Sharpe's Honor

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘What the devil are you grinning at?’

  Paddock, the Battalion clerk, shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir.’

  Sharpe sat to the pile of work. Paddock, he knew, was grinning because Leroy had told Sharpe to pay his debts, but Sharpe could not pay them. He owed the laundry-woman five shillings, the sutler two pounds, and Leroy, quite rightly, was demanding that Sharpe buy a horse. As a Captain, Sharpe had not wanted a horse, preferring to stay on his boots like his men, but as a Major the added height would be useful on a battlefield, as would the added speed. But a good horse was not to be had for under a hundred and thirty pounds and he did not know where the funds were to come from. He sighed. ‘Can’t you forge my bloody signature?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but only on pay forms. Tea, Major?’

  ‘Any breakfast left?’

  ‘I’ll go and look, sir.’

  Sharpe worked through the papers. Equipment reports and weekly reports and new standing orders from Brigade and Army. There was the usual warning from the Chaplain-General to keep an eye on subversive Methodists that Sharpe threw away, and a General Order from Wellington that reminded officers that it was mandatory to remove the hat when the Host was being carried by a priest through a street to a dying man. Do not upset the Spanish was the message of that order and Sharpe noted its receipt and wondered again who the ribbon-merchant was.

  He signed his name three dozen times, abandoned the rest of the paper-work, and went out into the spring sunlight to check the picquets and watch the recruits, shipped out from England, fire three rounds of musket fire. He listened to the officer of the day’s usual complaint about the ration beef and dodged round the back of the houses to avoid the Portuguese sutler who was looking for his debtors. The sutler sold tobacco, tea, needles, thread, buttons, and the other small necessities of a soldier’s life. The South Essex’s sutler, who had a small stable of ugly whores, was the richest man with the Battalion.

  Sharpe avoided the man. He wondered if the sutler would buy the tent mule, though he knew the man would only pay half value. Sharpe would be lucky to get fifteen pounds from the sutler, less the two pounds he owed and less the five pounds to bribe the storekeeper. Paddock, the clerk, would have to be bribed into silence. Sharpe supposed he would get seven or eight pounds from the deal, enough to keep the Mess happy. He swore. He wished the army was marching and fighting, too busy to worry about such small things as unpaid bills.

  The fight at the bridge had been a false alarm. He guessed that it had been meant as a feint, a means to persuade the French that the British were retracing last year’s steps and marching on Salamanca and Madrid. Instead the Battalion had force-marched north to where the main part of the British army gathered. The French were guarding the front door into Spain and Wellington was planning to use the back. But let it start soon, Sharpe prayed. He was bored. Instead of fighting he was worrying about money and having to organize a church parade.

  The General had ordered that all Battalions that lacked their own chaplain should receive one sermon at least from a priest borrowed from another unit. Today it was the turn of the South Essex and Sharpe, sitting on Captain d‘Alembord’s spare horse, stared at the ten companies of the South Essex as they faced the man of God. Doubtless they were wondering why, after years free of such occasions, they should suddenly be hectored by a bald, plump man telling them to count their blessings. Sharpe ignored the sermon. He was wondering how to persuade the sutler to buy a mule when the man already had a half dozen to carry his wares.

  Then the ribbon-merchant came.

  The Reverend Sebastian Whistler was enumerating God’s blessings; fresh bread, mothers, newly brewed tea, and such like, when Sharpe saw the eyes of the Battalion look away from the preacher. He looked himself and saw, coming to the field where the church parade was tactfully held away from Spanish Catholic eyes, two Spanish officers and a Spanish priest.

  The ribbon-merchant rode ahead of his two companions. He was a young man uniformed so splendidly, so gaudily, that he had earned the nickname given by the British troops to any fine dandy. The young man wore a uniform of pristine white, laced with gold, decorated with a blue silken sash on which shone a silver star. His coat was edged with scarlet, the same colour as his horse’s leather bridle. Hanging from his saddle was a scabbard decorated with precious stones.

  The Battalion, ignoring the Reverend Sebastian Whistler’s injunctions that they should be content with their humble lot and not covet wealth that would only lead them into temptation, watched the superbly uniformed man ride behind the preacher and pause a few paces from Sharpe.

  The other two Spaniards reined in fifty yards away. The priest, mounted on a big, fine bay, was dressed in black, a hat over his eyes. The other man, Sharpe saw, was a General, no less. He was a burly, tall Spaniard in gold laced finery who seemed to stare fixedly at the Rifle officer.

  The young man in the gorgeous white uniform had a thin, proud face with eyes that looked disdainfully at the Englishman. He waited until the sermon was finished, until the RSM had brought the parade to attention and shouldered its muskets, then spoke in English. ‘You’re Sharpe?’

  Sharpe replied in Spanish. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Are you Sharpe?’

  Sharpe knew from the ribbon-merchant’s deliberate rudeness that his instinct had been right. He had sensed trouble, but now that it was here he did not fear it. The man spoke with scorn and hatred in his voice, but a man, unlike a formless dread, could be killed. Sharpe turned away from the Spaniard. ‘Regimental Sergeant Major!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘A general officer is present! General salute!’

  ‘Sir!’ RSM MacLaird turned to the parade, filled his lungs, and his shout bellowed over the field. “Talion! General salute!‘

  Sharpe watched the muskets fall from the shoulders, check, slam over the bodies, then the right feet went back, the officers’ swords swept up, and he turned and smiled at the Spaniard. ‘Who are you?’

  The Spanish General, Sharpe saw, returned the salute. MacLaird shouted the shoulder arms and turned back to Sharpe. ‘Dismiss, sir?’

  ‘Dismiss the parade, Sergeant Major.’

  The white uniformed Spaniard spurred his horse forward into Sharpe’s line of vision. ‘Are you Sharpe?’

  Sharpe looked at him. The man’s English was good, but Sharpe chose to reply in Spanish. ‘I’m the man who’ll slit your throat if you don’t learn to be polite.’ He had spoken softly and he saw his words rewarded by a tiny flicker of fear in the man’s face. This officer was covering his nervousness with bravado.

  The Spaniard straightened in his saddle. ‘My name is Miguel Mendora, Major Mendora.’

  ‘My name is Sharpe.’

  Mendora nodded. For a second or two he said nothing, then, with the speed of a scorpion striking, he lashed with his right hand to strike Sharpe a stinging blow about the face.

  The blow did not land. Sharpe had fought in every gutter from London to Calcutta and he had seen the blow coming. He had seen it in Mendora’s eyes. He swayed back, letting the white-gloved hand go past. He saw the anger in the Spaniard, while inside himself he felt the icy calm that came to him in battle. He smiled. ‘I have known piglets with more manhood than you, Mendora.’

  Mendora ignored the insult. He had done what he was ordered to do and survived. Now he looked to his right to see the dismissed soldiers straggling towards him. They had seen him try to strike their officer, and their mood was at once excited and belligerent. Mendora looked back to Sharpe. ‘That was from my master.’

  ‘Who is?’

  Mendora ignored the question. ‘You will write a letter of apology to him, a letter that he will use as he sees fit. After that, as you are no gentleman, you will resign your commission.’

  Sharpe wanted to laugh. ‘Your General is who?’

  Major Mendora tossed his head. ‘The Marqués de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba.’

  And suddenly the memory of that flawless beauty that maske
d the flawed woman flooded into him so that the excitement came searing back. Helene! It was with Helene that he had betrayed Teresa, and he knew that the revenge for that betrayal had come to this field. He wanted to laugh aloud. Helene! Helene of the hair of gold, of the white skin on her black sheets, the woman who had used him in the service of death, but who, he thought, had perhaps loved him a little.

  He stared past Mendora at the General. He had thought, from Helene’s description, that her husband would be a short, fat man. Fat he was, but it was a burly, muscular fatness. He looked tall. The excitement was still on Sharpe. The Marquesa was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, a woman he had loved for a season, then lost. He had thought her gone forever, but now here was her husband back from the Spanish colonies with the horns on his head. Sharpe smiled at Mendora. ‘How have I offended your master?’

  ‘You know how, señor.’

  Sharpe laughed. ‘You call me señor? You’ve found your manners?’

  ‘Your answer, Major?’

  So the Marqués knew he had been cuckolded? But why in God’s name pick on Sharpe? There must be a half-Battalion of men he would have to fight to retrieve his honour that had been held so lightly by Helene. Sharpe smiled. ‘You will get no letter from me, Major, nor my resignation.’

  Mendora had expected the answer. ‘You will name me your second, señor?’

  ‘I don’t have a second.’ Sharpe knew that Wellington had forbidden all duels. If he took the risk, that was his foolishness, but he would not risk another man’s career. He looked at the Marqués, judging that such a heavy-set man would be slow on his feet. ‘I choose swords.’

  Mendora smiled. ‘My master is a fine swordsman, Major. You will stand more chance with a pistol.’

  The soldiers were gawping up at the two mounted officers. They sensed, even though they could not hear the words, that something dramatic took place.

  Sharpe smiled. ‘If I need advice how to fight, Major, I will seek it from a man.’

  Mendora’s proud face looked with hatred at the Englishman, but he held his temper. ‘There is a cemetery on the southern road, you know it?’

  ‘I can find it.’

  ‘My master will be there at seven this evening. He will not wait long. I hope your courage will be sufficient for death, Major.’ He turned his horse, looking back at Sharpe. ‘You agree?’

  ‘I agree.’ Sharpe let him turn away. ‘Major!’

  ‘Señor?’

  ‘You have a priest with you?’

  The Spaniard nodded. ‘You’re very observant for an Englishman.’

  Sharpe deliberately switched back into English. ‘Make sure he knows the prayer for the dead, Spaniard.’

  A shout came from the watching men. ‘Kill the bugger, Sharpie!’

  The shout was taken up, grew louder, and some wit began shouting ‘a ring! a ring!’, the usual cry when a fight broke out in Battalion lines. Sharpe saw the look of fury cross Mendora’s face, then the Spaniard put his spurs to his horse and galloped it at a knot of men who scattered from his path and jeered at his retreating back. The Marqués de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba and his attendant priest galloped after him.

  Sharpe ignored the shouts of the men about him. He watched the three Spaniards go and he knew, on pain of losing all that he had gained in this army, that he should not go to the cemetery and fight the duel. He would be cashiered; he would be lucky, if he won, not to be accused of murder.

  On the other hand, there was a memory of La Marquesa, of her skin against the sheets, her hair on the pillow, her laughter in the shadowed bedroom. There was the thought that the Spanish Major had tried to strike him. There was his boredom, and his inability to refuse a challenge. And, above all, there was the sense of unfinished business, of a guilt that demanded its price, of a guilt that ordered him to pay that price. He shouted at the men for silence and looked through the ragged crowd of soldiers to find the man he wanted. ‘Harps!’

  Patrick Harper pushed through the men and stared up at Sharpe. ‘Sir?’

  Sharpe took the sword from his slings. It was a sword that Sergeant Harper had re-fashioned for him while Sharpe lay in Salamanca’s hospital. It was a cheap blade, one of many made in Birmingham for Britain’s Heavy Cavalry, nearly a yard of heavy steel that was clumsy and ill-balanced except in the hands of a strong man.

  Sharpe tossed the sword to the Irishman. ‘Put an edge on it for me, Harps. A real edge.’

  The men cheered, but Harper held the sword unhappily. He looked up at Sharpe and saw the madness on the dark, scarred face.

  Sharpe remembered a face of delicate beauty, the face of a woman whom the Spanish now called the Golden Whore. Sharpe knew he could never possess her, but he could fight for her. He could give up all for her, what else was a warrior to do for a beauty? He smiled. He would fight for a woman who was known to be treacherous, and because, in an obscure way that he did not fully understand, he thought that this challenge, this duel, this risk was some expiation for the guilt that racked him. He would fight.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘You’re slow, Sharpe, very slow.’ Captain Peter d‘Alembord, who had taken Sharpe’s place as Captain of the Light Company, had run his slim sword past Sharpe’s guard and now the tip quivered an inch beneath the silver whistle holstered on Sharpe’s cross belt. D’Alembord, an impressively elegant and slim man, had volunteered, with some diffidence, to ‘put Sharpe over the jumps’. He had also scouted the opposition and his news was grim. ‘It seems the Marqués is rather good.’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Took lessons in Paris from Bouillet. They say he could beat him. Still, not to worry. Old Bouillet must have been getting on, perhaps he was slow.’ D‘Alembord smiled, stepped back, and raised his sword. ’En garde?‘

  Sharpe laughed. ‘I’ll just hack the bugger to bits.’

  ‘Hope springs eternal, my dear Sharpe. Do raise your blade, I’m going to pass it on the left. With some warning you might just be able to stop me. Engage.’

  The blades rattled, scraped, disengaged, clanged, and suddenly, with eye-defeating speed, d‘Alembord had passed Sharpe’s guard on the left and his sword was poised again to split Sharpe’s trunk. Captain d’Alembord frowned. ‘If I darken my hair with lamp black, Sharpe, and paint a scar on my face, I might just pass for you. It’s really your best hope of survival.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’ll chop the bastard into mincemeat.’

  ‘You seem to forget that he has handled a sword before.’

  ‘He’s old, he’s fat, and I’ll slaughter him.’

  ‘He’s not yet fifty,’ d‘Alembord said mildly, ’and don’t be fooled by that waist. The fastest swordsman I ever saw was fatter than a hogshead. Why didn’t you choose pistols? Or twelve pounder cannons?‘

  Sharpe laughed and hefted his big, straight sword. ‘This is a lucky blade.’

  ‘One sincerely hopes so. On the other hand, finesse is usually more useful than luck in a duel.’

  ‘You’ve fought a duel?’

  D‘Alembord nodded. ’Rather why I’m here, Sharpe. Life got a little difficult.‘ He said it lightly, though Sharpe could guess the ruin that the duel had meant for d’Alembord. Sharpe had been curious as to why the tall, elegant, foppish man had joined a mere line regiment like the South Essex. D‘Alembord, with his spotless lace cuffs, his silver cutlery and crystal wine glasses that were carefully transported by his servant from camp ground to camp ground, would have been more at home in a Guards regiment or a smart cavalry uniform.

  Instead he was in the South Essex, seeking obscurity in an unfashionable regiment while the scandal blew itself out in England, and an example to Sharpe of how a duel could blight a career. Sharpe smiled. ‘I suppose you killed your man?’

  ‘Didn’t mean to. Meant to wing him, but he moved into the blade. Very messy.’ He sighed. ‘If you would deign to hold that thing more like a sword and less like a cleaving instrument, one might hold out a morsel of hope. Part of the object of the exercis
e is to defend one’s body. Mind you, it’s quite possible that he’ll faint with horror when he sees it. It’s positively mediaeval. It’s hardly an instrument for fencing.’

  Sharpe smiled. ‘I don’t fence, d’Alembord. I fight.‘

  ‘I’m sure it’s vastly unpleasant for your opponent. I shall insist on coming as your second.’

  ‘No seconds.’

  D‘Alembord shrugged. ’No gentleman fights without a second. I shall come. Besides, I might be able to persuade you not to go through with this.‘

  Sharpe was sheathing his sword on which Harper had put a wicked cutting edge. ‘Not to go through with it?’

  D‘Alembord pushed open the door of the stable yard where, to the amusement of the officers’ servants and grooms, they had been practising. ’You’ll be sent home in disgrace, Sharpe. The Peer will have your guts for breakfast tomorrow.‘

  ‘Wellington won’t know about it.’

  D‘Alembord looked pityingly on his superior officer. ’Half the bloody army knows, my dear Sharpe. I can’t think why you accepted! Is it because the man struck you?‘

  Sharpe said nothing. The truth was that his pride had been offended, but it was more than that. It was his stubborn superstition that Fate, the soldier’s goddess, demanded that he accept. Besides, he did it for the Marquesa.

  D‘Alembord sighed. ’A woman, I suppose?‘

  ‘Yes.’

  The Light Company Captain smoothed a wrinkle in his sleeve. ‘When I fought my duel, Sharpe, I later discovered that the woman had put us up to it. She was watching, it turned out.’

  ‘What happened?’

  The elegant shoulders shrugged. ‘After I skewered him she went back to her husband. It was all rather tedious and unnecessary. Just as I’m sure this duel is unnecessary. Do you really insist on this duel, Sharpe?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sharpe would not explain, was not even sure he could explain the tangle of guilt, lust, pride and superstition that drove him to folly. Instead he sat and shouted for the Mess servant to bring tea. The servant was a Spaniard who brewed tea foully.