“It will drift there in a day and a night,” the ferryman said, then watched as his boat was unhandily rowed out into the stream. Sharpe and Harper were at the oars and neither was used to such things and at first they were clumsy, but the current was doing the real work by swirling them downstream while they learned to control the long oars and at last they rowed steadily down the center of the Tagus. Vicente was in the bows, watching the river ahead, and Joana and Sarah were in the wide stern. If it had not been raining, if the brisk wind had not been kicking up the river to splash cold water into a boat that was perceptibly leaking, it might have been a jaunt, but instead they shivered beneath a dark sky as their small boat was swept southwards between the rain-darkened flanks of great hills. The river flowed fast, carrying its water from far across Spain to hurry them towards the sea.
And then the French saw them.
THE FORT WAS SIMPLY KNOWN as Work Number 119, and it was not much of a fort, merely a bastion built on the summit of a low hill, then given a stone-roofed magazine and six gun emplacements. The guns were twelve-pounders, taken from a flotilla of Russian warships that had taken shelter in Lisbon from an Atlantic storm and there been captured by the Royal Navy, while the gunners were a mix of Portuguese and British artillerymen who had ranged their unfamiliar weapons, determining that the shots would reach across the wide valley that was spread east and west beneath Work Number 119. To the east were ten more forts, reaching to the Tagus, while to the west, stretching more than twenty miles to the Atlantic, were over a hundred more forts and bastions that snaked in two lines across the hilltops. They were the Lines of Torres Vedras.
Three major roads pierced the lines. The principal road, halfway between the Tagus and the sea, was the main road to Lisbon, but there was another road, running beside the river and thus not far from Work Number 119, and that eastern road offered another route to the Portuguese capital. Masséna, of course, did not have to use either route, nor the third road which pierced the lines at Torres Vedras and was protected by the River Sizandre. He might choose to outflank the three roads and attempt to march overland, attacking through the wilder and lonelier country that lay between the roads, but he would only find more forts and bastions.
He would find more than the newly constructed forts. The northward-facing slopes of the hills had been scarped by thousands of laborers who had hacked at the soil to steepen the slopes so that no infantry could possibly attack uphill, and where the slopes were made of rock the engineers had drilled and blasted the stone to create new cliff faces. If the infantry ignored the scarped slopes and endured the artillery bombardment from the crests, they could march into the valleys between the steepened hills, but there they would find huge barriers of thorn bushes filling the low ground like monstrous dams. The thorn bush barricades were strengthened by felled trees, protected where possible by dams that flooded the valleys, and were flanked by smaller bastions so that any attacking column would find itself funneled into a place of death and under the flail of cannon and musket fire.
Forty thousand troops, most of them Portuguese, manned the forts, while the rest of the two armies were deployed behind the lines, ready to march wherever an attack might threaten. Some British troops were stationed in the lines and the South Essex had been given a sector between Work Number 114 and Work Number 119 where Lieutenant Colonel Lawford had summoned his senior officers to show them the extent of their responsibilities. Captain Slingsby was the last to arrive and the other men watched as he negotiated the steep, muddy steps that climbed up to the masonry firestep.
“A guinea says he won’t make it,” Leroy muttered to Forrest.
“I can’t conceive that he’s drunk,” Forrest said, though without much certainty.
Everyone else believed Slingsby was drunk. He was mounting the steps very slowly, taking exaggerated care to place his feet in the exact center of each tread. He did not look up until he reached the top when, with evident satisfaction, he announced to the assembled officers that there were forty-three steps.
This news took Colonel Lawford aback. He alone had not watched Slingsby’s precarious ascent, but now turned with a look of polite surprise. “Forty-three?”
“Important thing to know, sir,” Slingsby said. He meant that it was important in case the steps had to be climbed in darkness, but that explanation vanished from his head before he had time to say it. “Very important, sir,” he added earnestly.
“I am sure we shall all remember it,” Lawford said with a touch of asperity, then he gestured towards the rain-soaked northern landscape. “If the French do come, gentlemen,” he said, “then this is where we stop them.”
“Hear, hear,” Slingsby said. Everyone ignored him.
“We let them come,” Lawford went on, “and permit them to break themselves against our positions.”
“Break themselves,” Slingsby said, but quietly.
“And it is possible they will attempt a breakthrough here.” Lawford hurried on in case his brother-in-law added more words. The Colonel pointed west to where a small valley twisted southwards past Work Number 119 and then curled around the back of the hill. “Major Forrest and I rode north yesterday,” he said, “and looked at our position from the French point of view.”
“Very wise,” Slingsby said.
“And from those hills,” Lawford continued, “that valley is a temptation. It seems to penetrate our lines.”
“Penetrate,” Slingsby repeated, nodding. Major Leroy half expected him to take out a notebook and pencil and write the word down.
“In truth,” Lawford went on, “the valley is entirely blocked. It leads to nothing except a barricade of felled trees, thorn bushes and flooded land, but the French will not know that.”
“Ridiculous,” Slingsby muttered, though whether that was a judgment on Lawford or the French it was hard to tell.
“But we must nevertheless expect such an attack,” Lawford continued, “and be prepared to deal with it.”
“Unleash the cat,” Slingsby said obscurely, though only Leroy heard him.
“If such an attack develops,” Lawford said, his cloak billowing in a sudden gust of wet wind that blew around the hilltop, “the enemy will be under artillery fire from this work and from every other fort within range. If they survive it they will be penned in the valley and we would offer volley fire from the shoulder of this hill. They cannot climb the hill, which means they can only suffer and die in the valley.”
Slingsby looked surprised at this, but managed to say nothing.
“What we cannot do,” Lawford went on, “is allow the French to establish batteries in the larger valley.” He pointed to the low ground that lay ahead of Work Number 119. This was the wide valley which lay north of the lines and on the other side of which were the hills that would doubtless become the French positions. The stretch of lowland had once been rich and fertile, but the engineers had breached the embankment of the Tagus, letting the river flood much of the country beneath the fort. The floods came and went with the tide, which was high now, so that under Work Number 119 was a stretch of wind-rippled water that loosely followed the course of a stream that came from the west and meandered through the valley to its confluence with the Tagus.
The stream made a great double bend beneath the hill where Lawford spoke. It swerved from the northern side of the valley, almost reached the southern and then curved back to run into the Tagus. Inside the first bend, and on the British bank, was an ancient barn that was little more than a stone ruin in a grove of trees, while within the second curve, and thus on the French side of the stream, was what had once been a prosperous farm with a big house, some smaller cottages, a dairy and a pair of cattle sheds. All were abandoned now, people and livestock ordered south to escape the French, and the buildings looked forlorn in the inundated landscape. The farm itself was high and dry, perched on a small rise, so that it resembled an island in a wind-fretted lake, though as the tide ebbed the floods would slowly drain away, but the ground wo
uld still remain waterlogged and any French advance beside the Tagus would thus be forced to march westwards on the valley’s far side until it reached the drier ground somewhere near the half-ruined barn. The enemy could cross the stream there and advance on the British works, a possibility that Lawford raised with his officers. “And if the devils manage to put some heavy guns in that barn,” he went on, “or in those farm buildings,” he pointed to the farm which lay a half mile east of the barn and was linked to the smaller building by an embanked track that was carried over the stream by a stone bridge, though the flooding meant that only the bridge’s parapets were now visible, “then they can bombard these positions. That will not happen, gentlemen.”
Major Leroy thought it a most unlikely proposition. To get to the dilapidated barn the French would have to cross the stream, while to reach the farm would mean negotiating a long stretch of waterlogged ground, and neither would make it easy to move guns and caissons. Leroy suspected Lawford knew that, but he also reckoned the Colonel did not want his men becoming complacent. “And to stop it from happening, gentlemen,” Lawford said, “we’re going to patrol. We’re going to patrol vigorously. Company size patrols, down in the valley, so that any damned Frog who shows his nose will get it bloodied.” Lawford turned and pointed at Captain Slingsby, “Your task, Cornelius…”
“Patrol,” Slingsby said quickly, “vigorously.”
“Is to establish a picquet in that barn,” Lawford said, irritated at the interruption. “Day and night, Cornelius. The light company will live there, you understand?”
Slingsby stared down at the old barn beside the stream. The roof had partially fallen in and the place looked nothing like as comfortable as the billets that the light company had been given in the village behind Work Number 119, and for a moment Slingsby did not seem to entirely understand his orders. “We’re taking up residence there, sir?” he asked plaintively.
“In the barn, Cornelius,” Lawford replied patiently. “Fortify the place and stay there unless the whole damned French army attacks you, upon which eventuality you have my reluctant permission to withdraw.” The other officers chuckled, recognizing a joke, but Slingsby nodded seriously. “I want the light company in position by nightfall,” Lawford went on, “and you’ll be relieved on Sunday. In the meantime our patrols will keep you supplied with provisions.” Lawford paused because a nearby telegraph station had begun to transmit a message and the officers had all turned to watch the inflated pigs’ bladders being hoisted up the mast. “And now, gentlemen,” Lawford retrieved their attention, “I want you to walk this section of the line,” he gestured to the east, “familiarize yourselves with every fort, every path, every inch. We might be here a long time. Cornelius? A word.”
The other officers walked away, going to explore the line between Work Number 119 and Work Number 114. Lawford, when he was alone with Slingsby, frowned at the smaller man. “It pains me to ask this,” he said, “but are you drunk?”
Slingsby did not answer at once, instead he looked indignant and it seemed as though he would return a sharp answer, but then words failed him and he just turned away and gazed across the valley. The rain on his face made it appear as though he were crying. “Drank too much last night,” he finally confessed in an abject voice, “and I apologize.”
“We all do from time to time,” Lawford said, “but not every night.”
“Good for you,” Slingsby said.
“Good for me?” Lawford was lost.
“Rum deters the fever,” Slingsby said. “It’s a known thing. It’s a feb—” He paused, then tried again. “A febri—”
“A febrifuge,” Lawford said for him.
“Exactly,” Slingsby said vigorously. “Doctor Wetherspoon told me that. He was our fellow in the West Indies and a good man, a very good man. Rum, he said, it’s the only feb—The only thing that works. Died in their hundreds, they did! But not me. Rum. It’s medicine!”
Lawford sighed. “I have offered you an opportunity,” he said quietly, “and it is an opportunity most men would seize gladly. You have command of a company, Cornelius, and it’s a very fine one, and it seems ever more likely that it will need a new captain. Sharpe?” Lawford shrugged, wondering where on earth Sharpe was. “If Sharpe doesn’t return,” he continued, “then I shall have to appoint another man.”
Slingsby just nodded.
“You are the obvious candidate,” Lawford said, “but not if you are inebriated.”
“You’re right, sir,” Slingsby said, “and I apologize. Fear of fever, sir, that’s all it is.”
“My fear,” Lawford said, “is that the French will attack in the dawn. Half light, Cornelius, a touch of morning mist? We won’t be able to see much from up here, but if you’re in the barn then you’ll see them quickly enough. That’s why I’m putting you there, Cornelius. A picquet! I hear your muskets and rifles firing and I know the enemy is out and that you’re retreating here. So keep a good watch and don’t let me down!”
“I won’t, sir. I won’t.” If Slingsby had been more than a little drunk when he arrived at the bastion he was now stone-cold sober. He had not meant to be drunk. He had woken feeling cold and damp and he had thought a little rum might revive him. He never meant to drink too much, but the rum gave him confidence and he needed it for he was finding the light company very hard to manage. They did not like him, he knew that, and the rum gave him the drive to cope with their obdurate behavior. “We won’t let you down, sir,” he said, meaning every word.
“That’s good,” Lawford said warmly, “very good.” In truth he did not need the picquet in the old barn, but if he was to keep the promise he had given to his wife then he had to make a decent officer out of Slingsby, so now he would give him a simple job, one that would keep him alert instead of idling behind the lines. This was Slingsby’s chance to show he could manage men, and Lawford was generous in giving it to him. “And I insist on one last thing,” Lawford said.
“Anything, sir,” Slingsby said eagerly.
“No rum, Cornelius. Don’t take your medicine to the picquet, understand? And if you feel you’re getting the fever, come back and we’ll let the doctor have at you. Wear flannel, eh? That’s supposed to ward it off.”
“Flannel,” Slingsby said, nodding.
“And what you do now,” the Colonel went on patiently, “is take a dozen men and reconnoiter the farm. There’s a path down the hill behind Work Number 118,” he pointed, “and meanwhile the rest of your company can get ready. Clean muskets, sharp bayonets, fresh flints and full cartridge boxes. Tell Mister Knowles you’re drawing rations for three days and be ready to deploy this afternoon.”
“Very good, sir,” Slingsby said, “and thank you, sir.”
Lawford watched Slingsby go down the steps, then he sighed and took out his telescope which he mounted on a tripod already placed on the bastion. He stooped to the eyepiece and gazed at the northern landscape. The hills across the valley were crowned with three broken windmills, nothing left of them but their white stone stumps. Those, he supposed, would become French watchtowers. He swung the glass to the right, coming at last to a glimpse of the Tagus which swept wide towards the sea. A Royal Navy gunboat was anchored in the river, its ensign hanging limp in the rain. “If they come,” a voice spoke behind Lawford, “then they can’t use the road because it’s flooded, so they’ll be forced to make a detour and come straight up here.”
Lawford straightened from the glass and saw it was Major Hogan who was swathed in an oilskin cape and had a black oilskin cover over his cocked hat. “You’re well?” Lawford greeted the Irishman.
“I can feel a cold coming on,” Hogan said, “a damned cold. First of the winter, eh?”
“Not winter yet, Hogan.”
“Feels like it. May I?” Hogan gestured at the telescope.
“Be my guest,” Lawford said, and courteously wiped the rain from the outer lens. “How’s the Peer?”
“His lordship thrives,” Hogan said, stoopi
ng to the glass, “and sends his regards. He’s angry, of course.”
“Angry?”
“All those damned croakers, Lawford, who say the war’s lost. Men who write home and get their block-headed opinions in the newspapers. He’d like to shoot the whole damned lot of them.” Hogan was silent for a few seconds as he gazed at the British gunboat in the river, then he turned a mischievous look on Lawford. “You’re not writing home with a bad opinion of his lordship’s strategy, are you, Lawford?”
“Good Lord, no!” Lawford said, honestly.
Hogan bent to the glass again. “The flooding isn’t all we hoped for,” he said, “or what Colonel Fletcher hoped for. But it should suffice. They can’t use the road, anyway, so what the bastards will do, Lawford, is march inland. Follow the base of those hills,” Hogan was tracking the possible French route with the telescope, “and somewhere near that abandoned barn they’ll cross over and come straight at you.”
“Exactly what I’d surmised,” Lawford said, “and then they’ll advance into that valley.” He nodded to the low ground that curled about the hill.
“Where they’ll die,” Hogan said with an indecent satisfaction. He stood up straight and winced at a twinge in his back. “In truth, Lawford, I don’t expect them to try. But they might get desperate. Any news of Sharpe?”
Lawford hesitated, surprised by the question, then realized that it was probably the reason Hogan had sought him out. “None.”
“Bloody lost, is he?”
“I fear it’s time to write him out of the books,” Lawford said, meaning that he could officially declare Sharpe missing and so create a vacant captainship.
“A bit premature, don’t you think?” Hogan suggested vaguely. “Your affair, of course, Lawford, your affair entirely, and no damned business of mine whether you write him out or not.” He stooped to the glass again and stared at one of the broken mills that crowned a hilltop across the wide valley. “What was he doing when he went missing?”
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 4: Sharpe's Escape, Sharpe's Fury, Sharpe's Battle Page 32