Sharpe's Fury

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Because that house hasn’t been plundered, has it? Kitchen garden all nice and tidy. What does that suggest?”

  “The owner has shaken hands with the French?”

  “Like as not.”

  Harris thought about that. “If they’re friends with the Crapauds, sir, then perhaps there’s a boat in that shed by the river?”

  “Perhaps,” Sharpe said dubiously. A door in the courtyard by the old castle ruin opened and he saw someone emerge into the sunlight. He nudged Harris, pointed, and the rifleman swung the telescope.

  “Just a frow hanging out the washing,” Harris said.

  “We can get our shirts laundered,” Sharpe said. “Come on, let’s fetch the brigadier.”

  They walked back across the high hills to find Moon in a triumphant mood because Sergeant Noolan and his men had failed to return.

  “I told you, Sharpe!” Moon said. “You can’t trust them. That sergeant looked decidedly shifty.”

  “How’s your leg, sir?”

  “Bloody painful. Can’t be helped, eh? So you say there’s a decent-sized town?”

  “Large village anyway, sir. Two churches.”

  “Let’s hope they have a doctor who knows his business. He can look at this damned leg, and the sooner the better. Let’s get on the march, Sharpe. We’re wasting time.”

  But just then Sergeant Noolan reappeared to the north and the brigadier had no choice but to wait as the three men from the 88th rejoined. Noolan, his long face more lugubrious than ever, brought grim news. “They blew up the fort, sir,” he told Sharpe.

  “Talk to me, man, talk to me!” Moon insisted. “I command here.”

  “Sorry, your honor,” Noolan said, snatching off his battered shako. “Our lot, sir, blew up the fort, sir, and they’ve gone.”

  “Fort Joseph, you mean?” Moon asked.

  “Is that what it’s called, sir? The one on the other side of the river, sir, they blew it up proper, they did! Guns tipped over the parapet and nothing left on the hill but smitherings.”

  “Nothing but what?”

  Noolan cast a helpless look at Sharpe. “Scraps, sir,” the sergeant tried again. “Bits and pieces, sir.”

  “And you say our fellows are gone? How the hell do you know they’ve gone?”

  “Because the Crapauds are over there, sir, so they are. Using a boat. Going back and forth, they are, sir, back and forth, and we watched them.”

  “Good God incarnate,” Moon said in disgust.

  “You did well, Noolan,” Sharpe said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And we’re buggered,” the brigadier said irritably, “because our forces have buggered off and left us here.”

  “In that case, sir,” Sharpe suggested, “the sooner we get to the town and find some food, the better.”

  Harper, because he was the strongest man, carried the front end of the brigadier’s stretcher while the tallest of the Connaught Rangers took the rear. It took three hours to go the short distance and it was late morning by the time they reached the long hill above the big house and the small town. “That’s where we’ll go,” Moon announced the moment he saw the house.

  “I think they might be anfrancesados, sir,” Sharpe said.

  “Talk English, man, talk English.”

  “I think they’re sympathetic to the French, sir.”

  “How can you possibly tell?”

  “Because the house hasn’t been plundered, sir.”

  “You can’t surmise that,” the brigadier said, though without much conviction. Sharpe’s words had given him pause, but still the house drew him like a magnet. It promised comfort and the company of gentle folk. “There’s only one way to find out, though, isn’t there?” he proclaimed. “That’s to go there! So let’s be moving.”

  “I think we should go to the town, sir,” Sharpe persisted.

  “And I think you should keep quiet, Sharpe, and obey my orders.”

  So Sharpe kept quiet as they went down the hill, through the upper vineyards and then beneath the pale leaves of an olive grove. They maneuvered the brigadier’s stretcher over a low stone wall and approached the house through wide gardens of cypress, orange trees, and fallow flower beds. There was a large pond, full of brown leaves and stagnant water, and then an avenue of statues. The statues were all of saints writhing in their death agonies. Sebastian clutched at the stub of an arrow piercing his ribs, Agnes stared serenely heavenward despite the sword in her throat, while next to her Andrew hung upside down on his cross. There were men being burned, women being disemboweled, and all of them preserved in white marble streaked with lichen and bird droppings. The ragged soldiers stared wide-eyed and the Catholics among them made the sign of the cross while Sharpe looked for any sign of life in the house. The windows remained shuttered, but smoke still drifted from a chimney, and then the big door that opened onto a balustraded terrace was thrown open and a man, dressed in black, stepped into the sunlight and waited as though he had been expecting them. “We had best observe the proprieties,” Moon said.

  “Sir?” Sharpe asked.

  “For God’s sake, Sharpe, gentry live here! They don’t want their drawing room filled with common soldiers, do they? You and I can go in, but the men have to find the servants’ quarters.”

  “Do they drop your stretcher outside, sir?” Sharpe asked innocently, and thought he heard a slight snort from Harper.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Sharpe,” the brigadier said. “They can carry me in first.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sharpe left the men on the terrace as he accompanied the brigadier into a vast room filled with dark furniture and hung with gloomy pictures, most showing scenes of martyrdom. More saints burned here, or else gazed in rapture as soldiers skewered them, while over the mantel was a life-size painting of the crucifixion. Christ’s pale body was laced with blood while behind him a great thunderstorm unleashed lightning on a cowering city. A crucifix made of a wood so dark it was almost black hung at the other end of the room and beneath it was a private shrine draped in black on which a saber lay between two unlit candles.

  The man who had greeted them was a servant who informed the brigadier that the Marquesa would join him very soon, and was there anything that his guests needed? Sharpe did his best to translate, using more Portuguese with the servant than Spanish. “Tell him I need breakfast, Sharpe,” the brigadier commanded, “and a doctor.”

  Sharpe passed on the requests, then added that his men needed food and water. The servant bowed and said he would take the soldiers to the kitchen. He left Sharpe alone with Moon who was now lying on a couch. “Damned uncomfortable furniture,” the brigadier said. He grimaced from a stab of pain in his leg, then looked up at the paintings. “How do they live with this gloom?”

  “I suppose they’re religious, sir.”

  “We’re all bloody religious, man, but that doesn’t mean we hang paintings of torture on our walls! Good God incarnate. Nothing wrong with a few decent landscapes and some family portraits. Did he say there was a Marquesa here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well let’s hope she’s easier on the eye than her damned paintings, eh?”

  “I think I ought to make sure the men are properly settled, sir,” Sharpe said.

  “Good idea,” Moon said, subtly insinuating that Sharpe would be happier in the servants’ quarters. “Do take your time, Sharpe. That fellow understood I need a doctor?”

  “He did, sir.”

  “And food?”

  “He knows that too, sir.”

  “Pray God he gets both here before sundown. Oh, and Sharpe, send that bright young fellow, the one who speaks the languages, to translate for me. But tell him to smarten himself up first.” The brigadier jerked his head, dismissing Sharpe who went back onto the terrace and found his way through an alley, across the stable yard, and so to a whitewashed kitchen hung with hams and smelling of wood smoke, cheese, and baking bread. A crucifix hung above the huge firepl
ace where two cooks were busy at a blackened stove. A third woman pounded a mass of dough on a long scrubbed table.

  Harper grinned at Sharpe, then gestured at the cheeses, hams, and the two fat wine barrels on their stands. “You wouldn’t think there was a war going on, sir, would you now?”

  “You’ve forgotten something, Sergeant.”

  “And what would that be, sir?”

  “There’s a battalion of French infantry within half a day’s march.”

  “So there is.”

  Sharpe walked to the twin wine barrels and rapped the nearest. “You know the rules,” he told the watching soldiers. “If any of you get drunk I’ll make you wish you hadn’t been born.” They stared at him solemnly. What he should do, he knew, was take the two barrels outside and stave them in, but if they wanted to get drunk they would still find liquor in a house this size. Put a British soldier in a wilderness and he would soon discover a taproom. “We might have to get out of here fast,” he explained, “so I don’t want you drunk. When we get to Lisbon, I promise I’ll fill you all so full of rum that you won’t be able to stand for a week. But today, lads? Today you stay sober.”

  They nodded and he slung his rifle on his shoulder. “I’m going to stand watch until you’ve eaten,” he told Harper. “Then you and two others take over from me. You saw that old castle tower?”

  “Couldn’t miss it, sir.”

  “That’s where I’ll be. And Harris? You’re to be an interpreter for the brigadier.”

  Harris shuddered. “Do I have to, sir?”

  “Yes, you bloody do. And you’re to smarten yourself up first.”

  “Three bags full, sir,” Harris said.

  “And Harris!” Sergeant Harper called.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Make sure to tell His Lordship if us teagues are causing trouble.”

  “I’ll do that, Sergeant, I promise.”

  Sharpe went to the tower that formed the eastern end of the stable yard. He climbed to the parapet that was some forty feet above the ground and from there he had a good view of the road that ran eastward along the smaller river. It was the road the French would use if they decided to come here. Would they come? They knew a handful of British troops was stranded on the Spanish bank of the river, but would they bother to pursue? Or perhaps they might just send a forage party. It was evident that this large house had been spared the usual French cruelties and that was doubtless because the Marquesa was anfrancesado, and that meant she must be supplying the French garrisons with provisions. So had the French refrained from plundering the town as well? If so, was there a boat? And if there was, then they could cross the river as soon as the brigadier had seen a doctor, if any doctor was available. Though once across the river, what then? The brigadier’s troops had blown up Fort Joseph and were withdrawing westward, going back to the Tagus, and as long as Moon had a broken leg there was no hope of catching them. Sharpe worried for a moment, then decided it was not his problem. Brigadier Moon was the senior officer, so all Sharpe had to do was wait for orders. In the meantime he would have his men make some crutches for the brigadier.

  He stared eastward. The sides of the valley were thick with grapevines and a few men worked there, shoring up one of the stone walls holding the terraces in place. A horseman ambled eastward and a child drove two goats down the road, but otherwise nothing moved except a hawk that glided across the cloudless sky. It was winter still, but the sun had a surprising warmth. By turning around he could just see a sliver of the river beyond the house and, on the Guadiana’s far side, the Portuguese hills.

  Harper relieved him, bringing Hagman and Slattery. “Harris is back, sir. Seems the lady speaks English so he isn’t needed. Is anything happening?”

  “Nothing. The lady?”

  “The Marquesa, sir. An old biddy.”

  “I think the brigadier was hoping for something young and luscious.”

  “We were all hoping for that, sir. So what do we do if we see a Frenchie?”

  “We get down to the river,” Sharpe said. He gazed eastward. “If the bastards come,” he said, “this is the road they’ll use, and at least we’ll see them a couple of miles away.”

  “Let’s hope they’re not coming.”

  “And let’s hope no one’s drunk if they do,” Sharpe said.

  Harper threw a puzzled look at Sharpe, then understood. “You needn’t worry about the Connaught men, sir. They’ll do what you tell them.”

  “They will?”

  “I had a word with Sergeant Noolan, so I did, and said you weren’t entirely bad unless you were crossed, and then you were a proper devil. And I told him you had an Irish father, which might be true, might it not?”

  “So I’m one of you now, am I?” Sharpe asked, amused.

  “Oh no, sir. You’re not handsome enough.”

  Sharpe went back to the kitchen where he discovered Geoghegan pounding the dough and two more of Noolan’s men stacking firewood beside the stove. “They’ll make you eggs and ham,” Sergeant Noolan told him, “and we’ve shown them how to make proper tea.”

  Sharpe contented himself with a piece of newly baked bread and a hunk of hard cheese. “Have any of your men got razors?” he asked Noolan.

  “I’m sure Liam has,” Noolan said, nodding at one of the men stacking firewood. “Keeps himself looking smart, he does, for the ladies.”

  “Then I want every man shaved,” Sharpe said, “and no one’s to leave the stable yard. If the bloody frogs come we don’t want to be searching for lost men. And Harris? Look around the stables. See if you can find some wood to make the brigadier crutches.”

  Harris grinned. “He’s already got crutches, sir. The lady had some that belonged to her husband.”

  “The Marquesa?”

  “She’s a crone, sir, a widow, and hell, has she got a bloody tongue on her!”

  “Has the brigadier been given food?”

  “He has, sir, and there’s a doctor on his way.”

  “He doesn’t need a doctor,” Sharpe grumbled. “Private Geoghegan did a good job on that leg.”

  Geoghegan grinned. “I did, sir.”

  “I’m going to have a look about,” Sharpe said, “so if the bloody frogs come you must get the brigadier down to the river.” He was not sure what they could do beside the river with the French on their heels, but maybe some escape would offer itself.

  “You think they will come, sir?” Noolan asked.

  “God knows what the bastards will do.”

  Sharpe went back outside, then crossed the terrace and down into the kitchen garden. Two men worked there now, setting out plants in newly turned furrows, and they straightened up and watched him with suspicion as he walked to the boathouse. It was a wooden building on a stone foundation and had a padlocked door. It was an old ball-padlock, the size of a cooking apple, and Sharpe did not even bother trying to pick it, but just put its shackle against the door, then rapped the lock’s base with the brass butt of his rifle. He heard the bolts shear inside, pulled the shackle free, and swung the door outward.

  And there was the boat.

  The perfect boat. It looked like an admiral’s barge with six rowing benches and a wide stern thwart and a dozen long oars laid neatly up its center line. It floated between two walkways and there was hardly a drop of water in its bilges, suggesting that the boat was watertight. The gunwales, transom, and stern thwart had been painted white once, but the paint was peeling now and there was dust everywhere and cobwebs between the thwarts. A scrabble in the dark beneath the walkways betrayed rats.

  He heard the footsteps behind and turned to see that one of the gardeners had come to the boathouse. The man was holding a fowling piece that he trained at Sharpe and then spoke in a harsh voice. He jerked his head and twitched the gun, ordering Sharpe away from the boat.

  Sharpe shrugged. The fowling piece had a barrel at least five feet long. It looked ancient, but that did not mean it would not work. The man was tall, well-built, in his f
orties, and he held the old gun confidently. He ordered Sharpe out of the boathouse again and Sharpe meekly obeyed. The man was reprimanding him, but so fast that Sharpe could hardly understand one word in ten, but he understood well enough when the man emphasized his words by poking his gun barrel into Sharpe’s waist. Sharpe seized the gun with his left hand and hit the man with his right. Then he kicked him between the legs and took the fowling piece away. “You don’t poke guns at British officers,” Sharpe said, though he doubted the man understood him, or even heard him for that matter, for he was crouching in agony and making a mewing sound. Sharpe blew the last remnants of powder from the gun’s pan so it could not fire, then he banged the muzzle against a stone until the shot and powder came tumbling out. He scuffed the powder into the earth and then, just to make sure the weapon could not fire, he wrenched the doghead away from the lock and threw it into the river. “You’re lucky to be alive,” he told the man. He tossed the fowling piece onto the man’s belly and resisted the urge to kick him again. He had not realized how angry he was. The second gardener backed away, bowing.

  Sharpe found the brigadier propped up on the couch with a towel wrapped about his neck. A young manservant was shaving him. “There you are, Sharpe,” Moon greeted him. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve discovered the secret of a good shave.”

  “You have, sir?”

  “Add some lime juice to the shaving water. Very clever, don’t you think?”

  Sharpe was not sure what to say to that. “We’ve posted sentries, sir. The men are cleaning themselves up and I’ve found a boat.”

  “What use is a boat now?” Moon asked.

  “Cross the river, sir. We can make a horse swim behind sir, if we’ve got the cash to buy one, and if you ride, sir, we’ve a chance to catch up with our lads.” Sharpe doubted there was any chance of catching the six light companies who retreated from Fort Joseph, but he had to give the brigadier hope.

  Moon paused as the manservant rinsed his face, then patted it dry with a hot towel. “We’re not going anywhere, Sharpe,” the brigadier said, “until a doctor has seen this leg. The Marquesa says the fellow in the town is perfectly adequate for broken bones. She’s a damned bitter old hag, but she’s being helpful enough, and I assume her physician is better than some teague soldier, don’t you think?”