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

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you did it up again?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Extraordinary! Go on!’

  When Sharpe had finished, Nairn had a sheet of paper covered with notes. A fire crackled in the hearth. The rain was soft on the window. Somewhere in the town a Sergeant Major screamed at his men to form column of fours on the centre files. The Major General leaned back. ‘This Frenchman, Sharpe. Dubreton. What’s he going to do?’

  ‘He’d like to mount a rescue, sir.’

  ‘Will he?’

  ‘They have twice as far to go as us, sir.’ The French and British were wintering well apart.

  Nairn grunted. ‘We must do it first. A rescue, then smoke those scum out of their holes.’ He tapped a piece of paper. ‘That’s what the Peer wants, that’s what we’ll give him. What would you need to rescue the women, Sharpe?’

  ‘Sir!’ Sir Augustus leaned forward. ‘I was hoping I might be entrusted with the rescue.’

  Nairn looked at Sir Augustus and stretched the silence out till it was painful. Then. ‘That’s noble of you, Sir Augustus, very creditable. Still, Sharpe’s been there, let Sharpe give us his ideas first, eh?’

  It was time for the first of the two ideas, a slim idea in the light of morning, but he would try it. ‘We can rescue them, sir, as long as we know where they are. If we do, sir, then I only see one way. We must travel by night so we can approach unseen, lay up all day as close as we can, and attack the next night. It would have to be done by Riflemen, sir.’

  ‘Riflemen!’ Nairn bridled, Kinney smiled. ‘Why do you think only Riflemen! D’you think no one else can fight in this army?‘

  ‘Because I saw many uniforms there, sir, but I didn’t see one Rifleman. On that night anyone not in a green uniform is an enemy.’

  Nairn grunted. ‘But you didn’t see all of his men.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Sharpe was placatory, yet all of them knew that less men deserted from the Rifles than from other Regiments. Nairn glanced at Sir Augustus’ red, black and gold. ‘Riflemen, then. What else?’

  There was one other thing, but it would all be in vain unless Sharpe knew in which building the hostages were kept. He said as much and Nairn smiled slowly, mischievously. ‘But we do know.’

  ‘We do?’ Sharpe was surprised, remembered to add, ‘sir?’

  ‘We do, we do.’Nairn grinned at them.

  Kinney waited. Sir Augustus looked annoyed. ‘Perhaps you’d care to enlighten us, sir?’

  ‘My duty and my pleasure, Sir Augustus.’ Nairn closed his eyes, leaned far back, and raised his right hand dramatically. His voice was declamatory. ‘Line after line my gushing eyes o’erflow, Led through a something-something woe: Now warm in love!‘ He had raised his voice to a triumphant shout on the word ’love‘, now he lowered it conspiratorially, his eyes opening. ’... Now with‘ring in my bloom, Lost in a convent’s solitary gloom!’

  Nairn grinned impishly. ‘Alexander Pope. From Heloise and Abelard. A sad tale of a young man gelded in his prime. That’s what comes of too much love. So! They’re in the Convent. She’s a clever lassie, that Frenchman’s wife.’

  Kinney leaned forward. ‘How many Riflemen?’

  ‘Two Companies, sir?’

  Kinney nodded. ‘Can they hold the Convent overnight?’

  Sharpe nodded back. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So you’d need relief in the morning, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Kinney looked at Nairn. ‘It’s as we discussed, sir. One small group to go in and secure the ladies, and a Battalion to come up in the morning to punish the men. There’s one thing worries me, though.’

  Nairn raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’

  ‘They may be deserters, but I think we can assume they are not fools. If you go in at night.’ He was looking at Sharpe, Sir Augustus’ request utterly forgotten or ignored. ‘If you go in, Major, don’t you think they’ll be expecting something of the sort? There’ll be sentries, there’ll be a picquet line. It’s a risk, Sharpe, and though I don’t mind a risk, you might find that they have enough time to take their vengeance on the ladies.’

  Sir Augustus nodded, seeming to have changed his mind about the desirability of any rescue. ‘I agree with Kinney.’

  Nairn looked at Sharpe. ‘Well, Major?’

  ‘I had thought of that, sir.’ He smiled. This was the second idea, the better idea. ‘I thought of going in on Sowan’s Night.’

  Nairn grinned. Automatically he corrected Sharpe. ‘Sowan’s Nicht! I like it, man! I like it! Sowan’s Nicht! The bastards will all be flat on their backs with the drink!’

  Sowan’s Nicht, the Scottish name for Christmas Eve, the night when any soldier could expect to get hopelessly, helplessly drunk. In England it was the night for Frumenty, a lethal drink of husked wheat grain boiled in milk and then liberally soused with rum and egg-yolks to be drunk until insensate. Christmas Eve.

  Kinney nodded, smiling. ‘We were the first to be caught by that trick, we might as well use it ourselves.’ He was referring to the Christmas Eve of 1776 when George Washington caught the garrison of Trenton unawares, the defenders believing that no war would be waged over Christmas. Then Kinney shook his head. ‘But.’

  ‘But?’ Nairn asked.

  Kinney seemed to subside, the hope of repeating Washington’s trick going. ‘Christmas Day, sir, when you want my men to relieve Major Sharpe. It’s scarce five days away, sir.’He shook his head. ‘I can do it! I can have the men there, but I don’t much like going empty handed. I’d have a thought to an extra ration issue, sir, and if the French are likely to be poking themselves into the place then I’d be glad of a full spare issue of cartridge.’ He could be talking, Sharpe knew, of up to a thousand pounds of dried beef and over forty thousand cartridges. Kinney’s face grew more dubious. ‘All the mules are gone, sir. They’d take a week to get back here from winter pasture.’ The mules, like the British cavalry, were mostly wintering in the plumper land near the sea.

  Nairn growled to himself, made marks on his paper.‘You could get there without mules?’

  ‘Of course, sir. But what if the French do come?’

  ‘They’re not there to fight us, are they? They’re there to capture this Pot-au-Feu!’

  Kinney nodded. ‘And if they have a chance of killing off a prime Battalion as extra pickings?’

  ‘Aye, aye, aye.’ Nairn was disgruntled. ‘I dare say you’re right. New Year’s Eve, Sharpe?’

  Sharpe smiled. ‘I’d rather Christmas Eve, sir.’ He looked at Kinney. ‘Would seven horse drawn wagons help? Plus a good few pack-horses? All fit, all ready to march?’

  ‘Help? Good God, man, of course they’d help! They’d suffice! And how, pray, do you work this miracle?’

  Sharpe looked back to Nairn. ‘The Rocket troop, sir. I’m sure the Prince Regent would be delighted if they were found some warlike employment.’

  ‘God’s teeth, Sharpe!’ Nairn smiled at him. ‘Two weeks ago I promote you from Captain, now you’re presuming to tell me what would please His Royal Highness!’ He looked at Kinney. ‘The suggestion of the Prince of Wales’ plenipotentiary pleases you then, Colonel?’

  ‘It does, sir.’

  Nairn grinned happily at Sir Augustus Farthingdale. ‘It looks as if your wife will be safely in your arms within the week, Sir Augustus!’

  Sir Augustus flinched slightly, but bowed his head. ‘Indeed it does, sir, and I’m grateful. I would still like to go with the rescue force, sir.’

  ‘You would, eh?’ Nairn frowned, not understanding the request. ‘I mean no offence, Sir Augustus, ’pon my word none at all! But might you not think that such exploits are best left to hotter heads! We cooler brains must wait in patience, write our books!‘

  Sir Augustus gave a thin smile. ‘You mean older heads, sir?’

  ‘Older! Wiser! Cooler! And do you truly fancy climbing a bloody hill in the dead of night, laying up all day in the freezing cold, and then keeping up with f
ellows like Sharpe the next night? I admire the sentiment, Sir Augustus, I do truly, but I beg you to reconsider the request.’

  The thin face with its handsome mane of hair looked down towards the table. Perhaps, Sharpe thought, he was thinking of that cold day that would be Christmas Eve. Sharpe did not want the man there and he dared to mutter a comment that might help Sir Augustus to withdraw a request that Nairn could scarce refuse. ‘We’ll not be taking any horses, sir, none at all.’

  The head snapped up. ‘I can march, Major, if I have to!’

  ‘I’m sure, sir.’

  ‘My concern is for Lady Farthingdale. She is a delicate lady, of good family. I would not like to think of her treated ...’ he paused. ‘I would like to offer her my protection, sir.’

  ‘Good God, Sir Augustus!’ Nairn stopped. The inference of Farthingdale’s words was that Lady Farthingdale, having survived capture by Pot-au-Feu, would be at risk from Sharpe’s men. Nairn shook his head. ‘She’ll be safe, Sir Augustus, she’ll be safe! You can ride up with Kinney in the morning, yes, Kinney?’

  The Welsh Colonel did not look overjoyed, but he nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

  ‘And you’ll be arriving at dawn, Sir Augustus!’

  Sir Augustus nodded, leaned back. ‘Very well. I shall ride with the Fusiliers.’ He looked with his unfriendly gaze at Sharpe. ‘I can be assured that Lady Farthingdale will be treated with every respect?’

  The words implied an outrageous insult, but Sharpe supposed that they also implied an outrageous jealousy that perhaps an older man would feel for a younger wife. He chose to give a civil answer. ‘Of course, sir.’ He turned to Nairn, one question left. ‘Do we have the Riflemen, sir?’

  Nairn smiled, mischievously again, and in reply he pushed a letter across to Sharpe. ‘Third paragraph down, Major. They’re already on their way.’

  Sharpe read the letter and understood Nairn’s smile. The letter had been dictated by Wellington to his Military Secretary, and the General was making specific suggestions how Pot-au-Feu must be defeated. The third paragraph began; ‘I would advert you to Major Sharpe, in need of employment, believing that, with two Companies of Riflemen, he might effect a rescue before the punitive Battalion arrives. To that end, and in the belief that this measure will be deemed appropriate, I have given orders that two Companies of the 6oth be attached to Headquarters.’ Sharpe looked up and Nairn smiled broadly. ‘It was interesting to see, Major, whether we came to the same conclusions.’

  ‘We evidently did, sir.’

  ‘Console yourself with the thought that he did not think of using the Rocket troop. He has, however, asked the Partisans to help. A few irregular cavalry in the hills will make life easier.’ Sharpe wondered if Teresa would receive that message. Might he see her at Christmas? The thought quickened him and pleased him. Nairn took the letter back and turned the page. His face was serious. ‘The Partisans, though, are not to take the credit. Spain believes that British troops raped this village and defiled their church. There must be a new sermon preached in the churches, gentlemen, that British troops avenged that massacre, and that any person in Spain is safe under the protection of our flag.’ He had evidently been paraphrasing the letter, for now he dropped it and smiled at Sharpe. ‘You told these bastards they had till New Year’s Day?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then break your word, Major. Go and kill them at Christmas instead’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Nairn looked out of the window. The rain had stopped and a great rift was spreading through the clouds, bringing back the blue sky. The Scotsman smiled. ‘Good hunting, gentlemen. Good hunting.’

  Chapter 7

  The Rifle Captain looked villainous. His left eye was gone, the socket covered by a black patch that was green at the edges. Most of his right ear was missing, and two of his front teeth were clumsy fakes. The wounds had all been taken on battlefields.

  He slammed to attention in front of Sharpe, saluted, and the military precision was diluted by the suspicion in his voice. ‘Captain Frederickson, sir.’ Frederickson looked lithe as a whip, as hard as the brass furniture on his mens’ rifles.

  The second Captain, burlier and less confident, allowed a smile on his face as he saluted. ‘Cross, sir. Captain Cross.’ Captain Cross wanted Major Sharpe to like him, Frederickson could not give a damn.

  There had been elation in promotion, but now Sharpe was surprised by his nervousness. Just as Cross wanted Sharpe to like him, so Sharpe wanted to be liked by the men who had come under his command. He was being tempted to believe that if he was friendly and approachable, reasonable and kind, then men would follow him more willingly. But kindness was not the wellspring of loyalty and he knew the temptation had to be resisted. ‘What are you smiling about, Captain?’

  ‘Sir?’ Cross’s eyes darted to Frederickson, but the one-eyed man stared flintily ahead. The smile went.

  These Captains, and their Companies, were the men whom Sharpe would lead into the Gateway of God, into a difficult night action, and that would be no place for a friendly, approachable, reasonable and kind man. They might like him eventually, but first they would have to dislike him because he imposed standards on them, because loyalty came from respect. ‘What’s your state?’

  Frederickson answered first, as Sharpe had thought he would. ‘Seventy-nine men, sir. Four Sergeants and two Lieutenants.’

  ‘Ammunition?’

  ‘Eighty rounds, sir.’ The answer was too pat, it was a lie. British gunpowder was the best in the world and most soldiers made a few pence on the side by selling cartridges to villagers. Yet Frederickson’s answer also implied that the shortfall was none of Sharpe’s business. He, Frederickson, would make sure his men went into battle with a full pouch. Sharpe looked at Cross. ‘Captain?’

  ‘Fifty-eight men, sir. Four Sergeants and one Lieutenant.’

  Sharpe looked at the Companies that paraded in Frenada’s square. They were tired, dishevelled, waiting for dismissal. They had just marched from the Coa and were looking forward to warm billets, drink, and a meal. Half a dozen horses, the property of officers, stood in front of the green jacketed ranks. Sharpe looked up at the sun. Three hours of daylight left. ‘We’re taking extra ammunition. It’s signed for. I’ll tell your Sergeants where to fetch it.’

  Cross nodded. ‘Sir.’

  ‘And we’re going ten miles tonight. All officers’ horses are to stay here.’ He turned away, turned back by an exclamation of surprise from Captain Cross.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  Frederickson was smiling, just smiling.

  They bivouacked that night, as cold as flogged skin in winter, making shelters from branches and cooking ration beef in the small camp kettles. No Riflemen ever carried the huge Flanders Cauldrons that were the army issue and had to be carried on a mule because of their weight. It took a whole tree-trunk to warm a Flanders Cauldron and so the Light troops of Wellington’s army simply took the small cooking pots from the enemies they killed, as they took their comfortable packs, and Sharpe looked at the thirty small fires with satisfaction. His own Company was with him, a shrunken Company because the summer of 1812 had whittled his numbers down. Lieutenant Price, three Sergeants, and just twenty eight men were the South Essex’s skirmishers, and only nine of the men, plus Harper, were Riflemen from Sharpe’s old Company of the 95th that he had brought out of the retreat to Corunna four years before. Price shared a fire with Sharpe, looked at his Major and shivered. ‘We can’t go in with you, sir?’

  ‘You’re wearing a red coat, Harry.’

  Price swore. ‘We’ll be all right, sir.’

  ‘No you won’t.’ Sharpe raked a chestnut out of the fire with his knife. ‘There’ll be enough to do on Christmas Day, Harry. Trust me.’

  Price’s voice was resentful. ‘Yes, sir.’ Then, unable to stay gloomy for long, he grinned and jerked his head at the camp-fires. ‘You’ve cheered them up, sir. Don’t know what’s hit th
em.’

  Sharpe laughed. Two of the Lieutenants had been hobbling after a ten mile march, not used to being out of their saddles. The Riflemen were resigned. Sharpe was just another bastard who had denied them a warm bed, the chance of a warm girl, and forced them to sleep on a December night in an open field. Price swore as a chestnut burned his fingers. ‘They’re definitely intrigued, sir.’

  ‘Intrigued?’

  ‘Our lads have talked with them. Told them a thing or two.’ He grinned as, at last, the skin came off the chestnut. ‘Told them how long people usually live when they fight for Major Sharpe.’

  ‘Christ, Harry! Don’t lay it on too thick!’

  Price munched happily. ‘They’re tough lads, sir. They’ll be all right.’

  They were tough, too. The 6oth, the Royal American Rifles, a Regiment that had been raised in the Thirteen Colonies before the rebellion. They had been trained as sharp-shooters, stalkers, killers of the deep forest, but since the loss of America the Regiment’s ranks had been filled by British and by exiled Germans. At least half these men were German and Sharpe had discovered that Frederickson was the son of an English mother and German father and spoke both languages fluently. Sergeant Harper had discovered the ironic nickname that Frederickson’s Company had given to their Captain; Captain William Frederickson, as hard an officer as any in the army, had inevitably become Sweet William.

  Sweet William crossed to Sharpe’s fire.‘Speak to you, sir?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Frederickson squatted down, his one eye baleful. ‘Is there a password tonight, sir?’

  ‘Password?’

  Frederickson shrugged. ‘I wanted to take a patrol out, sir.’ He did not want to ask permission. It offended Captains of the 6oth to ask permission. The Regiment did not fight in Battalions like other Regiments, but was split up into Companies that were attached to the army’s Divisions to strengthen the skirmish line. Companies of the 6oth were the army’s orphans, tough and independent, proud of their solitary status.

  Sharpe grinned. There was no need to patrol this country; safe, friendly Portugal. ‘You want to take a patrol out, Captain.’