Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (54 page)

‘They’re under arrest, Sergeant. You’ll have to carry those two.’

He stepped outside the hovel into the foetid alleyway. ‘Kirby?’

‘Sir?’

‘You can go.’ The man ran off. Sharpe did not want him to face the four deserters whose arrest he had caused. ‘You others. Inside.’

He stared up between the narrowing walls at the patch of sky. Swallows flashed across the opening, the colours were deepening into night, and tomorrow there would be executions. But first there was Josefina. Harper came to the door. ‘We’re ready, sir.’

‘Then let’s go.’

Sharpe woke with a start, sat up, instinctively reached for a weapon and then, realising where he was, sank back on the pillow. He was covered with sweat though the night was cool and a small breeze stirred the edges of the curtains either side of the open window, through which he could see a full moon. Josefina sat beside the bed, watching him, a glass of wine in her hand. ‘You were dreaming.’

‘Yes.’

‘What about?’

‘My first battle.’ He did not say any more but in his dream he had been unable to load the Brown Bess, the bayonet would not fit the muzzle, and the French kept coming and laughing at the frightened boy on the wet plains of Flanders. Boxtel, it had been called, and he rarely thought of the messy fight in the damp field. He looked at the girl. ‘What about you?’ He patted the bed. ‘Why are you up?’

She shrugged. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ She had put on some kind of dark robe, and only her face and the hand holding the glass were visible in the unlit room.

‘Why couldn’t you sleep?’

‘I was thinking. About what you said.’

‘It may not happen.’

She smiled at him. ‘No.’

Somewhere in the town a dog barked but there were no other sounds. Sharpe thought of the prisoners and wondered if they were spending their last night awake and listening to the same dog. He thought back to the evening after he had come back from the guardroom and the long conversation with Josefina. She wanted to reach Madrid, was desperate to reach Madrid, and Sharpe had told her he thought it unlikely that the allies would get as far as Spain’s capital. Sharpe thought that Josefina had little idea why she wanted to reach Madrid; it was the dream city for her, the pot of gold at the end of a fading rainbow, and he was jealous of her desire to get there. ‘Why not go back to Lisbon?’

‘My husband’s family won’t welcome me, not now.’

‘Ah, Edward.’

‘Duarte.’ Her correction was automatic.

‘Then go home.’ They had had this conversation before. He tried to force her to reject every option but staying near him, as though he thought he could afford to keep her.

‘Home? You don’t understand. They will force me to wait for him just like his parents do. In a convent or in a dark room, it doesn’t matter.’ Her voice was edged with despair. She had been brought up in Oporto, the daughter of a merchant who was rich enough to mix with the important English families in the town who dominated the Port trade. She had learned English as a child because that language was the tongue of the wealthy and powerful in her home town. Then she had married Duarte, ten years her senior, and Keeper of the King’s Falcons in Lisbon. It was a courtier’s job, far from any falcons, and she had loved the glitter of the palace, the balls, the fashionable life. Then, two years before, when the Royal Family had fled to Brazil, Duarte had taken a mistress instead of his wife, and she had been left in the big house with his parents and sisters. ‘They wanted me to go into a convent. Can you believe that? That I should wait for him in a convent, a dutiful wife, while he fathers bastards on that woman?’

Sharpe rolled off the bed and walked to the window. He leaned on the black ironwork, oblivious of his nakedness, and stared towards the east as if, in the night sky, he might see the reflection of the French fires. They were there, a long day’s march away, but there was nothing to be seen except the moonlight on the countryside and the falling roofs of the town. Josefina came and stood beside him and ran her fingers down the scars on his back. ‘What happens tomorrow?’

Sharpe turned and looked down on her. ‘They get shot.’

‘It’s quick?’

‘Yes.’ There was no point in telling her of the times when the bullets missed and the officers had to walk up and blow the heads apart with a pistol. He put an arm round her and drew her to him, smelling her hair. She rested her head on his chest, her fingers still exploring the scars. ‘I’m frightened.’ Her voice was very small.

‘Of them?’

‘Yes.’

Gibbons and Berry had been in the guardroom when the deserters had been brought in. Sir Henry was there, rubbing his hands, and in his delight at the capture of the fugitives had effusively thanked Sharpe, all enmity suddenly put aside. The court-martial was a formality, a matter of moments, and then the paper had gone to be signed by the General and the fate of the four men sealed. Sharpe, for a few moments, had been left in the room with the two Lieutenants, but nothing had been said to him. They had talked quietly, occasionally laughing, looking at him as if to provoke his anger, but it was the wrong time and place. It would come. He tilted her face towards him. ‘Would you need me if they were not here?’

She nodded. ‘You still don’t understand. I’m a married woman and I’ve run away. Oh, I know he’s done worse, but that does not count against him. The day I left Duarte’s parents I became alone. Do you see? I can’t go back there, my parents will not forgive me. I thought in Madrid…’ She tailed away.

‘And Christian Gibbons said he would look after you in Madrid?’

She nodded again. ‘Other girls went, you know that. There are so many officers. But now.’ She stopped again. He knew what she was thinking.

‘Now you’re worried. No Madrid and you’re with someone who has no money and you’re thinking of all those nights in the fields or flea-ridden cottages?’

She smiled up at him and Sharpe felt the pang of her beauty. ‘One day, Richard, you’ll be a Colonel with a big horse, and lots of money, and you’ll be horrible to all the Captains and Lieutenants.’

He laughed. ‘But not quickly enough for you?’ He had spoken the truth, he knew, but it did not help her. There were other girls, girls of good family like Josefina, who had risked everything to run to the soldiers. But they had been unmarried and had found refuge in a fast wedding, and their families had been forced to make the best of it. But Josefina? Sharpe knew she would find a man richer than he, a cavalry officer with money to spare and an eye for a woman, and her affection for Sharpe would be overridden by the need for comfort and security. He pulled her very tight to his chest, feeling the night air chill on his skin. ‘I’ll look after you.’

‘Promise?’ Her voice was muffled.

‘I promise.’

‘Then I won’t be frightened.’ She pulled slightly away. ‘You’re cold?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Come on.’ She led him back into the dark room. He knew that she was his for a short time, and only a short time, and he was saddened by it. Outside the dog barked on at the empty sky.

The Battalion paraded in companies forming three sides of a hollow square. The fourth side, instead of the accustomed flogging triangle, was made up of two leaning poplar trees that grew beside a shallow pool. The fringes of the pond had been trampled by cavalry, and the mud had dried ochre lumps streaked with green scum. Between the trees lay the Battalion’s bass drum, and on its grey stretched skin there rested an open Bible and prayer book. There was no wind to stir the pages, just the sun continuing its relentless assault on the plain and on the men who sweated at attention in full uniform.

Sharpe stood before the Light Company at the left of the line and stared over the heads of the Grenadier Company opposite at the castle of Oropesa. It dominated the plain for miles, its curtain walls rising like stone slabs above the roofs of the town and Sharpe wondered idly what it must have been like to ride in full knightly armour in the days when the castle was a real obstacle. Today’s modern siege artillery would punch through the seemingly solid walls and bring the stones tumbling into the steep streets in devastating avalanches. Sweat stung his eyes, dripped onto his green jacket, trickled down his spine. He felt curiously light-hearted, not at all a fit state to watch deserters blown into eternity, and as he stared at the castle he thought of Josefina and somehow, in the morning light, the bargain did not seem such a bad one. She was his for as long as she needed him but, in return, she offered him her happiness and vivacity. And when the arrangement ends? A good soldier, he knew, always planned for the battle after the one ahead, but he could make no plans for the moment when Josefina would take herself away.

He looked at Gibbons, who paraded on his horse with the Light Company. Simmerson was mounted in the centre of the square next to General ‘Daddy’ Hill who, with his staff, had come to fulfill his duty of watching execution done. Gibbons sat, stony faced, and stared straight ahead. As soon as this parade was done Sharpe knew he would return to the safety of his uncle’s side, and the Lieutenant had spoken no word to Sharpe, just ridden his horse over to the company, turned it, and sat still. There was no need for words. Sharpe could feel the hatred almost radiating from the man, the determination for revenge, for Sharpe had not only gained the promotion Gibbons wanted but worse than that the Rifleman had the girl too. Sharpe knew the matter was unresolved.

Fourteen men, all guilty of minor crimes, marched into the square and were stood facing the trees. Their punishment was to act as the firing squad, and as the men stood there, their muskets grounded, they stared with fascination at the two newly dug graves and the crude wooden coffins that waited for Ibbotson and Moss. The other two prisoners had died in the night. Sharpe half wondered whether Parton, the Battalion’s doctor, had helped them on their way rather than force the Battalion to watch two desperately sick men lashed to the trees and shot to pieces. Sharpe had seen many executions. As a child he had watched a public hanging and listened to the excitement of the crowd as the victims jerked and twitched on the gallows. He had seen men blown from the muzzles of decorated brass cannon, their bodies shredded into the Indian landscape, he had watched comrades tortured by the Tippoo’s women, fed to wild beasts, he had hung men by a casual roadside himself, yet most often he had seen men shot in the full panoply of ritual execution. He had never enjoyed the spectacle; he supposed no sensible man did, but he knew it was necessary. Somehow this execution was subtly different. It was not that Moss and Ibbotson did not deserve to die, they had deserted, planned to join the enemy, and there could be no end for them other than the firing squad. Yet coming on top of the fight at the bridge, coming on top of Simmerson’s floggings, his repeated condemnation of his men for losing the colour, the execution was seen by the Battalion as summing up Simmerson’s contempt and hatred for them. Sharpe had rarely felt such sullen resentment from any troops.

In the distance, threading its way through the crowds of British and Spanish spectators, the Provost-Marshal’s party appeared, prisoners and guard. Forrest walked his horse forward of Simmerson.

‘’Talion! Fix Bayonets!’

Blades scraped out of scabbards and steel rippled round the ranks of the companies. The men must die with due ceremony. Sharpe watched Gibbons bend down to talk to the sixteen-year-old Ensign Denny.

‘Your first execution, Mr Denny?’

The youngster nodded. He was pale and apprehensive, like the younger soldiers in the ranks. Gibbons chuckled. ‘Best target practice the men can have!’

‘Quiet!’ Sharpe glared at his officers. Gibbons smiled secretly.

‘’Talion!’ Forrest’s horse edged sideways. The Major calmed it. ‘Shoulder arms!’

The lines of men became tipped with bayonets. There was silence. The prisoners wore trousers and shirts, no jackets, and Sharpe supposed them to be half full of rough brandy or rum. A Chaplain walked with them, the mumble of his words just carrying to Sharpe, but the prisoners seemed to take no notice of him as they were marched to the trees. The drama moved inexorably forward. Moss and Ibbotson were tied to the trunks, blindfolded, and Forrest stood the firing squad to attention. Ibbotson, the son of the vicarage, was nearest to Sharpe, and he could see the man’s lips moving frenetically. Was he praying? Sharpe could not hear the words.

Forrest gave no commands. The firing party had been rehearsed to obey signals rather than orders, and they presented and aimed to jerks of the Major’s sword. Suddenly Ibbotson’s voice came clear and loud, the educated tones filled with desperation, and Sharpe recognised the words. ‘We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep…’ Forrest dropped the sword, the muskets banged, the bodies jerked maniacally, and a flock of birds burst screeching from the branches. Two Lieutenants ran forward with drawn pistols, but the musket balls had done their work and the bodies hung with crushed and bloodied chests in front of the lingering white musket smoke.

A murmur, barely audible, went through the ranks of the Battalion. Sharpe turned on his men.

‘Quiet!’

The Light Company stood silent. The smoke from the firing party smelt pungent in the air. The murmur became louder. Officers and Sergeants screamed orders, but the men of the South Essex had found their protest and the humming became more insistent. Sharpe kept his own company quiet by sheer force, by standing glaring at them with drawn sword, but he could do nothing about the contempt that they showed on their faces. It was not aimed at him, it was for Simmerson, and the Colonel twitched his reins in the center of the square and bellowed for silence. The noise increased. Sergeants ran into the ranks and struck at men they suspected of making any sound, officers screamed at companies, adding to the din, and from beyond the Battalion came the jeers of the British soldiers from other units who had drifted out of the town to watch the execution.

Gradually the moaning and humming died away, as slowly as the executioners’ smoke thinned into the air, and the Battalion stood silent and motionless. ‘Daddy’ Hill had not moved or spoken but now he motioned to his aides-de-camp and the small group trotted delicately away, past the firing squad who now lifted the bodies into the coffins, and off towards Oropesa. Hill’s face was expressionless. Sharpe had never met ‘Daddy’ Hill but he knew, as did the rest of the army, that the General had a reputation as a kind and considerate officer and Sharpe wondered what he thought of Simmerson and his methods. Rowland Hill commanded six Battalions but Sharpe was certain none would offer him as many problems as the South Essex.

Simmerson rode his horse to the graves, wrenched the beast round, and stood in his stirrups. His face was suffused with blood, his rage obvious and throbbing, his voice shrill in the silence. ‘There will be a parade for punishment at six o’clock this evening. Full equipment! You will pay for that display!’ The men stood silent. Simmerson lowered his rump onto the saddle. ‘Major Forrest! Carry on!’

Company by company, the Battalion marched past the open coffins, and the men were made to stare at the mangled bodies waiting by their graves. There, said the army, is what will happen to you if you run away; and more than that, because the names of the dead men would be sent home to be posted on their parish notice boards so that shame could descend on their families as well. The companies marched past in silence.

When the Battalion was gone and the other spectators had gawped at the remains, a working party lowered the coffins into the graves. Earth was shovelled into the holes, the grass turves carefully replaced so that to a casual eye there were no visible signs of the burials. They were deliberately left unmarked, the final insult, but when all the soldiers had gone Spanish peasants found the graves and hammered wooden crosses into the turf. It was no measure of respect, just the precaution of sensible men. The dead were Protestants, buried in unhallowed ground, and the crude crosses were there to keep the unquiet spirits firmly underground. The people of Spain had enough problems with the war; the armies of France, Spain, and now Britain crossed and recrossed their land. There was little a peasant could do about that, or about the men who fought the Guerilla, the little war. But the ghosts of heathen Englishmen were another matter. Who needed them to scare the cattle and stalk the fields by night? They hammered the crosses deep and slept easy.