Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3: Sharpe's Trafalgar, Sharpe's Prey, Sharpe's Rifles (82 page)

The new Lieutenant still shouted as he climbed. ‘Rifles! To me! To me! To me!’ The chasseur must have heard him, for he turned his big black horse and spurred towards the Englishman.

The Lieutenant saw him coming, slung his empty rifle, and drew his sabre. ‘Come on, you bastard!’

The chasseur held his own sabre in his right hand and, to make his killing cut easy, directed his horse to the left of the Rifleman. The Lieutenant waited to swing his curved blade at the horse’s mouth. The cut would stop its charge dead, making it rear and twist away. He had seen off more horsemen than he could remember with such a stroke. The skill lay in the timing, and the Lieutenant hoped that the horse’s panicked evasion would shake the rider loose. He wanted that clever chasseur dead.

A touch of the Frenchman’s spurs seemed to make the horse lunge forward for the killing stroke and the Lieutenant swung his sabre and saw he had been fooled. The horse checked and swerved in a manoeuvre which spoke of hours of patient training. The sabre hissed in empty space. The chasseur was not right-handed but left, and he had changed hands as his horse broke to the right. His blade glittered as it swept down, aimed at the Rifleman’s neck.

The Lieutenant had been fooled. He had swung early and into nothing, and he was off balance. The chasseur, knowing this Englishman was dead, was planning his next kill even before his sabre stroke went home. He had killed more men than he could remember with this simple trick. Now he would add a Rifle officer to all the Austrians, Prussians, Russians, and Spaniards who had not been skilful enough.

But the chasseur’s sabre did not cut home. With a speed that was astonishing, the Rifleman managed to recover his blade into the parry. The sabres met with a clash that jarred both men’s arms. The Lieutenant’s four-guinea blade shattered, but not before it had taken the force from the Frenchman’s slashing cut.

The momentum of the chasseur’s horse took him past the Englishman. The Frenchman turned back, astonished by the parry, and saw him turning to run uphill. For a second he was tempted to follow, but there were other, easier, targets down the hill. He spurred away.

The Lieutenant threw away his broken sabre and scrambled towards the low cloud. ‘Rifles! Rifles!’ Men heard and closed on him. They scrambled uphill together and made a large enough group to deter the enemy. The Dragoons went for individuals, the men most easily killed, and they took pleasure in thus avenging all the horsemen who had been put down by rifle bullets, all the Frenchmen who had jerked and bled their lives away on the long pursuit, and all the jeers that the Riflemen had sent through the biting air in the last bitter weeks.

Captain Murray joined the new Lieutenant. ‘Outfoxed us, by God!’ He sounded surprised.

The small group of Riflemen reached safety short of the clouds, up where the litter of rocks made the ground too uneven for the Dragoons to follow. There Murray stopped his men and stared, appalled, at the carnage beneath.

The Dragoons rode among the dead and the defeated. Riflemen with slashed faces reeled among them, others lay motionless until grasping hands turned the dead bodies and began ripping at pouches and pockets. The Quartermaster watched as Major Dunnett was pulled to his feet and his uniform searched for plunder. Dunnett was lucky. He was alive and a prisoner. One Rifleman ran downhill, still trying to escape, and the man in the black coat and white boots rode after him and, with a chilling skill, chopped down once.

‘Bastards.’ Murray, knowing there was no more fighting to do, sheathed his Heavy Cavalry sword. ‘God-damned bloody crapaud bastards!’

Fifty Riflemen, survivors from all four companies, had been saved from the rout. Sergeant Williams was with them, as was Rifleman Harper. Some of the men were bleeding. A Sergeant was trying to staunch a terrible slash in his shoulder. A youngster was white-lipped and shaking. Murray and the new Lieutenant were the only officers to have escaped the massacre.

‘We’ll work our way east,’ Murray said calmly. ‘Maybe we can reach the army after dark.’

A morose swearword sounded from the big Irishman and the two officers glanced down the valley to see the British cavalry at last appear in the drizzle. The chasseur saw them at the same time, and the French trumpet called the Dragoons into order. The British, seeing the enemy’s preparedness, and finding no sign of infantry, withdrew.

The Riflemen on the cloud’s edge jeered at their retreating cavalry. Murray whipped round. ‘Silence!’

But the jeer had drawn the attention of the dismounted Dragoons on the slope below, and they believed the mocking sound had been aimed at them. Some of them seized carbines, others took up fallen rifles, and they fired a ragged volley at the small group of survivors.

The bullets hissed and whiplashed past the greenjackets. The ragged volley missed, except for one fatal bullet that ricocheted from a rock into Captain Murray’s side. The force of the bullet spun him round and threw him face down onto the hillside. His left hand scrabbled at the thin turf while his right groped in the blood at his waist.

‘Go on! Leave me!’ His voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

Rifleman Harper jumped down the slope and plucked Murray into his huge arms. The Captain sighed a terrible moan of pain as he was lifted. Below him the French were scrambling uphill, eager to complete their victory by taking these last Riflemen prisoner.

‘Follow me!’ The Lieutenant led the small group into the clouds. The French fired again, and the bullets flickered past, but the Riflemen were lost in the whiteness now. For the moment, at least, they were safe.

The Lieutenant found a hollow among the rocks that offered some shelter from the cold. The wounded were laid there while picquets were set to guard its perimeter. Murray had gone as white as cartridge paper. ‘I didn’t think they could beat us, Dick.’

‘I don’t understand where they came from.’ The Lieutenant’s scarred face, Murray thought, made him look like an execution. ‘They didn’t get past us. They couldn’t!’

‘They must have done.’ Murray sighed, then gestured to Rifleman Harper who, with a gentleness that seemed odd in a man so big, first unstrapped the Captain’s sword belt, then unpeeled his clothes from the wound. It was clear that Harper knew his business, and so the Lieutenant went to peer down the fogged hillside for a sight of the enemy. He could neither see nor hear anything. The Dragoons evidently thought the band of survivors too small to worry about. The fifty Riflemen had become the flotsam of war, mere splinters hacked from a sinking endeavour, and if the French had known that the fugitives were led by a Quartermaster, they might have been even more contemptuous.

But the Quartermaster had first fought the French fifteen years before, and he had been fighting ever since. The stranded Riflemen might call him the new Lieutenant, and they might invest the word ‘new’ with all the scorn of old soldiers, but that was because they did not know their man. They thought of him as nothing more than a jumped-up Sergeant, and they were wrong. He was a soldier, and his name was Richard Sharpe.

In the night, Lieutenant Sharpe took a patrol westwards along the high crest. He had hoped to determine whether the French held the place where the road crossed the ridge, but in the freezing darkness and among the jumble of rocks, he lost his bearings and grudgingly went back to the hollow where the Riflemen sheltered.

The cloud lifted before dawn, letting the first wan light reveal the main body of the French pursuit in the valley which lay to the south. The enemy cavalry was already gone to the west, and Sharpe stared down at Marshal Soult’s infantry which marched in dogged pursuit of Sir John Moore’s army.

‘We’re bloody cut off.’ Sergeant Williams offered his pessimistic assessment to Sharpe who, instead of replying, went to squat beside the wounded men. Captain Murray slept fitfully, shivering beneath a half-dozen greatcoats. The Sergeant who had been slashed across the neck and shoulders had died in the night. Sharpe covered the man’s face with a shako.

‘He’s a jumped-up bit of nothing.’ Williams stared malevolently at Lieutenant Sharpe’s back. ‘He ain’t an officer, Harps. Not a real one.’

Rifleman Harper was sharpening his sword-bayonet, doing the job with the obsessive concentration of a man who knows his life depends on his weapons.

‘Not a proper officer,’ Williams went on. ‘Not a gentleman. Just a jumped-up Sergeant, isn’t he?’

‘That’s all.’ Harper looked at the Lieutenant, seeing the scars on the officer’s face and the hard line of his jaw.

‘If he thinks he’s giving me orders, he’s a bugger. He ain’t no better than I am, is he?’

Harper’s reply was a grunt, and not the agreement which would have given the Sergeant the encouragement he wanted. Williams waited for Harper’s support, but the Irishman merely squinted along the edge of his bayonet, then carefully sheathed the long blade.

Williams spat. ‘Put a bloody sash and sword on them and they think they’re God Almighty. He’s not a real Rifle, just a bloody Quartermaster, Harps!’

‘Nothing else,’ Harper agreed.

‘Bloody jumped-up storekeeper, ain’t he?’

Sharpe turned quickly and Williams, even though it was impossible, felt that he had been overheard. The Lieutenant’s eyes were hard as flint. ‘Sergeant Williams!’

‘Sir.’ Williams, despite his assertion of disobedience, stepped dutifully towards Lieutenant Sharpe.

‘Shelter.’ Sharpe pointed down into the northern valley where, far beneath them and slowly being revealed by a shredding mist, a stone farmstead could be seen. ‘Get the wounded down there.’

Williams hissed a dubious breath between yellowed teeth. ‘I dunno as how they should be moved, sir. The Captain’s…’

‘I said get the wounded down there, Sergeant.’ Sharpe had stepped away, but now turned back. ‘I didn’t ask for a debate on the God-damned matter. Move.’

It took the best part of the morning, but they succeeded in carrying the wounded down to the derelict farm. The dryest building was a stone barn, built on rock pillars that were meant to keep vermin at bay, and with a roof surmounted by crosses so that, from a distance, it looked like a small crude church. The ruined house and byres yielded damp and fungus-ridden timbers that, split and shredded with cartridge powder, were coaxed into a fire that slowly warmed the wounded men. Rifleman Hagman, a toothless, middle-aged Cheshire man, went to hunt for food, while the Lieutenant put picquets on the goat tracks that led east and west.

‘Captain Murray’s in a poorly way, sir.’ Sergeant Williams cornered Sharpe when the Lieutenant returned to the barn. ‘He needs a surgeon, sir.’

‘Hardly possible, is it?’

‘Unless we…that is…’ The Sergeant, a squat, red-faced man, could not say what was in his mind.

‘Unless we surrender to the French?’ Sharpe asked acidly.

Williams looked into the Lieutenant’s eyes. They were curious eyes, almost reptilian in their present coldness. The Sergeant found a truculence to brace his argument. ‘At least the crapauds have got surgeons, sir.’

‘In one hour,’ Sharpe’s voice implied that he had not even heard Williams’s words, ‘I’ll inspect every man’s rifle. Make sure they’re ready.’

Williams stared belligerently at the officer, but could not summon the courage necessary for disobedience. He nodded curtly and turned away.

Captain Murray was propped against a pile of packs inside the barn. He offered Sharpe a feeble smile. ‘What will you do?’

‘Sergeant Williams thinks I should take you to a French surgeon.’

Murray grimaced. ‘I asked what you wanted to do.’

Sharpe sat beside the Captain. ‘Rejoin.’

Murray nodded. He was cradling a mug of tea, a precious gift from one of the Riflemen who had hoarded the leaves in the bottom of his ammunition pouch. ‘You can leave me here.’

‘I can’t…’

‘I’m dying.’ Murray made a deprecatory shrug to show that he wanted no sympathy. His wound was not bleeding overmuch, but the Captain’s belly was swelling blue to show that there was bleeding inside. He nodded towards the other three badly wounded men, all of them with great sword cuts on their faces or chests. ‘Leave them too. Where will you go? The coast?’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘We’ll never catch the army now.’

‘Probably not.’ Murray closed his eyes.

Sharpe waited. It had started to rain again and a leak in the stone roof dripped insistently into the fire. He was thinking of his options. The most inviting choice was to attempt to follow Sir John Moore’s army, but they were retreating so fast, and the French now controlled the road that Sharpe must take, and thus he knew he must resist that temptation for it would only lead into captivity. Instead he must go south. Sir John had marched from Lisbon, and a few troops had been left to protect the Portuguese capital, and perhaps that garrison still existed and Sharpe could find it. ‘How far is Lisbon?’ he asked Murray.

The Captain opened his eyes and shrugged. ‘God knows. Four? Five hundred miles?’ He flinched from a stab of pain. ‘It’s probably nearer six hundred on these roads. D’you think we’ve still got troops there?’

‘We can at least find a ship.’

‘If the French don’t get there first. What about Vigo?’

‘The French are more likely to be there than Lisbon.’

‘True.’ The Light Division had been sent to Vigo on a more southerly road. Only a few light troops, like these Riflemen, had been retained to protect Sir John Moore’s retreat. ‘Maybe Lisbon would be best.’ Murray looked past Sharpe and saw how the men were brushing and oiling their rifle locks. He sighed. ‘Don’t be too hard on them.’

‘I’m not.’ Sharpe was instantly defensive.

Murray’s face flickered with a smile. ‘Were you ever commanded by an officer from the ranks?’

Sharpe, smelling criticism, bridled for an instant, then realized that Murray was trying to be helpful. ‘No, sir, never.’

‘The men don’t like it. Stupid, really. They believe officers are born, not made.’ Murray paused to take a breath that made him shudder with pain. He saw Sharpe about to enjoin him to silence, but shook his head. ‘I haven’t got much time. I might as well use what there is. Do you think I’m being damnably rude?’

‘No, sir.’

Murray paused to sip at his tea. ‘They’re good lads.’

‘Yes.’

‘But they have an odd sense of what’s proper. They expect officers to be different, you see. They want them to be privileged. Officers are men who choose to fight, they aren’t forced to it by poverty. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes.’

‘They think you’re really one of them; one of the damned, and they want their officers to be touched by something more than that.’ Murray shook his head sadly. ‘It isn’t very good advice, is it?’

‘It’s very good,’ Sharpe lied.

The wind sighed at the corners of the stone barn and flickered the flames of the small fire. Murray smiled sadly. ‘Let me think of some more practical advice for you. Something that will get you to Lisbon.’ He frowned for an instant, then turned his red-rimmed eyes to Sharpe. ‘Get Patrick Harper on your side.’

Sharpe turned to glance at the men who were crowded at the barn’s far end. The big Irishman seemed to sense that his name had been mentioned for he offered Sharpe a hostile glance.

‘He’s a troublemaker, but the men listen to him. I tried to make him a Chosen Man once,’ Murray instinctively used the Rifle’s old term for a Corporal, ‘but he wouldn’t have it. He’d make a good Sergeant. Hell! Even a good officer if he could read, but he won’t have any of it. But the men listen to him. He’s got Sergeant Williams under his thumb.’

‘I can manage Harper.’ Sharpe said the words with a false conviction. In the short time that he had been with this Battalion, Sharpe had often noticed the Irishman, and he had seen for himself the truth of Captain Murray’s assertion that he was a natural leader. Men crowded to Harper’s campfire, partly to relish his stories, and partly because they wanted his approval. To the officers he liked the Irishman offered a humorous allegiance, while to those he disliked he offered nothing but scorn. And there was something very intimidating about Rifleman Harper; not just because of his size, but because of his air of knowing self-reliance.

‘I’ve no doubt Harper thinks he can manage you. He’s a hard man,’ Murray paused, then smiled, ‘but he’s filled with sentimentality.’

‘So he has a weakness,’ Sharpe said harshly.

‘Is that a weakness?’ Murray shrugged. ‘I doubt it. But now you’ll think I’m weak. When I’m dead, you see,’ and again he had to shake his head to stop Sharpe interjecting, ‘when I’m dead,’ he repeated, ‘I want you take my sword. I’ll tell Williams you’re to have it.’

Sharpe looked at the Heavy Cavalry sword that was propped in its metal scabbard against the wall. It looked an awkward and clumsy weapon, but Sharpe could not make any such objection to the gift now. ‘Thank you.’ He said it awkwardly. He was not used to receiving personal favours, nor had he learned to be gracious in accepting them.

‘It isn’t much of a sword,’ Murray said, ‘but it’ll replace the one you lost. And if the men see you carrying it…’ he was unable to finish the sentence.

‘They’ll think I’m a real officer?’ The words betrayed Sharpe’s resentment.

‘They’ll think I liked you,’ Murray spoke in gentle correction, ‘and that will help.’

Sharpe, reproved by the tone in the dying man’s voice, again muttered his thanks.

Murray shrugged. ‘I watched you yesterday. You’re good in a fight, aren’t you?’

‘For a Quartermaster?’

Murray ignored the self-pity. ‘You’ve seen a lot of battles?’

‘Yes.’

‘That wasn’t very tactful of you,’ Murray smiled, ‘new Lieutenants aren’t supposed to be more experienced than their seniors.’ The Captain looked up at the broken roof. ‘Bloody silly place to die, isn’t it?’

‘I’m going to keep you alive.’

‘I suspect you can do many things, Lieutenant Sharpe, but you’re not a miracle worker.’

Murray slept after that. All the Riflemen rested that day. The rain was insistent and, in mid-afternoon, turned to a heavy, wet snow which, by nightfall, was settling on the shoulders of the closest hills. Hagman had snared two rabbits, thin fare, but something to flavour the few beans and scraps of bread that the men had hoarded in their knapsacks. There were no cooking cauldrons, but the men used tin mugs as saucepans.

Sharpe left the barn at dusk and went to the cold shelter of the ruined farmhouse to watch the night fall. It was not much of a house, merely four broken stone walls that had once held up a timber and sod roof. One door faced east, another west, and from the eastern door Sharpe could see far down a valley that now whirled and bellied with snow. Once, when the driving snow was lifted by the wind, he thought he saw the grey smear of smoke at the valley’s end; evidence, perhaps, of a tiny village where they could find shelter, then the snow blanketed the view again. He shivered, and it seemed impossible that this was Spain.

Footsteps made him turn. Rifleman Harper ducked under the western door of the small house, saw Sharpe, and checked. He waved a hand at some fallen roof beams that were embedded in stones and turf. ‘Timber, sir,’ he explained his errand, ‘for the fire.’

‘Carry on.’ Sharpe watched as the Irishman took hold of the rotted timbers and snapped them clear of their obstructions. Harper seemed to resent being watched, for he straightened up and stared at the Lieutenant. ‘So what are we doing, sir?’

For a second Sharpe took offence at the surly tone, then realized that Harper was only asking what every man in the company wanted to know. ‘We’re going home.’

‘You mean England?’

‘I mean back to the army.’ Sharpe suddenly wished he faced this journey alone, unencumbered by resentful men. ‘We’ll have to go south. To Lisbon.’

Harper crossed to the doorway where he stooped to stare eastwards. ‘I didn’t think you meant Donegal.’

‘Is that where you come from?’

‘Aye.’ Harper watched the snow settle in the darkening valley. ‘Donegal looks something like this, so it does. Only this is a better land.’

‘Better?’ Sharpe was surprised. He was also obscurely pleased that the big man had deigned to have this conversation which made him suddenly more likeable. ‘Better?’ Sharpe had to ask again.

‘The English never ruled here. Did they, sir?’ The insolence was back. Harper, standing, stared down at the sitting Sharpe and there was nothing but scorn in his voice. ‘This is unsoiled country, so it is.’

Sharpe knew he had been lured into the question which had released this man’s derision. ‘I thought you were fetching timber.’

‘I was.’

‘Then fetch it and go.’

Later, after he had visited the shivering picquets, Sharpe went back to the barn and sat by the wall where he listened to the low voices of the men who gathered about Rifleman Harper. They laughed softly, letting Sharpe know that he was excluded from the company of soldiers, even of the damned. He was alone.

Murray died in the night. He did it without noise or fuss, just sliding decorously into death.

‘The lads want to bury him.’ Williams said it as though he expected Sharpe to disapprove.

Sharpe was standing in the barn’s doorway. ‘Of course.’

‘He said to give you this.’ Williams held out the big sword.