Sharpe 3-Book Collection 3: Sharpe's Trafalgar, Sharpe's Prey, Sharpe's Rifles

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘What’s in the chest, Major?’ Sharpe persisted.

  ‘Curiosity!’ Vivar turned away and began to walk towards the village. ‘Curiosity!’ He drew back his arm and hurled the helmet far into the void where the plateau dropped steeply away. The helmet glittered, turned, then fell with a crash into the undergrowth. ‘Curiosity! An English disease, Lieutenant, which leads to death. Avoid it!’

  The fires died in the night, all but for one burning house that Vivar’s men fed with wood cut from the surrounding trees in which they roasted hunks of horsemeat that had been threaded onto their swords. The Riflemen cooked the horsemeat on their ramrods. All were glad that the villagers’ bodies had been buried. The picquets were pulled back to the very edge of the burnt village where they shivered in the cold wind. The afternoon rain had stopped at dusk, and in the night there were even gaps in the high flying clouds which allowed a wan moonlight to illumine the jagged hills from which the snow had part-melted to leave the landscape looking strangely leprous. Somewhere in those hills a wolf howled.

  Sharpe’s men provided the sentries for the first half of the night. At midnight he walked around the village and spoke a few awkward words with each man. The conversations were stilted because none of the greenjackets could forget the morning when they had conspired for Sharpe’s death, but a Welshman, Jenkins, more loquacious than the others, wondered where Sir John Moore’s army was now.

  ‘God knows,’ Sharpe said. ‘Far away.’

  ‘Defeated, sir?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But Boney left, sir?’ The question was asked eagerly, as if the Emperor’s absence gave the fugitive Riflemen renewed hope.

  ‘So we were told.’ Napoleon was supposed to have left Spain already, but that was small reason for optimism. He had no need to stay. Everywhere his enemies were in retreat, and his Marshals, who had conquered Europe, could be trusted to finish Spain and Portugal.

  Sharpe walked on past the burned-out houses. The sole of his right boot was hanging loose, and his trousers gaped at his thighs. At least he had repaired the broken scabbard, yet otherwise his uniform hung off him like a scarecrow’s rags. He went to the place where the road climbed up towards the canyon and where, beside a stone trough that the women who had once lived in this village had used as a washing place, a three-man picquet was posted. ‘See anything?’

  ‘Not a thing, sir. Quiet as a dry alehouse.’

  It was Harper who had answered and who now rose up, huge and formidable, from the shadow of the trough. The two men stared at each other, then, awkwardly, the Irishman pulled off his shako in the formal salute. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘The Major talked to me, he did. We was frightened, you see, sir, and…’

  ‘I said it doesn’t matter!’

  Harper nodded. His broken nose was still swollen and would never again be straight. The big Irishman grinned. ‘If you’ll not mind me saying it, sir, but you’ve got a punch on you like a Ballinderry heifer.’

  The comment might have been offered as a peace-token, but Sharpe’s memory of the fight in the ruined farmhouse was too fresh and too sore to accept it. ‘I’ve let you off a damned sharp hook, Rifleman Harper, but that does not give you the God-damned right to say whatever comes into your head. So put your bloody hat on, and go back to work.’

  Sharpe turned and walked away, ready to whip round instantly if a single insolent sound was uttered, but Harper had the sense to keep silent. The wind made the only noise, a sighing sound as it passed through the trees before lifting the sparks of the big fire high into the night. Sharpe went close to the fire, letting its heat warm his chilled and wet uniform. He supposed he had blundered again, that he should have accepted the friendly words as the peace-offering they were undoubtedly meant to be, but his pride had stung him into savagery.

  ‘You should get some sleep, sir.’ It was Sergeant Williams, muffled against the cold, who appeared in the firelight. ‘I’ll look after the lads.’

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘No.’ The word was said as agreement. ‘It’s thinking of them dead nippers what does it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Williams said. He held his hands towards the blaze. ‘There was one no older than my Mary.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Five, sir. Pretty wee thing, she is. Not like her father.’

  Sharpe smiled. ‘Did your wife come out to Spain with you?’

  ‘No, sir. Helps in her da’s bakery, she does. He wasn’t too pleased when she married a soldier, but they never are.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  The Sergeant stretched. ‘But I’ll have some rare tales to tell when I get back to Spitalfields.’ He was silent for a moment, perhaps thinking of home. ‘Funny, really.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Why these bastards came all this way to get supplies. Isn’t that what the Major said, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ French forces were supposed to live off the land, stealing what they could to stay alive, but Sharpe, like Williams, could not believe that the enemy horsemen had climbed to this remote village when other, more tempting places lay in the valleys. ‘They were the same men,’ he said, ‘who attacked us on the road.’ Which, in a way, had worked to Sharpe’s advantage, because the French Dragoons, unable to resist using the captured rifles, had proved inept with the unfamiliar weapons.

  Sergeant Williams nodded. ‘Bugger in a red coat, right?’

  ‘Yes. And a fellow in black.’

  ‘It’s my belief they’re after that box the Spanish lads are carrying.’ Williams lowered his voice as though one of the sleeping Cazadores might hear him. ‘It’s the sort of box you carry jewels in, isn’t it? Could be a King’s bloody ransom in that thing, sir.’

  ‘Major Vivar says it holds papers.’

  ‘Papers!’ The Sergeant’s voice was scornful.

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose we’re going to find out,’ Sharpe said. ‘And I wouldn’t recommend being too inquisitive, Sergeant. The Major doesn’t take kindly to curiosity.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Williams sounded disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm.

  But Sharpe merely hid his own inquisitiveness for, after a few more moments of desultory conversation and after bidding the Sergeant a good night, he went softly and slowly towards the church. He used the stealth he had learned as a child in the London rookery where, if a boy did not steal, he starved.

  He walked round the church, then stood for a long time in the shadows by the door. He listened. He heard the fire’s crackle and the wind’s rising noise, but nothing else. Still he waited, straining to hear a single sound from within the old stone building. He heard nothing. He could smell the fallen and burnt timbers within the building, but he could sense no human presence. The nearest Spaniards were thirty paces away, rolled in their cloaks, asleep.

  The church door was ajar. Sharpe edged through and, once inside the church, stopped again.

  Moonlight illuminated the sanctuary. The walls were scorched black, the altar was gone, yet Vivar’s men had begun to clear the desecration by forcing the burnt roof timbers aside to make an aisle which led to the altar steps. At the top of those steps, black like the walls, was the strongbox.

  Sharpe waited. He looked round the building’s small interior; watching for movement, but there was none. A small black window opened on the church’s southern wall, but that was the only aperture. Nothing showed in the opening, except darkness, suggesting that the small window opened into a cupboard or a deep shelf.

  Sharpe walked forward between the fallen timbers, some of which still smouldered. Once his loose right sole crunched a black lump of burnt wood, but that was the only sound he made.

  He stopped at the foot of the two steps which had led to the altar and squatted there. Curled on the lid of the strongbox was a jet rosary, its small crucifix shining in the moonlight. Within this box, Sharpe thought, lay something that had drawn French soldiers in
to the frozen highlands. Vivar had said it was papers, but even the most religious of men would not guard papers with a crucifix.

  The chest was wrapped in oilcloth that had been sewn tight. During the fight two bullets had embedded themselves in the big box, breaking the cloth, and Sharpe, fingering under the holes and past the lumpen bullets, felt the hard smoothness of the wood. He traced the shapes of the hasps and padlocks beneath the oilcloth. The padlocks were old-fashioned ball-locks that Sharpe knew he could open in seconds with a rifle’s cleaning pin.

  He rocked back on his heels, staring at the chest. Four Riflemen had died because of it and yet more might die, and that, Sharpe decided, gave him the right to know what lay inside. He knew he would not be able to disguise that the box had been opened, but he had no intention of stealing its contents so had no scruples about leaving the oilcloth torn and the locks picked.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the clasp knife he used for food. He opened its blade and reached forward to cut the cloth.

  ‘Touch it, Englishman, and you die.’

  Sharpe twisted to his right. The click of a pistol’s lock sounded from the small dark window. ‘Major?’

  ‘The sick could watch the Mass from this window, Lieutenant.’ Vivar’s voice sounded from the blackness. ‘It’s a good place for a sentry.’

  ‘What is the sentry guarding?’

  ‘Just papers.’ Vivar’s voice was cold. ‘Put your knife away, Lieutenant, and stay there.’

  Sharpe obeyed. After a moment the Major appeared in the church doorway. ‘Don’t do that again, Lieutenant. I will kill to protect what is in that box.’

  Sharpe felt like a small boy caught by a watchman, but he tried to brazen out the confrontation. ‘Papers?’

  ‘Papers,’ Vivar said bleakly. He looked up at the sky where silvered clouds flew fast beside the moon. ‘It isn’t a night for killing, Englishman. The estadea are already restless.’ He walked up the aisle. ‘Now I think you should try to sleep. We have far to go in the morning.’

  Sharpe, chastened, went past Vivar to the church door. With one hand on the jamb, he turned to look back at the chest. Vivar, his back to him, was already on his knees in front of the mysterious strongbox.

  Sharpe, embarrassed to see a man praying, paused.

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant?’ Vivar had not turned round.

  ‘Did your prisoners tell you who the chasseur is? The man in red who led them here?’

  ‘No, Lieutenant.’ The Spaniard’s voice was very patient, as though by answering he merely humoured a child’s caprice. ‘I did not think to ask them.’

  ‘Or the man in black? The civilian?’

  Vivar paused for a second. ‘Does the wolf know the names of the hounds?’

  ‘Who is he, Major?’

  The rosary’s beads clicked. ‘Goodnight, Lieutenant.’

  Sharpe knew he would fetch no answers, only more mysteries to rival the insubstantiality of the estadea. He half-closed the charred door, then went to his cold bed of bare earth and listened to the wind moan in the spirit-haunted night. Somewhere a wolf howled, and one of the captured horses whinnied softly. In the chapel a man prayed. Sharpe slept.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Cazadores and Riflemen still went west but, for fear of the French Dragoons, Vivar avoided the easier paths of the pilgrim way, insisting that safety still lay in the uplands. The road, if it could be called a road at all, struggled through the passes of high mountains and across cold streams swollen by meltwater and by the persistent, stinging rain that made the paths as slippery as grease. The wounded men and those who caught a fever of the cold were carried by the captured French horses, but those precious beasts had to be led with an infinite caution if they were to survive on the treacherous tracks. One of the horses carried the strongbox.

  There was no news of the French. During the first two days of the march Sharpe expected to see the threatening silhouettes of the Dragoons on the skyline, but the chasseur and his men seemed to have vanished. The few people who lived in the highland villages assured Vivar that they had seen no Frenchmen. Some of them did not even know that a foreign enemy was in Spain and, hearing the strange language of Sharpe’s Riflemen, would stare with a suspicious hostility at the strangers. ‘Not that their own dialect isn’t strange,’ Vivar said cheerfully; then, as fluent in the Galician speech as in the more courtly tongue of Spain, he would reassure the peasants that the men in torn green coats were not to be feared.

  After the first few days, and satisfied that the French had lost the scent, Vivar descended to the pilgrim way which proved to be a succession of mingling tracks that twisted through the deeper valleys. The largest roads were reinforced with flint so that carts and carriages could use them, and even though the winter had drowned the flints in mud, the men marched fast and easily on the firmer surface. Chestnuts and elm trees grew thick beside the road which led through a country that had so far been free of scavenging armies. The men ate well. There was maize, rye, potatoes, chestnuts, and salted meat in winter store. One night there was even fresh mutton.

  Yet, despite the food and the easier footing, it was not a soft country. One midday, beside a bridge which crossed a deep, dark stream, Sharpe saw three human heads stuck high on wooden poles. The heads had been there for months, and their eyes, tongues, and softer flesh had been eaten by ravens, while what shreds of skin were left on the grisly skulls had turned as black as pitch. ‘Rateros,’ Vivar told Sharpe, ‘highwaymen. They think that pilgrims give easy pickings.’

  ‘Do many pilgrims go to Santiago de Compostela?’

  ‘Not so many as in the old days. A few lepers still go to be cured, but even they will be stopped by the war.’ Vivar nodded towards the lank-haired skulls. ‘So now those gentlemen will have to use their murderous skills against the French.’ The thought cheered him, just as the easier going on the pilgrim way cheered Sharpe’s Riflemen. Sometimes they sang as they marched. They rediscovered old comforts. Vivar bought great blocks of tobacco that had to be rasped into shreds before it could be smoked and some of the Riflemen imitated the Spanish soldiers and twisted the tobacco in paper rather than smoking it in clay pipes. The small villages would always yield generous quantities of a rough, strong cider. Vivar was astonished at the Riflemen’s capacity for the drink, and even more astonished when Sharpe told him that most of the men had only joined the army to get the daily ration of a third of a pint of rum.

  There was no rum to be had but, perhaps because of the plentiful cider, the men were happy; even treating Sharpe with a wary acceptance. The greenjackets had welcomed Harper back into their ranks with unfeigned delight, and Sharpe had again seen how the big man was the real leader of the men. They liked Sergeant Williams, but instinctively expected Harper to make their decisions, and Sharpe noted sourly how it was Harper, rather than himself, who melded these survivors of four separate companies into a single unit.

  ‘Harps is a decent fellow, sir.’ Sergeant Williams persevered in his role as peacemaker between the two men. ‘He says he was wrong now.’

  Sharpe was irritated at this second-hand compliment. ‘I don’t give a damn what he says.’

  ‘He says he was never hit so hard in his life.’

  ‘I know what he says.’ Sharpe wondered if the Sergeant would talk in this way to other officers, and decided he would not. He supposed it was only because Williams knew he was an ex-Sergeant that he felt able to use such intimacy. ‘You can tell Rifleman Harper,’ Sharpe said with deliberate harshness, ‘that if he steps out of line once more, he’ll be hit so hard that he’ll remember nothing.’

  Williams chuckled. ‘Harps won’t step out of line again, sir. Major Vivar had a word with him, sir. God knows what he said, but he scared the bloody daylights out of him.’ He shook his head in admiration of the Spaniard. ‘The Major’s a tough bugger, sir, and a rich one. He’s carrying a bloody fortune in that strongbox!’

  ‘I told you it’s nothing but papers,’ Sharpe said care
lessly.

  ‘It’s jewels, sir.’ Williams took an evident pleasure in revealing the secret. ‘Just like I guessed. Diamonds and things. The Major told Harps as much, sir. Harps says the jewels belong to the Major’s family, and that if we get them safe to this Santy-aggy place, then the Major will give us all a piece of gold.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Sharpe said sourly, and he knew that his sourness was provoked by an irrational jealousy. Why should Vivar tell Rifleman Harper what he would not tell him? Was it because the Irishman was a Catholic? For that matter, why would Vivar reverently lodge a family’s jewels in a church? And would mere jewels have brought enemy Dragoons across wintry hills to set an ambush?

  ‘They’re ancient jewels.’ Sergeant Williams was oblivious to Sharpe’s doubts. ‘One of them’s a necklace made from the diamonds of a crown. A blackamoor’s crown, sir. He was an old King, sir. An ‘eathen.’ It was clear that the greenjackets had been fearfully impressed. The Riflemen might march through rain and across bad roads, but their hardships were given dignity because they escorted the pagan jewels of an ancient kingdom.

  ‘I don’t believe a bloody word of it,’ Sharpe said.

  ‘The Major said you wouldn’t, sir,’ Williams said respectfully.

  ‘Did Harper see these jewels?’

  ‘That would mean bad luck, sir.’ Williams had his answer ready. ‘If the chest is opened, like, without all the family’s permission, then the bad spirits will get you. Understand, sir?’

  ‘Oh, entirely,’ Sharpe said, but the Sergeant’s belief in the jewels was beyond any of Sharpe’s ironic doubts.

  That afternoon, in a flooded field that was pitted with rain, Sharpe saw two gulls fly down from the west. The sight, even if it did not promise journey’s end, was full of hope. To reach the sea would be an accomplishment; it denoted the end of the westward march and the beginning of the journey south, and in his eagerness he even fancied he could smell the salt in the rain-stinging air.