Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy (84 page)

Dubreton obeyed, smiling at the odd chance that had brought him so close to a woman on whose head France had a high price. La Aguja, ‘the needle’, fought a bitter war against his men.

Harper brought the horse, helped Teresa into the saddle, and walked back with her towards the Castle. Dubreton watched them go and took a cigar from a leather case. He offered one to Sharpe and the Rifleman, who rarely smoked, wanted one now. He waited as Dubreton blew the spark on the charred linen inside his tinder-box into a flame, then bent down to light the cigar.

The hooves of the horse faded on the brittle, frosted earth. Dubreton lit his own cigar. ‘She’s very beautiful, Major.’

‘Yes.’

The cigar smoke vanished into the mist. A small breeze was blowing now, a breeze to blow cannon smoke away from the guns’ muzzles. The mist would clear soon, blown into scraps, and then what? Rain or snow.

Dubreton gestured Sharpe back towards the inn. ‘Your Colonel demanded your presence. Not, I think, that he needs or wants your advice, I suspect he merely wanted to deprive you of your wife’s company.’

‘As you deprived him?’

Dubreton smiled. ‘My wife, who is no fool, has even suggested that the beautiful Lady Farthingdale is not all she is supposed to be.’

Sharpe laughed, made no reply, and stood aside to let Dubreton duck under the lintel of the inn door. Once inside, Sharpe pulled the curtain close, and found the room stuffy with the smoke of cigars, tense with serious talk. The Battalion of wine bottles had been destroyed, replaced with brandy that only the junior officers were drinking with enjoyment. Sir Augustus Farthingdale was frowning, Ducos was smiling his secret smile.

Dubreton looked at Ducos. ‘I’m afraid you just missed La Aguja, Ducos. I invited her to join us, but she pleaded tiredness.’

Ducos turned the smile on Sharpe and kept it on his face as he made an obscene gesture. He made a loop with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and thrust his right forefinger repeatedly into the loop. ‘La Aguja, yes? The needle. We all know what we do with needles. We thread them.’

The sword came from the scabbard so fast that even Dubreton, standing at Sharpe’s elbow, could not have stopped the movement. The steel glittered in the candle light, swooped as Sharpe leaned far over the table, and the tip stopped one inch from the bridge of Ducos’ nose. ‘Do you wish to repeat that, Major?’

The room was utterly still. Sir Augustus yelped his syllable. ‘Sharpe!’

Ducos did not move. A tiny pulse throbbed beneath the pox-scarred cheek. ‘She is a foul enemy of France.’

‘I asked if you cared to repeat your statement? Or give me satisfaction.’

Ducos smiled. ‘You’re a fool, Major Sharpe, if you think I’ll fight a duel with you.’

‘Then you’re a fool to provoke one. I’m waiting for your apology.’

Dubreton spoke in quick French, and Sharpe guessed he ordered the apology for Ducos shrugged then looked back to Sharpe. ‘I have no words base enough for La Aguja, but for the insult to you, M’sieu, I offer you my regrets.‘ It was said grudgingly, scornfully.

Sharpe smiled. The apology had been graceless and insufficient and he moved the sword blade, fast, and this time Ducos did react for the steel tip had grazed his left eyebrow and struck the spectacles from his nose. He reached for them and stopped. The blade blocked his hand.

‘How well do you see me now, Ducos?’

Ducos shrugged. He looked myopic and defenceless without the two, thick lenses. ‘You’ve had my apology, M’sieu.‘

‘It’s difficult to thread a needle when you’re half blind, Ducos.’ The heavy steel rapped on one lens, shattering it. ‘Remember me, your enemy.’ The sword blade struck on the second lens and then Sharpe leaned back, reversed the sword, and thrust it home.

‘Sharpe!’ Farthingdale looked with disbelief at the broken glasses. It would take Ducos weeks to replace them.

‘Bravo, sir!’ Harry Price was drunk, happily drunk. Even the French officers, disliking Ducos, grinned at Sharpe and thumped the table with approval.

Dubreton walked back to his chair and looked at the outraged Sir Augustus. ‘Major Sharpe showed restraint, Sir Augustus. I must apologize if one of the officers under my command is both offensive and drunk.’

Ducos smouldered. There had been two insults; that he was drunk, which he was not, and that he was under Dubreton’s orders, which was equally untrue. A dangerous man, Sharpe knew, and a man whose emnity could stretch far into the future.

Dubreton sat, tapped ash onto a plate, and turned to Sir Augustus. ‘Do I have your decision, Sir Augustus?’

Farthingdale touched the white bandage that hid part of his silver hair. His voice was very precise. ‘You wish us to leave the valley at nine tomorrow morning, yes?’

‘Indeed.’

‘After which you have orders to destroy the watchtower?’

‘Yes.’

‘Following which you will go home.’

‘Precisely!’ Dubreton smiled, poured brandy and offered the bottle towards Sharpe.

Sharpe shook his head. He blew out a plume of smoke. ‘Why do you want us to leave the valley before you destroy the watchtower? Couldn’t we watch from the Castle?’

Dubreton smiled, knowing the question to be as false as the information he had already given to Sir Augustus. ‘Of course you can watch.’

Farthingdale frowned at Sharpe. ‘Your interest is laudable, Major, but Colonel Dubreton has already given us good reason why it would be sensible for us to leave.’

Dubreton nodded. ‘We have another three Battalions of Infantry in the next village.’ He shrugged, and swirled the brandy in his glass. ‘They have come as a marching exercise, a hardening of young troops, and much as I appreciate your company, Major, I fear that too many troops in the valley might be explosive.’

So Dubreton was willing to reveal part of his hand, Sharpe guessed because the Colonel had realized that Farthingdale could be scared off with numbers. Sharpe leaned back. ‘You have orders to destroy the watchtower?’

‘Yes.’

‘Strange.’

Dubreton smiled. ‘It has been used in the past by Partisans. It is a danger to us, but not to you, I would suggest.’

Sharpe tapped his own cigar ash onto the floor. He heard the laughter of the women in the next room. ‘I thought these hills were little used by ourselves, yourselves, or the partisans. Four Battalions seem a strong force to destroy one small tower.’

‘Sharpe!’ Farthingdale had lit one of his own cigars, longer and fatter than Dubreton’s. ‘If the French want to make a fool of themselves by blowing up a useless tower, then it’s none of our business.’

‘If the French want something, sir, then it’s our business to deny it them.’ Sharpe’s voice was harsh.

‘I don’t need you to tell me my duty, Major!’ Sir Augustus’ voice was angry. Dubreton watched silent. The hand touched the bandage again. ‘Colonel Dubreton had given us his word. He will withdraw when his task is done. There is no need for a useless confrontation in this valley. You may wish a fight, Major, to burnish your laurels, but my job is done. I have destroyed Pot-au-Feu, retaken our deserters, and our orders are to go home!’

Sharpe smiled. They were not Farthingdale’s orders, they had been Kinney’s orders, and now Kinney was in his grave looking westward at the hills, and Farthingdale had fallen into this command. Sharpe blew smoke at the ceiling, looked at Dubreton. ‘You will go home?’

‘Yes, Major.’

‘And you call yourselves “the Army of Portugal”, yes?’

Silence. Sharpe knew he was right. The French maintained three armies in the west of Spain; the Army of the North, the Army of the Centre, and the Army of Portugal. Dubreton’s home was across the border, his words had been deliberately misleading, though not enough to compromise his honour.

Dubreton ignored Sharpe. He looked, instead at Sir Augustus, and he put steel into his voice. ‘I have four Battalions of infantry, Sir Augustus, and can summon more within a day. I have my orders, however foolish they may seem, and I intend to carry them out. I will begin my operations at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I leave the choice to you whether you care to obstruct them.‘

Dubreton knew his man. Sir Augustus saw the odds, and saw the French bayonets coming through the war-smoke, and he folded spinelessly in front of the threat. ‘And you say we can withdraw unmolested?’

‘Our truce is extended to nine o’clock in the morning, Sir Augustus. That should give you ample time to distance yourself from Adrados.‘

Farthingdale nodded. Sharpe could hardly believe what he was seeing, though he had known other officers like this, officers who had bought their way to high rank without ever seeing the enemy and who ran away the first moment they did. Farthingdale pushed at the table, scraping his chair back. ‘We will leave at dawn.’

‘Splendid!’ Dubreton raised his brandy glass. ‘I drink to such sense!’

Sharpe dropped his cigar butt on the floor. ‘Colonel Dubreton?’

‘Major?’

Sharpe had cards to play now, but in a different game, and he must play them carefully. ‘Sir Augustus had led a gallant attack today, as you can see.’

‘Indeed.’ Dubreton looked at the white bandage. Farthingdale’s peevish face looked suspiciously at Sharpe.

‘I’ve no doubt, sir, that the story of this morning’s attack Will bring nothing but glory to Sir Augustus.’ Farthingdale’s face, in the presence of such praise, showed only more suspicion. Sharpe raised an eyebrow. ‘Sadly the despatch will have to record that Sir Augustus received an injury while leading.troops into the breach.’ Sharpe leaned forward. ‘I have known times, Colonel, when such an injury caused a serious relapse during the night.’

‘We must pray that doesn’t happen, Major.’ Dubreton said.

‘And we’ll be grateful for your prayers, sir. However, if it does, then the command of the British troops will fall on my unworthy shoulders.’

‘So?’

‘And I will exercise that command.’

‘Sharpe!’ Farthingdale protested, quite rightly. ‘You take too much on yourself, Major! I have made my decision, given my word, and I will not tolerate this insult. You will accept my orders!’

‘Of course, sir. I apologize.’

Dubreton understood. Sharpe, too, had been protecting his honour, disassociating himself from Farthingdale’s decision, and the Frenchman had caught the message Sharpe had wished to convey. He held up a hand. ‘We shall pray that Sir Augustus’ health lasts the night, and in the morning, Major, we will know he has happily lived if we see that you have withdrawn.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They stayed a half-hour more then made their farewells. Soldiers brought horses to the door, officers pulled on cloaks or greatcoats and stood to one side to allow Josefina to mount her horse. Sir Augustus mounted beside her, pulled his hat low over the bandage, and looked at the British officers at the inn door. ‘All Company officers to my quarters in a halfhour. All! That includes you, Sharpe.’ He raised a gloved finger to the tassel of his hat and nodded at Dubreton.

The French Colonel held Sharpe aside. ‘I will remember my debt to you, Sharpe.’

‘There’s no debt in my mind, sir.’

‘I’m a better judge.’ He smiled. ‘Are you going to fight us tomorrow?’

‘I shall obey orders, sir.’

‘Yes.’ Dubreton watched the first horses leave. He brought a bottle of brandy from behind his back. ‘To keep you warm on your march tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And a happy New Year, Major.’

Sharpe mounted and walked his horse after the receding officers. Harry Price hung back for him, fell in alongside, and when they were well out of earshot the Lieutenant looked at his tall Major. ‘Are we really going tomorrow morning, sir?’

‘No, Harry.’ Sharpe grinned at him, but the grin hid his real feelings. Many Riflemen and many Fusiliers, Sharpe knew, would never leave the high place in the hills that was called the Gateway of God. They had had their last Christmas.

Christmas midnight. The mist clinging to stone and grass where the breeze had not yet taken it away, and the
boot-

The dawn of Saturday, December 26th 1812, was muddy, slow and inglorious.

The temperature rose in the night, the warmer air bringing rain that lashed on the cobbles of the yard, hissed in the fire and bracketed torches, and soaked the thorn bushes so that, as the light struggled through the clouds, they appeared black and shiny on the hillsides.

At first light the valley seemed empty. The rain had exhausted itself into a fine drizzle that hid the far hills of Portugal. Clouds touched the rocky peaks north and south, shrouded even the topmost stones of the watchtower. The Union flag on the Convent had been taken down in the night, and the two Colours on the gate-tower hung heavy and wet above the rain-darkened stone.

At half past seven, a few minutes after sunrise, a group of French officers appeared to the west of the village. One was a full General. He dismounted, then propped his telescope on the saddle of his horse, peered at the men on the Castle ramparts, then pushed his horse round so he could stare at the figures beneath the watchtower. He grunted. “How long?”

‘An hour and a half, sir.’

The rain had fed the small stream so that the water bubbled vigorously from the spring, fell white over stones and earth, and flooded small patches in the valley. Two curlews, their beaks long and curved like sabres, strutted by the stream and pecked in the cold water. They seemed to find nothing, for they flew eastwards in search of better feeding.

At eight o‘clock the drizzle had stopped and a wind was pushing at the stiff folds of the Colours.

At eight fifteen the General reappeared, a roll of bread in one hand, and he was rewarded by movement at last, Riflemen were stamping the life from the remains of a fire beneath the watchtower, then they picked up their packs, their weapons, and filed westward into the thorns. The black, spiny bushes seemed to swallow them up, hiding them from sight, but then, ten minutes later, they appeared in front of the Castle. The General stamped his feet. ‘Thank God those bastards are going.’ No Frenchman liked the Riflemen, the ‘grasshoppers’, who killed at a distance and seemed invulnerable to the musket fire of French skirmishers.