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

by Bernard Cornwell

  The question was prompted by the sudden appearance of a pistol, which Sharpe laid on the table. Pumphrey was about to protest, then saw Sharpe was looking past him. He twisted to see a tall black-cloaked man coming toward them. The man had a long face with a lantern jaw that somehow seemed familiar to Sharpe.

  The man took a chair from another table, swung it around, and sat between Sharpe and Pumphrey. He glanced at the pistol, shrugged, and waved at the serving girl. "Vino tinto, por favor," he said brusquely. "I'm not here to fight," he said, speaking English now, "so you can put the gun away."

  Sharpe turned it so the muzzle pointed directly at the man, who took off his damp cloak, revealing that he was a priest. "My name," he spoke to Lord Pumphrey now, "is Father Salvador Montseny. Certain persons have asked me to negotiate on their behalf."

  "Certain persons?" Lord Pumphrey asked.

  "You cannot expect me to reveal their identity, my lord." The priest glanced at Sharpe's pistol and it was then that Sharpe recognized him. This was the priest who had been at Nuñez's house, the one who had ordered him out of the alleyway. "I have no personal interest in this matter," Father Montseny went on, "but those who asked me to speak for them believed you would take confidence that they chose a priest."

  "Do hide that gun, Sharpe," Lord Pumphrey said. "You're frightening the lawyers. They think you might be one of their clients." He waited as Sharpe lowered the flint and put the pistol under his cloak. "You speak excellent English, Father."

  "I have a talent for languages," Montseny said modestly. "I grew up speaking French and Catalan. Then I learned Spanish and English."

  "French and Catalan? You're from the border?"

  "I am Catalonian." Father Montseny paused as coffee and a flask of red wine were placed on the table. He poured himself wine. "The price, I am instructed to tell you, is three thousand guineas in gold."

  "Are you authorized to negotiate?" Lord Pumphrey asked.

  Montseny said nothing. Instead of answering, he took a scrap of sugar from a bowl and dropped it into his wine.

  "Three thousand guineas is risible," Pumphrey said, "quite exorbitant. But to end what is an embarrassment His Majesty's government is prepared to pay six hundred."

  Father Montseny gave a slight shake of the head as if to suggest the counteroffer was absurd, then took an empty glass from the next table and poured Sharpe a glass of wine. "And who are you?" he asked.

  "I look after him," Sharpe said, jerking his head at Lord Pumphrey and wishing he had not because pain whipped through his skull.

  Montseny looked at the bandage on Sharpe's head. He seemed amused. "They gave you a wounded man?" he asked Lord Pumphrey.

  "They gave me the best they had," Pumphrey said apologetically.

  "You hardly need protecting, my lord," Montseny said.

  "You forget," Lord Pumphrey said, "that the last man to negotiate for the letters was murdered."

  "That is regrettable," the priest said sternly, "but I am assured it was the fault of the man himself. He attempted to seize the letters by force. I am authorized to accept two thousand guineas."

  "One thousand," Pumphrey said, "with an undertaking that no more will be published in El Correo."

  Montseny poured himself more wine. "My principals," he said, "are willing to use their influence on the newspaper, but it will cost you two thousand guineas."

  "Alas," Pumphrey said, "we only have fifteen hundred left in the embassy's strongbox."

  "Fifteen hundred," Father Montseny said, as if he was thinking about it.

  "For which sum, Father, your principals must give us all the letters and an undertaking to publish no more."

  "I think that will be acceptable," Father Montseny said. He gave a small smile, as if satisfied with the outcome of the negotiations, then leaned back. "I could offer you some advice that would save you the money, if you wish?"

  "I should be most grateful," Pumphrey said with exaggerated politeness.

  "Any day now your army will sail, yes? You will land your troops somewhere to the south and come north to face Marshal Victor. You think he doesn't know? What do you think will happen?"

  "We'll win," Sharpe growled.

  The priest ignored him. "Lapeña will have, what? Eight thousand men? Nine? And your General Graham will take three or four thousand? So Lapeña will have command, and he's an old woman. Marshal Victor will have just as many, probably more, and Lapeña will take fright. He'll panic, and Marshal Victor will crush him. Then you will have very few soldiers left to protect the city, and the French will storm the walls. It will take many deaths, but by summer Cádiz will be French. The letters won't matter then, will they?"

  "In that case," Lord Pumphrey said, "why not just give them to us?"

  "Fifteen hundred guineas, my lord. I am instructed to tell you that you must bring the money yourself. You may have two companions, no more, and a note will be sent to the embassy telling you where the exchange will be made. You may expect the note after today's oraciones." Montseny drained his glass, stood, and dropped a dollar on the table. "There, I have discharged my function," he said, nodded abruptly, and left.

  Sharpe spun the dollar coin on the table. "At least he paid for his wine."

  "We can expect a note after the evening prayers," Lord Pumphrey said, frowning. "Does that mean he wants the money tonight?"

  "Of course. You can trust the bugger on that," Sharpe said, "but on nothing else."

  "Nothing else?"

  "I saw him at the newspaper. He's up to his bloody eyes in it. He's not going to give you the letters. He'll take the money and run."

  Pumphrey stirred his coffee. "I think you're wrong. The letters are a depreciating asset."

  "Whatever the hell that means."

  "It means, Sharpe, that he's right. Lapeña will have command of the army. You know what the Spanish call Lapeña? Doña Manolito. The lady Manolito. He's a nervous old woman and Victor will thrash him."

  "Sir Thomas is good," Sharpe said loyally.

  "Perhaps. But Doña Manolito will command the army, not Sir Thomas, and if Marshal Victor beats Doña Manolito then Cádiz will fall, and when Cádiz falls the politicians in London will fall over one another in their race to the negotiating chamber. The war costs money, Sharpe, and half of Parliament already believe it cannot be won. If Spain falls, what hope is there?"

  "Lord Wellington."

  "Who clings to a corner of Portugal while Bonaparte bestrides Europe. If the last scrap of Spain falls, then Britain will make peace. If, no, when Victor defeats Doña Manolito the Spaniards won't wait for Cádiz to fall. They'll negotiate. They would rather surrender Cádiz than see the city sacked. And when they surrender, the letters won't be worth a tin penny. That is what I mean by describing them as a depreciating asset. The admiral, if it is the admiral, would rather have the money now than a few worthless love letters in a month's time. So, yes, they're negotiating in good faith." Lord Pumphrey added a few small coins to the priest's dollar and stood. "We must get to the embassy, Richard."

  "He's lying," Sharpe warned.

  Lord Pumphrey sighed. "In diplomacy, Sharpe, we assume that everyone lies all the time. That way we make progress. Our enemies expect Cádiz to be French within a few weeks so they want their money now because after those few weeks there will be no money. They make hay while the sun shines, it is as simple as that."

  It was raining harder now and the wind was gusting strong. The signs over the shops were swinging wildly and a crash of thunder rumbled over the mainland, sounding uncannily like heavy artillery shots traveling overhead. Sharpe let Pumphrey guide him through the maze of narrow alleys to the embassy. They went through the arch that was guarded by a squad of bored Spanish soldiers and hurried across the courtyard, only to be checked by a voice from high above. "Pumps!" the voice called. "Up here!"

  Sharpe, like Lord Pumphrey, looked up to see the ambassador leaning out of a window of the embassy's watchtower, a modest five-story structure at the edge of the s
table yard. "Up here," Henry Wellesley called again, "and you, Mister Sharpe! Come on!" He sounded excited.

  Sharpe emerged onto the roofed platform to see that Brigadier Moon was lord of the tower. He had a chair and a footstool, and beside the chair was a telescope, while on a small table was a bottle of rum and beneath it a chamber pot. This tower had been equipped with windows to protect the upper platform from the weather, and it was plain that Moon had adopted the aerie. He had got to his feet now and, resting on his crutches, was looking eastward with the ambassador. "The ships!" Henry Wellesley greeted Sharpe and Lord Pumphrey.

  A whole host of small ships was scurrying through white-capped waves into the vast harbor of the Bay of Cádiz. They were odd-looking craft to Sharpe's eyes. They were single-masted and had one gigantic sail each. The sails were wedge-shaped, sharp at the front and massive at the stern. "Feluccas," the ambassador said, "not a word to attempt when drunk."

  "Felucky to get here before the storm broke," the brigadier commented, earning a smile from Henry Wellesley.

  The French mortars were trying to sink the feluccas but having no success. The sound of the guns was muted by the rain and wind. Sharpe could see the blossom of smoke from inside Fort Matagorda and Fort San José each time a mortar fired, but he could not see where the shells plummeted for the water was already too turbulent. The feluccas thrashed onward, heading for the southern end of the bay where the rest of the shipping was safely out of mortar range. They were pursued by dark squalls and seething rain as the storm spread southward. A lightning bolt cracked far away on the northern coast. "So the Spaniards kept their word!" Henry Wellesley said exultantly. "Those ships have come here all the way from the Balearics! A couple of days to provision them, then the army can embark." He was a man who looked as though his troubles were coming to an end. If the combined British and Spanish army could destroy the French siege works and drive Victor's forces away from Cádiz, then his political enemies would be neutered. The Cortes and the Spanish capital might even move back to a recaptured Seville and there would be the rare taste of victory in the air. "The plan," Henry Wellesley said to Sharpe, "is for Lapeña and Sir Thomas to rendezvous with troops from Gibraltar, then march north, take Victor in the rear, hammer him, and drive his troops out of Andalusia."

  "It's supposed to be a secret," the brigadier grumbled.

  "Some secret," Lord Pumphrey said sourly. "A priest just told me all about it."

  The ambassador looked alarmed. "A priest?"

  "Who seemed quite certain that Marshal Victor is entirely apprised of our plans to assault his lines."

  "Of course he's bloody apprised of them," the brigadier said. "Victor might have started his career as a trumpeter, but the man can count ships, can't he? Why else is the fleet gathering?" He turned back to watch the feluccas that were now out of range of the mortars that had fallen silent.

  "I think, Your Excellency, that we should confer," Lord Pumphrey said. "I have a proposal for you."

  The ambassador glanced at the brigadier who was studiously watching the ships. "A useful proposal?"

  "Most encouraging, Your Excellency."

  "Of course," Henry Wellesley said and headed for the stairs.

  "Come, Sharpe," Lord Pumphrey said imperiously, but as Sharpe followed His Lordship the brigadier snapped his fingers.

  "Stay here, Sharpe," Moon ordered.

  "I'll follow you," Sharpe told Pumphrey. "Sir?" he asked the brigadier when Wellesley and Pumphrey were gone.

  "What the devil are you doing here?"

  "I'm helping the ambassador, sir."

  "Helping the ambassador, sir," Moon mimicked Sharpe. "Is that why you stayed? You were supposed to ship back to Lisbon."

  "Weren't you supposed to as well, sir?" Sharpe asked.

  "Broken bones heal better on land," the brigadier said. "That's what the doctor told me. Stands to reason when you think about it. All that lurching about on ship? Doesn't help a bone knit, does it?" He grunted as he lowered himself into his chair. "I like it up here. You see things." He tapped the telescope.

  "Women, sir?" Sharpe asked. He could think of no other reason why a man with a broken leg would struggle to the top of a watchtower, and the tower did give Moon views of dozens of windows.

  "Mind your tongue, Sharpe," Moon said, "and tell me why you're still here."

  "Because the ambassador asked me to stay, sir, to help him."

  "Did you learn your impudence in the ranks, Sharpe? Or were you born with it?"

  "Being a sergeant helped, sir."

  "Being a sergeant?"

  "You have to deal with officers, sir. Day in, day out."

  "And you have no high opinion of officers?"

  Sharpe did not answer. Instead he gazed at the feluccas that were rounding into the wind and dropping anchors. The bay was a turmoil of whitecaps and small angry waves. "If you'll excuse me, sir?"

  "Is it anything to do with that woman?" Moon demanded.

  "What woman, sir?" Sharpe turned back from the stairs.

  "I can read a newspaper, Sharpe," Moon said. "What are you and that bloody little molly cooking up?"

  "Molly, sir?"

  "Pumphrey, you idiot. Or hadn't you noticed?" The question was a sneer.

  "I'd noticed, sir."

  "Because if you're too fond of him," the brigadier said nastily,

  "you've got a rival." Moon was delighted by the indignation on Sharpe's face. "I keep my eyes open, Sharpe. I'm a soldier. Best to keep your eyes open. You know who visits the molly's house?" he gestured through the window. The embassy was composed of a series of houses, gathered around two courtyards and a garden, and the brigadier pointed to a house in the smaller yard. "The ambassador, Sharpe, that's who! Sneaks into the molly's house. What do you think of that, then?"

  "I think Lord Pumphrey is an adviser to the ambassador, sir."

  "Advice that must be given at night?"

  "I wouldn't know, sir," Sharpe said, "and if you'll excuse me?"

  "Excused," Moon sneered, and Sharpe clattered down the tower stairs, going to the ambassador's study where he found Henry Wellesley staring into the garden where the rain crashed down. Lord Pumphrey was by the fire, warming his behind. "Captain Sharpe is of the opinion that Father Montseny was lying," Pumphrey told Wellesley as Sharpe entered.

  "Are you, Sharpe?" Wellesley asked without turning.

  "Don't trust him, sir."

  "A man of the cloth?"

  "We don't even know he's a real priest," Sharpe said, "and I saw him at the newspaper."

  "Whatever he is," Lord Pumphrey said tartly, "we have to deal with him."

  "Eighteen hundred guineas," the ambassador said, sitting at his desk, "good God." He was so appalled that he did not see the look Sharpe shot at Lord Pumphrey.

  Pumphrey, his peculation inadvertently revealed by the ambassador, looked innocent. "I would suggest, Your Excellency, that the Spaniards saw the ships arriving before we did. They conclude that our expedition will sail in the next day or two. That means battle within a fortnight and they are entirely confident of victory. And if the forces defending Cádiz are destroyed, then the letters become irrelevant. They would like to profit from them before that happens and thus the acceptance of my offer."

  "Eighteen hundred guineas, though," Henry Wellesley said.

  "Not your guineas," Pumphrey said.

  "Good God, Pumps, the letters are mine!"

  "Our opponents, Your Excellency, by publishing one letter, have made the correspondence into instruments of diplomacy. We are therefore justified in using His Majesty's funds to render them ineffectual." Lord Pumphrey made a pretty gesture with his right hand. "I shall lose the money, sir, in the accounts. Not difficult."

  "Not difficult!" Henry Wellesley retorted.

  "Subventions to the guerrilleros," Lord Pumphrey said smoothly, "purchase of information from agents, bribes to the deputies of the Cortes. We expend hundreds, thousands of guineas on such recipients and the Treasury has nev
er glimpsed a receipt yet. It's not difficult at all, Your Excellency."

  "Montseny will take the money," Sharpe said stubbornly, "and keep the letters."

  Both men ignored him. "He insists you make the exchange personally?" the ambassador asked Lord Pumphrey.

  "I suspect it is his way of assuring me that violence is not contemplated," Lord Pumphrey said. "No one would dare murder one of His Majesty's diplomats. It would cause too much of a ruction."

  "They killed Plummer," Sharpe said.

  "Plummer was not a diplomat," Lord Pumphrey said sharply.

  The ambassador looked at Sharpe. "Can you steal the letters, Sharpe?"

  "No, sir. I can probably destroy them, sir, but they're too well guarded to steal."

  "Destroy them," the ambassador said. "I assume that means violence?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I do not, I cannot, countenance acts that might aggravate our relationship with the Spanish," Henry Wellesley said. He rubbed his face with both hands. "Will they keep their word, Pumps? No more letters published?"

  "I imagine the admiral is content with the damage done by the first, my lord, and is eager for gold. I think he will keep his word." Pumphrey frowned as Sharpe made a noise of disgust.

  "Then so be it," Henry Wellesley said. "Buy them back, buy them back, and I apologize for causing this trouble."

  "The trouble, Your Excellency," Lord Pumphrey said, "will soon be done." He looked down at the ambassador's chess game. "We have come, I think," he said, "to the end of the matter. Captain Sharpe? I assume you will accompany me?"

  "I'll be there," Sharpe said grimly.

  "Then let us gather gold," Lord Pumphrey said lightly, "and be done with it."

  * * *

  THE NOTE came well after dark. Sharpe was waiting with his men in an empty stall of the embassy stables. His five men were all in cheap civilian clothes and looked subtly different. Hagman, who was thin anyway, looked like a beggar. Perkins resembled an unappealing street rat, one of the London boys who swept horse shit out of the way of pedestrians in hope of a coin. Slattery appeared menacing, a footpad who could turn violent at the slightest show of resistance. Harris looked like a man down on his luck, perhaps a drunken schoolmaster turned onto the streets, while Harper was like a countryman come to town, big and placid and out of place in his shabby broadcloth coat. "Sergeant Harper comes with me," Sharpe told them, "and the rest of you wait here. Don't get drunk! I might need you later tonight." He suspected this night's adventure would go sour. Lord Pumphrey might be optimistic about the outcome, but Sharpe wanted to be ready for the worst, and the riflemen were his reinforcements.