Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3: Sharpe's Trafalgar, Sharpe's Prey, Sharpe's Rifles (90 page)

‘Eleven leagues? Twelve?’ George Parker’s face, pale in the candlelight, was drawn and worried. And no wonder, Sharpe thought. The French were scarcely a day’s march away.

‘Will you hurry?’ Mrs Parker, recovered from the shock of Sharpe’s blasphemy, leaned vengefully forward.

‘Wait, ma’am.’ Sharpe ran back into the monastery. ‘Sergeant Williams! Sergeant Williams!’

It took ten minutes to rouse and parade the Riflemen who staggered sleepily into the street where, under the torchlight, Sharpe shouted them into their ranks. The men’s breath steamed in the flamelight as he felt the first stinging drops of rain. The monks were generously bringing small sacks of bread out to the soldiers who seemed bemused by the shouting chaos in the small street.

‘Lieutenant! Will you hurry!’ It was Mrs Parker, making the carriage springs creak as she leaned forward. It was then that Rifleman Harper let out a piercing whistle, the other men cheered, and Sharpe whipped round to make a most unwelcome discovery.

There was a third person in the carriage; a person who, till now, had been concealed by Mrs Parker’s great bulk. It seemed Mrs Parker must have a maid, or perhaps a companion, or else a daughter, and the girl, if indeed she was Mrs Parker’s daughter, did not take after her mother. Not in the least. Sharpe saw a bright-eyed face, dark curls, and a mischievous smile which, among soldiers, could only mean trouble. ‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered.

Sharpe had roused and paraded his men and, not knowing what to do with them now, and while he waited for Blas Vivar to appear from the
alcalde
’s house where a council of town elders had been hurriedly convened, he let his men rescue the Spanish New Testaments from the stable of a bookseller who had hidden the books for George Parker.

‘The Church of Rome doesn’t approve, you understand?’ George Parker, away from his wife, proved a courtly and somewhat sad character. ‘They wish to keep their people in the darkness of ignorance. The Archbishop of Seville confiscated a thousand testaments and burned them. Can you credit such behaviour? That’s why we came north. I believed Salamanca might prove a more fertile field for our endeavours, but the Archbishop there threatened a similar confiscation. So we went to Santiago, and on the way we sheltered our precious books with this good man,’ Parker gestured towards the bookseller’s home. ‘I believe he sells a few on his own account, but I can scarce blame him for that. Indeed not. And if he spreads the gospel, Lieutenant, unadulterated by the priests of Rome, it can only be to God’s glory, don’t you agree?’

Sharpe was too befuddled by the night’s strange happenings to offer agreement. He watched as another stack of the black bound books was brought out into the street and packed into the carriage’s rear box. ‘You’re in Spain to distribute bibles?’

‘Only since the peace treaty between our two countries was signed,’ Parker said as though that explained everything, then, seeing that puzzlement remained on Sharpe’s face, he offered further information. ‘My dear wife and I, you must understand, are followers of the late John Wesley.’

‘The Methodist?’

‘Exactly and precisely so,’ Parker nodded vigorously, ‘and when my late cousin, the Admiral, was gracious enough to remember me in his will, my dear wife deemed that the money might most appropriately be spent upon the illumination of the Popish darkness that so envelops southern Europe. We saw the declaration of a peace between England and Spain as a providence of God that directed our steps hither.’

‘To much success?’ Sharpe could not resist asking, though the answer was clearly visible on Parker’s lugubrious face.

‘Alas, Lieutenant, the people of Spain are obstinate in their Romish heresy. But if just one soul is brought to a knowledge of God’s saving and Protestant grace, then I will feel amply justified in this endeavour.’ Parker paused. ‘And you, Lieutenant? May I enquire if you have a personal knowledge of your Lord and Saviour?’

‘I’m a Rifleman, sir,’ Sharpe said firmly, anxious to avoid a Protestant attack on his already Catholic-besieged soul. ‘Our religion is killing crapauds and other such heathen bastards who don’t like good King George.’

The belligerence of Sharpe’s answer silenced Parker for a moment. The middle-aged man stared gloomily at the refugees in the street, then sighed. ‘You are a soldier, of course. But perhaps you will forgive me, Lieutenant?’

‘Forgive you, sir?’

‘My cousin, the late Admiral, was much given to strong oaths. I do not wish to offend, Lieutenant, but my dear wife and niece are not accustomed to the strong language of the military man, and…’ His voice faded away.

‘I apologize, sir. I’ll try and remember.’ Sharpe gestured towards the bookseller’s house where Mrs Parker and the girl had taken temporary shelter. ‘She’s your niece, sir? She seems a little young to be travelling in such a troubled place?’

If Parker suspected that Sharpe was fishing for information about his niece, he showed no resentment. ‘Louisa is nineteen, Lieutenant, but sadly orphaned. My dear wife offered her employment as a companion. We had no conception, of course, that the war would take such a disadvantageous course. We believed that, with a British army campaigning in Spain, we would be both welcome and protected.’

‘Perhaps God’s a Frenchman these days?’ Sharpe said lightly.

Parker ignored the levity. Instead he watched the stream of refugees who straggled through the night with their bundles of clothes. Children cried. A woman dragged two goats on lengths of rope. A cripple swung by on crutches. Parker shook his head. ‘There is a great fear of the French here.’

‘They’re bastards, sir. Forgive me,’ Sharpe blushed. ‘Were you in Santiago de Compostela when they arrived?’

‘Their cavalry reached the northern edge of the town yesterday evening, which gave us time to make our escape. The Lord was very providential, I think.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

Sergeant Williams, grinning broadly, stood to attention before Sharpe. ‘That’s all the holy books loaded up, sir. Want me to fetch the ladies?’

Sharpe looked at Parker. ‘Are you travelling on tonight, sir?’

Parker was clearly bemused by the question. ‘We’ll do whatever you think best, Lieutenant.’

‘It’s up to you, sir.’

‘Me?’

It was obvious that George Parker was as indecisive as his cousin, Sir Hyde, whose prevarication had nearly lost the battle of Copenhagen. Sharpe tried to explain what choices the family faced. ‘This road, sir, only goes east or west, and the French lie in both directions. I assume that now your books are safe, sir, you’ll have to choose one way or the other? They say the French behave well enough to innocent English travellers. You’ll doubtless be questioned, and there’ll be some inconvenience, but they’ll probably give you permission to travel south. Might I suggest Lisbon, sir? I’ve heard there’s still a small British garrison there, but even if the garrison’s sailed away, you should be able to find a British merchant ship.’

Parker stared worriedly at Sharpe. ‘And you, Lieutenant? What is your intention?’

‘I can hardly depend on French forbearance, sir.’ He smiled. ‘No, we’re going south, sir. We’d hoped to take the road from Santiago de Compostela, but since the bast-since the French are there, sir, we’ll cut across the hills.’ Sharpe slapped one of the muddy wheels of the big coach. ‘No chance of that thing going with us, sir, so I fear you’ll have to ask French permission to cross their territory.’

Parker had been shaking his head for a few seconds. ‘I do assure you, Lieutenant, that my wife and I have no intention of humbling ourselves before the enemy so long as there is a viable escape for us. We shall travel south with you. And I can further assure you that there is a perfectly good southern road from this town. There!’ He pointed to the bridge. ‘Just the other side of the river.’

Sharpe’s astonishment made him silent for a second. ‘There’s a road that goes south from here?’

‘Precisely and exactly so? Otherwise I would hardly have dared come here for my testaments.’

‘But I was told…’ Sharpe realized abruptly that there was no point in retelling Vivar’s assertion that no such southern road existed. ‘Are you sure, sir?’

‘I travelled it but a month ago.’ Parker saw Sharpe’s hesitation. ‘I have a map, Lieutenant. You wish to see it?’

Sharpe followed Parker into the bookseller’s house. Mrs Parker, sitting massively by the fire, offered the greenjacket a suspicious glance.

‘All the testaments are safe, my dear,’ Parker said meekly, ‘and I wondered if we might peruse the map?’

‘Louisa?’ Mrs Parker demanded of her niece. ‘The map.’

The girl obediently crossed to a leather valise and searched among the papers. Sharpe deliberately kept his eyes away from her. Louisa Parker, from the glimpses he had already caught of her, was disturbingly pretty. She had a tall and slender grace, a brightly inquisitive face, and a clear skin unscarred by hardship or disease. A girl, Sharpe thought, to make a soldier twitch in his dreams, even if she was a God-damned Methodist.

Louisa brought the map to the table. George Parker attempted an introduction. ‘Louisa, my dear, you have not been named to Lieutenant…’

‘Louisa!’ Mrs Parker, evidently well aware of the dangers that soldiers presented to young girls, interrupted. ‘You will come here and sit!’

Sharpe unfolded the map in the ensuing silence.

‘It isn’t a very accurate map,’ Parker said humbly, as if he was personally responsible for its vagaries, ‘but I assure you the road exists.’ He traced a thin black line which meant little to Sharpe who was still trying to find just where he was on the ill-printed sheet. ‘The road meets the coastal route here, well south of Villagarcia,’ Parker continued, ‘and I was hoping we might find a vessel here, at Pontevedra. I believe the Royal Navy patrols this coast and, God willing, perhaps a friendly fisherman can be persuaded to take us to one of their ships?’

Sharpe was not really listening. He was staring at the map, trying to discover the tortuous route he had followed with Vivar. He could not find the exact course of the journey, but one thing was very clear: in the last days, he and his Riflemen had passed at least two southern roads. Vivar had told Sharpe again and again that there was no southern road, that the Riflemen must go to Santiago de Compostela before they turned towards Lisbon. The Spaniard had lied.

George Parker mistook Sharpe’s grim expression for pessimism. ‘I do assure you the road exists.’

Sharpe was suddenly very aware of the girl’s gaze on him, and all his soldier’s protective instincts were warmed by that examination. ‘You say you travelled the road a month ago, sir?’

‘Indeed.’

‘And a coach can manage it in winter?’

‘Indeed it can.’

‘Do you intend to fritter away this whole night?’ Mrs Parker stood threateningly. ‘Or do British soldiers no longer care for the fate of British womanhood?’

Sharpe folded the map and, without permission, thrust it into his pouch. ‘We can leave very soon, ma’am, but first I have business in the town.’

‘Business!’ Mrs Parker was clearly stoking the fires of her awesome wrath. ‘What possible business can a Lieutenant have, Mr Sharpe, that will take precedence over our safety?’

Sharpe pulled open the door. ‘I shall be a quarter of an hour at the most. You will do me the kindness, ma’am, of being ready in ten minutes. I have two wounded men who will need to travel inside your carriage.’ He saw another protest boiling up inside her. ‘And my men’s packs will travel on the roof. Otherwise, ma’am, you can find your way south without me.’ He offered a trace of a bow. ‘Your servant, ma’am.’

Sharpe turned away before Mrs Parker could argue with him, and he could have sworn he heard an amused chuckle from the girl. God damn it! God damn it! God damn it! He had enough to worry about without that perennial soldier’s problem. He went to find Vivar.

‘Good news!’ Vivar greeted Sharpe the moment the Rifleman appeared in the
alcalde
’s house. ‘My reinforcements are a mere half-day away! Lieutenant Davila has found fresh horses and fresh men! Did I tell you about Davila?’

‘You didn’t tell me about the road, did you?’

‘Road?’

‘You told me we had to go west before we could go south!’ Sharpe had not meant to speak with such anger, but he could not hide his bitterness. He and his men had crossed a cold country, clambering wet hills and struggling through icy streams, and all for nothing. They could have headed south days ago. By now they could be across the Portuguese border. Instead they were within a few hours’ march of the enemy. ‘The road!’ He slammed George Parker’s map onto the table. ‘There’s a road, Vivar! A God-damned road! And you marched us past two other God-damned roads! And the God-damned French are just a day’s bloody march away. You bloody lied to me!’

‘Lied to you?’ Blas Vivar’s anger flared as fiercely as Sharpe’s. ‘I saved your miserable lives! You think your men would have lasted a week in Spain without me? If you’re not fighting amongst yourselves, you’re all getting drunk! I’ve brought a pack of useless drunkards across Spain and I get no thanks, none. I spit on your map!’ Vivar seized the precious map and, instead of spitting on it, tore it into shreds which he tossed onto the fire.

The
alcalde
, together with a priest and half a dozen other elderly and serious men, watched the confrontation in perturbed silence.

‘Damn you!’ Sharpe had grabbed at the map a second too late.

‘Damn me?’ Vivar shouted. ‘I’m fighting for Spain, Lieutenant. I’m not running away like a frightened little boy. But that’s the British way, isn’t it? One setback and they run home to their mothers. Very well! Run away! But you won’t find a garrison at Lisbon, Lieutenant. They’ll have run away too!’

Sharpe ignored the insults to ask the question that boiled indignantly inside him. ‘Why did you bring us here at all, you bastard?’

Vivar leaned over the table. ‘Because for once in your benighted life, Lieutenant, I thought an Englishman could do something for Spain. Something for God. Something useful! You’re a nation of pirates, of barbarians, of heathens! God alone knows why He put the English on this earth, but I thought, just once, you might do something of use to His creation!’