sir, I’ll see if I can find some turpentine. Soak the stuff. Even the Frogs won’t eat meat doused in turpentine. Or souse it in paint, perhaps?”

  “A problem for you,” Lawford said icily, “but I have battalion business to do. You have quarters for me?”

  “The tavern on the corner, sir,” Sharpe pointed, “all marked up.”

  “I shall see to the paperwork,” Lawford said loftily, meaning he wanted to lie down for an hour, and he nodded curtly at Sharpe and, beckoning his servants, went to find his billet.

  Sharpe grinned and walked down the vast piles. Men were slitting grain sacks and levering the tops from the meat barrels. The Portuguese were working more enthusiastically, but they had reached the city late at night and so managed to sleep for a few hours. Other Portuguese soldiers had been sent into the narrow streets to tell the remaining inhabitants to flee, and Sharpe could hear women’s voices raised in protest. It was still early. A small mist clung to the river, but the west wind had gone around to the south and it promised to be another hot day. The sharp crack of rifles sounded, startling birds into the air, and Sharpe saw that the Portuguese were shooting the rum barrels. Closer by, Patrick Harper was stoving in the barrels with an axe he had filched. “Why don’t you shoot them, Pat?” Sharpe asked.

  “Mister Slingsby, sir, he won’t let us.”

  “He won’t let you?”

  Harper swung the axe at another barrel, releasing a flood of rum onto the cobbles. “He says we’re to save our ammunition, sir.”

  “What for? There’s plenty of cartridges.”

  “That’s what he says, sir, no shooting.”

  “Work, Sergeant!” Slingsby marched smartly down the row of barrels. “You want to keep those stripes, Sergeant, then set an example! Good morning, Sharpe!”

  Sharpe turned slowly and examined Slingsby from top to bottom. The man might have marched all night and slept in a field, yet he was perfectly turned out, every button shining, his leather gleaming, the red coat brushed and boots wiped clean. Slingsby, uncomfortable under Sharpe’s sardonic gaze, snorted. “I said good morning, Sharpe.”

  “I hear you got lost,” Sharpe said.

  “Nonsense. A detour! Avoiding wagons.” The small man stepped past Sharpe and glared at the light company. “Put your backs into it! There’s a war to win!”

  “For Christ’s sake come back,” Harper said softly.

  Slingsby swiveled, eyes wide. “Did you say something, Sergeant?”

  “He was talking to me,” Sharpe said, and he stepped towards the smaller man, towering over him. He forced Slingsby back between two heaps of crates, taking him to where no one from the battalion could overhear. “He was talking to me, you piece of shit,” Sharpe said, “and if you interrupt another of my conversations I’ll tear your bloody guts out of your arsehole and wrap them round your bleeding throat. You want to go and tell that to the Colonel?”

  Slingsby visibly quivered, but then he seemed to shake off Sharpe’s words as though they had never been spoken. He found a narrow passage between the crates, slipped through it like a terrier pursuing a rat, and clapped his hands. “I want to see progress!” he yapped at the men.

  Sharpe followed Slingsby, looking for trouble, but then he saw that the Portuguese troops were from the same battalion that had taken the rocky knoll, for Captain Vicente was commanding the men shooting at the rum barrels and that was diversion enough to save Sharpe from more foolishness with Slingsby. He veered away and Vicente saw him coming and smiled a welcome, but before the two could utter a greeting, Colonel Lawford came striding across the cobbled quay. “Sharpe! Mister Sharpe!”

  Sharpe offered the Colonel a salute. “Sir!”

  “I am not a man given to complaint,” Lawford complained, “you know that, Sharpe. I am as hardened to discomfort as any man, but that tavern is hardly a fit billet. Not in a city like this! There are fleas in the beds!”

  “You want somewhere better, sir?”

  “I do, Sharpe, I do. And quickly.”

  Sharpe turned. “Sergeant Harper! I need you. Your permission to take Sergeant Harper, sir?” he asked Lawford who was too bemused to question Sharpe’s need of company, but just nodded. “Give me half an hour, sir,” Sharpe reassured the Colonel, “and you’ll have the best billet in the city.”

  “Just something adequate,” Lawford said pettishly. “I’m not asking for a palace, Sharpe, just something that’s barely adequate.”

  Sharpe beckoned Harper and walked over to Vicente. “You grew up here, yes?”

  “I told you so.”

  “So you know where a man called Ferragus lives?”

  “Luis Ferreira?” Vicente’s face mi
ngled surprise and alarm. “I know where his brother lives, but Luis? He could live anywhere.”

  “Can you show me his brother’s house?”

  “Richard,” Vicente warned, “Ferragus is not a man to…”

  “I know what he is,” Sharpe interrupted. “He did this to me.” He pointed to his fading black eye. “How far is it?”

  “Ten minutes’ walk.”

  “Will you take me there?”

  “Let me ask my Colonel,” Vicente said, and hurried off towards Colonel Rogers-Jones who was sitting on horseback and holding an open umbrella to shade him from the early sun.

  Sharpe saw Rogers-Jones nod to Vicente. “You’ll have your billet in twenty minutes, sir,” he told Lawford, then plucked Harper’s elbow so that they followed Vicente off the quays. “That bastard Slingsby,” Sharpe said as they went. “The bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard.”

  “I’m not supposed to hear this,” Harper said.

  “I’ll skin the bastard alive,” Sharpe said.

  “Who?” Vicente asked, leading them up narrow alleys where they were forced to negotiate knots of unhappy folk who were at last readying themselves to leave the city. Men and women were bundling clothes, hoisting infants onto their backs and complaining bitterly to anyone they saw in uniform.

  “A bastard called Slingsby,” Sharpe said, “but we’ll worry about him later. What do you know about Ferragus?”

  “I know most folk are frightened of him,” Vicente said, leading them across a small square where a church door stood open. A dozen blackshawled women were kneeling in the porch and they looked around in fear as a sudden rumble, jangle and clatter sounded from a nearby street. It was the noise of an artillery battery heading downhill towards the bridge. The army must have marched long before dawn and now the leading troops had reached Coimbra. “He is a criminal,” Vicente went on, “but he wasn’t raised in a poor family. His father was a colleague of my father, and even he admitted his son was a monster. The bad one of the litter. They tried to beat the evil from him. His father tried, the priests tried, but Luis is a child of Satan.” Vicente made the sign of the cross. “And few dare oppose him. This is a university town!”