Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil

by Bernard Cornwell

  “What about Bautista?”

  “Bugger Bautista.” It seemed that Blair was right about the myriad of delays that the Spanish imposed on even the simplest bureaucratic procedure, but Sharpe did not have the patience to be the victim of such nonsense. “Let’s go.”

  It was raining much harder now. Sharpe ran across the Citadel’s bridge, while Harper lumbered after him. They splashed across the square’s cobbles, past the statue where the group of chained Indians still sat vacantly under the cloudburst, to where a heavy wagon, loaded with untanned hides, was standing in front of Blair’s house. The untreated leather stank foully. A uniformed soldier was lounging under the Consul’s arched porch, beside the drooping British flag, apparently guarding the wagon’s stinking cargo. The daydreaming soldier straightened as Sharpe approached. “You can’t go in there, señor!” He moved to block Sharpe’s path. “Señor!”

  “Shut up! Get out of my bloody way!” Sharpe, disgusted with all things Spanish, rammed his forearm onto the soldier’s chest, piling him backward. Sharpe expected Blair’s door to be locked, but unexpectedly it yielded to his thrust. He pushed it wide open as Harper ran into the porch’s shelter. The dazed sentry took one look at the tall Irishman’s size and decided not to make an issue of the confrontation. Sharpe stamped inside. “Damn Marquinez! Damn Bautista! Damn the bloody Spaniards!” He took off his wet greatcoat and shook the rain off it. “Bloody, bloody Spaniards! They never bloody change! You remember when we liberated their Goddamned bloody country and they wanted to charge customs duty on the powder and shot we used to do it? Goddamned bloody Spaniards!”

  Harper, who was married to a Spaniard, smiled soothingly. “We need a cup of tea, that’s what we need. That and some decent food, but I’ll settle for dry clothes first.” He started climbing the stairs, but halfway to the landing he suddenly checked, then swore. “Jesus!”

  “What?”

  “Thieves!” Harper was charging up to the landing. Sharpe followed.

  “Get down!” Harper screamed, then threw himself sideways through an open doorway. Sharpe had a glimpse of two men in a second doorway, then the landing was filled with smoke as one of the men fired a gun. The noise was huge, echoing around the house. Bitter-smelling smoke churned in the corridor. Sharpe did not see where the bullet went. He only knew it had not hit him.

  He scrambled to his feet and ran past the doorway where Harper had sheltered. He could hear the thieves running ahead of him. “We’ve got the buggers trapped!” He shouted the encouragement for Harper, then he saw that there was another staircase at the back of the house, presumably a stair for servants, and the two thieves were jumping its steps three at a time.

  “Stop!” Sharpe bellowed. He had visited the Citadel in civilian clothes, not bothering to wear any weapons. “Stop!” he shouted again, but the two men were already scrambling out into the stableyard. The mestizo cook was screaming.

  Sharpe reached the kitchen door as the thieves tugged open the stableyard gate. Sharpe ran into the rain, still shouting at the men to stop. Both thieves were carrying sacks of plunder, and both were armed with short-barreled cavalry carbines. One carbine had been fired, but now the second man, fearing Sharpe’s pursuit, turned and aimed his gun. The man had black hair, a bushy moustache and a scar on his cheek, then Sharpe realized the carbine was at point-blank range and he hurled himself sideways, slithering through puddles of rain and heaps of stable muck to thump against a bale of straw. The gate was open now, but the moustached gunman did not run; instead he carefully leveled the carbine at Sharpe. He was holding the gun one-handed. There was a pause of a heartbeat, then he smiled and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. For a second the man just gaped at Sharpe, then, suddenly scared, he hurled the carbine like a club and took off through the gate after his companion.

  Sharpe was climbing to his feet, but had to drop flat again as the gun flew over his head. He stood again, slipped as he began running, found his balance, then clung to the gatepost when he saw that the two men had disappeared into a crowded alley. He swore.

  He closed the gate, brushed the horse manure off his jacket and breeches, picked up the thief’s carbine and went back to the kitchen. “Stop your noise, woman!” he snapped at the cook, then stared up to where Harper had appeared at the top of the back stairs. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “God save Ireland.” Harper came slowly down the stairs. He had gone pale as paper, and had a hand clapped to the side of his head. Blood showed between his fingers. “Bugger shot me!” Harper staggered against the wall, but managed to keep his balance. “I went through the whole damned French wars, so I did, and never once did I take a bullet, and now a damned thief in a damned town at the end of the damned world hits me! Jesus sweet Christ!” He took his hand away and blood oozed from his sandy hair to trickle down his neck. “I’m feeling dizzy, so I am.”

  Sharpe helped Harper to a chair, sat him down, then probed the blood-soaked hair. The damage was slight. The bullet had seared across the scalp, breaking the skin, but not doing any other damage. “The bullet just grazed you,” Sharpe said in relief.

  “Grazed, indeed! I was hit, so I was!”

  “Barely broke the skin.”

  “Lucky to be alive, I am. Sweet mother of God, but I could have been dead by now.”

  “Luckily you’ve got a skull like a bloody ox.” Sharpe rapped Harper’s temple. “It would take a twelve pounder to dent that skull.”

  “Would you listen to him! As near to death as a goose at Christmas, so I am, and all he can do is tap my skull!”

  Sharpe went to the big water vat by the back door, soaked a piece of cloth, and tossed it to Harper. “Hold that against your head. It’ll bring you back to life. I’m going to see what the bastards took.”

  Apart from their weapons and the chest with Louisa’s gold, all of which had been locked in Blair’s strong room, the thieves appeared to have taken everything. Sharpe, disconsolate, went downstairs to where Harper was dabbing his bloody head with the wet rag. “The lot,” Sharpe said bitterly. “Your bag, my bags, our clothes, boots, razors. The lot.”

  “The Emperor’s thimble?” Harper asked in disbelief.

  “Everything,” Sharpe said. “Bonaparte’s portrait, and some stuff of Blair’s as well. I can’t tell what, but the candlesticks are gone and those small pictures that were on the shelf. Bastards!”

  “What about your locket?”

  “Around my neck.”

  “The guns?”

  Sharpe shook his head. “The strong-room padlock wasn’t touched.” He picked up the thief’s weapon. “The bastard tried to shoot me twice. It wouldn’t fire.”

  “He forgot to prime it?”

  Sharpe opened the pan and saw a sludge of wet powder there, then saw that the trigger was loose. He scraped the priming out of the pan and tapped the gun’s butt on the floor. His guess was that the carbine’s mainspring had jammed because the wood of the stock had swollen in the damp weather. It was a common enough problem with cheap guns. He tapped harder and this time the trapped spring jarred itself free and the flint snapped down on the emptied pan.

  “Swollen wood?” Harper asked.

  “Saved my life, too. Bugger had me lined up at five paces.” He peered at the lockplate and saw the mark of the Cadiz Armory, which made this a Spanish army gun. There was nothing sinister in that. The world was awash with old army weapons; even Sharpe and Harper carried rifles with the British Government’s Tower Armory mark on their plates.

  Sharpe turned to the whimpering cook and accused her of letting the two thieves into the house, but the woman protested her innocence, claiming that the two men must have climbed across the church roof and jumped from there onto the half-roof at the side of Blair’s house. “It has happened before, señor,” she said resignedly, “which is why the master has his strong room.”

  “What do we do now?” Harper still held the rag against his head.

  “I’ll make a formal com
plaint,” Sharpe said. “It won’t help, but I’ll make it anyway.” He went back to the Citadel where, in the guardroom, a surly clerk took down a list of the stolen property. Sharpe, as he dictated the missing items, knew that he wasted his time.

  “You wasted your time,” Blair said when he came home. “Place is full of bloody thieves. That clerk will already have thrown your list away. You’ll have to buy more clothes tomorrow.”

  “Or look for the bloody thieves,” Harper, his head sore and bandaged, growled threateningly.

  “You’ll never find them,” Blair said. “They brand some of them on the forehead with a big L, but it doesn’t do any good.” Sharpe guessed the L stood for ladron, thief. “That’s why I have a strong room,” Blair went on, “it would take more than a couple of cutthroats to break in there.” He had fetched a bottle of gin back from the H.M.S. Charybdis and in consequence was a happy man. By nightfall he was also a drunken man who once again offered Sharpe and Harper the run of his servants. “None of them are poxed. They’d better not be, God help them, or I’ll have the skin off their backs.”

  “I’ll manage without,” Sharpe said.

  “Your loss, Sharpe, your loss.”

  That night the clouds rolled back from the coastal plain so that the dawn brought a wondrous clean sky and a sharp, bright sun that rose to silhouette the jagged peaks of the Andes. There was something almost springlike in the air—something so cleansing and cheerful that Sharpe, waking, felt almost glad to be in Chile, then he suddenly remembered the events of the previous day, and knew that he must spoil this bright clean day by buying a new greatcoat, new breeches, a coat, shirts, small clothes and a razor. At least, he thought grimly, he had been wearing his good kerseymere coat for his abortive visit to Bautista, which had served to save the coat from the thieves and to save Sharpe from Lucille’s wrath. She was forever telling him he should dress more stylishly, and the dark green kerseymere coat had been the first success in her long and difficult campaign. The coat had become somewhat soiled with horse manure when Sharpe rolled in the stableyard, but he supposed that would brush out.

  He pulled on shirt, breeches and boots, then carried the coat downstairs so that one of Blair’s servants could attack it with a brush. Blair was already up, drinking bitter coffee in the parlor and with him, to Sharpe’s utter surprise, was Captain Marquinez. The Captain had a gold-edged shako tucked under one arm. The shako had a tall white plume that shivered as Marquinez offered Sharpe a low bow. “Good morning, Colonel!”

  “Got our travel permits, have you?” was Sharpe’s surly greeting.

  “What a lovely morning!” Marquinez smiled with delight. “Mister Blair has offered me coffee, but I cannot accept, for we are summoned to the Captain-General’s audience.”

  “Summoned?” Sharpe asked. Blair clearly thought Sharpe’s hostility was inappropriate, for he was making urgent signals that Sharpe should behave more gently.

  Marquinez smiled. “Summoned indeed, Colonel.”

  Sharpe poured himself coffee. “I’m an Englishman, Captain. You don’t summon me.”

  “What Colonel Sharpe means—” Blair began.

  “Colonel Sharpe reproves me, and quite rightly.” The plume nodded as Marquinez bowed again. “It would give Captain-General Bautista the most exquisite delight, Colonel, if you and Mister Harper would favor him with your attendance at this morning’s audience.”

  “Bloody hell,” Sharpe said. And wondered just what sort of man he would find when he at last met Vivar’s enemy.

  CHAPTER 3

  Bautista’s audience hall was a palatial room dominated by a carved and painted royal coat of arms that hung above the fireplace. Incongruously, for it was not cold, a small fire burned in a grate that was dwarfed by the huge stone hearth. The windows at either end of the hall were open; those at the east, where the early sun now dazzled, looked onto the Angel Tower and its execution yard, while the western windows offered a view across the defenses to the swirling waters of the Valdivia River. The whole room, with its blackened beams, lime-washed walls, bright escutcheon and stone pillars, was intended as a projection of Spanish royal power, a grandiose echo of the Escorial.

  The room’s real power, though, lay not in the monarch’s coat of arms, nor in the royal portraits that hung on the high walls, but in the energetic figure that paced up and down, up and down, behind a long table that was set before the fireplace and at which four aides-de-camp sat and took dictation. Watching the pacing man, and listening to his every word, was an audience of seventy or eighty officers. This was evidently how Captain-General Bautista chose to do his business: openly, efficiently, crisply.

  Miguel Bautista was a tall, thin man with black hair which was oiled and brushed back so that it clung like a sleek cap to his narrow skull. His face was thin and pale, dominated by a long nose and the dark eyes of a predator. There was, Sharpe thought, a glint of quick intelligence in those eyes, but there was something else too, a carelessness, as though this young man had seen much of the world’s wickedness and was amused by it. He wore a uniform that was new to Sharpe. It was an elegantly cut cavalry tunic of plain black cloth, but with no symbols of rank except for two modest epaulettes of silver chain. His breeches were black, as were his cavalry boots and even the cloth covering of his scabbard. It was a simple uniform, but one which stood in stark contrast to the colorful uniforms of the other officers in the room.

  Some of those officers had evidently come as petitioners, others because they had information that Bautista needed, and yet more because they were on the Captain-General’s staff. All were necessary to complete what Sharpe realized was a piece of theater. This was Bautista’s demonstration, held at a deliberately inconvenient early hour, to show that he was the enthusiastic master of every detail that mattered in his royal province. He paced incessantly, casting off the matters of business one after the other with a swift efficiency. A Lieutenant of Cavalry was given permission to marry, while a Major of Artillery was refused leave to travel home to Spain. “Does Major Rodriguez think that no other officer ever had a dying mother?” There was laughter from the audience at that sally, and Sharpe saw Colonel Ruiz, the bombastic artilleryman who had sailed on the Espiritu Santo, laughing with the rest.

  Bautista called various officers to make their reports. A tall, gray-haired Captain detailed the ammunition reserves in the Perrunque arsenal, then a Medical Officer reported on the number of men who had fallen sick in the previous month. Bautista listened keenly, noting that the Puerto Crucero garrison had shown a marked increase in fever cases. “Is there a contagion there?”

  “We’re not sure, Your Excellency.”

  “Then find out!” Bautista’s voice was high and sharp. “Are the townspeople affected? Or just the garrison? Surely someone has thought to ask that simple question, have they not?”

  “I don’t know, Your Excellency,” the hapless Medical Officer replied.

  “Then find out! I want answers! Answers! Is it the food? The garrison’s water supply? The air? Or just morale?” He stabbed a finger at the Medical Officer. “Answers! Get me answers!”

  It was an impressive display, yet Sharpe felt unconvinced by it. It was almost as if Bautista was going through the motions of government merely so that no one could accuse him of dereliction when his province vanished from the maps of the Spanish Empire. He was, Sharpe thought, a young man full of self-importance, but so far Sharpe could see no evidence of anything worse—of, say, the cruelty that made Bautista’s name so feared. The Captain-General had resumed pacing up and down before the small and redundant fire, stabbing more questions into his audience as he paced. How many cattle were in Valdivia’s slaughteryards? Had the supply ships arrived from Chiloe? Was there any news of Ruiz’s regiment? None? How many more weeks must they wait for those extra guns? Had the Puerto Crucero garrison test-fired their heated shot, and if so, what was their rate of fire? How long had it taken to heat the furnace from cold to operational heat? General Bautista suddenly whi
rled on Sharpe and pointed his finger, just as if Sharpe was one of the subservient officers who responded so meekly to each of Bautista’s demands. “You were at Waterloo?” The question was rapped out in the same tone that the General had used to ask about the monthly sick returns.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did Napoleon lose there?”

  The question took Sharpe somewhat by surprise, despite Marquinez having warned him that the Captain-General was fascinated by Napoleon and his battles. Did Bautista see himself as a new Napoleon, Sharpe wondered? It was possible. The Captain-General was still a young man and, like his hero, an artillery officer.

  “Well?” Bautista chivied Sharpe.

  “He underestimated the British infantry,” Sharpe said.

  “And you, of course, were a British infantryman?” Bautista asked in a sarcastic tone, provoking more sycophantic laughter from his audience. Bautista cut the laughter short with a swift chop of his hand. “I heard that he lost the battle because he waited too long before beginning to fight.”

  “If he’d have started earlier,” Sharpe said, “we’d have beaten him sooner.” That, Sharpe knew, was not true. If Bonaparte had opened the battle at dawn he would have ridden victorious into Brussels at dusk, but Sharpe would be damned before he gave Bautista the satisfaction of agreeing with him.

  The Captain-General had walked close to Sharpe and was staring at the Englishman with what seemed a genuine curiosity. Sharpe was a tall man, but even so he had to look up to meet the dark eyes of the Captain-General. “What was it like?” Bautista asked.

  “Waterloo?” Sharpe felt tongue-tied.

  “Yes! Of course. What was it like to be there?”

  “Jesus,” Sharpe said helplessly. He did not know if he could describe such a day, certainly he had never done so to anyone except those, like Harper, who had shared the experience and who could therefore see beyond the tale’s incoherence. Sharpe’s fiercest memory of the day was simply one of terror; the terror of standing under the massive concussion of the French bombardment that, hour by hour, had ground down the British line till there were no reserves left. The remainder of the day had faded into unimportance. The opening of the battle had been full of excitement and motion, yet it was not those heart-stirring moments that Sharpe remembered when he woke sweating in the night, but rather that inhuman mincing machine of the French artillery; the lurid flickering of its massive cannon flames in the smoke bank, the pathetic cries of the dying, the thunder of the roundshot in the overheated air, the violence of the soil spewed up by the striking shots and the stomach-emptying terror of standing under the unending cannonade that had punched and crashed and pounded down the bravest man’s endurance. Even the battle’s ending, that astonishing triumph in which tired and seemingly beaten men had risen from the mud to rout the finest troops of France, had paled in Sharpe’s memory beside the nightmarish flicker of those guns. “It was bad,” Sharpe said at last.