Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege (11 page)

‘Not true.’

‘They have a witness, sir.’

‘Really?’ Sharpe said the word scornfully. ‘Who?’

The papers rustled. ‘A Captain Morillos, sir, of the Princessa Regiment. He commanded the guard on General Casares’ house last night and he saw a British Rifle officer leave the house at three in the morning. The officer, he says, wore a straight sword.’

That was a nice touch, Sharpe thought. Rifle officers were issued with curved cavalry sabres, and only Sharpe wore a straight sword. He shook his head. ‘And why didn’t Captain Morillos stop this man?’

‘He was ordered only to stop people from going into the house, sir, not from leaving it.’

‘Go on.’

Trumper-Jones shrugged. ‘That’s it, sir. I thought, sir ...’ He stopped, nervous again.

‘Well?’

‘I thought, sir, that if we presented your record to the court, sir, that they must be lenient. The Eagle, sir, the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz ...’ His voice tailed away.

Sharpe smiled. ‘You want me to plead guilty and trust that they won’t shoot a hero, is that it?’

‘Hang, sir.’ Trumper-Jones blushed. ‘You’ll be stripped of your commission and given a criminal’s death. Only, of course, if they ...’

‘If they find me guilty?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sharpe stared at the rusty nails on the wall. Of course this wasn’t happening. At any moment he would wake up and feel an extraordinary relief that it was only a dream. He would laugh at it, tell Sergeant Harper that he had dreamt of being court-martialled!

Except it was not a dream. He had been abandoned to this and he could understand why. Understanding did not lessen the bitterness. A Spanish General had been murdered, and Sharpe knew well enough the fragile bond between the British and the Spanish. Spanish pride was upset that they needed the British to drive the invader from their soil, and their gratitude was made prickly by that pride. Wellington, in the wake of this blow to the alliance, was moving swiftly to offer the Spaniards a sacrifice.

Yet someone else was moving swiftly, someone who wanted Sharpe dead, and he looked at the nervous Trumper-Jones and, in a voice that sounded drained and tired, he asked him to read out his copy of La Marquesa’s letter.

None of it was true, of course, but the letter existed as a damning piece of evidence. Sharpe looked at the nervous young man. ‘I want paper, ink and a pen.’

‘But, sir ...’

‘Fetch them!’

He wrote for an hour, ignoring Lieutenant Trumper-Jones, writing to Major Hogan his own version of the night’s events, describing the lies in La Marquesa’s letter, warning his friend that there was a plot of some kind, he knew not what. Even if Sharpe was dead then Hogan could not say he had not been warned. Yet what was the plot? What purpose did Sharpe’s death serve? He could understand the murder of the Marqués because such a murder would weaken a fragile alliance, but he saw no purpose in a plot that had his own death as its ending, nor did he believe that the Marquesa would seek his death.

He folded the letter. ‘That’s to go to Major Hogan.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Then came the boots in the yard, the scrape of the bolt, and the sudden wash of bright sunlight as the door was opened. A Sergeant, heading Sharpe’s escort, grinned at the Rifleman. ‘Good luck, sir.’

Sharpe smiled, but said nothing. Luck, he thought had deserted him. He had had none since that day in the Gateway of God when Teresa died, and he remembered how, on the night before that death, he had been cursed by Obadiah Hakeswill. He had been cursed, his name buried on a stone.

Sergeant Hakeswill, who had recruited Sharpe into the army, who had succeeded in having Sharpe flogged so that the scars still marred his back, and who had become Sharpe’s bitterest enemy, was dead, shot by Sharpe, and in his grave. Sharpe wondered how many hours would pass before he, too, was rolled into a shallow trench and had the dry soil of Spain shovelled onto his corpse. He followed the Sergeant to his fate.

A Major Vaughn, Welsh and suave, was the prosecuting officer. His tone, silky and musical, managed to imbue his words with a sincere regret that he had, as he said, this unfortunate duty to prosecute an officer so famed for his gallantry.

The British officers behind the table did not look at Sharpe. General Sir Edward Pakenham, the Adjutant General and Wellington’s brother-in-law, presided. Three Spanish officers, their faces like masks stared at the prisoner.

Major Vaughn, despite his regrets, offered the court a swift and damning version of the night’s events. Major Sharpe had been prevented from defending his honour in a duel. That failure rankled. He had gone, by night, and murdered the husband of a woman whom he had pursued vilely. He much regretted bringing in this evidence, but he had no choice, and he produced the letter written and sealed by the Marquesa.

Ned Pakenham lifted the letter as though it was plague-ridden and handed it back to Vaughn. The letter was read into the records of the Court-Martial.

Vaughn brought the letter to Sharpe. ‘You recognise the handwriting, Major? Do remember you are under oath.’

Sharpe looked up into the plump, clever face. ‘La Marquesa is a Frenchwoman, a spy, and ...’

‘Thank you, Major, I only asked if you recognised the handwriting. Do you?’

He did, but he saw no sense in making things grimmer for himself than they already were. ‘I can’t tell.’

Vaughn walked back to his table. ‘Fortunately we have witnesses who can.’

Sharpe raised his voice. ‘I have another letter from ...’

‘We are concerned with this letter, Major!’ Vaughn turned sharply, but Pakenham held up a hand. He looked into Sharpe’s eyes for the first time since the Rifleman had entered the room.

‘You have another letter from this lady?’

Sharpe nodded. He had not told Trumper-Jones of the letter because Sharpe had no faith in the young man’s ability. ‘She wrote to me, sir, after the death of my wife. She wanted to offer me her condolences. She regretted she would not convey them to me in person.’ He could not resist a small smile. Such a letter was hardly likely to have come from a woman he had persecuted. He saw the flicker of hope on Lieutenant Trumper-Jones’ face. ‘I’d like that letter read into the record too, sir.’

The general officers behind the table smiled, sensing a victory for Sharpe. Pakenham leaned back. ‘You have the letter, Major Sharpe?’

‘It’s in my pack, sir.’

‘Major Vaughn?’ Pakenham turned to the Welshman.

‘You have no objection?’

‘No, sir, none. But I must tell the court that we have already impounded the prisoner’s belongings, searched them, and no such letter has been found.’

‘It’s in my pack!’ Sharpe said stubbornly.

Vaughn sighed. ‘Major Michael Hogan conducted the search, sir. No letter was discovered.’

The officers behind the table stared again at the green cloth on which their papers lay. Sharpe’s sword, its scabbard and hilt battered by war, was at the table’s front.

The Marqués’ chaplain, through an interpreter, testified that he had found the Marqués’ servants asleep outside his master’s room. Perhaps, he wondered, they had been given a sleeping potion by the prisoner?

Captain Morillos, a bull of a man, gave his evidence. He had seen, in the light of a torch bracketed at the garden gate of the house, a Rifle Officer leave at three in the morning. No, he had not seen the man’s face, but he had seen the English uniform and the Heavy Cavalry sword.

It was hot in the courtroom. Sharpe could feel himself sweating beneath his shirt. He listened hopelessly as Lieutenant Trumper-Jones failed to budge Captain Morillos one inch. The Captain claimed to have an intimate knowledge of uniforms and swords and was certain of what he had seen.

Sharpe had no defence other than innocence. He had eaten with Harper, Isabella, and d‘Alembord, but he had left before midnight. He had slept in his billet, but he could produce no witnesses who could swear that they had watched him all night.

Major Vaughn waved a fly from the air in front of his face. ‘Major Sharpe. You knew La Marquesa de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that acquaintanceship,’ he stressed the word delicately, ‘gave rise to the challenge you accepted yesterday?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘I never threatened her.’

‘One is delighted to hear it.’ Vaughn smiled and took two thoughtful paces into the floor’s centre. ‘But you did know her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well? You knew her well?’

‘Yes, but ...’

‘Yes is enough. Major. You were challenged by Major Mendora, aide to the General?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you accepted the challenge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though you knew that such an acceptance was counter to the General Orders of this army?’

Sharpe looked at the smug face. ‘I went into the breach at Badajoz without orders, too.’

Two of the officers behind the table smiled. Vaughn just raised an eyebrow. ‘Another impetuous act, Major?’

Sharpe said nothing. Vaughn sighed and walked back to his table. He straightened his papers as though he would not be needing them much longer. ‘You were prevented from finishing this duel?’

‘I was.’

‘We should be grateful that someone was doing his duty yesterday. Presumably, Major, you felt cheated of a death?’

Sharpe frowned. ‘No.’

‘Ah! You were fighting a duel for exercise, perhaps?’

‘I was fighting for honour.’

Vaughn said nothing. The word hung, tawdry and silly, in the embarrassment of the courtroom.

The officers of the court tried to find more evidence, but there was none. Sharpe had no witnesses. He was ordered back to his limewashed room to await the verdict.

It took only ten minutes before he was escorted back.

He was guilty.

Lieutenant Trumper-Jones, his hair dropping over one eye, made a surprisingly impassioned speech for the prisoner. He described his gallantry, enumerated his acts on the battlefield, quoted the
Times
newspaper which had called Sharpe ‘Albion’s stalwart son’. On the grounds of his heroism, of his contribution to this war, Trumper-Jones said, the court should show the prisoner leniency.

Major Vaughn allowed all of the gallantry. He pointed out, too, that the Spanish people had entrusted Wellington with their pride and their armies. That trust had been broken. The Spanish would suspect the good faith of an ally who let a murderer of one of their leading citizens, a gallant General who had subdued a revolt in the Banda Oriental, go unpunished. In the interests of the alliance, as well as of natural justice, he feared he must call for the most rigorous punishment. He sounded regretful, but he spoke with the confidence of a man who knew the outcome.

General Pakenham was uncomfortable. He, too, was under orders here. His eyes did not look up at the prisoner as he ordered that Major Sharpe should be stripped of his rank, and dismissed from the army. When those formalities were completed, which should be, he said, by four o‘clock that afternoon, Richard Sharpe was to be escorted to the main square of the town where, in the presence of four Spanish Battalions, he would be hanged.

Reluctantly, pain in his eyes, Pakenham looked at Sharpe. ‘Is there anything you have to say?’

Sharpe looked back defiantly. ‘Permission to die in my Rifleman’s jacket, sir.’

‘Denied.’ Pakenham looked as if he wanted to add that Sharpe had disgraced his uniform, but the words would not come. ‘These proceedings are over.’ He stood, and Sharpe was led from the courtroom, his hands tied, condemned to the gallows.

Lord Stokeley, one of Wellington’s aides-de-camp, wondered whether wine should be served to the Spanish officers who came to witness the execution.

Wellington stared at him with cold, blue eyes. ‘It’s an execution, Stokeley, not a god-damned christening.’

Stokeley decided it would be best not to mention that in his family refreshments were served for both functions. ‘Very good, my Lord.’ He decided he had never seen his master in a worse temper.

Nor had he, indeed. The damage that could be done to the tenuous alliance between British and Spanish was immense. No Spanish soldier, so far as Wellington knew, had any love for the Marqués de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba, but his murder had transformed him into a martyr of Spain. The damned churchmen had been quick off the mark, as usual, preaching their anti-protestant diatribes, but Wellington prided himself that he had been just as quick. The culprit had been tried, a hanging would take place, and all before the sun that had risen on the murdered man would set. The Spanish, ready to mount elaborate protests, had found the wind taken from their sails. They declared themselves satisfied with his Lordship’s swift retribution.

The Spanish soldiers who were marched into the plaza of the small town were glad of the break in their routine. They had been training hard, marching long days and waking with aching bones to face more hard training. Yet this afternoon it was like a fiesta. They were marched into the plaza, Battalion after Battalion, to witness the death of an Englishman.

The gibbet was made from an army wagon that was parked against the limewashed wall of the priest’s house. There was a convenient hook high on the wall. An English Sergeant, sweating in his Provost’s uniform, climbed a ladder with the rope that he looped onto the hook. The square was thick with Provosts. There was a rumour that men of the South Essex, together with some Riflemen, planned to try and rescue Richard Sharpe from the gallows. It sounded an unlikely threat, but it was taken seriously. The Provosts carried their short muskets tipped with bayonets and watched the alleys and streets that led into the plaza.

The first Spanish officers came to the headquarters. They seemed subdued. Most tactfully avoided the windows that faced the square, but Major Mendora, his bright white uniform bearing a black crepe band on its right sleeve, watched the Sergeant hang the rope in its place. Lord Stokeley wondered if the Major would care for a cup of tea? The Major would not.