Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy (14 page)

It rained all night; Sharpe knew, for he was awake most of it, listening to the ceaseless water, the wind, and the sporadic shot from the French cannon that tried to disturb the digging of the batteries. There was no counter-fire from the British; the siege guns, still wrapped in straw and sacking, were waiting for a break in the weather so that the carts could be dragged over the hill and the massive guns put into their emplacements.

Sharpe sat with Harper at the top of the hill and stared down at the dull lights inside the city. They looked far away, blurred by the weather, and Sharpe tried to distinguish the Cathedral and thought of the sick child nearby.

Harper should not have been with him. He was under guard, sentenced to be flogged and reduced to the ranks, but Sharpe had simply told the sentries to look the other way while he and Harper climbed to the hilltop. Sharpe glanced at the Irishman. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Nothing to be sorry for, sir. You did all you could.’

Which had amounted to very little. Sharpe had pleaded, begged almost, but the filigree frame was proof enough for the Regimental Court Marital. Sharpe had testified that Harper had been with him all afternoon, fighting the French attack, and that his own telescope had disappeared in that time so the Sergeant could not have been responsible. Windham had been implacable. The telescope, he said, must have been stolen by another thief. Harper was guilty, broken down to a Private, and sentenced to a flogging.

Harper was thinking of the morning. The Donegal voice was soft. ‘A hundred strokes, eh? Could be worse.’ Twelve hundred lashes was the maximum sentence.

Sharpe handed a bottle to him. Both men were swathed in lengths of tarred canvas on which the rain drummed. ‘I got two hundred.’

‘The army’s going soft, so it is.’ Harper laughed. ‘And back to a bloody Private, too! They don’t even call me a Rifleman in this bloody Regiment. Private bloody Harper.’ He drank. ‘And when do they think I stole the bloody things?’

‘Tuesday.’

‘God save Ireland! St Patrick’s Day?’

‘You were missing from the lines.’

‘Jesus! I was with you. Drinking.’

‘I know. I told them.’

There was silence between them, a companionable misery. From the slope below came the chink of pick-axes as the batteries were sunk below the topsoil. At least, Sharpe reflected, the two of them had plenty of drink. The Light Company had pooled their resources, scrounged and stolen more, and beneath the canvas shelters there were at least a dozen canteens of rum or wine. ‘I’m sorry, Patrick.’

‘Save your breath, sir. It’ll not hurt.’ He knew he was lying. ‘I’ll kill that bastard!’

‘After me.’ They sat and thought about the comforting idea of killing Hakeswill. The Sergeant was taking precautions. He had pitched his shelter just yards from the officers’ crude, canvas tents, and Sharpe knew that there was no hope, this night, of their successfully spiriting Hakeswill away to some silent, lonely place.

The Irishman chuckled softly and Sharpe looked at him. ‘What?’

‘I was thinking of the Colonel. What was on the bloody portrait?’

‘His wife.’

‘She must be a rare beauty.’

‘No.’ Sharpe uncorked another canteen. ‘She looked a sour bitch, but you can never tell with paintings. Anyway, our Colonel approves of marriage. He thinks it keeps a man out of trouble.’

‘It’s probably true.’ Harper sounded unconvinced. ‘I hear a rumour that you and Miss Teresa are married. How the hell did that get started?’

‘I told the Colonel.’

‘You did!’ Harper laughed. ‘Mind you, you should marry her. Make an honest woman of her.’

‘And what about Jane Gibbons?’

Harper grinned. He had met the blonde girl, the sister of the man he had killed, and he shook his head. ‘She’ll not have you. You have to be born in a big house to marry that kind; lots of money and all that. You’re just a foot soldier, like the rest of us. A fancy red sash won’t get you into her bed. At least, not for keeps.’

Sharpe chuckled. ‘You think I should marry Teresa?’

‘Why not? She’s a skinny thing, so she is, but you could put some meat on her bones.’ Harper profoundly disapproved of Sharpe’s taste for slim women.

They sat silent again, listening to the rain pelt on the canvas, and sharing a friendship that rarely had a chance to be expressed or defined. Sharpe had a reputation, with those who did not know him well, of being a man short on words and it was true, he thought, except with a handful of friends. Harper and Hogan; Lossow, the German cavalryman, and that was about all. Exiles to a man, cut off from their own countries and fighting with a strange army. Sharpe was an exile, too, a stranger in the Officers’ Mess. ‘You know what the General says?’

Harper shook his head. ‘Tell me what the General says.’

‘He says that no one ever promoted from the ranks turns out well.’

‘Does he now?’

‘He says they turn to drink.’

‘In this army, who wouldn’t? Harper pushed a canteen at Sharpe. ‘Here, get yourself drunk.’

Some fool opened the door of a lantern in the parallel and the French gunners, ever alert, saw the light and suddenly the ramparts of Badajoz blossomed flame and shot. There were shouts from the workings, the light disappeared, but then there was the sick thud of the shots striking home and the screams from the trench. Harper spat. ‘We’ll never take this bloody town.’

‘We can’t stay here for ever.’

‘That’s what you said when you first went to Ireland.’

Sharpe grinned. ‘It’s the welcome you give us. We don’t want to leave. Anyway, we like the weather.’

‘You can keep it.’ Harper squinted up into the darkness. ‘Christ! I wish the rain would stop!’

‘I thought the Irish liked rain.’

‘We love rain, so we do, but this isn’t rain.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the flood, the deluge, the end of the whole sodden world.’

Sharpe leaned back on a wicker gabion, abandoned by a working party, and stared up. ‘I haven’t seen the stars in a week. Longer.’

‘That’s true.’

‘I like stars.’

‘That’s nice for them.’ Harper was amused; he did not often hear Sharpe’s tongue loosened by drink.

‘No, really. You like birds, I like stars.’

‘Birds do things. They fly, make nests. You can watch them.’

Sharpe said nothing. He remembered the nights lying in fields, head on haversack, body inside the sewn blanket, and legs thrust into the arms of the jacket which was buttoned upside down on his stomach. It was the soldier’s way of sleeping, but on some nights he would simply lie there and watch the great smear in the sky that was like the camp fires of an unimaginably huge army. Legion upon incomprehensible legion, up there in the sky, and he knew that they were coming nearer, night by night, and the picture was confused in his head by the strange, drunken preachers who had come to the foundling home when he was a child. The stars were mixed up with the four horsemen of the apocalypse, the last trump, the second coming, the raising of the dead, and the lights in the night were the army of the world’s end. ‘The world won’t end in a flood. It’ll be bayonets and battalions. A bloody great battle.’

‘As long as we’re in the skirmish line, sir, I don’t mind.’ Harper drank more rum. ‘I must save some for the morning.’

Sharpe sat up. ‘Hagman’s bribing the drummer boys.’

‘Never works.’ Harper was right. The drummer boys did the flogging and were usually bribed by the victim’s friends, but under the gaze of the officers they were forced to lay on with their full strength.

Sharpe stared at the dark bulk of Badajoz, relieved by a few hazed lights. There was a fire burning in one of the castle’s many courtyards. The dull, brief bell of the Cathedral rang the half-hour. ‘If only she wasn’t there…’ He stopped.

‘What?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If she wasn’t there.’ Harper’s Ulster accent was slow, as if he was treading very carefully. ‘You’d be tempted to bugger off. Is that right? Up to the hills? To fight with the Partisans?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You do. Do you think no one else has thought of it?’ Harper meant himself. ‘You’re not a fair weather soldier only.’

‘We’ll get desertions soon.’

‘Aye, if Hakeswill isn’t buried soon.’ No one had deserted from the Battalion for months. Other battalions were losing men, a handful each day who slipped across to Badajoz. There was traffic the other way, too, including, so Hogan had told Sharpe, a French Engineer Sergeant who brought with him the plans of the defences. The plans held few surprises, except confirmation that the western glacis was thickly mined.

Sharpe changed the subject. ‘Know how many died today?’

‘Was it today?’ Harper sounded surprised. ‘It seems like last week.’

‘A hundred of us. They counted nearly three hundred French. And some of them drowned, too. Poor bastards.’

‘They always see double counting the French.’ Harper was scornful. ‘And the French are probably boasting they killed a thousand of us.’

‘They didn’t do much damage.’

‘No.’ The French had hoped to set the siege back by at least a week, by forcing the British to re-dig the whole parallel. A week gained would be an extra week during which a French field army might march to the garrison’s relief. Harper opened another canteen. ‘The assault will be rough.’

‘Yes.’

The rain hissed down, seething on the soaked ground, thudding monotonously on the canvas. It was bitterly cold. Harper offered Sharpe the new canteen. ‘I have an idea.’

‘Tell me.’ Sharpe yawned.

‘Am I keeping you up?’

‘What’s your idea?’

‘I’m volunteering for the Forlorn Hope.’

Sharpe snorted. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool. You want to live, don’t you?’

‘I’m not being a fool, and I want to be a Sergeant again. Will you ask for me?’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘They don’t listen to me any more.’

‘I said, will you ask?’ Harper’s voice was stubborn.

Sharpe could not imagine Harper dead. He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘You keeping it for yourself?’ The words were spoken harshly. Sharpe turned and looked at the huge man. There was no point in denial.

‘How did you know?’

Harper laughed. ‘How long have I been with you? Mary, Mother of God, do you think I’m a fool? You lose your Captaincy and what will you do? You’ll go screaming up some bloody breach with your sword waving because you’d rather be dead than lose your bloody pride.’

Sharpe knew it was true. ‘What about you?’

‘I’d like the stripes back.’

‘Pride?’

‘Why not? They keep saying the Irish are fools, but I notice precious few laughing at me.’

‘That could be your size, not your stripes.’

‘Aye, maybe, but I’ll not have them saying I failed. So you’ve volunteered?’

Sharpe nodded. ‘Yes. But they won’t choose anyone yet, not till the assault.’

‘And if they choose you, will you take me?’

‘Yes.’ He said the word with reluctance.

The Irishman nodded. ‘Let’s hope they choose you, then.’

‘Pray for a miracle.’

Harper laughed. ‘You don’t want a miracle. They always turn out bad.’ He drank rum. ‘St Patrick turns out all the snakes from Ireland and what happens? We get so bored that we let the English in to take their place. The poor man must be turning in his grave. Snakes were better.’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘If Ireland were five times bigger, and England five times smaller, then you’d be doing the same to us.’

Harper laughed again. ‘Now that would be a miracle worth praying for.’

Guns boomed to their right, across the river, as the cannon in the San Cristobal Fort fired over the Guadiana towards the parallel. The long, spitting fire was reflected in the dark water. The gunners on the city wall, not to be outdone, fired their pieces and the night was filled with the noise.

Harper shivered with the cold. ‘I’ll pray for another miracle.’

‘What?’

‘A chance to get Hakeswill.’ He nodded towards the city. ‘In one of those little alleyways. I’ll tear his bloody head off.’

‘What makes you think we’ll get through the wall?’

Harper gave a humourless laugh. ‘You don’t really think we can fail, do you?’

‘No.’ But then he had not really thought he could lose his Captaincy, had not thought he could lose the Company, and not in his worst dreams had he ever thought he would have to stand and watch Patrick Harper being flogged. The cold, wet night drummed on, bringing the bad dreams true.

Rain, and more rain, increasing in vehemence, so by dawn it was seen that the river had flooded, was foaming white and high on the stone arches of the old bridge and, far more seriously, had swept the pontoon bridge downstream.

‘Company!’ The last syllable was drawn out, mingling with the shouts of other Sergeants. ‘Shun!’

‘Stand still! Eyes front!’

A jingle of bridles and bits brought the Battalion’s senior officers into the cleared space at the centre of the paraded Companies. Two sides of the rectangle were each formed by three Companies; four Companies were paraded on one long side and faced the solitary wooden triangle.

‘Order arms!’ Again and again. Hands slapped on wet wood, the brass hilts slopped into the muck. Rain slanted on the ranks.

Sergeants marched stiffly through the sludge, slammed into attention and saluted. ‘Company on parade, sir!’ The mounted Captains, miserable in their cloaks, acknowledged.

‘Battalion ready for punishment parade, sir!’

‘Very good, Major. At ease.’

‘’Talion!’ Collett’s voice rode over wind and rain. ‘Stand at…ease!’ There was a convulsive shuffle in the mud.

Sharpe, his head foul from the night’s drinking, had paraded with the Light Company. Rymer was embarrassed, but it was Sharpe’s place, and Hakeswill’s yellow face was expressionless. A pulse throbbed beneath the livid scar on the Sergeant’s neck. Daniel Hagman, the old Rifleman, had come to Sharpe before the parade and told him that the Company was mutinous. It was doubtless an exaggeration, but Sharpe could see the men were sullen, angry and, above all, shocked. The only good news was that Windham had cut the punishment to sixty lashes. Major Hogan had paid the Colonel a visit and, although the Engineer had failed to persuade Windham of Harper’s innocence, he had impressed him by describing Harper’s record. The Battalion waited in the sweeping rain, full of cold misery.

‘’Talion! Shun!’ Another shuffle and Harper appeared between two guards. The Irishman was stripped to the waist, showing the massive muscles of his arms and chest. He walked easily, ignoring the rain and mud, and grinned towards the Light Company. He seemed the least concerned man on the parade.

They lashed his wrists high on the triangle, spread his legs and tied them at the base, and then a Sergeant pushed the folded leather between Harper’s teeth so that he would not bite his tongue off in the pain. The Battalion’s doctor, a sickly man with a streaming nose, gave Harper’s back a cursory inspection. He was obviously healthy. A leather strip was tied round his kidneys, the doctor nodded miserably at Collett, the Major spoke to Windham, and the Colonel nodded. ‘Carry on!’

The drumsticks came down on soggy skins. The Sergeant nodded at the two lads. ‘One!’

Sharpe remembered it. His own flogging had been in a village square in India. He had been tied to an ox-cart, not a triangle, but he remembered the first slashing cut with the leather thongs, the involuntary arching of the back, the teeth grinding into the leather, and the surprise that it was not as bad as he had expected. He had almost got used to the blows, was feeling confident, and resented it when the doctor stopped the lashes to check that he was still capable of receiving more punishment. Later, the pain had blurred. It had begun to hurt, really to hurt, as the lashes tore at the skin and the alternate blows, from two sides, ripped and frayed till the watching Battalion saw the glint of bone laid open as the blood dripped on to the village dust.

God! It had hurt!

The South Essex watched in silence. The drums, their skins stretched by the rain, could hardly be heard; they were like the muffled beats of a funeral. The lashes sounded soggy as they drew blood, the Sergeant in charge of the flogging chanted the numbers, and in the background the French guns fired on.

The drummer boys paused. The doctor stepped close to Harper’s back, sneezed, and nodded to the Sergeant.

‘Twenty-five!’

The rain diluted the blood.

‘Twenty-six!’

Sharpe looked at Hakeswill. Was there a glint of triumph in the face? It was impossible to tell. The face twitched in a spasm.

‘Twenty-seven!’

Harper turned his head to face the Light Company. He was not moving at all as the blows hit him. He spat out the leather gag, grinned at them.

‘Twenty-eight! Harder!’

A drummer boy used all his strength. Harper grinned even wider.

‘Stop it!’ Collett stepped his horse forward. ‘Put the gag in!’

They pushed the leather back in Harper’s mouth, but he spat it out again, and grinned through the punishment. There was an appreciative murmur from the Light Company, almost a laugh, and they saw that Harper was chatting to the drummer boys. The bastard had beaten the punishment! Sharpe knew it was hurting him, but knew that Harper’s pride would not let it show, would only let him pretend a total unconcern.

The punishment finished, made almost farcical by Harper’s unbelievable bravery. ‘Cut him down!’

Sharpe had seen men crumple to the ground after just two dozen strokes, but Harper stepped away from the cut thongs, still grinning, and did nothing more than massage his wrists. The doctor asked him a question and the Irishman laughed, refused the offer of a blanket to be draped over his bleeding back, and turned to follow his escort off the parade.

‘Private Harper!’ Windham had spurred his horse forward.

‘Sir?’ There was almost a contempt in Harper’s voice.

‘You’re a brave man. Here.’ Windham tossed a gold coin towards the Ulsterman. For a brief fraction of a second it seemed as if Harper might ignore the coin, then a huge hand whipped up, snatched it from the air, and he gave the Colonel his big, infectious grin. ‘Thank you, sir.’

The Battalion gave a low, collective sigh of relief. Windham must have realized, even as the punishment was happening, that he was flogging the most popular man in the Battalion. There had been hostility in the parade, an unusual hostility. Soldiers did not object to a flogging, why should they? If a man deserved punishment then a battalion would line up and watch punishment done. But soldiers also had a keen sense of injustice and Sharpe, watching Windham, knew that the Colonel had sensed the Battalion’s outrage. A mistake had been made. It could not be admitted or reversed, not without proof, but the gold coin had been a clever touch. Windham, for all his pretence at being a simple country squire, was a clever man.

And Hakeswill a cunning man. The Sergeant kept his face expressionless as the parade was dismissed. Hakeswill was triumphant. Harper had been defeated, demoted, and the Company was at Hakeswill’s mercy. He now wanted one thing more, and would get it, Sharpe’s misery; and thanks to Company rumour, the Sergeant knew where that misery could be accomplished, at the house behind the Cathedral with its two orange trees.

Sharpe found Harper in a shelter, two of the wives putting grease on his back and bandaging the wounds. ‘Well?’

Harper grinned. ‘Hurt like hell, sir. I couldn’t have taken much more.’ He held up the golden guinea. ‘What do I do with this?’

‘Spend it?’

‘No.’ The Irishman stared past Sharpe into the sea of mud that was swept by great curtains of grey rain. ‘I’ll keep it, sir, until I’ve killed the bastard.’

‘Or until I kill him?’

‘One of us, sir. But make it soon. Before we leave this place.’

If ever they would leave Badajoz, Sharpe thought. That afternoon he took a working party east, towards the Portuguese border. They found the precious pontoons aground in the flood and stripped naked to manhandle the great boats to where oxen could haul them back. The siege was bogged down, in rain, mud and misery. Badajoz was like a great castle in mid-ocean. The rain had flooded the fields to the south, the west, and the north, and still the wind shrieked at them, brought more water, and though it was a time for effort, the effort could not be made. The trenches were flooded, the sides collapsed, and when gabions were used to shore the batteries, the water dissolved their earth filling into liquid sludge that flowed out leaving a hollow, useless wicker shell.

Everything was fouled with mud. Carts, supplies, forage, food, uniforms, weapons and men. The camp was foul, the only movement the slow flapping of wet canvas in the wind, and fever killed as many as the ceaseless French guns. The time that the French had hoped to gain by their attack on the parallel was given to them by the weather. Morale slumped. The first Monday of the siege was the worst. It had rained for a week, and it still rained, and darkness fell on an army that could scarce even light a fire any more. Nothing was dry, nothing was warm, and a man from a Welsh Regiment, a fusilier, went mad. There were shouts in the night, a terrifying scream as he carved his wife with a bayonet, and then hundreds of men were fumbling in the darkness, thinking it was a French attack, while the madman ran through the camp, slashing left and right with his weapon. He screamed that the resurrection of the dead was here and now, that he was the new Messiah, and finally his Sergeant cornered him and, sensible that no one wanted a court-martial and execution, killed the man with one neat stab.

Sharpe met Hogan that Sunday night. The Major was busy. Colonel Fletcher’s wound was keeping the Chief Engineer in his tent and Hogan had taken much of his work. The Irishman was gloomy. ‘We’ll be defeated by the rain, Richard.’ Sharpe said nothing. The spirit of the army was crushed by the water; they wanted to strike back, to hear their own guns firing at the French, but the guns, like the army, were bogged down. Hogan stared into the wet, pelting night. ‘If only it would stop.’

‘And if it doesn’t?’

‘Then we give up. We’ve lost.’

Outside, in the cold night, the rain smashed down, dripped heavily from the lip of Hogan’s tent, and the slow drops seemed to Sharpe to be the drumbeats of defeat. Unthinkable defeat.