Sharpe's Eagle (17 page)

Almost every unit marched before them. Five Regi-ments of Dragoons and the Hussars of the
King's German Legion, over three thousand cavalry in all, followed by an army of mules carrying
fodder for the precious horses. The cumbersome artillery with their guns, limbers, and portable
forges added even more mules, more supplies, but mostly it was infantry who disturbed the quiet
streets. Twenty-five Battalions of unglamorous infantry, with stained uniforms and worn boots,
the men who had to stand and face the world's best artillerymen and cavalry; and with them
marched even more mules mixed up with the Battalions' women and children.

The Battalion finally took the road across the river well after sunrise, and if the previous
days had been hot, it now seemed as if nature was intent on baking the landscape into one solid
expanse of terracotta. The army crept across the vast, arid plain and stirred up a fine dust that
hung in the air and lined the mouths and throats of the parched infantry. There was no trace of
wind, just the dust, the heat and glare, the sweat that stung the eyes, and the endless sound of
boots hitting the white road. In one village there was a pool that had been trampled into foul
sticky mud by the cavalry, but even that was welcomed by the men, who had long before emptied
their canteens and now skimmed the sour water from the surface of the glutinous mud.

There was not much else to be grateful for. The rest of the army shunned the new Battalion of
Detachments as if the men were harbouring a repulsive disease. The loss of the colour had stained
the reputation of the whole army, and when the Battalion bivouacked on the first night they were
turned away from a capacious farm by a Colonel of Dragoons who wanted nothing to do with a
Regiment which had failed so shamefully. The Battalion's morale was not helped by a shortage of
food. The herd of cattle which had left Portugal had long been slaughtered and eaten, the
supplies promised by the Spanish had not appeared, and the men were hungry, sullen, and cowed by
Simmerson's brutality. He had found his own reasons for the loss of the colour, the behaviour of
Sharpe and the actions of his own men, and if he could not punish the first it was well within
his practised power to punish the second. Only the Light Company retained some vestiges of pride.
The men were proud of their new Captain. Throughout the Battalion Sharpe was now believed to be a
magic man, a lucky one, a man whom enemy swords and bullets could not touch. The Light Company
believed, in the way of soldiers, that Sharpe would bring them luck in battle, would keep them
alive, and pointed to the action at the bridge as proof. Sharpe's Riflemen agreed, they had
always known their officer was lucky, and they revelled in his new promotion. Sharpe had been
embarrassed by their pleasure, blushed when they offered him drinks from hoarded bottles of
Spanish brandy, and covered his confusion by pretending to have duties elsewhere. On the first
night of the march from Plasencia he lay in a field, wrapped in his greatcoat, and thought of the
boy who had fearfully joined the army sixteen years before. What would that terrified
sixteen-year-old, running from justice, have thought if he knew he would one day be a
Captain?

On the second night the Battalion was more fortunate. They bivouacked near another nameless
village, and the woods were filled with soldiers hacking at branches to build the fires on which
they could boil the tea-leaves they carried loose in their pockets. Provosts guarded the olive
groves; nothing made the army so unpopular as the French habit of cutting down a village's olive
trees and denying them harvests for years to come, and Wellesley had issued strict orders that
the olives were not to be touched. The officers of the South Essex-the Battalion still thought of
itself as that were billeted in the village inn. It was a large building, evidently a way station
between Plasencia and Talavera, and behind it was a courtyard with big cypress trees beneath
which were tables and benches. The three-sided yard opened onto a stream, and on the far bank the
men of the Battalion made fires and beds in a grove of cork trees. There had been pigs in the
grove, and as Sharpe stripped off his uniform to search the seams for lice he could smell pork
cooking on the myriad small fires that showed through the foliage. Such looting was punishable by
instant hanging, but nothing could stop it. The officers, the provosts, everyone was short of
food, and the surreptitious offer of some stolen pork would ensure that the provosts would take
no action.

The courtyard gradually filled with officers from the dozen Battalions bivouacked in the
village. The heat of the day mellowed into a warm, clear evening, and the stars came out like the
camp fires of a limitless army seen far away. From the main room of the inn came the sound of
music and cheering as the officers egged on the Spanish dancers to twitch their skirts
higher.

Sharpe pushed his way through the crowded room and glimpsed Simmerson and his cronies sitting
playing cards at a corner table. Gibbons was there, he was now perma-nently attached to
Simmerson's staff, and the unpleasant Lieutenant Berry. For a second Sharpe thought about the
girl. He had seen her once or twice since the return from the bridge and felt a surge of
jealousy. He pushed the thought away; the officers of the Battalion were split enough as it was.
There were Simmerson's supporters, who toadied to the Colonel and assured him that the loss of
the colour had been no fault of his, and there were those who had publicly supported Sharpe. It
was an uncomfort-able situation but there was nothing to be done about it. He passed out of the
room into the courtyard and found Forrest, Leroy, and a group of Subalterns sitting beneath one
of the cypress trees. Forrest made room for him on the bench.

"Don't you ever take that rifle off?"

"And have it stolen?" Sharpe asked. "I'd be charged for it."

Forrest smiled. "Have you paid for the stocks yet?"

"Not yet." Sharpe grimaced. "But now I'm officially on the Battalion's payroll, I suppose it
will be deducted from my pay, whenever that arrives."

Forrest pushed a wine bottle towards him. "Don't let it worry you. Tonight the wine's on
me."

There was an ironic cheer from the officers round the table. Unconsciously Sharpe felt the
leather bag round his neck. It was heavier by six gold pieces, thanks to the dead on the field at
Valdelacasa. He drank some wine.

"It's filthy!"

"There's a rumour," Leroy said drily. "I hear that when they tread the grapes they don't
bother to get out of the wine-press to relieve themselves."

There was a moment's silence and then a chorus of disgusted voices. Forrest looked dubiously
into his cup. "I don't believe it."

"In India," Sharpe said, "some natives believe it very healthy to drink their own
urine."

Forrest looked owlishly at him. "That cannot be true."

Leroy intervened. "Perfectly true, Major, I've seen them do it. A cupful a day.
Cheers!"

Everyone round the table protested but Sharpe and Leroy stuck to their story. The conversation
stayed with India, of battles and sieges, of strange animals, of the palaces that contained
unimaginable wealth. More wine was ordered and food brought from the kitchens, not the pork that
smelt so tantalisingly from the lines but a stew that seemed to consist mainly of vegetables. It
still felt good to be sitting there. Sharpe stretched his legs under the table and leaned back
against the cypress trunk letting the tiredness of the day flow through him. Over the sound of
talk and laughter he could hear the thousands of insects that chattered and clicked through the
Spanish night. Later he would walk over the stream and visit his company, and he let his thoughts
wander, not too many miles away, to where he knew a group of French officers would be sitting
just like this and where their men would be cooking on fires like the ones across the stream. And
somewhere, perhaps propped in the corner of a room in an inn just like this one, would be the
Eagle. A hand hit him on the back.

"So they've made you a Captain! This army has no standards!" It was Hogan. Sharpe had not seen
him since the day they marched back from the bridge. He stood up and took the Engineer's hand.
Hogan beamed at him. "I'm delighted! Shocked, of course, but delighted.
Congratula-tions!"

Sharpe blushed and shrugged. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, looking at things." Sharpe knew that Hogan had been reconnoitring for Wellesley, coming
back with news of which bridges could take the weight of heavy artillery, which roads were wide
enough for the army to use. The Captain had obviously been forward to Oropesa and perhaps beyond.
Forrest invited him to sit and asked for news.

"The French are up the valley. A lot of them." Hogan poured himself some wine. "I reckon
there'll be a battle within a week."

"A week!" Forrest sounded surprised.

"Aye, Major. They're swarming all over a place called Talavera." Hogan pronounced it
`Tally-verra', making it sound like some Irish hamlet. "But once you join with Cuesta's army
you'll far outnumber them."

"You've seen Cuesta's troops?" Sharpe asked.

"Aye." The Irishman grinned. "They're no better than the Santa Maria. The cavalry may be
better, but the infantry. , Hogan left the sentence unfinished. He turned back to Sharpe and
beamed again. "The last time I saw you, you were under arrest! Now look at you. How's good Sir
Henry?" There was a laugh round the table. Hogan did not wait for an answer but dropped his
voice. "I saw Sir Arthur."

"I know. Thank you."

"For telling the truth? So what happens now?"

"I don't know." Sharpe spoke quietly. Only Hogan could hear him. "Simmerson has written home.
I'm told that he has the power to stop the Horse Guards ratifying the gazette, so in six weeks
I'll be a Lieutenant again, probably for ever, and almost certainly transferred to the Fever
Islands, or out of the army altogether." Hogan looked intently at him.

"You're serious?"

"Yes. One of Sir Arthur's staff virtually told me as much."Because of Simmerson?" Hogan
frowned in disbelief. Sharpe sighed. "It has to do with Simmerson keeping his credibility in
Parliament with the people who oppose Wellesley. I'm the sacrifice. Don't ask me, it's way over
my head. What about you? You were under arrest too."

Hogan shrugged. "Sir Henry forgave me. He doesn't take me seriously, I'm just an Engineer. No,
it's you he's after. You're an upstart, a Rifleman, you're not a Gentle-man but you're a better
soldier than he'll ever be, so." He squeezed his thumb and forefinger together. "He wants rid of
you. Listen." Hogan leaned even nearer. "There'll be a battle soon, has to be. The idiot will
probably make as big a mess as he did before. They can't protect him for ever. It's a terrible
thing, God knows, but you should pray he makes as big a mistake again."

Sharpe smiled. "I doubt if we need to pray." From one of the upper windows that looked onto
the balconies that ran round the courtyard there came a woman's scream, terrifying and intense,
stopping all conversation beneath the trees. Men froze with their cups half lifted to their
mouths and stared at the dark doorways that led to the bedrooms. Sharpe got to his feet and
reached instinctively for his rifle. Forrest put a hand on his arm. "It's not our business,
Sharpe."

In the courtyard there was a moment's silence, some nervous laughter, and then the
conversation started again.

Sharpe felt uneasy. It could have been anything; one of the women who lived at the inn could
be ill, possibly even a difficult childbirth, but he felt certain it was something else. A rape?
He felt ashamed that he had done nothing. Forrest tugged at his arm again. "Sit down. It's
probably nothing."

Before Sharpe could move there came another scream, this time a man's, and it turned into a
bellow of rage. A door burst open on the top floor spilling yellow candle-light onto the balcony,
and a woman ran out of the room and darted towards the stairs. A voice shouted, "Stop
her!"

The girl tore down the stairs as though the fiends of hell were after her. The officers in the
courtyard cheered her on and shouted abuse at the two figures who emerged after her, Gibbons and
Berry. They stood no chance of catching her; both men looked drunk, and as they burst from the
room they lurched and blinked round the courtyard.

"It's Josefina," Forrest said. Sharpe watched the girl half run, half fall down the stairs
until she reached the other side of the courtyard from their table. For a second she looked
desperately round as though looking for help. She was carrying a bag, and Sharpe had a glimpse of
what could have been a knife in her hand, and then she turned and ran into the darkness, over the
stream, towards the lights of the Battalion's fires. Gibbons stopped halfway down the stairs; he
was dressed in trousers and shirt and one hand was clutching the unbuttoned shirt to his stomach;
in the other hand was a pistol. "Come back, you lousy bitch!"

He jumped the last flight of steps and fumbled with the lock of his pistol.

"What's the matter, Gibbons? Girl took your colours!" The voice came from one of the tables in
the courtyard. Gibbons, his face furious, ignored the jibes and laughter and ran with Berry
towards the stream.

"There's going to be trouble." Sharpe climbed from the bench. "I'm going."

He threaded his way through the tables, Forrest and Hogan following him. He left the light of
the courtyard and splashed through the stream; there was no sight of the girl or her pursuers,
just the lights in the cork grove and the occasional silhouette of a man crossing in front of the
flames. He paused to let his eyes become accustomed to the dark. Forrest caught up with
him.

"Is there going to be trouble, Sharpe?"

"Not if I can help it, sir. But you saw him, he's got a pistol." There were shouts to the
left, a commotion. "Come on!"

He outpaced the other two; he was running fast, keeping the silver track of the stream to his
left, holding the rifle in his right hand.