Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (13 page)

Sharpe was summoned to Colonel Christopher soon after sunrise and found the Colonel seated in the parlor and swathed in hot towels as Luis shaved him. “He used to be a barber,” the Colonel said. “Weren’t you a barber, Luis?”

“A good one,” Luis said.

“You look as if you could do with a barber, Sharpe,” Christopher said. “Cut your own hair, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Looks like it. Looks like the rats got to it.” The razor made a slight scratching noise as it glided down his chin. Luis wiped the blade with a flannel, scraped again. “My wife,” Christopher said, “will have to stay here. I ain’t happy.”

“No, sir?”

“But she ain’t safe anywhere else, is she? She can’t go to Oporto, it’s full of Frenchmen who are raping anything that isn’t dead and probably things that are dead if they’re still fresh, and they won’t get the place under decent control for another day or two, so she must stay here, and I’ll feel a great deal more comfortable, Sharpe, if she’s protected. So you will guard my wife, let your wounded fellow recover, have a rest, contemplate God’s ineffable ways and in a week or so I’ll be back and you can go.”

Sharpe looked out of the window where a gardener was scything the lawn, probably the first cut of the year. The scythe slid through the pale blossoms blown from the wisteria. “Mrs. Christopher could accompany you south, sir,” he suggested.

“No, she bloody well can’t,” Christopher snapped. “I told her it’s too dangerous. Captain Argenton and I have to get through the lines, Sharpe, and we won’t make things easier for ourselves by taking a woman with us.” The true reason, of course, was that he did not want Kate to meet her mother and tell her of the marriage in Vila Real de Zedes’s small church. “So Kate will stay here,” Christopher went on, “and you will treat her with respect.” Sharpe said nothing, just looked at the Colonel, who had the grace to shift uncomfortably. “Of course you will,” Christopher said. “I’ll have a word with the village priest on our way out and make sure his people deliver food for you. Bread, beans and a bullock should do your fellows for a week, eh? And for God’s sake don’t make yourselves obvious; I don’t want the French sacking this house. There’s some damn fine pipes of port in the cellars and I don’t want your rogues helping themselves.”

“They won’t, sir,” Sharpe said. Last night, when Christopher had first
told him that he and his men must stay at the Quinta, the Colonel had produced a letter from General Cradock. The letter had been carried around for so long that it was fragile, especially along the creases, and its ink was faded, but it clearly stated, in English and Portuguese, that Lieutenant-Colonel James Christopher was employed on work of great importance and enjoined every British and Portuguese officer to attend to the Colonel’s orders and offer him whatever help he might require. The letter, which Sharpe had no reason to believe was counterfeit, made it clear that Christopher was in a position to give Sharpe orders and so he now sounded more respectful than he had the previous evening. “They won’t touch the port, sir,” he said.

“Good. Good. That’s all, Sharpe, you’re dismissed.”

“You’re going south, sir?” Sharpe asked instead of leaving.

“I told you, we’re going to see General Cradock.”

“Then perhaps you’d take a letter to Captain Hogan for me, sir?”

“Write it quick, Sharpe, write it quick. I have to be off.”

Sharpe wrote it quick. He disliked writing for he had never learned his letters properly, not school proper, and he knew his expressions were as clumsy as his penmanship, but he wrote to tell Hogan that he was stranded north of the river, that he was ordered to stay at the Quinta do Zedes and that, just as soon as he was released from those orders, he would return to duty. He guessed that Christopher would read the letter and so he had made no mention of the Colonel nor offered any criticism of his orders. He gave the letter to Christopher who, dressed in civilian clothes and accompanied by the Frenchman who was also out of uniform, left in mid-morning. Luis rode with them.

Kate had also written a letter, this one to her mother. She had been pale and tearful in the morning, which Sharpe put down to her imminent parting from her new husband, but in truth Kate was upset that Christopher would not let her accompany him, an idea the Colonel had brusquely refused to consider. “Where we are going,” he had insisted, “is exceedingly dangerous. Going through the lines, my dear one, is perilous in the extreme and I cannot expose you to such risk.” He had seen Kate’s
unhappiness and taken both her hands in his. “Do you believe that I wish to part from you so soon? Do you not understand that only matters of duty, of the very highest duty, would tear me from your side? You must trust me, Kate. I think trust is very important in marriage, don’t you?”

And Kate, trying not to cry, had agreed that it was.

“You will be safe,” Christopher had told her. “Sharpe’s men will guard you. I know he looks uncouth, but he’s an English officer and that means he’s almost a gentleman. And you’ve got plenty of servants to chaperone you.” He frowned. “Does having Sharpe here worry you?”

“No,” Kate said, “I’ll just stay out of his way.”

“I’ve no doubt he’ll be glad of that. Lady Grace might have tamed him a little, but he’s plainly uncomfortable around civilized folk. I’m sure you’ll be quite safe till I return. I can leave you a pistol if you’re worried?”

“No,” Kate said, for she knew there was a pistol in her father’s old gun room and, anyway, she did not think she would need it to deter Sharpe.

“How long will you be away?” she asked.

“A week? At most ten days. One cannot be precise about such things, but be assured, my dearest, that I shall hurry back to you with the utmost dispatch.”

She gave him the letter for her mother. The letter, written by candlelight just before dawn, told Mrs. Savage that her daughter loved her, that she was sorry she had deceived her, but nevertheless she was married to a wonderful man, a man Mrs. Savage would surely come to love as though he were her own son, and Kate promised she would be back at her mother’s side just as soon as she possibly could. In the meantime she commended herself, her husband and her mother to God’s tender care.

Colonel James Christopher read his wife’s letter as he rode toward Oporto. Then he read Sharpe’s letter.

“Something important?” Captain Argenton asked him.

“Trivialities, my dear Captain, mere trivialities,” Christopher said and read Sharpe’s letter a second time. “Good God,” he said, “but they allow utter illiterates to carry the King’s commission these days,” and with those words he tore both letters into tiny shreds that he let fly upon the
cold, rain-laden wind so that, for a moment, the white scraps looked like snow behind his horse. “I assume,” he asked Argenton, “that we shall need a permit to cross the river?”

“I shall get one from headquarters,” Argenton said.

“Good,” Christopher said, “good,” because in his saddlebag, unknown to Captain Argenton, was a third letter, one that Christopher had written himself in polished, perfect French, and it was addressed, care of Marshal Soult’s headquarters, to Brigadier Henri Vuillard, the man who was most feared by Argenton and his fellow plotters. Christopher smiled, remembered the joys of the night and anticipated the greater joys to come. He was a happy man.

S
PIDER WEBS,”
Hagman whispered, “and moss. That’ll do it, sir.”

“Spider webs and moss?” Sharpe asked.

“A poultice, sir, of spider webs, moss and a little vinegar. Back it with brown paper and bind it on tight.”

“The doctor says you should just keep the bandage damp, Dan, nothing else.”

“We knows better than a doctor, sir.” Hagman’s voice was scarcely audible. “My mother always swore by vinegar, moss and webs.” He fell silent, except that every breath was a wheeze. “And brown paper,” he said after a long while. “And my father, sir, when he was shot by a gatekeeper at Dunham on the Hill, he was brought back by vinegar, moss and spider silk. She was a wonderful woman, my mother.”

Sharpe, sitting beside the bed, wondered if he would be different if he had known his mother, if he had been raised by a mother. He thought of Lady Grace, dead these three years, and how she had once told him he was full of rage and he wondered if that was what mothers did, took the rage away, and then his mind sheered away from Grace as it always did. It was just too painful to remember and he forced a smile. “You were talking about Amy in your sleep, Dan. Is she your wife?”

“Amy!” Hagman blinked in surprise. “Amy? I haven’t thought of Amy in years. She was the rector’s daughter, sir, the rector’s daughter, and
she did things no rector’s daughter ought to have even known about.” He chuckled and it must have hurt him for the smile vanished and he groaned, but Sharpe reckoned Hagman had a chance now. For the first two days he had been feverish, but the sweat had broken. “How long are we staying here, sir?”

“Long as we need to, Dan, but the truth is I don’t know. The Colonel gave me orders so we’ll just stay till he gives us more.” Sharpe had been reassured by the letter from General Cradock, and even more by the news that Christopher was going to meet the General. Plainly the Colonel was up to his neck in strange work, but Sharpe now wondered whether he had misconstrued Captain Hogan’s words about keeping a close eye on Christopher. Perhaps Hogan had meant that he wanted Christopher protected because his work was so important. Whatever, Sharpe had his orders now and he was satisfied that the Colonel had the authority to issue them, yet even so he felt guilty that he and his men were resting in the Quinta do Zedes while a war went on somewhere to the south and another to the east.

At least he assumed there was fighting for he had no real news in the next few days. A peddler came to the Quinta with a stock of bone buttons, steel pins and stamped tin medallions showing the Virgin Mary, and he said the Portuguese still held the bridge at Amarante where they were opposed by a big French army. He also claimed the French had gone south toward Lisbon, then reported a rumor which said Marshal Soult was still in Oporto. A friar who called at the Quinta to beg for food brought the same news. “Which is good,” Sharpe told Harper.

“Why’s that, sir?”

“Because Soult isn’t going to linger in Oporto if there’s a chance of Lisbon falling, is he? No, if Soult is in Oporto then that’s as far as the Frogs have got.”

“But they are south of the river?”

“A few bloody cavalrymen maybe,” Sharpe said dismissively, but it was frustrating not to know what was happening and Sharpe, to his surprise, found himself wanting Colonel Christopher to return so he could learn how the war progressed.

Kate doubtless wanted her husband to return even more than Sharpe did. For the first few days after the Colonel’s departure she had avoided Sharpe, but increasingly they began to meet in the room where Daniel Hagman lay. Kate brought the injured man food and then would sit and talk with him and, once she had convinced herself that Sharpe was not the scurrilous rogue she had supposed him to be, she invited him into the front of the house where she made tea in a pot decorated with embossed china roses. Lieutenant Vicente was sometimes invited, but he said almost nothing, just sat on the edge of a chair and gazed at Kate in sad adoration. If she spoke to him he blushed and stammered, and Kate would look away, seemingly equally embarrassed, yet she seemed to like the Portuguese Lieutenant. Sharpe sensed she was a lonely woman, and always had been. One evening, when Vicente was supervising the picquets, she spoke of growing up as a single child in Oporto and of being sent back to England for her education. “There were three of us girls in a parson’s house,” she told him. It was a cold evening and she sat close to a fire that had been lit in the tile-edged hearth of the Quinta’s parlor. “His wife made us cook, clean and sew,” Kate went on, “and the clergyman taught us scripture knowledge, some French, a little mathematics and Shakespeare.”

“More than I ever learned,” Sharpe said.

“You are not the daughter of a wealthy port merchant,” Kate said with a smile. Behind her, in the shadows, the cook knitted. Kate, when she was with Sharpe or Vicente, always had one of the women servants to chaperone her, presumably so that her husband would have no grounds for suspicion. “My father was determined to make me accomplished,” Kate went on, looking wistful. “He was a strange man, my father. He made wine, but wouldn’t drink it. He said God didn’t approve. The cellar here is full of good wine and he added to it every year and he never opened a bottle for himself.” She shivered and leaned toward the fire. “I remember it was always cold in England. I hated it, but my parents didn’t want me schooled in Portugal.”

“Why not?”

“They feared I might be infected with papism,” she said, fidgeting
with the tassels on the edge of her shawl. “My father was very opposed to papism,” she continued earnestly, “which is why, in his will, he insisted I must marry a communicant of the Church of England, or else.”

“Or else?”

“I would lose my inheritance,” she said.

“It’s safe now,” Sharpe said.

“Yes,” she said, looking up at him, the light from the small fire catching in her eyes, “yes, it is.”

“Is it an inheritance worth keeping?” Sharpe asked, suspecting the question was indelicate, but driven to it by curiosity.

“This house, the vineyards,” Kate said, apparently unoffended, “the lodge where the port is made. It’s all held in trust for me at the moment, though my mother enjoys the income, of course.”

“Why didn’t she go back to England?”

“She’s lived here for over twenty years,” Kate said, “so her friends are here now. But after this week?” She shrugged. “Maybe she will go back to England. She always said she’d go home to find a second husband.” She smiled at the thought.

“She couldn’t marry here?” Sharpe asked, remembering the good-looking woman climbing into the carriage outside the House Beautiful.

“They are all papists here, Mister Sharpe,” Kate said in mock reproof. “Though I suspect she did find someone not so long ago. She began to take more trouble with herself. Her clothes, her hair, but maybe I imagined it.” She was silent for a moment. The cook’s needles clicked and a log collapsed with a shower of sparks. One spat over the wire fire-guard and smoldered on a rug until Sharpe leaned forward and pinched it out. The Tompion clock in the hall struck nine. “My father,” Kate went on, “believed that the women in his family were prone to wander from the straight and narrow path which is why he always wanted a son to take over the lodge. It didn’t happen, so he tied our hands in the will.”

“You had to marry a Protestant Englishman?”

“A confirmed Anglican, anyway,” Kate said, “who was willing to change his name to Savage.”

“So it’s Colonel Savage now, is it?”

“He will be,” Kate said. “He said he would sign a paper before a notary in Oporto and then we’ll send it to the trustees in London. I don’t know how we send letters home now, but James will find a way. He’s very resourceful.”

“He is,” Sharpe said dryly. “But does he want to stay in Portugal and make port?”

“Oh yes!” Kate said.

“And you?”

“Of course! I love Portugal and I know James wants to stay. He declared as much not long after he arrived at our house in Oporto.” She said that Christopher had come to the House Beautiful in the New Year and he had lodged there for a while, though he spent most of his time riding in the north. She did not know what he did there. “It wasn’t my business,” she told Sharpe.

“And what’s he doing in the south now? That’s not your business either?”

“Not unless he tells me,” she said defensively, then frowned at him. “You don’t like him, do you?”

Sharpe was embarrassed, not knowing what to say. “He’s got good teeth,” he said.

That grudging statement made Kate look pained. “Did I hear the clock strike?” she asked.

Sharpe took the hint. “Time to check the sentries,” he said and he went to the door, glancing back at Kate and noticing, not for the first time, how delicate her looks were and how her pale skin seemed to glow in the firelight, and then he tried to forget her as he started on his tour of the picquets.

Sharpe was working the riflemen hard, patrolling the Quinta’s lands, drilling on its driveway, working them long hours so that the little energy they had left was spent in grumbling, but Sharpe knew how precarious their situation was. Christopher had airily ordered him to stay and guard Kate, but the Quinta could never have been defended against even a small French force. It was high on a wooded spur, but the hill rose
behind it even higher and there were thick woods on the higher ground which could have soaked up a corps of infantry who would then have been able to attack the manor house from the higher ground with the added advantage of the trees to give them cover. But higher still the trees ended and the hill rose to a rocky summit where an old watchtower crumbled in the winds and from there Sharpe spent hours watching the countryside.

He saw French troops every day. There was a valley north of Vila Real de Zedes that carried a road leading east toward Amarante and enemy artillery, infantry and supply wagons traveled the road each day and, to keep them safe, large squadrons of dragoons patrolled the valley. Some days there were outbreaks of firing, distant, faint, half heard, and Sharpe guessed that the country people were ambushing the invaders and he would stare through his telescope, trying to see where the actions took place, but he never saw the ambushes and none of the partisans came near Sharpe and nor did the French, though he was certain they must have known that a stranded squad of British riflemen were at Vila Real de Zedes. Once he even saw some dragoons trot to within a mile of the Quinta and two of their officers stared at the elegant house through telescopes, yet they made no move against it. Had Christopher arranged that?

Nine days after Christopher had left, the headman of the village brought Vicente a newspaper from Oporto. It was an ill-printed sheet and Vicente was puzzled by it. “I’ve never heard of the
Diario do Porto
,” he told Sharpe, “and it is nonsense.”

“Nonsense?”

“It says Soult should declare himself king of Northern Lusitania! It says there are many Portuguese people who support the idea. Who? Why would they? We have a king already.”

“The French must be paying the newspaper,” Sharpe guessed, though what else the French were doing was a mystery for they left him alone.

The doctor who came to see Hagman thought Marshal Soult was
gathering his forces in readiness to strike south and did not want to fritter men away in bitter little skirmishes across the northern mountains. “Once he possesses all Portugal,” the doctor said, “then he will scour you away.” He wrinkled his nose as he lifted the stinking compress from Hagman’s chest, then he shook his head in amazement for the wound was clean. Hagman’s breathing was easier, he could sit up in bed now and was eating better.

Vicente left the next day. The doctor had brought news of General Silveira’s army in Amarante and how it was valiantly defending the bridge across the Tamega, and Vicente decided his duty lay in helping that defense, but after three days he returned because there were too many dragoons patrolling the countryside between Vila Real de Zedes and Amarante. The failure made him dejected. “I am wasting my time,” he told Sharpe.

“How good are your men?” Sharpe asked.

The question puzzled Vicente. “Good? As good as any, I suppose.”

“Are they?” Sharpe asked, and that afternoon he paraded every man, rifleman and Portuguese alike, and made them all fire three rounds in a minute from the Portuguese muskets. He did it in front of the house and timed the shots with the big grandfather clock.

Sharpe had no difficulty in firing the three shots. He had been doing this for half his life, and the Portuguese musket was British made and familiar to Sharpe. He bit open the cartridge, tasted the salt in the powder, charged the barrel, rammed down wadding and ball, primed the pan, cocked, pulled the trigger and felt the kick of the gun into his shoulder and then he dropped the butt and bit into the next cartridge and most of his riflemen were grinning because they knew he was good.

Sergeant Macedo was the only man other than Sharpe who fired his three shots within forty-five seconds. Fifteen of the riflemen and twelve of the Portuguese managed a shot every twenty seconds, but the rest were slow and so Sharpe and Vicente set about training them. Williamson, one of the riflemen who had failed, grumbled that it was stupid to make him learn how to fire a smoothbore musket when he was a rifleman. He made
the complaint just loud enough for Sharpe to hear and in the expectation that Sharpe would choose to ignore it, then looked aggrieved when Sharpe dragged him back out of the formation. “You’ve got a complaint?” Sharpe challenged him.

“No, sir.” Williamson, his big face surly, looked past Sharpe.

“Look at me,” Sharpe said. Williamson sullenly obeyed. “The reason you are learning to fire a musket like a proper soldier,” Sharpe told him, “is because I don’t want the Portuguese to think we’re picking on them.” Williamson still looked sullen. “And besides,” Sharpe went on, “we’re stranded miles behind enemy lines, so what happens if your rifle breaks? And there’s another reason besides.”

“What’s that, sir?” Williamson asked.

“If you don’t bloody do it,” Sharpe said, “I’ll have you on another charge, then another charge and another after that until you’re so damn fed up with punishment duty that you’ll have to shoot me to be rid of it.”