Bernard Cornwell Box Set: Sharpe's Triumph , Sharpe's Tiger , Sharpe's Fortress

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘I have to apologize,’ Louisa said hastily.

  ‘No…’

  ‘Indeed I do. I spend many hours apologizing for my aunt’s behaviour. Perhaps tomorrow you would be kind enough to return the watch without her noticing?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I also thought you might like this, Lieutenant.’ She smiled mischievously as she brought a black bottle from beneath her cloak. To Sharpe’s astonishment it held Spanish brandy. ‘It’s my uncle’s,’ she explained, ‘though he’s not supposed to drink it. He’ll think my aunt found it and threw it away.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sharpe swallowed some of the fierce liquid. Then, with awkward courtesy, he wiped the bottle’s mouth on his dirty sleeve and offered it to Louisa.

  ‘No, thank you.’ She smiled at the clumsy gesture but, recognizing it as a friendly invitation, sat in decorous acceptance at the far end of Sharpe’s bench. She was still dressed in skirts, cloak and bonnet.

  ‘Your uncle drinks?’ Sharpe asked in amazement.

  ‘Wouldn’t you? Married to her?’ Louisa smiled at his expression. ‘Believe me, Lieutenant, I only came with my aunt for the opportunity to see Spain. It was hardly because I desired months of her company.’

  ‘I see,’ Sharpe said, though he really did not understand any of it, and certainly not why this girl had sought his company in the middle of the night. He did not think she had risked her aunt’s wrath just to lend him a watch, but she seemed eager to talk and, even though her presence made him shy and tongue-tied, he wanted her to stay. The dying fire cast just enough light to give a red sheen to her face. He thought her very beautiful.

  ‘My aunt is uncommonly rude,’ Louisa said in further apology. ‘She had no cause to comment on your rank in the manner that she did.’

  Sharpe shrugged. ‘She’s right. I am old to be a Lieutenant, but five years ago I was a Sergeant.’

  Louisa looked at him with new interest. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly.’

  She smiled, thus striking darts of desire into Sharpe’s soul. ‘I think you must be an extremely remarkable man, Lieutenant, though I should tell you that my aunt thinks you are extremely uncouth. She continually expresses amazement that you hold His Majesty’s commission, and avers that Sir Hyde would never have allowed a ruffian like you as an officer on one of his ships.’

  For an instant Sharpe’s battered self-esteem made him bristle at the criticism, then he saw that Louisa’s face was mischievous rather than serious. He saw, too, a friendliness in the girl. It was a friendliness that Sharpe had not received from anyone in months and, though he warmed to it, his awkwardness made his response clumsy. A born officer, he thought sourly, would know how to reply to the girl’s dry humour, but he could only ask a dull question. ‘Was Sir Hyde your father?’

  ‘He was a cousin of my father’s, a very distant cousin indeed. I’m told he was not a good Admiral. He believed Nelson was a mere adventurer.’ She froze, alerted by a sudden noise, but it was only the fall of a log in the smouldering fire. ‘But he became a very rich Admiral,’ Louisa went on, ‘and the family benefited from all that prize money.’

  ‘So you’re rich?’ Sharpe could not help asking.

  ‘Not I. But my aunt received a sufficiency to create trouble in the world.’ Louisa spoke very gravely. ‘Have you any idea, Mr Sharpe, just how embarrassing it is to be spreading Protestantism in Spain?’

  Sharpe shrugged. ‘You volunteered, miss.’

  ‘True. And the embarrassment is the price I pay for seeing Granada and Seville.’ Her eyes lit up, or perhaps it was just the reflected flare of glowing embers. ‘I would like to see more!’

  ‘But you’re returning to England?’

  ‘My aunt thinks that is wise.’ Louisa’s voice was carefully mocking. ‘The Spanish, you see, are not welcoming her attempts to free them from Rome’s shackles.’

  ‘But you’d like to stay?’

  ‘It’s scarcely possible, is it? Young women, Mr Sharpe, do not have the freedom of this world. I must return to Godalming where a Mr Bufford awaits me.’

  Sharpe had to smile at her tone. ‘Mr Bufford?’

  ‘He’s entirely respectable,’ Louisa said, as though Sharpe had intimidated otherwise, ‘and, of course, a Methodist. His money comes from the manufacture of ink, a trade of such profitability that the future Mrs Bufford may look forward to a large house and a life of great, if tedious, comfort. Certainly it will never be discoloured by the ink, which is manufactured in faraway Deptford.’

  Sharpe had never before talked with a girl of Louisa’s evident education, nor heard the monied class spoken of with such deprecation. He had always believed that anyone born to great, if tedious, comfort would be eternally grateful for the gift. ‘You’re the future Mrs Bufford?’

  ‘That is the intention, yes.’

  ‘But you don’t want to be married?’

  ‘I do desire that, I think.’ Louisa frowned. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘I’m not rich enough to marry.’

  ‘That’s rarely stopped others, I think. No, Mr Sharpe, I simply do not desire to marry Mr Bufford, though my reluctance is doubtless very selfish of me.’ Louisa shrugged away her indiscretions. ‘But I did not hope to find you awake just to impose my small unhappiness on you. I wished to ask of you, Lieutenant, whether our presence makes it more likely that you and your men will be captured by the French?’

  The answer was clearly yes, but equally clearly Sharpe could not say so. ‘No, miss. So long as we keep going at a fair clip, we should keep ahead of the bast--of them.’

  ‘I was going to enjoin you, should you have answered me truthfully, to abandon us to the bast--to them.’ Louisa smiled her gravely mischievous smile.

  ‘I wouldn’t abandon you, miss,’ Sharpe said clumsily, glad that the gloom hid his blush.

  ‘My aunt does provoke great loyalty.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Sharpe smiled, and the smile turned into a laugh which Louisa hushed by holding a finger to her lips.

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’ She stood. ‘I hope you do not feel badly about our encumbering you?’

  ‘Not now, miss.’

  Louisa crept to her door. ‘Sleep well, Lieutenant.’

  ‘And you, miss.’ Sharpe watched as she slipped through the door, and held his breath until he heard the bolt slide safely shut on its far side. His sleep would be turbulent now, for all his thoughts and desires and dreams had been turned inside out and upside down by a gentle, mocking smile. Richard Sharpe was far from home, endangered by a conquering enemy and, just to make things worse, he had fallen in love.

  At four in the morning Sharpe was woken by the tinkling alarm of Louisa’s silver watch. He hammered on the Parkers’ door until a groan assured him the family was awake. Then he went to the stable and found that his men had not absconded in the night. They were all present, and they were nearly all drunk.

  They were not as drunk as the men who had been abandoned to the French during the retreat, but they had come close. All but a handful of them were insensible, soused, unconscious. The wineskins which Sharpe had purchased lay empty on the floor, but among the bedding straw were also numerous empty bottles of aguardiente and he knew that the Cistercian monks, when they had brought out the sacks of bread, had secreted the brandy as part of their gift. Sharpe swore.

  Sergeant Williams was groggy, but managed to stagger to his feet. ‘It was the lads, sir,’ he said helplessly. ‘They was upset, sir.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the brandy?’

  ‘Tell you, sir?’ Williams was astonished that he should expect such a thing.

  ‘God damn them.’ Sharpe’s head was thick, his own belly sore, but his hangover was as nothing compared to the state of the greenjackets. ‘Get the bastards up!’

  Williams hiccupped. The lantern revealed just how hopeless was the task of rousing the Riflemen but, scared by Sharpe’s demeanour, he made some feeble attempts to stir the nearest man.

  Sharpe
brushed Williams aside. He shouted at the men. He kicked them awake, dragged them up from stupor, and he punched tender bellies so that suffering men vomited on the stable floor. ‘Up! Up! Up!’

  The men reeled in dazed confusion. This was ever the danger in this army. The men joined for drink. They could only be kept in the ranks by the daily issue of rum. They took every opportunity to drown themselves in liquor. Sharpe had done it himself as a redcoat, but now he was an officer and his authority once again had been flouted. He primed his loaded rifle with dry powder, and cocked the flint. Sergeant Williams flinched from the expected noise, Sharpe pulled the trigger, and the explosion hammered about the stable. ‘Up, you bastards! Up, up!’ Sharpe kicked out again, his anger made worse by his own incompetence in not knowing about the brandy. He was also keenly and miserably aware of how badly this behaviour would appear to Miss Louisa Parker.

  By a quarter past five, in a drizzle that promised to persist all day, Sharpe finally paraded the men on the road. The Parkers’ carriage was being manoeuvred out of the tavern yard as Sharpe, in the light of a lantern carried by Sergeant Williams, inspected weapons and equipment. He smelt each canteen and poured what was left of the brandy onto the road.

  ‘Sergeant Williams?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We’ll go at the quick!’ The quick march of the Rifles was immensely fast and, anticipating the pain to come, the men groaned. ‘Silence!’ Sharpe bellowed. ‘Rifles will turn to the right! Right turn!’ The men’s unshaven faces were bleary, their eyes reddened, their drill sloppy. ‘Quick march!’

  They marched into a grey and dispiriting dawn. Sharpe forced the pace so hard that some men had to drop out to vomit into the flooded ditches. He kicked them back into line. At this moment he thought he probably hated these men, and almost wanted them to defy him so that he could swear and lash out at the ill-disciplined bastards. He forced them so fast that the Parkers’ carriage fell behind.

  Sharpe ignored its slow progress. Instead he made the Riflemen’s pace still quicker until Sergeant Williams, fearing the men’s mutinous mood, fell back to his side. At this point the road twisted down a long slope towards a wide stream that was crossed by a stone bridge. ‘They can’t do it, sir.’

  ‘They can get drunk, though, can’t they? So let them bloody suffer now.’

  Sergeant Williams was clearly suffering. He was pale and breathless, dragging his feet, seemingly on the point of being sick. Other men were in a far worse state. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said feebly.

  ‘I should have abandoned you to the French. All of you.’ Sharpe’s anger was made worse by remorse. He knew it was his own fault. He should have had the courage to inspect the stables in the night, but instead he had tried to hide from the men’s dislike by staying in the inn. He remembered the drunks who had been abandoned during Sir John Moore’s retreat; hopeless men left to the untender mercies of the pursuing French and, though he had just threatened them with the same fate, Sharpe knew he would not abandon these men. It was a matter of pride now. He would bring this group of Riflemen out of disaster. They might not thank him for it, they might not like him for it, but he would take them through hell if it led to safety. Vivar had said it could not be done, but Sharpe would do it.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Williams still tried to assuage him.

  Sharpe said nothing. He was thinking how much easier this ordeal would be if he had a Sergeant who could keep the men to order. Williams cared too much about being liked, but there was no one else he could see taking the stripes. Gataker was too fly and too eager for the good opinion of his fellow Riflemen. Tongue was educated, but the worst drunkard in the company. Parry Jenkins, the Welshman, could have made a Sergeant, but Sharpe suspected he lacked the necessary ruthlessness. Hagman was too lazy. Dodd, the quiet man, was too slow and diffident. There was only Harper, and he, Sharpe knew, would do nothing to help the despised Quartermaster. Sharpe was stuck with Williams, just as Williams and the company were stuck with Lieutenant Sharpe who, when he reached the stone bridge, ordered the men to halt.

  They halted. There was relief on their faces. The coach was out of sight, still negotiating the boulders beyond the hill’s crest.

  ‘Company!’ Sharpe’s loud voice made some of the men wince. ‘Ground arms!’

  There was more relief as they grounded their heavy weapons, then as they unbuckled their bayonets and pouches. Sharpe separated the handful of men who had been sober that morning and ordered the rest to take off their packs, greatcoats, and boots.

  The men thought he was mad, but all soldiers were used to humouring eccentric officers and so they removed their boots under the Lieutenant’s sour gaze. The coach appeared at the top of the slope and Sharpe snapped at the men to look to their front and not gape at it. The squeal of the carriage’s brake-blocks was like a nail scratching on slate. ‘You did not have my permission to get drunk.’ Sharpe’s voice was flat now, no longer angry. ‘I hope, as a result, that you feel God-damned awful.’

  It was apparent to the men that Sharpe’s rage had passed and some of them grinned to show that they did indeed feel dreadful.

  He smiled. ‘Good. So now jump in the stream. All of you.’

  They stared at him. The thunder and squeal of the carriage wheels grew louder.

  Sharpe loaded his rifle with the swift movements of a man long trained to the army. The men stared in disbelief as he brought the brass butt into his shoulder and aimed the weapon at their front file. ‘I said jump in the stream! Go!’

  He cocked the rifle.

  The men jumped.

  The drop from the bridge parapet was perhaps eight feet and the stream, swollen by melting snow and winter rains, was four feet deep. The water was icy cold, but Sharpe stood on the parapet and ordered each man to soak himself in the bitter flood. He used the rifle as an encouragement. ‘You! Get your bloody head under! Harper! Duck, man, duck!’ Only the sober, the wounded and, in deference to his flimsy authority, Sergeant Williams, were spared the ordeal. ‘Sergeant! Form threes on the bank. Hurry now!’

  The shivering men waded from the stream and formed three miserable ranks on the grass. The coach lumbered to a halt and George Parker, his face nervous, was ejected from the door. ‘Lieutenant? My dear wife is concerned that you might abandon us by your swift pace.’ Parker then saw the soaked parade and his jaw fell.

  ‘They’re drunk.’ Sharpe said it loudly enough for the men to hear. ‘Pickled. Stewed. God-damn useless! I’ve been sweating the bloody liquor out of the bastards.’

  Parker flapped a hand in protest at the blasphemy but Sharpe ignored him. Instead he shouted at his men. ‘Strip!’

  There was a pause of disbelief. ‘Strip!’

  They stripped themselves naked. Forty freezing men, pale and miserable, stood in the drizzle.

  Sharpe stared down at them. ‘I don’t care if you all bloody die.’ That got their attention. ‘At any moment now, you bastards, the bloody French could be coming down that road,’ he jerked his thumb back up the hill, ‘and I’ve a good mind to leave you here for them. You’re good for nothing! I thought you were Rifles! I thought you were the best! I’ve seen bloody militia Battalions that were better than you! I’ve seen bloody cavalrymen who looked more like soldiers!’ That was a difficult insult to beat, but Sharpe tried. ‘I’ve seen bloody Methodists who were tougher than you bastards!’

  Mrs Parker ripped back the leather curtain to demand an end to the cursing, saw the naked men, and screamed. The curtain closed.

  Sharpe stared his men down. He did not blame them for being frightened, for any soldier could be forgiven terror when defeat and chaos destroyed an army. These men were stranded, far from home, and bereft of the commissary that clothed and fed them, but they were still soldiers, under discipline, and that word reminded Sharpe of Major Vivar’s simple commandments. With one simple change, those three rules would suit him well.

  Sharpe made his voice less harsh. ‘From now on we have three rules. Just three rules.
Break one of them and I’ll break you. None of you will steal anything unless you have my permission to do so. None of you will get drunk without my permission. And you will fight like bastards when the enemy appears. Is that understood?’

  Silence.

  ‘I said, is that understood? Louder! Louder! Louder!’

  The naked men were shouting their assent; shouting frantically, shouting to get this madman off their freezing backs. They looked a good deal more sober now.

  ‘Sergeant Williams!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Greatcoats on! You have two hours. Light fires, dry the clothes, then form up in threes again. I’ll stand guard.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The carriage stood immobile, its Spanish coachman expressionless on his high box. Only when the Riflemen were in their dry greatcoats did the door fly open and a furious Mrs Parker appear. ‘Lieutenant!’

  Sharpe knew what that voice portended. He whipped round. ‘Madam! You will keep silent!’

  ‘I will…’

  ‘Silence, God damn you!’ Sharpe strode towards the coach and Mrs Parker, fearing violence, slammed the door.

  But Sharpe went instead to the luggage box from which he took a handful of the Spanish testaments. ‘Sergeant Williams? Kindling for the fires!’ He threw the books down to the meadow while George Parker, who thought the world had gone mad, kept a politic silence.

  Two hours later, in a very chastened silence, the Riflemen marched south.

  At midday it stopped raining. The road joined a larger road, wider and muddier, which slowed the coach’s lumbering progress. Yet, as if in promise of better things to come, Sharpe could see a stretch of water far to his right. It was too wide to be a river, and thus was either a lake or an arm of the ocean which, like a Scottish sea-loch, stretched deep inland. George Parker opined that it was indeed a ria, a valley flooded by the sea, which could therefore lead to the patrolling ships of the Royal Navy.

  That thought brought optimism, as did the country they now traversed. The road led through pastureland interspersed with stands of trees, stone walls, and small streams. The slopes were gentle and the few farms looked prosperous. Sharpe, trying to remember the map that Vivar had destroyed, knew they must be well south of Santiago de Compostela. His despair of the night before was being eroded by the hopes of this southern road, and by the subdued look on his men’s faces. The glimpse of the sea had helped. Perhaps, in the very next town, there might be fishermen who could take these refugees out to where the Navy’s ships patrolled. George Parker, walking with Sharpe, agreed. ‘And if not, Lieutenant, then we certainly won’t need to go as far as Lisbon.’