Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy (79 page)

Sergeant Harper, stolid and calm, walked to where Sharpe stood on the rubble of the mined wall and in one hand he carried a hunk of bread topped with meat and in the other a skin of wine. ‘Lunch, sir. Bit late.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘Yes, sir.’

God, he was hungry! It was cold lamb and the butter on the bread was fresh and he bit into it and it tasted like heaven. A Fusilier Sergeant approached and wanted to know if the Castle gate should be blocked again, and Sharpe said no, but to keep the cart close, and then another man asked if they could bury Kinney in the very mouth of the pass where the grave would look for ever out to the green and brown hills of Portugal, and Sharpe said yes, and still the French cavalry loitered out of sight, Frederickson’s men were at the tower, thank God, and Brooker had two Fusilier Companies following him, and Sharpe watched as a third Company set out for the Convent and he began to relax. A start had been made. The wine was cold and harsh.

He walked into the Castle courtyard and ordered the low wall pulled down and the stones used to block the stairway beside the stables that led to the western ramparts. He finished the lamb, licking the crumbs and grease from his hand, and then there was an imperious shout from the Castle gateway.

‘Sharpe! Major Sharpe!’

Sir Augustus Farthingdale, Josefina mounted sidesaddle beside him, standing his horse in the archway.

Sir Augustus bloody Farthingdale, looking for all the world as if he was riding in London’s Hyde Park. The only discrepancy was a clean white bandage that showed beneath his hat on his right temple. He was summoning Sharpe with jerks of his riding crop. ‘Sharpe!’

Sharpe walked to the low wall. ‘Sir?’

‘Sharpe. My lady wife would like to see a rocket fired. Be so good as to arrange it.’

‘That won’t be possible, sir.’

Sir Augustus was not a man who liked to be crossed, and certainly not by an inferior officer in front of the love of his life. ‘I think I gave an order, Mr Sharpe. I expect it to be obeyed.’

Sharpe put his right foot on the wall and the wineskin hung from the hand resting on the knee. ‘If I demonstrated a rocket for Lady Farthingdale, sir, then I am also demonstrating it to the French troops in the village.’

Josefina squeaked, looking excited, Sir Augustus stared at Sharpe as though the Rifle officer was mad. ‘The what?’

‘French troops, sir. In the village.’ Sharpe looked at the ramparts of the keep and shouted. ‘What d’you see?‘

A Rifleman, from Cross’s Company, bellowed back. ‘Two squadrons Lancers, sir! Battalion of Infantry in sight now, sir!’

Infantry now! Sharpe twisted to look at the village, but still no French had pushed through the houses and come in sight. Farthingdale moved his horse forward, the hooves loud on the cobbles. ‘Why the devil wasn’t I told, Sharpe?’

‘No one knew where you were, sir.’

‘God damn it, man, I was with the doctor!’

‘Nothing serious I trust, sir?’

Josefina smiled at Sharpe. ‘Sir Augustus was hit by a stone, Major. In the explosion.’ And Sir Augustus, Sharpe thought, had insisted on the doctor’s attention when there were eviscerated, screaming men who needed it far more.

‘God damn it, Sharpe! Why are they in the village?’

The question, Sharpe decided, really meant why had the French been allowed to reach the village; to which there was an obvious answer, an answer that even the author of ‘Practical Instructions to the Young Officer in the Art of Warfare with Special Reference to the Engagements now Proceeding in Spain’ should have known. The French were in the village because there were not enough troops to hold watchtower, Castle, and Convent, and still fight the French further east. Sharpe chose to read a different meaning into Sir Augustus’s petulant enquiry. ’I imagine they’ve come for the same reason we came, sir. To rescue their hostages.‘

‘Are they going to fight?’ Sir Augustus was not happy to ask the question, but he could not help himself. The author of ‘Practical Instructions’ had taken his material entirely from Despatches and from the other books similar to his own, and he was not used to such close proximity to the enemy.

Sharpe pulled the plug from the wineskin’s neck. ‘I doubt it, sir. Their women are still with us. I expect we’ll get a flag of truce within the half hour. Might I suggest we advise Madame Dubreton that she will be leaving us soon.’

‘Yes.’ Farthingdale was craning over Sharpe’s head looking for a glimpse of the enemy. Nothing was yet in sight. ‘Look after it, Sharpe.’

Sharpe looked after it, and he also sent Harper with a request to Gilliland for the loan of a saddle horse. He had no intention of letting Sir Augustus do all the talking with the enemy, and Sharpe’s trust in the senior officer was not bolstered when he at last took an interest in Sharpe’s preparations. He watched the soldiers dismantling the low wall and frowned. ‘Why did you order that?’

‘Because it’s useless as a defence, sir. And anyway, if it comes to a fight I’d rather they got into the courtyard.’

Farthingdale was speechless for a moment. ‘Into the courtyard?’

Sharpe wiped wine from his lips, restoppered the bottle, and smiled. ‘A rat-pit, sir. Once inside they’re trapped.’ He made himself sound more confident than he felt.

‘But you said they wouldn’t fight.’

‘I don’t suppose they will, sir, but we should prepare against the possibility.’ He told Farthingdale of his other precautions, of the garrison in the watchtower, and kept his voice polite. ‘Is there anything else you’d want done, sir?’

‘No, Sharpe, no. Carry on!’

Bloody Farthingdale. Major General Nairn, with his engaging indiscretion, had told Sharpe that Farthingdale had hopes of high command. ‘Nothing dangerous, mind you, Christ no! One of those fancy rooms in the Horse Guards with chocolate soldiers saluting him. Thinks if he writes the right book then they’ll give him the whole army to smarten up.’ Nairn had looked gloomy. ‘They probably will, too.’

Patrick Harper appeared from the stables leading two horses. He passed close to Sir Augustus and stopped by Sharpe. ‘Horse, sir.’

‘I see two.’

‘Thought you might like company.’ Harper’s face was tight with annoyance. Sharpe looked at him curiously.

‘What is it?’

‘D’you hear what the man’s saying?‘

‘No.’

‘“My victory.” He’s telling her that he won here, so he is. Telling her that
he
took the Castle. And did you see her? She didn’t even recognize me! Not so much as the time of day!’

Sharpe grinned, took the reins, and pushed his left foot into a stirrup. ‘She has a fortune to protect, Patrick. Wait till he’s gone, she’ll say hello.’ He pulled himself up. ‘Wait here.’

He hid his annoyance from Harper, but he was affronted just the same. If Sharpe ever wrote a book like ‘Practical Instructions’, which he would not, then there would be one piece of advice repeated page after page. Always give credit where it is due, however tempting to take it for yourself, for the higher a man rises in the army the more he needs the loyalty and support of his inferiors. It was time, Sharpe decided, to puncture Sir Augustus’ self-esteem. He pulled the horse round, walked it to where Farthingdale was pointing up at the Colours and describing the morning as a very satisfying little fight.

‘Sir?’

‘Major Sharpe?’

‘I thought you should have this, sir. For your report.’ Sharpe held out a scruffy, folded scrap of paper.

‘What is it?’

‘The butcher’s bill, sir.’

‘Ah.’ A hand, gloved in fine leather, twitched the paper away and tucked it into his sabretache.

‘Aren’t you going to look at it, sir?’

‘I was with the doctor, Sharpe. I’ve seen our wounded.’

‘I was thinking of the killed, sir. Colonel Kinney, Major Ford, one Captain, and thirty-seven men, sir. Most of those died in the explosion. Wounded, sir. Forty-eight seriously, another twenty-nine not so serious. I’m sorry, sir. Thirty. I’d forgotten yourself.’

Josefina giggled. Sir Augustus looked at Sharpe as though the Major had just crawled out of a particularly malodorous sewer. ‘Thank you, Major.’

‘And my apologies, sir.’

‘Apologies?’

‘I haven’t had time to shave.’

Josefina laughed outright and Sharpe, remembering that she had always liked her men to fight, gave her a look of anger. He was not her man, and he was not fighting for her, and then whatever he might have said was interrupted by a trumpet call, insistent and faraway, the tones of a French cavalry instrument.

‘Sir!’ The Rifleman on the keep. ‘Four froggies, sir! One of ’em’s got a white flag, sir. Coming this way!‘

‘Thank you!’ Sharpe was tugging at the slings of his sword. He was not elegant on horseback, not like Sir Augustus, but at least the huge cavalry sword could hang properly at his side instead of being hitched half way up his ribs by shortened slings. He rebuckled the leather straps and looked about the courtyard. ‘Lieutenant Price!’

‘Sir?’ Harry Price was tired.

‘Look after Lady Farthingdale till we return!’

‘Yes, sir!’ Price seemed suddenly awake.

If Sir Augustus was peeved at this usurpation of his authority then Sharpe gave him no time to protest, nor did Sir Augustus choose to countermand the order. He followed Sharpe’s horse through the shadowed sloping cobbles of the gateway, out onto the track and then right onto the grass where Sharpe let his horse have its head.

The trumpet was still calling, demanding a response from the British positions, but at the appearance of the three horsemen the notes died to an echo. In front of the French officers was a Lancer, a white strip of cloth tied beneath his lance-head, and Sharpe remembered the white ribbons that decorated the hornbeam in the Convent and he wondered if the German Lancers who fought for Napoleon also worshipped their old forest Gods at Yuletide; the old pre-Christian name for the winter feast.

‘Sir!’ Sergeant Harper spurred up on Sharpe’s left. ‘Do you see, sir? The Colonel!’

It was, too, and at the same moment Dubreton recognized Sharpe and waved. The French Colonel touched spurs to his horse, went past the Lancer, splashed through the small stream and cantered towards them. ‘Major!’

‘Sharpe! Hold back!’ Farthingdale’s protest was lost as Sharpe also put his heels back and the two horsemen raced together, circled, then reined in so that the horses were alongside each other and facing different directions. ‘Is she safe?’

Dubreton’s eager request was in stark contrast to his studied calm when they had met before in the Convent. Then the Frenchman had been able to do nothing for his wife, now it was different.

‘She’s safe. Quite safe. Not even touched, sir. Can I say how glad I am?’

‘God!’ Dubreton shut his eyes. The bad dreams, the imaginings of all those drear nights seemed to flow out of him. He shook his head. ‘God!’ The eyes opened. ‘Your doing, Major?’

‘The Rifles, sir.’

‘But you led them?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Farthingdale reined in a few paces behind Sharpe and on his face was a look of fury because the Rifleman had offended decorum by racing ahead. ‘Major Sharpe!’

‘Sir.’ Sharpe twisted in his saddle. ‘I have the honour to name Chef du Battalion Dubreton. This is Colonel Sir Augustus Farthingdale.’

Farthingdale ignored Sharpe. He spoke in what, to Sharpe’s ears, sounded like fluent French, and then the other two French officers arrived and Dubreton made the introductions in his equally flawless English. One was a German Colonel of Lancers, a huge man with a red moustache and curiously gentle eyes, while the other was a French Colonel of Dragoons. The Dragoon Colonel wore a green cloak over his green uniform, and on his head was a tall metal helmet that had a cloth cover to stop the sun reflecting from the polished metal. He had a long straight sword and, unusual for a Colonel, a cavalry carbine rested in his saddle’s bucket holster. A fighting Regiment, the Dragoons, hardened by chasing elusive Partisans through a hostile countryside, and Sharpe saw the Frenchman’s disdain when he looked at the fastidious Sir Augustus. Behind the officers the Lancer picked at the knot of the white cloth.

Dubreton smiled at Sharpe. ‘I owe you thanks.’

‘No, sir.’

‘But I do.’ He looked at Harper, modestly holding back, and raised his voice. ‘I’m glad to see you well, Sergeant!’

‘Thank you, sir. Kind of you. And your Sergeant?’

‘Bigeard’s in the village. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.’

Farthingdale interrupted in French, his voice implying annoyance at the civilities. Dubreton’s replies were in English. ‘We came, Sir Augustus, on the same mission as yourselves. May I express our pleasure at your success, my personal thanks, and my regrets that you have suffered casualties?’ The stripped bodies of the dead waited white and cold beside the deepening graves.

Sir Augustus stayed talking in French, Sharpe suspected to exclude him from the discussion, while Dubreton, perhaps wishing the opposite, obstinately made his replies in English. The patrol Sharpe had half glimpsed in the dawn had been Dubreton’s scouts, brave men who had volunteered to ride into the valley pretending to be deserters and who would have somehow escaped back before nightfall to guide the rescue party into the valley. They had seen the Riflemen, seen the flag hoisted, and had prudently withdrawn. ‘They were disappointed, Sir Augustus!’

The Frenchwomen were to be handed over immediately, that Sharpe gathered from Dubreton’s words, and then the conversation grew sticky and awkward because Sir Augustus was not able to answer the Frenchman’s questions about the whereabouts of the French deserters. Farthingdale was forced to turn to Sharpe for help. Sharpe smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid many escaped.’

‘I’m sure you did everything possible, Major.’ Dubreton said it tactfully.

Sharpe glanced at the two other Colonels. Two Regiments of Cavalry? It seemed a lot for this rescue attempt, but their presence had given him another idea. The Dragoon Colonel was looking at Sharpe’s great sword that hung beside the cavalry sabre that was attached to his borrowed saddle. Sharpe grinned. ‘Our weakness, Colonel, was in cavalry. We chased them out of the Castle, but we can’t do much about rounding them up in the hills.’ He looked southwards. ‘Not, I think, that they’ll have got very far.’