“You think she would want to meet you?” Montseny asked. Benito Chavez was corpulent, his clothes were unkempt, and his graying beard speckled with scraps of tobacco. There was a bucket beside him and it was almost filled with cigar stubs and ash. Two half-smoked cigars were in a saucer on the table. “Caterina Blazquez,” Montseny said, “serves only the best clients.”
“She certainly knows how to wear out a mattress,” Chavez said, ignoring Montseny’s scorn.
“So make your copies,” Montseny said, “and do your work.”
“No need for copies,” Chavez said. “I shall just rewrite everything and we can print it all at once.”
“All at once?”
Chavez picked up one of the cigars, relit it from a candle, then scratched at an itch on his belly. “The English,” he said, “provide the funds that keep the Regency going. The English supply the muskets for our army. The English give us the powder for the cannon on the city walls. The English have an army on the Isla de León that protects Cádiz. Without England, Father, there is no Cádiz. If we annoy the English sufficiently, then they will persuade the Regency to shut the newspaper, and what use are the letters then? So fire all our ammunition at once! Give them a volley that will finish them. All the letters, all the passion, all the sweat on the sheets, all the lies I shall write, all at once! Blast them in one edition. Then it does not matter if they do close the newspaper.”
Montseny stared at the miserable creature. There was some sense there, he allowed. “But if they do not close the newspaper,” he pointed out, “then we shall have no more letters.”
“But there are other letters,” Chavez said enthusiastically. “Here”—he sorted through the sheets of paper—“there’s a reference to His Excellency’s last letter and it isn’t here. I assume this marvelous creature still has some?”
“She does.”
“Then get them,” Chavez said, “or don’t, as you please. It doesn’t matter. I am a journalist, Father, so I make things up.”
“Publish them all at once,” Montseny said thoughtfully.
“I need a week,” Chavez said, “and I shall rewrite, translate, and invent. We shall say the English are sending muskets to the rebels in Venezuela, that they plan to impose the Protestant heresies on Cádiz”—he paused, sucking on the cigar—“and we shall say”—he went on more slowly, thoughtfully—“that they are negotiating a peace with France that will give Portugal its independence at the price of Spain. That should do it! Give me a week!”
“Ten days,” Montseny snorted. “You have five.”
Chavez’s broad face took on a sly look. “I work better with brandy, Father.” He gestured at the empty hearth, “and it is cold in here.”
“After five days, Chavez,” Montseny said, “you shall have gold, you shall have brandy, and you shall have all the fuel you can burn. Until then, work.” He closed the door.
He could taste victory already.
THE NEW south wind had loosed a dozen ships on their voyages to Portugal. Sergeant Noolan and his men had left, ordered aboard a naval sloop that was carrying dispatches to Lisbon, but Lord Pumphrey’s note to Sir Thomas Graham had been sufficient to keep Sharpe’s riflemen on the Isla de León. That evening Sharpe went to look for them in the tent lines. He had changed back into his uniform, then borrowed one of the embassy’s horses. It was dark by the time he reached the encampment where he discovered Harper trying to revive a dying fire. “There’s rum in that bottle, sir,” Harper said, nodding at a stone bottle at the tent door.
“Where are the others?”
“Where I’ll be in ten minutes. In a tavern, sir. How’s your head?”
“It throbs.”
“Are you keeping the bandage wet, like the surgeon said you must?”
“I forgot.”
“Sergeant Noolan and his men are gone,” Harper said. “Took a sloop of war to Lisbon. But we’re staying, is that it?”
“Not for long,” Sharpe said. He slid clumsily out of the saddle and wondered what the hell he was to do with the horse.
“Aye, we got orders from Lieutenant General Sir Thomas Graham himself,” Harper said, relishing the rank and title, “delivered to us by Lord William Russell, no less.” He gave Sharpe a quizzical look.
“We’ve got a job, Pat,” Sharpe said, “some bastards in the city who need thumping.”
“A job, eh?” There was a touch of resentment in Harper’s voice.
“You’re thinking of Joana?”
“I was, sir.”
“Only be a few days, Pat, and there might be some cash in it.” It had occurred to him that Lord Pumphrey was right and that Henry Wellesley could well be generous in his reward if the letters were retrieved. He stooped to the fire and warmed his hands. “We have to get you all some civilian clothes, then move you into Cádiz for a day or two, and after that we can go home. Joana will wait for you.”
“She will, I hope. And what are you doing with that horse, sir? It’s wandering off.”
“Bloody hell.” Sharpe retrieved the mare. “I’m going to take it to Sir Thomas’s quarters. He’ll have stables. And I want to see him anyway. Got a favor to ask him.”
“I’ll come with you, sir,” Harper said. He abandoned the fire and Sharpe realized Harper had been waiting for him. The big Irishman retrieved his rifle, volley gun, and the rest of his equipment from the tent. “If I leave anything here, sir, the bastards will steal it. There’s nothing but bloody thieves in this army.” Harper was happier now, not because Sharpe had returned, but because his officer had remembered to ask about Joana. “So what’s this job, sir?”
“We’ve got to steal something.”
“God save Ireland. They need us? This camp is full of thieves!”
“They want a thief they can trust,” Sharpe said.
“I suppose that’s difficult. Let me lead the horse, sir.”
“I need to talk to Sir Thomas,” Sharpe said, handing over the reins. “Then we’ll join the others. I could do with a drink.”
“I think you’ll find Sir Thomas is busy, sir. They’ve been running around all evening like starlings, they have. Something’s brewing.”
They walked into the small town. The streets of San Fernando were much more spacious than the alleys of Cádiz and the houses were lower. Lamps burned on some corners and light spilled from the taverns where British and Portuguese soldiers drank, watched by the ever-present provosts. San Fernando had become a garrison town, home to the five thousand men sent to guard the isthmus of Cádiz. Sharpe asked one of the provosts where Sir Thomas’s quarters were and was pointed down a lane that led to the quays beside the creek. The creek made the isthmus into an island. Two large torches flamed outside the headquarters, illuminating a group of animated officers. Sir Thomas was one of them. He was standing on the doorstep and it was clear that Harper had been right: something was brewing and the general was busy. He was giving orders, but then he saw Sharpe and broke off. “Sharpe!” he shouted.
“Sir?”
“Good man! You want to come? Good man! Willie, look after him.” Sir Thomas said nothing more, but turned brusquely away and, accompanied by a half dozen officers, strode toward the creek.
Lord William Russell turned to Sharpe. “You’re coming!” Lord William said. “Good!”
“Coming where?” Sharpe asked.
“Frog-hunting, of course.”
“Do I need a horse?”
“Good God, no, not unless it can swim?”
“Can I stable it here?”
“Pearce!” Lord William shouted. “Pearce!”
“I’m here, Your Lordship, I’m here, ever present and correct, sir.” A bowlegged cavalry trooper who appeared old enough to be Lord William’s father appeared from the alley beside the headquarters. “Your Lordship’s forgotten Your Lordship’s saber.”
“Dear God, have I? So I have, thank you, Pearce.” Lord William took the proffered saber and slid it into its scabbard. “Look after Captain Sharpe’s
gee-gee, will you, Pearce? There’s a good fellow. Sure you don’t want to come with us?”
“Have to get Your Lordship’s breakfast.”
“So you do, Pearce, so you do. Beefsteak, I hope?”
“Might I wish Your Lordship good hunting?” Pearce said, flicking a speck of dust from one of Lord William’s epaulettes.
“That’s uncommonly kind of you, Pearce, thank you. Come on, Sharpe, we can’t dillydally. We have a tide to catch!” Lord William set off after Sir Thomas at a half run. Sharpe and Harper, still bemused, followed him to a long wharf where, in the small moonlight, Sharpe could see files of redcoats clambering into boats. General Graham was dressed in black boots, black breeches, red coat, and a black cocked hat. He had a claymore at his belt and was talking to a naval officer, but stopped long enough to greet Sharpe again. “Good man! How’s your head?”
“I’ll live, sir.”
“That’s the spirit! And that’s our boat. In you get.”
The boat was a big, flat-bottomed lighter, manned by a score of sailors with long sweeps. It was a short jump down onto the wide aft deck. The boat’s hold was already occupied by grinning redcoats. “What the hell are we doing?” Harper asked.
“Damned if I know,” Sharpe said, “but I need to talk to the general and this looks like as good a chance as I’ll get.”
Four other lighters lay astern and all were slowly filling with redcoats. An engineer officer threw a coil of quick match down onto the rearmost barge. Then a file of his men carried kegs of powder to the hold. Lord William Russell jumped down beside Sharpe, while General Graham, almost alone on the quay now, walked above the lighters. “No smoking, boys!” the general called. “We can’t have the French seeing a light just because you need a pipe. No noise, either. And make damned sure your guns aren’t cocked. And enjoy yourselves, you hear me? Enjoy yourselves.” He repeated the injunctions to the men in each of the barges, then clambered down onto the foremost lighter. The spacious afterdeck had room for a dozen officers to stand or sit and still leave space for the sailor who wielded the long tiller. “Those rogues,” Sir Thomas said to Sharpe, gesturing at the redcoats crouched in the lighter’s hold, “are from the 87th. Is that who you are, boys? Damned Irish rebels?”
“We are, sir!” two or three men called back.
“And you’ll not find better soldiers this side of the gates of hell,” Sir Thomas said, loud enough for the Irishmen to hear. “You’re most welcome, Sharpe.”
“Welcome to what, sir?”
“You don’t know? Then why are you here?”
“Came to ask a favor of you, sir.”
Sir Thomas laughed. “And I thought you wanted to join us! Ah well, the favor must wait, Sharpe, it must wait. We have work to do.”
The lighters had cast off and were now being rowed down a channel through the marshes that edged the Isla de León. Ahead of Sharpe, north and east, the long, low black silhouette of the Trocadero Peninsula just showed in the night. Sparks of light betrayed where the French forts lay. Lord William told him there were three forts. The farthest away was the Matagorda, which lay closest to Cádiz, and it was the giant mortar in the Matagorda Fort that did most damage to the city. Just to its south was the Fort San José and, farther south still and closest to the Isla de León, was the Fort San Luis. “What we’re doing,” Lord William explained, “is rowing past San Luis to the river just beyond. The river mouth is a creek, and once we’re in that creek, Sharpe, we’ll be plumb between the San Luis and the San Jose. Enfiladed, you might say.”
“And what’s in the creek?”
“Five damned great fire rafts.” Sir Thomas Graham had heard Sharpe’s question and now answered it. “The bastards are just waiting for a brisk northerly wind to set them loose on our fleet. Can’t have that.” The fleet, mostly small coasters with a few larger merchantmen, was assembling to take Graham’s men and General Lapeña’s Spanish army south. They would land on the coast, then march north to assault the siege lines from the rear. “We plan to burn the rafts tonight,” Sir Thomas went on. “It’ll be past midnight before we get there. Perhaps you’ll do the 87th the honor of joining them?”
“With pleasure, sir.”
“Major Gough! You’ve met Captain Sharpe?”
A shadowy officer appeared at Sir Thomas’s side. “I have not, sir,” Gough said, “but I remember you from Talavera, Sharpe.”
“Sharpe and his sergeant would beg the privilege of fighting with your boys tonight, Hugh,” Sir Thomas said.
“They’ll be most welcome, sir.” Gough spoke in a soft Irish accent.
“Warn your boys they have two stray riflemen, will you?” Sir Thomas said. “We don’t want your rogues shooting two men who captured a French eagle. So there you are, Sharpe. Major Gough is landing his lads on the south side of the creek. There are some guards there, but they’ll be easy enough to take care of. Then I imagine the French will send a relief party from the San Luis fort so it should all become fairly interesting.”
Sir Thomas’s plan was to land two lighters on the southern bank and two on the northern, and the men would disembark to drive off the French guards, then defend the creek against the expected counterattacks. Meanwhile the fifth lighter, which carried engineers, would row to the fire rafts that were just upstream of the twin French encampments, capture them, and set their explosives. “It should look like Guy Fawkes Night,” Sir Thomas said wolfishly.
Sharpe settled on the deck. Lord William Russell had brought cold sausage and a flask of wine. The sausage was chopped into slices and the flask handed around as the sailors heaved on the great sweeps and the lighter steadily butted its way through the small choppy waves. A Spaniard stood beside the steersman. “Our guide,” Sir Thomas explained. “A fisherman. A good fellow.”
“He doesn’t hate us, sir?” Sharpe asked.
“Hate us?”
“I keep being told how the Spanish hate us, sir.”
“He hates the French, like I do, Sharpe. If there is one constancy in this vale of tears, it is to always hate the damned French, always.” Sir Thomas spoke with a real vehemence. “I trust you hate the French, Sharpe?”
Sharpe paused. Hate? He was not sure he hated them. “I don’t like the bastards, sir,” he said.
“I used to,” Sir Thomas said.
“Used to?” Sharpe asked, puzzled.
“I used to like them,” Sir Thomas said. The general was staring ahead at the small lights showing through the embrasures of the forts. “I liked them, Sharpe. I rejoiced in their revolution. I believed it was a dawn for mankind. Liberty. Equality. Fraternity. I believed in all those things and I believe in them still, but now I hate the French. I’ve hated them, Sharpe, since the day my wife died.”
Sharpe felt almost as uncomfortable as when the ambassador had confessed his foolishness in writing love letters to a whore. “I’m sorry, sir,” he muttered.
“It was nineteen years ago,” Sir Thomas said, apparently oblivious of Sharpe’s inadequate sympathy, “off the southern coast of France. June twenty-sixth, 1792, was the day my dear Mary died. We took her body ashore and we placed it in a casket, and it was my wish that she should be buried in Scotland. So we hired a barge to take us to Bordeaux where we might find a ship to take us home. And just outside Toulouse, Sharpe”—the general’s voice was turning into a growl as he told the tale—“a rascally crowd of half-drunk Frenchmen insisted on searching the barge. I showed them my permits, I pleaded with them, I entreated them to show respect, but they ignored me, Sharpe. They were men wearing the uniform of France, and they tore that coffin open and they molested my dear Mary in her shroud, and from that day, Sharpe, I have hardened my heart against their damned race. I joined the army to get my revenge and I pray to God daily that I live long enough to see every damned Frenchman scoured off the face of this earth.”
“Amen to that,” Lord William Russell said.
“And tonight, for my Mary’s sake,” Sir Thomas said with relish, “I’
ll kill a few more.”
“Amen to that,” Sharpe said.
A SMALL wind came from the west. It threw up tiny waves in the Bay of Cádiz across which the five lighters crawled slow, low and dark against the black water. It was chilly, not truly cold, but Sharpe wished he had worn a greatcoat. Five miles to the north and off to his left the lights of Cádiz glimmered against white walls to make a pale streak between the sea and sky, while closer, perhaps a mile to the west, yellow lantern light spilled from the stern windows of the anchored ships. Yet here, in the belly of the bay, there was no light, just the splash of black-painted oar blades. “It would have been quicker”—Sir Thomas broke a long silence—“to have rowed from the city, but if we’d have put lighters against the city wharves then the French would have known we’re coming. That’s why I didn’t tell you about this little jaunt last night. If I’d said a word of what we were planning, then the French would have known it all by breakfast time.”
“You think they have spies in the embassy, sir?”
“They have spies everywhere, Sharpe. Whole city is riddled with them. They get their messages out on the fishing boats. The bastards already know we’re sending an army to attack their siege lines and I suspect Marshal Victor knows more about my plans than I do.”
“The spies are Spanish?”
“I assume so.”
“Why do they serve the French, sir?”
Sir Thomas chuckled at that question. “Well, some of them think as I used to think, Sharpe, that liberty, equality, and fraternity are fine things. And so they are, but God knows not in French hands. And some of them just hate the British.”
“Why?”
“They’ve got plenty of reasons, Sharpe. Good Lord, it was only fourteen years ago we bombarded Cádiz! And six years ago we broke their fleet at Trafalgar! And most merchants here believe we want to destroy their trade with South America and take it for ourselves, and they’re right. We deny it, of course, but we’re still trying to do it. And they believe we’re fomenting rebellion in their South American colonies, and they’re not far wrong. We did encourage rebellion, though now we’re pretending we didn’t. Then there’s Gibraltar. They hate us for being in Gibraltar.”
Sharpe s Fury Page 13
