Sharpe's Enemy (29 page)

‘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-
heels of sentries were loud on the Castle ramparts. Flame flared in the courtyard. From below, the greatcoat-skirts of the patrolling sentries could have been the surcoats of armoured knights; their bayonets, catching the gleam of fire, the spearpoints of men who waited for Islam to attack in the dawn.

Sharpe held Teresa close. Two of her men waited in the Castle gateway, her horse moved restlessly behind her. ‘You have the message.

She nodded, pulled away from him. ‘I’ll be back in two days.’

‘I’ll still be here.’

She punched him softly. ‘Make sure you are.’ She turned, mounted the horse, and pulled it towards the gateway.

‘Take care!’

‘We ride more at night than at day! Two days!’ And she was gone through the arch, turning westward to take the news of the hidden French troops to Frenada. Another parting in a marriage that was made of too many partings, and he listened to the fading hooves and thought that at the end of two days’ fighting there would be a reward.

He was late for Sir Augustus’ meeting, and he hardly cared. The decision that Sharpe had made would render anything Sir Augustus had to say meaningless. Sharpe would take over. He climbed the stairway in the gate-tower, laboriously cleared of the windlass, and walked the circuit of the battlements towards the keep.

Sir Augustus had a huge fire in his room, the wood crackling fiercely as the thorns burned. The chimney, the only one in the Castle, opened up on the ramparts.

Farthingdale paused as Sharpe entered. A dozen officers sat or stood in the room, even Frederickson had been fetched from the watchtower, and the eyes looked at Sharpe. Farthingdale’s voice was hostile. ‘You’re late, Major.’

‘My apologies, sir.’

Pot-au-Feu had furnished the room in barbaric splendour, rugs on walls and floor, even serving as heavy curtains, and the curtains moved to reveal Josefina. She came from the balcony, smiled at Sharpe, then leaned against the wall as Sir Augustus lifted the piece of paper in his hand. ‘I will recapitulate for those who could not be here on time. We leave at first light. The prisoners will go first, suitably dressed, and guarded by four Companies of the Fusiliers.’

Brooker nodded, making notes on a folded square of paper.

‘Captain Gilliland will go next. You will make space on your carts for the wounded.’

Gilliland nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then the rest of the Fusiliers. Major Sharpe?’

‘Sir?’

‘Your Riflemen will be the rear-guard.’

Captain Brooker raised the pertinent point of what was to be done with the women and children of the prisoners, and while the Captains made their suggestions, Frederickson looked appealingly towards Sharpe. Sharpe smiled and shook his head.

Frederickson misunderstood, or else was too upset to leave matters with Sharpe, for the Rifle Captain stood up and asked Farthingdale’s permission to speak.

‘Captain?’

‘Why are we leaving, sir?’

‘The Rifles are thirsting for glory,’ Farthingdale sneered, and Sharpe marked the men who smiled, for those were the men who had little taste for this fight. Farthingdale handed his piece of paper to a Fusilier, acting as clerk, who began the laborious task of copying out the orders. ‘We are leaving, Captain Frederickson, because we are opposed by overwhelming force in a place where we have no reason to fight. We cannot fight four Battalions of French.’

Sharpe ignored the fact that four Battalions of French were not too many for a well-sited defence. He uncurled from the wall. ‘In fact, sir, a good many more than four.’

All eyes were on Sharpe. Farthingdale looked lost for a second. ‘More?’

‘Within eight miles of us, sir, and probably moving up tonight, there are nearer ten Battalions, maybe more. There’s also five or six batteries of artillery, and at least another two hundred cavalry. My own suspicion is that that’s a minimum. I’d venture a guess at fifteen Battalions.’

The thorns crackled in the fireplace. The Fusilier clerk was staring open-mouthed at Sharpe. Farthingdale frowned. ‘May I ask why you chose not to apprise me of this intelligence. Sharpe?’

‘I just did, sir.’

‘And may I ask how you know?’

‘My wife saw them, sir.’

‘A woman’s report.’

‘A woman, Sir Augustus, who has spent the last three years fighting the French.’ That jibe went home, provoking smiles from Frederickson and a handful of other officers.

Sir Augustus snapped at the clerk to keep writing, then snapped at Sharpe. ‘I hardly see how it affects these orders, Major. If anything, it would seem to underline the wisdom of them.’

‘It would be interesting, sir, to know why the French are here in such force. I doubt if it’s to destroy a watchtower.’

‘Interesting, no doubt, but that is not my concern. Are you suggesting we fight them?’ Sir Augustus let the sarcasm show in his question.

‘Well, sir. They’ve probably got seven or eight thousand infantry, I suspect more. We’ve got, let me see, just over six hundred which includes our lightly wounded. We’ve also got Captain Gilliland’s men, so I think we can pretty safely hold them off.’

More smiles, and Sharpe marked those too, because they were the Captains he could rely on.

Sir Augustus was enjoying himself. ‘How, Major?’

‘In the usual way, sir. Kill the bastards.’

‘My wife is in the room, Sharpe. You will apologize.’

Sharpe bowed to Josefina. ‘My apologies, Milady.’

Farthingdale hitched the tail of his jacket up to warm himself in front of the fire. He was pleased with himself, having forced Sharpe to apologize, and he was enjoying his display of authority in front of Josefina. His voice was crisp. ‘Major Sharpe dreams of miracles, I prefer to put my trust in soldierly common sense. Our plain duty is to live and fight another day. Captain Brooker?’

‘Sir?’ Sharpe had Brooker marked as a Farthingdale supporter.

‘Detail two reliable Lieutenants to carry this intelligence ahead of us in the morning. See they’re well mounted.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sharpe leaned back against the wall. ‘I’ve already sent the message, sir.’

‘You take a great deal upon yourself, Major Sharpe.’ Sir Augustus’ voice was rich in contempt. ‘Did you think the courtesy of requesting my permission was too cumbersome for your precious time?’

‘My wife and her men are not subject to your permission, Sir Augustus.’ Sharpe let his own hostility show, and he saw the fury snap into Farthingdale’s eyes. Sharpe kept talking, softening his tone. ‘I do need your permission, sir, for one other thing. I would like one observation to be recorded of this meeting.’

‘Damn your observation!’

‘Doubtless you will, sir, but nevertheless it is important.’ Sharpe knew how to bully a bully. He was upright again, taller than anyone else in the room, a subdued anger and violence threatening the meeting. He paused, giving Sir Augustus a chance to order him into silence, and when the order did not come he threw out the lifeline he had thought about so carefully. If Sir Augustus listened, Sir Augustus could hold the pass. ‘It’s obvious, sir, that the French are interested in far more than the destruction of the watchtower. I suggest, sir, that their force denotes an attempt to enter Portugal, and once they are through this pass then there are a dozen routes they could take. It will take a day for our message to reach Frenada, another day for any troops to be concentrated, and by then their aim might well be accomplished. I do not know what that aim is, sir, but I do know one thing. There is one place where they can be stopped, and this is it.’ Sharpe’s supporters, Gilliland among them, nodded.

Sir Augustus leaned against the ornate stone chimney hood and smoothed a hand over his hair, fiddling with the black bow at the nape of his neck. ‘Thank you for the lecture, Major Sharpe.’ Sir Augustus was feeling more comfortable. The odds described by Sharpe had justified his decision, and he could sense the support of half the officers in the room. ‘You wanted that observation recorded. So it shall be, as will mine. This may be the place to stop them, but only with adequate troops. I do not intend to sacrifice a fine Battalion to your ambition in a fruitless attempt to stop an enemy who outnumbers and outguns us. Are you really suggesting we can win?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Ah!’ Sir Augustus feigned surprise.

‘I’m suggesting we have to fight.’

‘Your suggestion is noted, and refused. My decision is made. Tomorrow we leave. That is an order.’ He looked acidly at Sharpe. ‘Do you accept that order, Major?’

‘Of course, sir, and I apologize for taking up your time.’ Frederickson looked appalled at Sharpe, Farthingdale looked pleased.

‘Thank you, Major.’ Sir Augustus sighed. ‘We were discussing the problem of the women and children. Captain Brooker?’

Captain Brooker’s contribution was doomed to be unsaid. Sharpe cleared his throat. ‘Sir?’

‘Major Sharpe.’ Farthingdale was condescending in victory.

‘There was one very small matter, sir, which I would be wrong not to bring to your attention.’

‘I would hate you to be in the wrong, Major.’ Farthingdale provoked smiles from his men. ‘Pray enlighten me.’