Sharpe's Battle

by Bernard Cornwell

  "To do what with?" Sharpe asked. "To stand and die like bullocks?"

  "So how would you like them to fight?" Lord Kiely had followed the two men and asked the question from behind Sharpe.

  "Like my men, my Lord," Sharpe said, "smartly. And you begin fighting smartly by killing the enemy officers." Sharpe raised his voice so that the whole of the Real Companïa Irlandesa could hear him. "You don't go into battle to stand and die like bullocks in a slaughteryard, you go to win, and you begin to win when you drop the enemy officers dead." Sharpe had walked away from Kiely and

  Valverde now and was using the voice he had developed as a sergeant, a voice pitched to cut across windy parade grounds and through the deadly clamour of battlefields. "You start by looking for the enemy officers. They're easy to recognize because they're the overpaid, overdressed bastards with swords and you aim for them first. Kill them any way you can. Shoot them, club them, bayonet them, strangle them if you must, but kill the bastards and after that you kill the sergeants and then you can begin murdering the rest of the poor leaderless bastards. Isn't that right, Sergeant Harper?"

  "That's the way of it, sure enough," Harper called back.

  "And how many officers have you killed in battle, Sergeant?" Sharpe asked, without looking at the rifle Sergeant.

  "More than I can number, sir."

  "And were they all Frog officers, Sergeant Harper?" Sharpe asked, and Harper, surprised by the question, did not answer, so Sharpe provided the answer himself. "Of course they were not. We've killed officers in blue coats, officers in white coats and even officers in red coats, because I don't care what army an officer fights for, or what colour coat he wears or what king he serves, a bad officer is better off dead and a good soldier had better learn how to kill him. Ain't that right, Sergeant Harper?"

  "Right as rain, sir."

  "My name is Captain Sharpe." Sharpe stood in the centre front of the Real

  Companïa Irlandesa. The faces watching him showed a mixture of astonishment and surprise, but he had their attention now and neither Kiely nor Valverde had dared to interfere. "My name is Captain Sharpe," he said again, "and I began where you are. In the ranks, and I'm going to end up where he is, in the saddle." He pointed at Lord Kiely. "But in the meantime my job is to teach you to be soldiers. I dare say there are some good killers among you and some fine fighters too, but soon you're going to be good soldiers as well. But for tonight we've all got a fair step to go before dark and once we're there you'll get food, shelter and we'll find out when you were last paid. Sergeant

  Harper! We'll finish the inspection later. Get them moving!"

  "Sir!" Harper shouted. "Talion will turn to the right. Right turn! By the left! March!"

  Sharpe did not even look at Lord Kiely, let alone seek his Lordship's permission to march the Real Companïa Irlandesa away. Instead he just watched as Harper led the guard off the waste ground towards the main road. He heard footsteps behind, but still he did not turn. "By God, Sharpe, but you push your luck." It was Major Hogan who spoke.

  "It's all I've got to push, sir," Sharpe said bitterly. "I wasn't born to rank, sir, I don't have a purse to buy it and I don't have the privileges to attract it, so I need to push what bit of luck I've got."

  "By giving lectures on assassinating officers?" Hogan's voice was frigid with disapproval. "The Peer won't like that, Richard. It smacks of republicanism."

  "Bugger republicanism," Sharpe said savagely. "But you were the one who told me the Real Companïa Irlandesa can't be trusted. But I tell you, sir, that if there's any mischief there, it isn't coming from the ranks. Those soldiers weren't trusted with French mischief. They don't have enough power. Those men are what soldiers always are: victims of their officers, and if you want to find where the French have sown their mischief, sir, then you look among those damned, overpaid, overdressed, overfed bloody officers," and Sharpe threw a scornful glance towards the Real Companïa Irlandesa's officers who seemed unsure whether or not they were supposed to follow their men northwards.

  "That's where your rotten apples are, sir," Sharpe went on, "not in the ranks.

  I'd as happily fight alongside those guardsmen as alongside any other soldier in the world, but I wouldn't trust my life to that rabble of perfumed fools."

  Hogan made a calming gesture with his hand, as if he feared Sharpe's voice might reach the worried officers. "You make your point, Richard."

  "My point, sir, is that you told me to make them miserable. So that's what I'm doing."

  "I just wasn't sure I wanted you to start a revolution in the process,

  Richard," Hogan said, "and certainly not in front of Valverde. You have to be nice to Valverde. One day, with any luck, you can kill him for me, but until that happy day arrives you have to butter the bastard up. If we're ever going to get proper command of the Spanish armies, Richard, then bastards like Don

  Luis Valverde have to be well buttered, so please don't preach revolution in front of him. He's just a simple-minded aristocrat who isn't capable of thinking much beyond his next meal or his last mistress, but if we're going to beat the French we need his support. And he expects us to treat the Real

  Companïa Irlandesa well, so when he's nearby, Richard, be diplomatic, will you?" Hogan turned as the group of Real Companïa Irlandesa's officers led by

  Lord Kiely and General Valverde came close. Riding between the two aristocrats was a tall, plump, white-haired priest mounted on a bony roan mare.

  "This is Father Sarsfield"'-Kiely introduced the priest to Hogan, conspicuously ignoring Sharpe - "who is our chaplain. Father Sarsfield and

  Captain Donaju will travel with the company tonight, the rest of the company's officers will attend General Valverde's reception."

  "Where you'll meet Colonel Runciman," Hogan promised. "I think you'll find him much to your Lordship's taste."

  "You mean he knows how to treat royal troops?" General Valverde asked, looking pointedly at Sharpe as he spoke.

  "I know how to treat royal guards, sir," Sharpe intervened. "This isn't the first royal bodyguard I've met."

  Kiely and Valverde both stared down at Sharpe with looks little short of loathing, but Kiely could not resist the bait of Sharpe's comment. "You refer,

  I suppose, to the Hanoverian's lackeys?" he said in his half-drunken voice.

  "No, my Lord," Sharpe said. "This was in India. They were royal guards protecting a fat little royal bugger called the Sultan Tippoo."

  "And you trained them too, no doubt?" Valverde inquired.

  "I killed them," Sharpe said, "and the fat little bugger too." His words wiped the supercilious look off both men's thin faces, while Sharpe himself was suddenly overwhelmed with a memory of the Tippoo's water-tunnel filled with the shouting bodyguard armed with jewelled muskets and broad-bladed sabres.

  Sharpe had been thigh-deep in scummy water, fighting in the shadows, digging out the bodyguard one by one to reach that fat, glittering-eyed, buttery- skinned bastard who had tortured some of Sharpe's companions to death. He remembered the echoing shouts, the musket flashes reflecting from the broken water and the glint of the gems draped over the Tippoo's silk clothes. He remembered the Tippoo's death too, one of the few killings that had ever lodged in Sharpe's memory as a thing of comfort. "He was a right royal bastard," Sharpe said feelingly, "but he died like a man."

  "Captain Sharpe," Hogan put in hastily, "has something of a reputation in our army. Indeed, you may have heard of him yourself, my Lord? It was Captain

  Sharpe who took the Talavera eagle."

  "With Sergeant Harper," Sharpe put in, and Kiely's officers stared at Sharpe with a new curiosity. Any soldier who had taken an enemy standard was a man of renown and the faces of most of the guards' officers showed that respect, but it was the chaplain, Father Sarsfield, who reacted most fulsomely.

  "My God and don't I remember it!" he said enthusiastically. "And didn't it just excite all the Spanish patriots in Madrid?" He climbed clumsily down from his horse and
held a plump hand out to Sharpe. "It's an honour, Captain, an honour! Even though you are a heathen Protestant!" This last was said with a broad and friendly grin. "Are you a heathen, Sharpe?" the priest asked more earnestly.

  "I'm nothing, Father."

  "We're all something in God's eyes, my son, and loved for it. You and I shall talk, Sharpe. I shall tell you of God and you shall tell me how to strip the damned French of their eagles." The chaplain turned a smiling face on Hogan.

  "By God, Major, but you do us proud by giving us a man like Sharpe!" The priest's approval of the rifleman had made the other officers of the Real

  Companïa Irlandesa relax, though Kiely's face was still dark with distaste.

  "Have you finished, Father?" Kiely asked sarcastically.

  "I shall be on my way with Captain Sharpe, my Lord, and we shall see you in the morning?"

  Kiely nodded, then turned his horse away. His other officers followed, leaving

  Sharpe, the priest and Captain Donaju to follow the straggling column formed by the Real Companïa Irlandesa's baggage, wives and servants.

  By nightfall the Real Companïa Irlandesa was safe inside the remote San Isidro

  Fort that Wellington had chosen to be their new barracks. The fort was old, outdated and had long been abandoned by the Portuguese so that the tired, newly arrived men first had to clean out the filthy stone barracks rooms that were to be their new home. The fort's towering gatehouse was reserved for the officers, and Father Sarsfield and Donaju made themselves comfortable there while Sharpe and his riflemen took possession of one of the magazines for their own lodgings. Sarsfield had brought a royal banner of Spain in his baggage that was proudly hoisted on the old fort's ramparts next to the union flag of Britain. "I'm sixty years old," the chaplain told Sharpe as he stood beneath Britain's flag, "and I never thought the day would come when I'd serve under that banner."

  Sharpe looked up at the British flag. "Does it worry you, Father?"

  "Napoleon worries me more, my son. Defeat Napoleon, then we can start on the lesser enemies like yourself!" The comment was made in a friendly tone. "What also worries me, my son," Father Sarsfield went on, "is that I've eight bottles of decent red wine and a handful of good cigars and only Captain

  Donaju to share them with. Will you do me the honour of joining us for supper now? And tell me, do you play an instrument, perhaps? No? Sad. I used to have a violin, but it was lost somewhere, but Sergeant Connors is a rare man on the flute and the men in his section sing most beautifully. They sing of home,

  Captain."

  "Of Madrid?" Sharpe asked mischievously.

  Sarsfield smiled. "Of Ireland, Captain, of our home across the water where few of us have ever set foot and most of us never shall. Come, let's have supper."

  Father Sarsfield put a companionable arm across Sharpe's shoulder and steered him towards the gatehouse. A cold wind blew over the bare mountains as night fell and the first cooking fires curled their blue smoke into the sky. Wolves howled in the hills. There were wolves throughout Spain and Portugal and in winter they would sometimes come right up to the picquet line in the hope of snatching a meal from an unwary soldier, but this night the wolves reminded

  Sharpe of the grey-uniformed Frenchmen in Loup's brigade. Sharpe supped with the chaplain and afterwards, under a star-shining sky, he toured the ramparts with Harper. Beneath them the Real Companïa Irlandesa grumbled about their accommodations and about the fate that had stranded them on this inhospitable border between Spain and Portugal, but Sharpe, who had orders to make them miserable, wondered if instead he could make them into real soldiers who would follow him over the hills and far into Spain to where a wolf needed to be hunted, trapped and slaughtered.

  Pierre Ducos waited nervously for news of the Real Companïa Irlandesa's arrival in Wellington's army. The Frenchman's greatest fear was that the unit would be positioned so far behind the fighting front that it would be useless for his purposes, but that was a risk Ducos was forced to run. Ever since

  French intelligence had intercepted Lord Kiely's letter requesting King

  Ferdinand's permission to take the Real Companïa Irlandesa to war on the allied side, Ducos had known that the success of his scheme depended as much on the allies' unwitting cooperation as on his own cleverness. Yet Ducos's cleverness would achieve nothing if the Irishmen failed to arrive, and so he waited with mounting impatience.

  Little news came from behind the British lines. There had been a time when

  Loup's men could ride with impunity on either side of the frontier, but now the British and Portuguese armies were firmly clamped along the border and

  Loup had to depend for his intelligence on the unreliable and minuscule handful of civilians willing to sell information to the hated French, on interrogations of deserters and on educated guesses formed from the observations of his own men as they peered through spyglasses across the mountainous border.

  And it was one of those scouts who first brought Loup news of the Real

  Companïa Irlandesa. A troop of grey dragoons had gone to one of the lonely hill tops which offered a long view into Portugal, and from where, with luck, a patrol might see some evidence of a British concentration of forces that could signal a new advance. The lookout post dominated a wide, barren valley where a stream glittered before the land rose to the rocky ridge on which the long-abandoned fort of San Isidro stood. The fort was of little military value for the road it guarded had long fallen into disuse and a century of neglect had eroded its ramparts and ditches into mockeries of their former strength so that now the San Isidro was home to ravens, foxes, bats, wandering shepherds, lawless men, and the occasional patrol of Loup's grey dragoons who might spend a night in one of the cavernous barracks rooms to stay out of the rain.

  Yet now there were men in the fort, and the patrol leader brought Loup news of them. The new garrison was not a full battalion, he said, just a couple of hundred men. The fort itself, as Loup well knew, would need at least a thousand men to man its crumbling walls, so a mere two hundred hardly constituted a garrison, yet strangely the newcomers had brought their wives and children with them. The dragoons' troop leader, a Captain Braudel, thought the men were British. "They're wearing red coats," he said, "but not the usual stovepipe hats." He meant shakoes. "They've got bicornes."

  "Infantry, you say?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "No cavalry? Any artillery?"

  "Didn't see any."

  Loup picked at his teeth with a sliver of wood. "So what were they doing?"

  "Doing drill," Braudel said. Loup grunted. He was not much interested in a group of strange soldiers taking up residence in San Isidro. The fort did not threaten him and if the newcomers were content to sit tight and make themselves comfortable then Loup would not stir them into wakefulness. Then

  Captain Braudel stirred Loup himself into wakefulness. "But some of them were unblocking a well," the Captain said, "only they weren't redcoats. They were wearing green."

  Loup stared at him. "Dark green?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Riflemen. Damned riflemen. And Loup remembered the insolent face of the man who had insulted him, the man who had once insulted all France by taking an eagle touched by the Emperor himself. Maybe Sharpe was in the San Isidro Fort?

  Ducos had denigrated Loup's thirst for vengeance, calling it unworthy of a great soldier, but Loup believed that a soldier made his reputation by picking his fights and winning them famously. Sharpe had defied Loup, the first man to openly defy him in many a long month, and Sharpe was a champion among France's enemies, so Loup's vengeance was not just personal, but would send ripples throughout the armies that waited to fight the battle that would decide whether Britain lunged into Spain or was sent reeling back into Portugal.

  So that afternoon Loup himself visited the hill top, taking his finest spyglass which he trained on the old fort with its weed-grown walls and half- filled dry moat. Two flags hung limply in the windless air. One flag wasr />
  British, but Loup could not tell what the second was. Beyond the flags the red-coated soldiers were doing musket drill, but Loup did not watch them long, instead he inched the telescope southwards until, at last, he saw two men in green coats strolling along the deserted ramparts. He could not see their faces at this distance, but he could tell that one of the men was wearing a long straight sword and Loup knew that British light infantry officers wore curved sabres. "Sharpe," he said aloud as he collapsed the telescope.

  A scuffle behind made him turn round. Four of his wolf-grey men were guarding a pair of prisoners. One captive was in a gaudily trimmed red coat while the other was presumably the man's wife or lover. "Found them hiding in the rocks down there," said the Sergeant who was holding one of the soldier's arms.

  "He says he's a deserter, sir," Captain Braudel added, "and that's his wife."