Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy

by Bernard Cornwell

  There were screams in the street. Men died who tried to protect their homes, children screamed as their fathers died, as their homes were forced open. The musket shots dotted the breeze with small white clouds.

  More men came from the east, men in uniforms as varied as the Battalions that had fought for Portugal and Spain in the four years of war in the Peninsula. With the men came women and it was the women who killed children in the village, shooting them, knifing them, keeping only those who could work. The women squabbled over the cottages, arguing who would have what, sometimes crossing themselves as they passed a crucifix nailed on the low stone walls. It did not take long to destroy Adrados.

  In the Convent the screams had become constant as the English soldiers hunted through the two cloisters, the hall, the empty rooms, and the crammed chapel. The priest had run to the door, pushing his way through the women, and now he was held, quivering, as the redcoats sorted out their prize. Some women were pushed out of the building, the lucky ones, women too diseased or too old, and some were killed with the long bayonets. Inside the chapel the soldiers took the ornaments from the altar, picked through the gifts that were piled in the narrow space behind it, and then smashed open the cupboard that held the Mass vessels. One soldier was pulling on the white and gold finery the priest kept for Easter. He walked round the church blessing his comrades who pulled women onto the floor. The chapel sounded with sobs, screams, mens’ laughter, and the tearing of cloth.

  The Colonel had ridden his horse into the upper cloister and waited, a grin on his face, and watched his men. He had sent two men he could trust into the chapel and they appeared now, holding a woman between them, and the Colonel looked at her, licked his lips, and his face twitched in its spasms.

  Everything about her was rich, from her clothes to her hair, a richness that spoke of money enhancing beauty. Her hair was black and full, falling in waves either side of a face that was generous and provocative. She had dark eyes that looked at him fearlessly, a mouth that seemed as if it smileda lot, and her clothes were covered with a dark cloak trimmed in lavish silver fur. The Colonel smiled. ‘Is that her?’

  Smithers grinned. ‘That’s ’er, sir.‘

  ‘Well, well, well. Isn’t Lord Farthingdale a lucky bastard, then. Get her bloody cloak off, let’s have a look at her.’

  Smithers reached for the fur-edged hood at the back of the cloak, but she pushed the men away, undid the clasp at her neck and slowly took the cloak from her shoulders. She had a full body, in the prime of her youth, and there was something tantalizing to the Colonel in her absence of fear. The cloister stank of fresh blood, echoed with screaming women and children, yet this rich, beautiful woman stood there with a calm face. The Colonel smiled again with his toothless mouth. ‘So you’re married to Lord Farthingdale, whoever he is?’

  ‘Sir Augustus Farthingdale.’ She was not English.

  ‘Oh, dear me. I begs your Ladyship’s pardon.’ The Colonel gave his cackling laugh. ‘Sir Augustus. General, is he?’

  ‘Colonel.’

  ‘Like me!’ The yellow face twitched as he laughed. ‘Rich, is he?’

  ‘Very.’ She stated it as a fact.

  The Colonel dismounted clumsily. He was tall, with a huge belly, and an ugliness that was truly remarkable. His face twitched as he approached her. ‘You’re no bloody English lady, are you now?’

  She still seemed utterly unafraid. She covered her dark riding habit with her fur-edged cloak and even gave a tiny smile. ‘Portuguese.’

  The blue eyes watched her closely. ‘How do I know you’re telling the bleeding truth, then? What’s a Portuguesey doing married to Sir Augustus Farthingdale, eh?’

  She shrugged, took from her left hand a ring, and tossed it to the Colonel. ‘Trust that.’

  The ring was of gold. On its bevelled face was a coat of arms, quartered, and the Colonel smiled as he looked at it. ‘How long have you been married, Milady?’

  This time she did smile, and the soldiers watching grinned with desire. This was the Colonel’s prize, but the Colonel could be generous when he wished it. She pushed black hair away from her olive skin. ‘Six months, Colonel.’

  ‘Six months. Still got the shine on it, has it?’ He cackled.

  ‘How much will Sir Augustus pay to have you back as a

  bedwarmer?’

  ‘A lot.’ She dropped her voice as she said it, enriching the two words with promise.

  The Colonel laughed. Beautiful women did not like the Colonel and so he did not like them. This rich bitch had spirit, but he could break her, and he looked at his men who watched her, and he grinned. He tossed the gold ring in the air, caught it. ‘What were you doing here, Milady?’

  ‘I was praying for my mother.’

  The grin went instantly from his face. His eyes were suddenly cunning, his voice guarded. ‘You were what?’

  ‘Praying for my mother. She’s ill.’

  ‘You love your mother?’ His question was intense.

  She nodded, puzzled. ‘Yes.’

  The Colonel jerked on his heel, swung to his men, and his finger jabbed at them like a blade. ‘No one!’ His voice was at a scream again. ‘No one is to touch her! You hear me! No one.’ The head twitched and he waited for the spasm to pass. ‘I’ll kill any bastard who touches her! Kill them!’ He turned back to her and gave her a clumsy bow. ‘Lady Farthingdale. You have to put up with us.’ His eyes searched the cloister and saw the priest, tied to a pillar. ‘We’ll send the vicar with a letter and the ring. Your husband can pay for you, Milady, but no one, I promises you, no one will touch you.’ He looked at his men again, screamed, and the spittle flayed out in the sunlight. ‘No one touches her!’ His mood changed back just as suddenly. He looked about the cloister, at the women who lay, bloody and beaten, on the coloured tiles, at the other women who waited, fearful and terrified, within the hedge of bayonets and he grinned. ‘Plenty for everyone, yes? Plenty!’ He cackled and turned, his slim sword scabbard scraping on the ground. He saw a young girl, skinny, scarce out of childhood, and the finger jabbed again. ‘That’s mine! Bring her here!’ He laughed, hands on hips, dominating the cloister, and he grinned at the men in the Convent. ‘Welcome to your new home, lads.’

  The Day of the Miracle had come to Adrados again and the dogs of the village sniffed at the blood that stiffened in the single street.

  Chapter 1

  Richard Sharpe, Captain of the Light Company of the South Essex Regiment’s one and only Battalion, stood at the window and stared at the procession in the street below. It was cold outside, he knew that too well. He had just marched his shrunken company north from Castelo Branco, ordered to Army Headquarters by a mysterious summons for which he had still not been given an explanation. Not that Headquarters often explained itself to mere Captains, but it annoyed Sharpe that he had now been in Frenada two days and was still none the wiser about the urgent orders. The General, Viscount Wellington of Talavera, no by God, that was wrong! He was now the Marquess of Wellington, Grandee of Spain, Duque de Ciudad Rodrigo, Generalissimo of all the Spanish Armies, ‘Nosey’ to his men, ’the Peer’ to his officers, and the man, Sharpe assumed, who had wanted him in Frenada, but the General was not here. He was in Cadiz, or Lisbon, or God only knew where, and the British army was huddling in its winter quarters while only Sharpe and his Company were out on the cold December roads. Major Michael Hogan, Sharpe’s friend, and the man who ran Wellington’s Intelligence department, had gone south with the General and Sharpe missed him. Hogan would not have kept him waiting.

  At least Sharpe was warm. He had given his name yet again to the clerk on the ground floor and then growled that he would wait upstairs in the Headquarters mess where there was a fire. He was not supposed to use the room, but few people wanted to argue with the tall, dark haired Rifleman with the scar that gave his face a slightly mocking look in repose.

  He stared down at the roadway. A priest sprinkled Holy Water. Acolytes rang bells and swung censers of burning
incense. Banners followed the litter-borne statue of the Virgin Mary. Women knelt by the buildings and held clasped hands towards the statue. A weak sunlight lit the streets, winter sunlight, and Sharpe’s eyes automatically searched the sky for clouds. There were none.

  The mess was empty. With Wellington away most of the officers seemed to spend their mornings in bed, or else sitting in the inn next door where the landlord had been educated in the making of a proper breakfast. Pork chops, fried eggs, fried kidneys, bacon, toast, claret, more toast, butter, and tea so strong that it could scour a fouled howitzer barrel. Some officers had already gone to Lisbon for Christmas. If the French attacked now, Sharpe thought, they could stroll through Portugal to the sea.

  The door banged open and a middle-aged man wearing a voluminous dressing-gown over his uniform trousers walked in. He scowled at the Rifleman. ‘Sharpe?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The ‘sir’ seemed judicious. The man had an air of authority despite a streaming cold.

  ‘Major General Nairn.’ The Major General dropped papers on a low table, next to the back numbers of the Times and the Courier from London, then crossed to the other tall window. He scowled at the street. ‘Damned Papists.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Another judicious reply.

  ‘Damned Papists! The Nairns, Sharpe, are all Scottish Presbyterians! We may be boring, but by God we are Godly!’ He grinned, then sneezed violently before vigorously wiping his nose with a huge grey handkerchief. He gestured with the handkerchief at the procession. Another god-damned feastday, Sharpe, can’t think why they’re all so bloody thin.‘ He laughed, then looked with shrewd eyes at the Rifleman. ’So you’re Sharpe?‘

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well don’t come near me, I’ve got a bloody cold.’ He walked towards the fire. ‘Heard about you, Sharpe. Bloody impressive! Scottish, are you?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Sharpe grinned.

  ‘Not your fault, Sharpe, not your fault. Can’t help our damned parents which is why we have to thrash our damned children.’ He glanced quickly at Sharpe, making sure he was being appreciated. ‘Came up from the ranks, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’ve done bloody well, Sharpe, bloody well.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ It was amazing how few words were usually needed to get by with senior officers.

  Major General Nairn bent down and damaged the fire by bashing its logs with a poker. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here. That right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’re here because this is the warmest damned room in Frenada and you’re obviously no fool.’ Nairn laughed, dropped the poker, and worried his nose with his handkerchief. ‘Bloody awful place, Frenada.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Nairn looked accusingly at Sharpe. ‘Do you know why the Peer chose Frenada as his winter Headquarters?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Some people will tell you,’ and here the Major General broke off to collapse with a satisfied sigh into a vast horsehair armchair, ‘that it was chosen because it is near the Spanish border.’ He wagged a finger at Sharpe. ‘That bears some truth, but not the whole truth. Some people will tell you that the Peer chose this benighted town because it is bloody miles from Lisbon and no snivelling place-seekers and bum-lickers will bother to make the journey up here to annoy him. Now that, too, might contain a grain of the eternal truth, except that the Peer’s down there half the time which makes life bloody easy for the sycophantic bastards. No, Sharpe, we must look for the real reason elsewhere.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Nairn groaned as he stretched himself out. ‘The real reason, Sharpe, the immaculately conceived reason, is that this God-damned excuse for a bloody miserable little hovel of a crippled town being chosen is that it is right in the centre of the best God-damned fox-hunting in Portugal.’

  Sharpe grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And the Peer, Sharpe, likes to chase foxes. Thus are the rest of us consigned to the eternal torments of this bloody place. Sit down, man!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And stop saying “yes, sir”, “no, sir” like a bloody bum licker.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe sat in the chair opposite Major General Nairn. The Scotsman had huge grey eyebrows that seemed to be trying to grow upwards to meet his shock of grey hair. The face was good and strong, shrewd-eyed and humorous, spoilt only by his cold-reddened nose. Nairn returned the gaze, looking Sharpe up and down from the French cavalry boots to the Rifleman’s black hair, then he twisted round in the armchair.

  ‘Chatsworth! You scum! You varlet! Chatsworth! Heel! You hear me? Heel!’

  An orderly appeared who grinned happily at Nairn. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Tea, Chatsworth, tea! Bring me strong tea! Something that will rekindle my military ardour. And kindly try to bring it before the New Year.’

  ‘I’ve already wet it, sir. Something to eat, sir?’

  ‘Eat? I’ve got a cold, Chatsworth. I’m nigh unto death and you blather at me about eating! What have you got?’

  ‘I’ve some ham, sir, that you liked. Mustard. Bread and fresh butter?’ Chatsworth was solicitous, obviously liking Nairn.

  ‘Ah, ham! Bring us ham, Chatsworth, ham and mustard, with your bread and butter. Did you steal the toasting fork from this mess, Chatsworth?

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then find which of your thieving comrades did take it, have them flogged, then bring the fork to me!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Chatsworth grinned as he left the room.

  Nairn smiled at Sharpe. ‘I’m a harmless old man, Sharpe, left in charge of this bloody madhouse while the Peer gallivants round half of the bloody Peninsula. I am supposed, God help me, to be running this Headquarters. Me! If I had time, Sharpe, I suppose I could lead the troops on a winter campaign! I could inscribe my name in glory, but I don’t have bloody time! Look at this!’ He picked a paper from the pile beside him. ‘A letter, Sharpe, from the Chaplain General. The Chaplain General, no less! Do you know that he is in receipt of a salary of five hundred and sixty-five pounds a year, Sharpe, and in addition is named advisor on the establishment of semaphore stations for which nonsensical bloody job he receives a further six hundred pounds! Can you believe that? And what does God’s vicar to His Majesty’s Army do with his well-paid time? He writes to me thus!’ Nairn held the letter in front of his face. “‘I require of you to report on the containment of Methodism within the Army.” Good God Almighty, Sharpe! What’s a man to do with such a letter?’

  Sharpe smiled. ‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’

  ‘I do, Sharpe, I do. That’s why I’m a Major General.’ Nairn leaned forward and threw the letter onto the fire. ‘That’s what you do with letters like that.’ Nairn chuckled happily as the paper caught fire and flared brightly. ‘You want to know why you’re here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You are here, Sharpe, because the Prince of Wales has gone mad. Just like his Father, poor man, stark staring raving mad.’ Nairn leaned back and nodded triumphantly at Sharpe. The letter shrivelled to a black wisp on the logs as Nairn waited for a reaction. ‘Good God, Sharpe! You’re supposed to say something! God bless the Prince of Wales would do at a pinch, but you sit there as though the news means nothing. Comes of being a hero, I suppose, always keeping a straight face. Stern business is it? Being a hero?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe was grinning broadly.

  The door opened and Chatsworth edged in with a heavy wooden tray that he put on the floor in front of the fire. ‘Bread and ham, sir, mustard in the small pot. Tea’s well brewed, sir, and I beg to report that the toasting fork was in your room, sir. Here it is, sir.’

  ‘You’re a rogue and a scoundrel, Chatsworth. You’ll be accusing me of burning correspondence from the Chaplain General next.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Chatsworth grinned contentedly.

  ‘Are you a Methodist, Chatsworth?’

  ‘No, sir. Don’t rightly know what a Methodist is, s
ir.’

  ‘You are fortunate indeed.’ Nairn was fixing a slice of bread to the toasting fork. A Lieutenant appeared at the open door behind him, knocked hesitantly to attract attention. ‘General Nairn, sir?’

  ‘Major General Nairn is in Madrid! Negotiating a surrender to the French!’ Nairn pushed the bread close to the logs, wrapping his hand in his handkerchief to keep the scorching heat away.

  The Lieutenant did not smile. He hovered at the door. ‘Colonel Greave’s compliments, sir, and what’s he to do with the iron brackets for the pontoons?’

  Nairn rolled his eyes to the yellowed ceiling. ‘Who is in charge of the pontoons, Lieutenant?’

  ‘The Engineers, sir.’

  ‘And who, pray, is in charge of our gallant Engineers?’

  ‘Colonel Fletcher, sir.’

  ‘So what do you tell our good Colonel Greave?’

  ‘I see, sir. Yes, sir.’ The Lieutenant paused. ‘To ask Colonel Fletcher, sir?’

  ‘You are a General in the making, Lieutenant. Go and do that thing, and should the Washerwoman General want to see me, tell her I am a married man and cannot accede to her importunings.’

  The Lieutenant left and Nairn glared at the orderly. ‘Take that grin off your face, Private Chatsworth! The Prince of Wales has gone mad and all you can do is grin!’