Sharpe's Eagle

by Bernard Cornwell

The armourer cackled a toothless laugh and peered down the edge. “There you are, Captain. Take care of it.”

  Sharpe put some coins on the wheel frame and held the sword up to the last light of the western sky. There was a new sheen on the edge, he felt it with his thumb and smiled at the armourer. “You’ll never get a Kligenthal as sharp as that.”

  The armourer said nothing but from behind him he took out a sabre and handed it to Sharpe. Sharpe sheathed his sword and took the curved blade. It felt as if it had been made for him; its balance was a miracle, as if the steel were not there even though it flashed in the red light. He touched the blade. It would have sliced through silk as cleanly as it must cut through the breastplate of the French cavalry. “German?” Sharpe asked.

  “Yes, Captain. Belongs to our Colonel.” The armourer took the blade back. “And I haven’t begun to sharpen it yet!”

  Sharpe laughed. The sabre must have cost two hundred guineas. One day, he promised himself, one day he would own such a sword, not taken from the dead, but a sword that was inscribed with his name, forged to his height, balanced for his grip. He went back to the trees and in the sky over the river he could see the glow of the enemy fires where twenty-two thousand Frenchmen were sharpening their own blades and wondering about the morning. Not many would sleep. Most would doze through the night, their wakefulness laced with apprehension, searching the eastern sky for a dawn that might be the last one they would ever see. Sharpe lay awake for part of the night and rehearsed the next day in his head. The plan was simple enough. The Alberche ran in a curve to join the River Tagus, and the French were on the inside of the bend. In the morning the Spanish trumpets would sound, their thirty guns be unleashed, and the infantry would splash across the shallow river to attack the outnumbered French. And as the French retreated, as assuredly they must, so Wellesley would throw the British onto their flank. And Marshal Victor would be destroyed, his army broken between the hammer of the Spanish and the anvil of the British, and as the blue infantry withdrew the cavalry would come through the water and turn retreat into carnage. And once that was done, all perhaps before the citizens of Talavera went to their Sunday morning mass, there would only be King Joseph Bonaparte’s twenty thousand men between the allies and Madrid. It was all so simple. Sharpe slept in his greatcoat, curled by the embers of a fire, a gilded eagle threading his sleep.

  There were no bugles to wake them in the morning, nothing that might alert the French to the dawn attack instead of the more civilised hour of mid-morning, when most men could be expected to fight. Sergeants and corporals shook the men awake; soldiers cursed the dew and the cold air that rasped in their throats. Every man glanced towards the river, but the far bank was shrouded in mist and darkness; there was nothing to be seen, no sound to be heard. They had been forbidden to relight the fires in case the sudden lights should warn the French, but somehow they managed to heat water and threw in the loose tea-leaves, and Sharpe gratefully accepted a tin mug of the scalding liquid from his Sergeant. Harper was kicking dirt onto the fire; the men had risked a small blaze rather than go without tea, and he looked up at Sharpe and grinned. “Permission to go to church, sir?”

  Sharpe grinned back. It was Sunday. He tried to work out the date. They had left Plasencia on the seventeenth and that had been a Monday, and he counted the days forward on his fingers. Sunday 23 July, 1809. There was still no light in the eastern sky, the stars shone brightly, the dawn still two hours away. Behind them, on a track that ran between the cork grove and the fields, there was a rumbling and clanking and cursing as a battery of artillery unlimbered. Sharpe turned, the tea cradled in his hands, and watched the dim shapes as the horses were led away and the field guns pointed across the river. They would herald the attack, hurling their round shot at the French lines, tearing holes in the French Battalions as Sharpe led his skirmishers into the river. It was cold, too cold to feel any excitement; that would come later. Now were the hours to feel apprehensive, to tighten belts and buckles, to feel hungry. Sharpe shivered slightly in his greatcoat, nodded his thanks to Harper, and made his way down the grove between the lines of his men who stamped their feet and swung their arms and resurrected the more successful jokes of the previous evening. Somehow they were not as funny in the small hours before dawn.

  He left the trees and walked onto the patch of grass that lay beside the river. His boots swished through the dew and warned the sentries of his coming. He was challenged, gave the password, and greeted as he jumped down onto the shingle at the water’s edge.

  “Anything happening?”

  “No, sir.”

  The water slid blackly beneath the tendrils of mist. There was an occasional slap and swirl from the river as a fish twisted and disturbed the surface. Sharpe peered over his cupped hands and blew on his fingers; there was the faintest dot of red light on the far bank that suddenly glowed brighter. The French sentry was smoking a cigar or a pipe. Sharpe looked to his left. The eastern sky at last had a suspicion of colour, a flat silver grey that silhouetted the hills, the first sign of dawn. He clapped one of the sentries on the shoulder. “Not long now.”

  He climbed the brief bank between the shingle and the grass and walked back to the trees. From the French lines he could hear a dog barking, the whinny of a horse, and then the sound of bugles. They would start lighting their fires, start cooking a breakfast, and hopefully they would be still eating it when the Spanish bayonets came at them from the west. He suddenly felt a longing for devilled kidneys and coffee, for any food other than the thin stew and the Tommies and the old ship’s biscuits that the Battalion had lived on for a week. He remembered the garlic sausage they had collected from the enemy dead at Rolica and hoped he would find some that morning on the bodies of the men who were grumbling round their fires just across the river.

  Back in the grove he took off his greatcoat, rolled it tight, and strapped it to his pack. He shivered. He took the rag off the lock of his rifle that had protected it from the dew and tested the tension of the spring with his thumb. He slung it on his shoulder, slapped his sword, and started moving the Light Company down to the treeline. The skirmishers would go first, the thin line of Riflemen and redcoats wading the Alberche to drive off the sentries and lock up the French Voltigeurs so that they could not blunt the attack of the massed British Battalions which would follow on to the French flank. He made the men lie down a few feet inside the grove where they merged into the shadows of the trees, while behind he could see the other nine companies of the Battalion forming up for the assault that could not be far away.

  Dawn crept over the mountains, flooding the valley with a silver-grey light, shrinking the pools of shadow and revealing the shapes of trees and bushes on the far bank. It would still be a few moments, Sharpe decided, before the Spanish would break the silence and start the attack. He walked along the treeline, nodded to the Captain of the Light Company of the 29th who was on his right flank, made the polite small talk, wishing each other luck, and then strolled back to stand beside Harper. They did not speak but Sharpe knew the big Irishman was thinking of the promise Lennox had extracted from them by the bridge. But for Sharpe the Eagle had more urgency. If he could not pluck it from its perch today there might not be another chance for months and that meant no chance at all. In a few weeks, unless he could blunt Simmerson’s letter, he might be on a ship for the West Indies and the inevitable fever that made the posting a virtual death warrant. He thought of Josefina, asleep in the town, her black hair spread on a pillow, and wondered why suddenly his life had been enmeshed in a series of problems that one month ago he had not even suspected existed.

  Muskets banged erratically in the distance. The men cocked their ears, murmured to each other, listened to the sporadic firing that rattled up and down the French lines. Lieutenant Knowles came up to Sharpe and raised his eyebrows in a question. Sharpe shook his head. “They’re clearing their muskets, that’s all.” The French sentries had been changed and the men going off duty were getting rid
of their charges that might have become damp in the night air. Musket fire would not herald the attack. Sharpe was waiting for the red flashes that would illumine the western sky like summer lightning and show that the Spanish artillery was opening the battle. It could not be far off.

  There were shouts from the river. Again the men pricked their ears, strained forward, but again it was a false alarm. A group of the enemy appeared, chasing and shouting at each other in horseplay, carrying buckets to the water’s edge. One of them held up his bucket and shouted something to the British bank; his companions all laughed, but Sharpe had no idea what the joke was.

  “Watering horses?” Knowles asked.

  “No.” Sharpe stifled a yawn. “Artillery buckets. There must be guns to our front.” That was bad news. A dozen men were carrying buckets in which the sponges that damped out the sparks in discharged guns were dipped. The water in the pails would be black as ink after a few shots, and if the guns were directly ahead Sharpe knew that the South Essex might be marching into a storm of canister fragments. He felt tired, achingly tired; he wanted to begin the fight, he wanted the Eagle out of his dreams.

  Simmerson and Forrest appeared, both on foot, and stared at the artillerymen filling their buckets. Sharpe said good morning and Simmerson, his antagonism blunted by nervousness, nodded back. “Those musket shots?”

  “Just clearing their charges, sir. Nothing else.”

  Simmerson grunted. He was doing his best to be civil, as if he realised at this moment that he needed Sharpe’s skill on his side. He pulled out a vast watch, opened the lid, and shook his head. “Spanish are late.”

  The light began to lose its greyness. There was a sparkle on the far bank, and behind them Sharpe could see the smoke of the hundreds of French cooking fires. “Permis­sion to relieve the picquets, sir?”

  “Yes, Sharpe, yes.” Simmerson was making a huge effort to sound normal, and Sharpe wondered if suddenly the Colonel was regretting the letter he had written. Some­times the imminence of battle made seemingly intractable quarrels seem like things of no importance. Simmerson looked as if he would say more, but instead he shook his head again and led Forrest further down the line.

  The sentries were changed, the minutes passed, the sun climbed over the mist, and the last vestiges of night disappeared like fading cannon smoke in the western sky. Damn the Spanish, thought Sharpe, as he listened to the bugles calling the French Regiments to parade. A group of horsemen appeared on the far bank and inspected the British side through telescopes. There would be no sur­prise now. The French officers would be able to see the batteries of guns, the saddled cavalry horses, the rows of infantry lined in the trees. All surprise had gone, vanished with the shadows and the cold, for the first time the French would know how many men opposed them, where the attack was planned, and how they should meet it.

  The sound of church bells came from the town and Sharpe wondered what Josefina was doing: had the bells wakened her? He imagined her body stretching between warm sheets, a body that would not be his till after battle. The sound of the bells reminded him of England and he thought of all the village churches that would be filling with people. Would they be thinking of their army in Spain? He doubted it. The British were not fond of their army. They celebrated its victories, of course, but there had been no such celebrations for a long time. The navy was feted, Nelson’s captains had been household names, but Trafalgar was a memory and Nelson was in his tomb, and the British went their way oblivious of the war. The morning became warm, the men somnolent; they leaned against the cork trees and slept with their muskets propped on their knees. From somewhere in the French camp was the harsh sound of a muleteer’s bell reminding Sharpe of normality.

  “Sir!” A Sergeant was calling him from one of the companies higher in the grove. “Company officers, sir. To the Colonel!”

  Sharpe waved his reply, picked up the rifle, left Knowles in charge and walked up the grove. He was late. The Captains stood in a bunch listening to a Lieutenant from Hill’s staff. Sharpe caught snatches of his words.

  “Fast asleep… no battle… usual routine.”

  There was a buzz of questions. The Lieutenant, glorious in the silvered Dragoon uniform, sounded bored. “The General requests that we keep posted, sir. But we’re not expecting the French to do anything.”

  He rode away leaving the officers puzzled. Sharpe made his way towards Forrest to find out what he had missed, when he saw a familiar figure riding hard down the track. He walked into the road and held up a hand. It was Lieutenant Colonel Lawford and he was furious. He saw Sharpe, reined in, and swore.

  “Bloody hell, Richard! Bloody, bloody, bloody hell! Bloody Spanish!”

  “What’s happened?”

  Lawford could barely contain his anger. “The bloody Spanish refused to wake up! Can you believe it?”

  Other officers drew round. Lawford took off his hat and wiped his forehead; he had deep circles under his eyes. “We get up at two o’clock in the bloody morning to save their bloody country and they can’t be bothered to get out of bed!” Lawford looked round as though hoping to see a Spaniard on whom to vent his seething fury. “We rode over there at six. Cuesta’s in his bloody coach lying on bloody cushions and says his army is too tired to fight! Can you believe it? We had them. Like that!” He pinched a finger and thumb together. “We would have murdered them this morning! We could have wiped Victor off the map. But no. It’s manana, manana, tomorrow and tomorrow! There won’t be a bloody tomorrow! Victor’s no fool, he’ll march today. Damn, damn, damn.” The Honourable William Lawford stared down at Sharpe. “You know what happens now?”

  “No.”

  Lawford pointed towards the east. “Jourdan’s over there, with Joseph Bonaparte. They’ll join up with Victor, then we’ll have twice as many to fight. Twice as many! And there are rumours that Souk has scraped an army together and is coming from the north. God! The chance we lost today! You know what I think?” Sharpe shook his head. “I think the bastard wouldn’t fight because it’s Sunday. He’s got priests mumbling prayers round his bloody bed on wheels. Bloody Catholics! And there’s still no bloody food!”

  Sharpe felt the tiredness course through him. “What do we do now?”

  “Now? We bloody wait. Cuesta says we’ll attack tomor­row. We won’t because the French won’t be there.” Lawford dropped his shoulders and let out a sigh. “Do you know where Hill is?”

  Sharpe pointed along the track and Lawford rode on. Damn the Spaniards, thought Sharpe, damn everything. He was officer of the day and he would have to organise the picquets, inspect the lines, scrape together some supplies from the Commissary, who would have none. He would not be able to see Josefina. There would be no battle, no Eagle, not even a taste of garlic sausage. Damn.

  Chapter 18

  “I saw a man today… „

  “Yes?” Sharpe looked over at Josefina. She was sitting naked on the bed with her knees drawn up and trying to file her toe-nails on the edge of his sword. She was laughing at her attempts, and then she dropped the blade and looked at him. “He was lovely. A blue coat with white bits here.” She brushed her breasts with her hands. “And lots of gold lace.”

  “On a horse?”

  She nodded. “And there was a bag hanging down… „

  “His sabretache. And a curved sword?” She nodded again and Sharpe grinned at her. “Sounds like the Prince of Wales Dragoons. Very rich.”

  “How do you know?”

  “All cavalrymen are rich. Unintelligent, but rich.”

  She cocked her head in her characteristic gesture and frowned slightly. “Unintelligent?”

  “All cavalry officers are. The horse has all the brains and they have all the money.”

  “Ah, well.” She shrugged her bare shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. I have enough brains for two.” She looked at him and grinned. “You’re jealous.”

  “Yes.” He had picked up her penchant for honesty. She nodded seriously.

  “I’m
bored, Richard.”

  “I know.”

  “Not with you.” She looked up from her toe-nails and stared at him gravely. “You’re good for me. But we’ve been here a week and nothing is happening.”

  Sharpe leaned forward and tugged his boots up over the overalls. “Don’t worry. Something will happen tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Tomorrow we fight.” This time though, he thought, we will be outnumbered.

  She pulled her knees tight into her body, clasped them, and looked questioningly at him. “Are you frightened?”

  “Yes.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Who’ll win?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will you get your Eagle?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She nodded seriously. “I have a present for you. I will give it to you after the battle.”

  He was embarrassed. He did not have the money to buy presents. “I don’t want it. I want you.”

  “You have me already.” She knew what he meant, but she deliberately misunderstood him. She watched him stand up. “You want your sword?”

  “Yes.” Sharpe buckled the belt tight, pulling the scabbard into place.

  She grinned at him. “Come and get it.” She lay the great blade on the bed and, rolling over, laid her naked belly on its chill steel.

  Sharpe crossed to her. “Give it to me.”

  “Get it yourself.”

  Her body was warm and strong, the muscles hardened by exercise, and she clung to him. Sharpe pushed her face away and stared into her eyes. “What will happen?” he asked.

  “You will get your Eagle. You always get what you want.”

  “I want you.”

  She shut her eyes and kissed him hard, then pulled away and smiled at him. “We’re just stragglers, Richard. We drifted together, but we’re both on a journey.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You do. We’re going two different ways. You want a home. You want someone to love you and want you, someone to take the burden away from you.”