Sharpe's Fury

by Bernard Cornwell

  “These are the letters, sir.” Harris held out a sheaf of papers that Sharpe thrust into a pocket. “And he says there are more.”

  “More? So get them!”

  “No, sir, he says the girl must have them still.” Harris jerked a thumb at Chavez who was fumbling as he lit a cigar. “And he says he wants a drink, sir.”

  There was a half-empty bottle of brandy on the table with the playing cards. Sharpe gave it to the writer, who sucked on it desperately. Hagman was pouring the mix of brandy and lamp oil onto the paper covering the floor. The two remaining smoke balls were by the back door, ready to fill the house with smoke and impede any attempt to extinguish the blaze. The fire, Sharpe reckoned, would gut the whole house. The lead letters, carefully racked in their tall cases, would melt, the shells would destroy the press, and the fire would climb the stairs. The stone side walls of the house should keep it confined and, once the roof burned through, the furious rain would subdue the flames. Sharpe had planned to just take the letters, but he suspected there might be copies. An intact press could still print the lies, so it was better to burn it all.

  “Throw them out,” he told Harper, gesturing at the prisoners.

  “Out, sir?”

  “All of them. Into the back courtyard. Just kick them out. Then bolt the door again.”

  The prisoners were all pushed through the door, the bolts were shot home, and Sharpe sent his men back up the stairs. He went to the foot of the stairs and used a candle to light the nearest papers. For a few seconds the flame burned low. Then it caught some sheets soaked in brandy and lamp oil and the fire spread with surprising speed. Sharpe ran up the steps, pursued by smoke. “Out the trapdoor onto the roof,” he told his men.

  He was the last to the trapdoor. Smoke was already filling the bedroom. He knew the smoke balls would be seething in the flames. Then it seemed the whole house shuddered as the first shell exploded. Sharpe clung to the trapdoor’s edge as a succession of deep thumps and blasting smoke punched past him to announce that the rest of the shells had caught the fire. That, he thought, was the end of El Correo de Cádiz, and he slammed the trapdoor shut and followed Hagman across the rooftops to the empty church building. “Well done, lads,” he said when they were back in the chapel. “Now all we have to do is get home,” he told them, “back to the embassy.”

  A church bell was ringing, presumably summoning men to extinguish the flames. That meant there would be chaos in the streets and chaos was good because no one would notice Sharpe and his men in the confusion. “Hide your weapons,” he told them, then led them across the courtyard. His head was throbbing and the rain was crashing down, but he felt a huge relief that the job was done. He had the letters, he had destroyed the press, and now, he thought, there was only the girl to deal with, but he saw no problem there.

  He shot the heavy bolts and pulled at the gate. He only wanted to open it an inch, just enough to peer outside, but before it had moved even half an inch it was thrust inward with such force that Sharpe staggered back into Harper. Men suddenly crowded the gate. They were soldiers. Folk who lived in the street had lit lamps and opened shutters to see what happened at Nuñez’s house. There was more than enough light for Sharpe to see pale blue uniforms and white crossbelts and half a dozen long bayonets that glinted bright as a seventh soldier appeared with a lantern. Behind him was an officer in a darker blue coat, his waist circled by a yellow sash. The officer snarled an order that Sharpe did not understand, but he understood well enough what the bayonets meant. He backed away. “No weapons,” he told his men.

  The Spanish officer growled a question at Sharpe, but again spoke too fast. “Just do whatever they want,” Sharpe said. He was trying to work out the odds and they were not good. His men had guns, but they were concealed beneath cloaks or coats, and these Spanish soldiers looked efficient, wide awake, and vengeful. The officer spoke again. “He wants us in the chapel, sir,” Harris translated. Two of the Spanish soldiers went first to make sure none of Sharpe’s men produced a weapon once they were out of the rain. Sharpe thought of attacking those two men, chopping them down and then defending the chapel’s doorway, but he abandoned the idea instantly. He doubted he could escape from the chapel, men would surely die, and the political fuss would be monstrous. “I’m sorry about this, boys,” he said, not sure what he could do.

  He backed toward the empty altar steps. The Spanish soldiers lined opposite, their faces grim and their bayonets held level. The lantern was put on the floor and in its light Sharpe could see that the muskets were cocked. He doubted the guns would fire. There had been too much rain, and even the best musket lock could not prevent heavy rain dampening the powder. “If the bastards pull a trigger,” he said, “you can fight back. But not till then.”

  The officer looked to be in his twenties, perhaps ten years younger than Sharpe. He was tall and had a broad, intelligent face and a hard jaw. His uniform, wet as it was, betrayed that he was wealthy for it was beautifully tailored of rich cloth. He rattled a question at Sharpe, who shrugged. “We were sheltering from the rain, señor,” Sharpe said in English.

  The officer asked another question in impenetrable Spanish. “Just sheltering from the rain,” Sharpe insisted.

  “Their powder will be damp, sir,” Harper said softly.

  “I know. But I don’t want any killing.”

  The officer had seen their weapons now. He snapped an order. “He says we’re to put the weapons on the floor, sir,” Harris said.

  “Do it,” Sharpe said. This was a bloody nuisance, he thought. The likelihood was that they would end up in a Spanish jail, in which case the important thing was to destroy the letters, but this was no place to try that. He laid his sword down. “We were just sheltering from the rain, señor,” he said.

  “No you weren’t,” the officer suddenly spoke in good English. “You were setting fire to Señor Nuñez’s house.”

  Sharpe was so surprised by the abrupt change of language that he could find nothing to say. He was still half crouched, his hand on his sword.

  “You know what this place is?” the Spaniard asked.

  “No,” Sharpe said cautiously.

  “The Priory of the Divine Shepherdess. It used to be a hospital. My name is Galiana, Captain Galiana. And you are?”

  “Sharpe,” Sharpe said.

  “And your men call you ‘sir,’ so I assume you have rank?”

  “Captain Sharpe.”

  “Divina Pastora,” Galiana said, “the Divine Shepherdess. Monks lived here, and the poor could receive medical care. It was a charity, Captain Sharpe, a Christian charity. You know what happened to it? Of course you don’t.” He took a step forward and kicked the sword out of Sharpe’s reach. “Your Admiral Nelson happened. It was in ’97. He bombarded the city and this was the worst damage he did.” Galiana gestured about the scorched chapel. “One bomb, seven dead monks, and a fire. The priory closed because there was no money to make the repairs. My grandfather founded the place and my family would have repaired it, but our fortune comes from South America and your navy ended that income. That, Captain Sharpe, is what happened.”

  “We were at war when it happened,” Sharpe said.

  “But we are not at war now,” Galiana said. “We are allies. Or had that escaped your attention?”

  “We were sheltering from the rain,” Sharpe said.

  “It was fortunate, then, that you discovered the priory unlocked?”

  “Very fortunate,” Sharpe said.

  “But what of the misfortune of Señor Nuñez? He is a widower, Captain Sharpe, struggling to make a living, and now his business is in ruins.” Galiana gestured to the chapel door, beyond which Sharpe could hear the commotion in the street.

  “I don’t know anything about Señor Nuñez,” Sharpe said.

  “Then I shall educate you,” Galiana said. “He owns, or rather he did own, a newspaper called El Correo de Cádiz. It’s not much of a newspaper. One year ago it was read all across Andalucía, but no
w? Now it sells a few copies only. He used to publish twice a week, but now he is lucky to find enough news for one issue a fortnight. He lists the ships arriving and departing the harbor and he describes their cargoes. He prints which priests will preach in the city churches. He describes the proceedings of the Cortes. It is thin fare, isn’t that what you say? But in the last issue, Captain Sharpe, there was something much more interesting. A love letter. It was not signed. Señor Nuñez merely said it was a letter translated from the English and that he had found it lying in the street, and that if the true owner would like it then he should come to the newspaper. Is that why you were here, Captain? No! Please don’t say you were sheltering from the rain.”

  “I didn’t write any love letters,” Sharpe said.

  “We all know who wrote it,” Galiana said scornfully.

  “I’m a soldier. I don’t deal with love.”

  Galiana smiled. “I doubt that, Captain, I do doubt that.” He turned as a man came through the chapel door. A small crowd was braving the rain to watch the efforts to extinguish the fire and some, seeing the priory gates open, had come into the courtyard. One of them, a bedraggled, soaking-wet creature with a tobacco-stained beard, stepped into the chapel.

  “It was him!” the man shouted in Spanish, pointing at Sharpe. It was the writer, Benito Chavez, who had managed to get another bottle of brandy. He was almost drunk, but not so helpless that he could not recognize Sharpe. “It was him!” he said, still pointing. “The one with the bandaged head!”

  “Arrest him,” Galiana ordered his men.

  The Spanish soldiers stepped forward and Sharpe thought of trying to pick up his sword, but before he could move he saw that Galiana was gesturing at Chavez. The soldiers hesitated, unsure what their officer meant. “Arrest him!” Galiana said, pointing at Chavez. The writer yelped in protest, but two of Galiana’s men thrust him against the wall and held him there. “He is drunk,” Galiana explained to Sharpe, “and making damaging accusations against our allies, so he can spend the rest of the night contemplating his own foolishness in jail.”

  “Allies?” Sharpe was as confused as Chavez now.

  “Are we not allies?” Galiana asked in mock innocence.

  “I thought we were,” Sharpe said, “but sometimes I’m not sure.”

  “You are like the Spanish, Captain Sharpe, confused. Cádiz is filled with politicians and lawyers and they encourage confusion. They argue. Should we be a republic? Or perhaps a monarchy? Do we want a Cortes? And if so, should it have one chamber or two? Some want a parliament like Britain’s. Others insist that Spain is best ruled by God and by a king. They squabble about these things like children, but in truth there is only one real argument.”

  Sharpe understood now that Galiana had been playing with him. The Spaniard truly was an ally. “The argument,” Sharpe said, “is whether Spain fights France or not?”

  “Exactly,” Galiana said.

  “And you,” Sharpe said carefully, “believe Spain should fight against France?”

  “You know what the French have done to our country?” Galiana asked. “The women raped, the children killed, the churches desecrated? Yes, I believe we should fight. I also believe, Captain Sharpe, that British soldiers are banned from entering Cádiz. They are not even allowed inside the city without their uniforms. I should arrest you all. But I assume you are lost?”

  “We’re lost,” Sharpe agreed.

  “And you were merely sheltering from the rain?”

  “We were.”

  “Then I shall escort you to your embassy, Captain Sharpe.”

  “Bloody hell,” Sharpe said in relief.

  It took a half hour to reach the embassy. The wind had died a little by the time they reached the gate and the rain had lessened. Galiana took Sharpe aside. “I was ordered to watch the newspaper,” he said, “in case someone tried to destroy it. I believe, and I trust I am not deceiving myself, that by failing in that duty I have helped the war against France.”

  “You have,” Sharpe said.

  “I also believe you owe me a favor, Captain Sharpe.”

  “I do,” Sharpe agreed fervently.

  “I shall find one. Be sure of that, I shall find one. Good night, Captain.”

  “Good night, Captain,” Sharpe said. The courtyard inside the embassy was dark, the windows showing no light. Sharpe touched the letters in his coat pocket, took the newspaper from Slattery, and went to bed.

  CHAPTER 8

  H ENRY WELLESLEY LOOKED TIRED, and that was to be understood. He had been at a reception for the Portuguese ambassador half the night and had then been woken soon after dawn when an indignant delegation arrived at the British embassy. It was a measure of the urgency of their protest that the delegation had arrived so early in the morning, long before most of the city was stirring. The two elderly diplomats, each dressed in black, had been sent by the Regency, the council that ruled what was left of Spain, and the pair now sat very stiffly in the ambassador’s parlor where a newly made fire smoked in the hearth behind them. Lord Pumphrey, hastily dressed and looking pale, sat to one side of Wellesley’s desk while the interpreter stood on the other. “One question, Sharpe,” Wellesley greeted the rifleman brusquely.

  “Sir?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “In bed, sir, all night, sir,” Sharpe said woodenly. It was the tone of voice he had learned as a sergeant, the voice used to tell lies to officers. “Took an early night, sir, on account of my head.” He touched his bandage. The two Spaniards looked at him with distaste. Sharpe had just been woken by an embassy servant and he had hurriedly pulled on his uniform, but he was unshaven, weary, dirty, and exhausted.

  “You were in bed?” Wellesley asked.

  “All night, sir,” Sharpe said, staring an inch above the ambassador’s head.

  The interpreter repeated the exchange in French, the language of diplomacy. The interpreter was only there to translate Sharpe’s words, because everyone else said what they had to say in French. Wellesley looked at the delegation and raised an eyebrow as if to suggest that that was as much as they could hope to learn from Captain Sharpe. “I ask you these questions, Sharpe,” the ambassador explained, “because there was something of a small tragedy last night. A newspaper was burned to the ground. It was quite destroyed, alas. No one was hurt, fortunately, but it’s a sad thing.”

  “Very sad, sir.”

  “And the newspaper’s proprietor, a man called”—Wellesley paused to look at some notes he had scribbled down.

  “Nuñez, Your Excellency,” Lord Pumphrey offered helpfully.

  “Nuñez, that’s it, a man called Nuñez, claims that British men did it, and that the British were led by a gentleman with a bandaged head.”

  “A gentleman, sir?” Sharpe asked, suggesting that he could never be mistaken for a gentleman.

  “I use the word loosely, Captain Sharpe,” Wellesley said with a surprising asperity.

  “I was in bed, sir,” Sharpe insisted. “But there was lightning, wasn’t there? I seem to remember a storm, or perhaps I dreamed that?”

  “There was lightning, indeed.”

  “A lightning strike caused the fire, sir, most likely.”

  The interpreter explained to the delegation that there had been lightning and one of the visiting diplomats pointed out that they had found scraps of shell casing in the embers. The two men stared again at Sharpe as their words were translated.

  “Shells?” Sharpe asked in mock innocence. “Then it must have been the French mortars, sir.”

  That suggestion prompted a flurry of words, summed up by the ambassador. “The French mortars, Sharpe, don’t have the range to reach that part of the city.”

  “They would, sir, if they double-charged them.”

  “Double-charged?” Lord Pumphrey inquired delicately.

  “Twice as much powder as usual, my lord. It will throw the shell much farther, but at the risk of blowing up the gun. Or perhaps they’ve found som
e decent powder, sir? They’ve been using rubbish, nothing but dust, but a barrel of cylinder charcoal powder would increase their range. Most likely that, sir.” Sharpe uttered this nonsense in a confident voice. He was, after all, the only soldier in the room and the man most likely to know about gunpowder, and no one disputed his opinion.

  “Probably a mortar, then,” Wellesley suggested, and the diplomats politely accepted the fiction that the French guns had destroyed the newspaper. It was plain they disbelieved the story and equally plain that, despite their indignation, they did not much care. They had protested because they had to protest, but they had no future in prolonging an argument with Henry Wellesley who, effectively, was the man who funded the Spanish government. The fiction that the French had contrived to extend their mortars’ range by five hundred yards would suffice to dampen the city’s anger.

  The diplomats left with mutual expressions of regret and regard. Once they were gone Henry Wellesley leaned back in his chair. “Lord Pumphrey told me what happened in the cathedral. That was a pity, Sharpe.”

  “A pity, sir?”

  “There were casualties!” Wellesley said sternly. “We don’t know how many, and I daren’t show too much interest in finding out. At present no one is directly accusing us of causing the damage, but they will, they will.”

  “We kept the money, sir,” Sharpe said, “and they were never going to give us the letters. I’m sure Lord Pumphrey told you that.”

  “I did,” Pumphrey said.

  “And it was a priest who tried to cheat you?” Wellesley sounded shocked.

  “Father Salvador Montseny,” Lord Pumphrey said sourly.

  Wellesley twisted his chair to look out the window. It was a gray day and a thin mist blurred the small garden. “I could, perhaps, have done something about Father Montseny,” he said, still looking into the mist. “I could have brought pressure to bear, I might have had him posted to some mission in a godforsaken fever swamp in the Americas, but that’s impossible now. Your actions at the newspaper, Sharpe, have made it impossible. Those gentlemen pretended to believe us, but they know damned well you did it.” He turned back, his face showing a sudden anger. “I warned you that we must step carefully here. I told you to observe the proprieties. We cannot offend the Spanish. They know that the newspaper was destroyed in an attempt to stop the letters being published, and they will not be happy with us. They might even go so far as to make another press available for the men who have the letters! Good God, Sharpe! We have a house burned, a business destroyed, a cathedral desecrated, men wounded, and for what? Tell me that! For what?”