Sharpe’s rifles

by Bernard Cornwell

  “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 carelessly.

  “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. Tf 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.

  That night, an hour before dusk, they came to a small town built about a bridge that spanned a deep, fast river. An old stump of a fortress dominated the town, but the stronghold had long been abandoned. The alcalde, the mayor, assured Major Vivar there were no Frenchmen within five leagues, and that assurance persuaded him to rest in the town. “We’ll make an early start,” he told Sharpe. Tf the weather holds, we’ll be in Santiago de Compostela this time tomorrow.“

  “Where I turn south.”

  “Where you turn south.”

  The alcalde offered his own house to Vivar and his stables to the, Cazadores, while the Riflemen were billeted in a Cistercian monastery which, sworn to offer hospitality to pilgrims, proved equally generous to the foreign soldiers.

  There was freshly killed pork, with beans, bread, and skins of red wine. There were even black bottles of a raw and fierce brandy called aguardiente, offered by a brawny monk whose scars and tattoos made him look like an old soldier. The monk also brought a sack of hard-baked bread, and intimated by dumb show that the food was for their march on the morrow. The monks’ generosity convinced Sharpe that, after the cold horrors of the last weeks, he and his Riflemen would truly reach safety. The danger of the enemy at last seemed far away and, relieved of the need to set picquets against a night’s alarms, Sharpe slept.

  Only to be woken in the very depths of the night.

  A white-robed monk, holding a lantern, searched among the dark forms of the Riflemen who slept in a cloister’s arcade. Sharpe grunted and propped himself up on an elbow. He could hear noises in the street outside; the rumble of wheels and the crack of hooves.

  ”Senor! SenorT The monk beckoned urgently to Sharpe who, cursing his broken sleep, scooped up his boots and weapons and followed the monk across the frosted cloister to the monastery’s candle-lit hallway.

  Standing in that hallway, with a handkerchief pressed against her mouth as though she feared a contagion, was a woman of fearsome size. She was as tall as Sharpe, as broad in the shoulders as Harper, and as large about the waist as any wine-tun. She wore a multiplicity of cloaks and capes that made her bulk seem even more massive, while her small-eyed, thin-lipped face was surmounted by a tiny bonnet of ludicrous delicacy. She ignored the importunate monks who clamoured at her in pleading tones. The great doors of the monastery stood open behind her and, in the light of torches bracketed in the street, Sharpe could see a carriage. As he arrived, the woman pushed the handkerchief into her sleeve. “Are you an English officer?”

  Sharpe was so astonished that he said nothing. It was not the demand that surprised him, nor even the stentorian voice in which it was made, but the fact that the huge woman was clearly English. “Well?” she demanded.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I cannot say I am glad to find an officer who has sworn allegiance to a Protestant King in such a place as this. Now put your boots on. Hurry, man!” The woman shrugged off the monks who tried to attract her attention, much as a massive milch-cow might have ignored the bleating of sheep. “Tell me your name,” she ordered Sharpe.

  “Sharpe, ma’am. Lieutenant Richard Sharpe of the Rifles.”

  “Find me the most senior English officer. And button your jacket.”

  “I am the senior officer, ma’am.”

  The woman stared with malevolent suspicion at him. “You?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You will have to suffice, then. Take your filthy hands off me!” This was to the Abbot who, with an exquisite politeness, had tried to draw the woman’s attention by a tentative hand placed tremulously on the edge of one of her voluminous cloaks. “Find me some men!” This was to Sharpe.

  “Who are you, ma’am?”

  “My name is Mrs Parker. You have heard of Admiral Sir Hyde Parker?”

  “Indeed, ma’am.”

  “He was my husband’s kinsman, before God chose to translate him to glory.” Having established that she outranked Sharpe, at least by marriage, Mrs Parker returned to her more vituperative tone. “Hurry, man!”

  Sharpe, pulling on his torn boots, tried to make sense of an Englishwoman appearing at the dead of night in a Spanish monastery. “You want men, ma’am?”

  Mrs Parker looked at him as though she would wring his neck. “Are you deaf, man? Touched? Or merely witless? Get your Papist hands off me!” This last admonition was again addressed to the Cistercian Abbot who, as if stung, jumped backwards. “I shall wait in the carriage, Lieutenant. Hurry!” Mrs Parker, to the evident relief of the monks, stalked back to her coach.

  Sharpe buckled on his sword, slung his rifle and, without bothering to fetch any men, went out to the street which was crowded with wagons, coaches, and horsemen. There was a feeling of panic in the crowd, engendered by people who knew they must be moving, but did not know where safety might lie. Sharpe, sensing disaster, went to Mrs Parker’s coach. Its plush interior was lit by a shielded lantern which showed a tall and painfully thin man
trying to assist the woman to her seat.

  “There you are!” Mrs Parker, succeeding at last in twisting her vast bulk onto the leather bench, frowned at Sharpe. “You have men?”

  “Why do you want them, ma’am?”

  “Why do I want them? Did you hear that, George? One of his Majesty’s officers discovers a defenceless Englishwoman, stranded in a Papist country and endangered by the French, and he asks questions!” Mrs Parker leaned forward to fill the open carriage door. “Get them!”

  “Why?” Sharpe barked the word, astonishing Mrs Parker who was clearly not accustomed to opposition.

  “For the testaments.” It was the man who replied. He peered around Mrs Parker to offer Sharpe a very tentative smile. “My name is Parker, George Parker. I have the honour to be a cousin to the late Admiral Sir Hyde Parker.” He said the last in a weary tone, revealing that whatever glory Mr George Parker might have achieved in this life was due solely to the reflected lustre of his cousin. “My wife and I have need of your assistance.”

  “We have Spanish translations of the New Testament,” Mrs Parker interrupted, “hidden in this town, Lieutenant. The Spanish confiscate such scriptures unless we hide them. We require your men to rescue them.” Such an explanation clearly constituted a conciliatory speech, and one that her husband rewarded with an eager nod.

  “You want my Rifles to rescue testaments from the Spanish?” Sharpe asked in utter confusion.

  “From the French, you fool!” Mrs Parker bellowed out of the carriage.

  They’re here?“

  “They entered Santiago de Compostela yesterday,” Mr Parker said sadly.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  The blasphemy had the happy effect of silencing Mrs Parker. Her husband, seeing Sharpe’s shock, leaned forward. “You haven’t heard of the events at Corunna?”

  Sharpe almost did not want to hear. “I’ve heard nothing, sir.”

  “There was a battle, Lieutenant. It seems the British army succeeded in escaping to sea, but at the expense of many lives. Sir John Moore is said to be dead. The French, it seems, are now masters of this part of Spain.”

  “Good God.”

  “We were told of your presence when we arrived here,” George Parker explained, “and now we beg your protection.”

  “Of course.” Sharpe glanced up the street, understanding the panic. The French had taken the Atlantic ports at the north-western corner of Spain. The British were gone, the Spanish armies squandered, and soon Napoleon’s troops would turn southwards to complete their victory. “How far is Corunna from here?”

  “Eleven leagues? Twelve?” George Parker’s face, pale in the candlelight, was drawn and worried. And no wonder, Sharpe thought. The French were scarcely a day’s march away.

  “Will you hurry?” Mrs Parker, recovered from the shock of Sharpe’s blasphemy, leaned vengefully forward.

  “Wait, ma’am.” Sharpe ran back into the monastery. “Sergeant Williams! Sergeant Williams!”

  It took ten minutes to rouse and parade the Riflemen who staggered sleepily into the street where, under the torchlight, Sharpe shouted them into their ranks. The men’s breath steamed in the flamelight as he felt the first stinging drops of rain. The monks were generously bringing small sacks of bread out to the soldiers who seemed bemused by the shouting chaos in the small street.

  “Lieutenant! Will you hurry!” It was Mrs Parker, making the carriage springs creak as she leaned forward. It was then that Rifleman Harper let out a piercing whistle, the other men cheered, and Sharpe whipped round to make a most unwelcome discovery.

  There was a third person in the carriage; a person who, till now, had been concealed by Mrs Parker’s great bulk. It seemed Mrs Parker must have a maid, or perhaps a companion, or else a daughter, and the girl, if indeed she was Mrs Parker’s daughter, did not take after her mother. Not in the least. Sharpe saw a bright-eyed face, dark curls, and a mischievous smile which, among soldiers, could only mean trouble. “Oh, shit,” he muttered.

  Sharpe had roused and paraded his men and, not knowing what to do with them now, and while he waited for Bias Vivar to appear from the alcaldes house where a council of town elders had been hurriedly convened, he let his men rescue the Spanish New Testaments from the stable of a bookseller who had hidden the books for George Parker.

  “The Church of Rome doesn’t approve, you understand?” George Parker, away from his wife, proved a courtly and somewhat sad character. “They wish to keep their people in the darkness of ignorance. The Archbishop of Seville confiscated a thousand testaments and burned them. Can you credit such behaviour? That’s why we came north. I believed Salamanca might prove a more fertile field for our endeavours, but the Archbishop there threatened a similar confiscation. So we went to Santiago, and on the way we sheltered our precious books with this good man,” Parker gestured towards the bookseller’s home. “I believe he sells a few on his own account, but I can scarce blame him for that. Indeed not. And if he spreads the gospel, Lieutenant, unadulterated by the priests of Rome, it can only be to God’s glory, don’t you agree?”

  Sharpe was too befuddled by the night’s strange happenings to offer agreement. He watched as another stack of the black bound books was brought out into the street and packed into the carriage’s rear box. “You’re in Spain to distribute bibles?”

  “Only since the peace treaty between our two countries was signed,” Parker said as though that explained everything, then, seeing that puzzlement remained on Sharpe’s face, he offered further information. “My dear wife and I, you must understand, are followers of the late John Wesley.”

  “The Methodist?”

  “Exactly and precisely so,” Parker nodded vigorously, “and when my late cousin, the Admiral, was gracious enough to remember me in his will, my dear wife deemed that the money might most appropriately be spent upon the illumination of the Popish darkness that so envelops southern Europe. We saw the declaration of a peace between England and Spain as a providence of God that directed our steps hither.”

  “To much success?” Sharpe could not resist asking, though the answer was clearly visible on Parker’s lugubrious face.

  “Alas, Lieutenant, the people of Spain are obstinate in their Romish heresy. But if just one soul is brought to a knowledge of God’s saving and Protestant grace, then I will feel amply justified in this endeavour.” Parker paused. “And you, Lieutenant? May I enquire if you have a personal knowledge of your Lord and Saviour?”

  “I’m a Rifleman, sir,” Sharpe said firmly, anxious to avoid a Protestant attack on his already Catholic-besieged soul. “Our religion is killing crapauds and other such heathen bastards who don’t like good King George.”

  The belligerence of Sharpe’s answer silenced Parker for a moment. The middle-aged man stared gloomily at the refugees in the street, then sighed. “You are a soldier, of course. But perhaps you will forgive me, Lieutenant?”

  “Forgive you, sir?”

  “My cousin, the late Admiral, was much given to strong oaths. I do not wish to offend, Lieutenant, but my dear wife and niece are not accustomed to the strong language of the military man, and…“ His voice faded away.

  “I apologize, sir. I’ll try and remember.” Sharpe gestured towards the bookseller’s house where Mrs Parker and the girl had taken temporary shelter. “She’s your niece, sir? She seems a little young to be travelling in such a troubled place?”

  If Parker suspected that Sharpe was fishing for information about his niece, he showed no resentment. “Louisa is nineteen, Lieutenant, but sadly orphaned. My dear wife offered her employment as a companion. We had no conception, of course, that the war would take such a disadvantageous course. We believed that, with a British army campaigning in Spain, we would be both welcome and protected.”

  “Perhaps God’s a Frenchman these days?” Sharpe said lightly.

  Parker ignored the levity. Instead he watched the stream of refugees who straggled through the night with their bundles of clothes. Chi
ldren cried. A woman dragged two goats on lengths of rope. A cripple swung by on crutches. Parker shook his head. “There is a great fear of the French here.”

  “They’re bastards, sir. Forgive me,” Sharpe blushed. “Were you in Santiago de Compostela when they arrived?”

  “Their cavalry reached the northern edge of the town yesterday evening, which gave us time to make our escape. The Lord was very providential, I think.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  Sergeant Williams, grinning broadly, stood to attention before Sharpe. “That’s all the holy books loaded up, sir. Want me to fetch the ladies?”

  Sharpe looked at Parker. “Are you travelling on tonight, sir?”

  Parker was clearly bemused by the question. “We’ll do whatever you think best, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s up to you, sir.”

  “Me?”

  It was obvious that George Parker was as indecisive as his cousin, Sir Hyde, whose prevarication had nearly lost the battle of Copenhagen. Sharpe tried to explain what choices the family faced. “This road, sir, only goes east or west, and the French lie in both directions. I assume that now your books are safe, sir, you’ll have to choose one way or the other? They say the French behave well enough to innocent English travellers. You’ll doubtless be questioned, and there’ll be some inconvenience, but they’ll probably give you permission to travel south. Might I suggest Lisbon, sir? I’ve heard there’s still a small British garrison there, but even if the garrison’s sailed away, you should be able to find a British merchant ship.”

  Parker stared worriedly at Sharpe. “And you, Lieutenant? What is your intention?”