Sharpe 3-Book Collection 4: Sharpe's Escape, Sharpe's Fury, Sharpe's Battle

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Major Ferreira!” The voice was sour. A tall man in the uniform of a French colonel of dragoons approached him. “Give me one reason, Major,” the Colonel said, pointing to the mill, “why we shouldn’t put you against that wall and shoot you.” The Colonel, though dressed as a Frenchman, was Portuguese. He had been an officer in the old Portuguese army and had seen his home burned and his family killed by the ordenança, the Portuguese militia that had turned on the privileged classes in the chaos of the first French invasions. Colonel Barreto had joined the French, not because he hated Portugal, but because he saw no future for his country unless it was rid of superstition and anarchy. The French, he believed, would bring the blessings of modernity to Portugal, but only if the French forces were fed. “You promised us flour!” Barreto said angrily. “And instead there was British infantry waiting for us!”

  “In war, Colonel, things go wrong,” Ferreira said humbly. “The flour was there, my brother was there, and then a British company arrived. I tried to send them away, but they would not go.” Ferreira knew he sounded weak, but he was terrified. Not of the French, but in case some officer on the ridge saw him through a telescope. He doubted that would happen. The ridge top was a long way away and his blue Portuguese jacket would look much like a French coat at that distance, but he was still frightened. Treachery was a hard trade.

  Barreto seemed to accept the explanation. “I found the remnants of the flour,” he admitted, “but it’s a pity, Major. This army is hungry. You know what we found in this village? One half barrel of lemons. What damn good is that?”

  “Coimbra,” Ferreira said, “is full of food.”

  “Full of food, eh?” Barreto asked skeptically.

  “Wheat, barley, rice, beans, figs, salt cod, beef,” Ferreira said flatly.

  “And how, in God’s name, do we reach Coimbra, eh?” Barreto had switched to French because a group of Masséna’s other aides had come to listen to the conversation. The Colonel pointed to the ridge. “Those bastards, Ferreira, are between us and Coimbra.”

  “There is a road around the ridge,” Ferreira said.

  “A road,” Barreto said, “which goes through the defile of Caramula, and how many damn redcoats are waiting for us there?”

  “None,” Ferreira said. “There is only the Portuguese militia. No more than fifteen hundred. In three days, Colonel, you can be in Coimbra.”

  “And in three days,” Barreto said, “the British will empty Coimbra of food.”

  “My brother guarantees you three months’ supply,” Ferreira said, “but only…” He faltered and stopped.

  “Only what?” a Frenchman asked.

  “When your army enters a town, monsieur,” Ferreira spoke very humbly, “they do not behave well. There is plundering, theft, murder. It has happened every time.”

  “So?”

  “So if your men get into my brother’s warehouses, what will they do?”

  “Take everything,” the Frenchman said.

  “And destroy what they cannot take,” Ferreira finished the statement. He looked back to Barreto. “My brother wants two things, Colonel. He wants a fair payment for the food he will supply to you, and he wants his property guarded from the moment you enter the city.”

  “We take what we want,” another Frenchman put in, “we don’t pay our enemies for food.”

  “If I do not tell my brother that you agree,” Ferreira said, his voice harder now, “then there will be no food when you arrive in Coimbra. You can take nothing, monsieur, or you can pay for something and eat.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Barreto nodded abruptly. “I will talk to the Marshal,” he said and turned away.

  One of the French aides, a tall and thin major, offered Ferreira a pinch of snuff. “I hear,” he said, “that the British are building defenses in front of Lisbon?”

  Ferreira shrugged as if to suggest the Frenchman’s fears were trivial. “There are one or two new forts,” he admitted, for he had seen them for himself when he was riding north from Lisbon, “but they are small works,” he went on. “What they are also building, monsieur, is a new port at São Julião.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “South of Lisbon.”

  “They’re building a port?”

  “A new harbor, monsieur,” Ferreira confirmed. “They fear trying to evacuate their troops through Lisbon. There might be riots. São Julião is a remote place and it will be easy for the British to take to their ships there without trouble.”

  “And the forts you saw?”

  ‘They overlook the main road to Lisbon,” Ferreira said, “but there are other roads.”

  “And how far were they from Lisbon?”

  “Twenty miles,” Ferreira guessed.

  “And there are hills there?”

  “Not so steep as that.” Ferreira nodded towards the looming ridge.

  “So they hope to delay us in the hills, yes, as they retreat to their new port?”

  “I would think so, monsieur.”

  “So we will need food,” the Frenchman concluded. “And what does your brother want besides money and protection?”

  “He wants to survive, monsieur.”

  “It is what we all want,” the Frenchman said. He was gazing at the blue bodies that lay on the ridge’s eastern slope. “God send us back to France soon.”

  To Ferreira’s surprise the Marshal himself returned with Colonel Barreto. The one-eyed Masséna stared hard at Ferreira who returned the gaze, seeing how old and tired the Frenchman looked. Finally Masséna nodded. “Tell your brother we will pay him a price and tell him Colonel Barreto will take troops to protect his property. You know where that property is, Colonel?”

  “Major Ferreira will tell me,” Barreto said.

  “Good. It’s time my men had a proper meal.” Masséna walked back to his cold chicken, bread, cheese and wine while Barreto and Ferreira first haggled over the price to be paid, then made arrangements to safeguard the food. And when that was all done Ferreira rode back the way he had come. He rode in the afternoon sun, chilled by an autumn wind, and no one saw him and no one in the British or Portuguese army thought it strange that he had been away since the battle’s end.

  And on the ridge, and in the valley beneath, the troops waited.

  Part Two

  Coimbra

  Chapter 6

  THE BRITISH AND PORTUGUESE ARMY stayed on the ridge all the next day while the French remained in the valley. At times the crackle of muskets or rifles started birds up from the heather as skirmishers contested the long slope, but mostly the day was quiet. The cannons did not fire. French troops, without weapons and dressed in shirtsleeves, climbed the slope to take away their wounded who had been left to suffer overnight. Some of the injured had crawled down to the stream while others had died in the darkness. A dead voltigeur just beneath the rocky knoll lay with his clenched hands jutting to the sky while a raven pecked at his lips and eyes. The British and Portuguese picquets let the enemy work undisturbed, only challenging the few voltigeurs who climbed too close to the crest. When the wounded had been taken away, the dead were carried to the graves being dug behind the entrenchments the French had thrown up beyond the stream, but the defensive bastions were a waste of effort, for Lord Wellington had no intention of giving up the high ground to take the fight into the valley.

  Lieutenant Jack Bullen, a nineteen-year-old who had been serving in number nine company, was sent to the light company to replace Iliffe. Slingsby, Lawford decreed, was now to be addressed as Captain Slingsby. “He was brevetted as such in the 55th,” Lawford told Forrest, “and it will distinguish him from Bullen.”

  “Indeed it will, sir.”

  Lawford bridled at the Major’s tone. “It’s merely a courtesy, Forrest. You surely approve of courtesy?”

  “Indeed I do, sir, though I value Sharpe more.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I mean, sir, that I’d rather Sharpe commanded the skirmisher
s. He’s the best man for the job.”

  “And so he will, Forrest, so he will, just as soon as he learns to behave in a civilized manner. We fight for civilization, do we not?”

  “I hope we do,” Forrest agreed.

  “And we do not gain that objective by behaving with crass discourtesy. That’s what Sharpe’s behavior is, Forrest, crass discourtesy! I want it eradicated.”

  Might as well wish to extinguish the sun, Major Forrest thought. The Major was a courteous man, judicious and sensible, but he doubted the fighting efficiency of the South Essex would be enhanced by a campaign to improve its manners.

  There was a sullen atmosphere in the battalion. Lawford put it down to the casualties of the battle, who had either been buried on the ridge or carried away in carts to the careless mercies of the surgeons. This was a day, Lawford thought, when the battalion ought to be busy, yet there was nothing to do except wait on the long high summit in case the French renewed their attacks. He ordered all the muskets to be cleaned with boiling water, the flints to be inspected and replaced if they were too chipped, and every man’s cartridge box to be replenished, but those useful tasks only took an hour and the men were no more cheerful at its end than they had been at the beginning. The Colonel made himself visible and tried to encourage the men, yet he was aware of reproachful glances and muttered comments, and Lawford was no fool and knew exactly what caused it. He kept hoping Sharpe would make the requisite apology, but the rifleman stayed stubbornly out of sight and finally Lawford sought out Leroy, the loyal American. “Talk to him,” he pleaded.

  “Won’t listen to me, Colonel.”

  “He respects you, Leroy.”

  “It’s kind of you to suggest as much,” Leroy said, “but he’s stubborn as a mule.”

  “Getting too big for his boots, that’s the trouble,” Lawford said irritably.

  “Boots he took from a French colonel of chasseurs, if I remember,” Leroy said, staring up at a buzzard that circled lazily above the ridge.

  “The men are unhappy,” Lawford said, deciding to avoid a discussion of Sharpe’s boots.

  “Sharpe’s a strange man, Colonel,” Leroy said, then paused to light one of the rough, dark brown cigars that were sold by Portuguese peddlers. “Most of the men don’t like officers up from the ranks, but they’re kind of fond of Sharpe. He scares them. They want to be like him.”

  “I can’t see that scaring men is a virtue in an officer,” Lawford said, annoyed.

  “Probably the best one,” Leroy said provocatively. “Of course he ain’t an easy man in the mess,” the American went on more placidly, “but he’s one hell of a soldier. Saved Slingsby’s life yesterday.”

  “That is nonsense.” Lawford sounded testy. “Captain Slingsby might have taken the company a little too far, but he would have retrieved them, I’m sure.”

  “Wasn’t talking about that,” Leroy said. “Sharpe shot a fellow about to give Slingsby a Portuguese grave. Finest damned piece of shooting I’ve ever seen.”

  Lawford had congratulated Sharpe at the time, but he was in no mood to consider mitigating circumstances. “There was a good deal of firing, Leroy,” he said airily, “and the shot could have come from anywhere.”

  “Maybe,” the American said, sounding dubious, “but you have to admit Sharpe was damned useful yesterday.”

  Lawford wondered whether Leroy had overheard Sharpe’s quiet advice to turn the battalion around and then wheel them onto the French flank. It had been good advice, and taking it had retrieved a distinctly unhealthy situation, but the Colonel had persuaded himself that he would have thought of turning and wheeling the battalion without Sharpe. He had also persuaded himself that his authority was being deliberately challenged by the rifleman, and that was quite intolerable. “All I want is an apology!” he protested.

  “I’ll talk to him, Colonel,” Leroy promised, “but if Mister Sharpe says he won’t apologize then you can wait till doomsday. Unless you get Lord Wellington to order him. That’s the one man who scares Sharpe.”

  “I will not involve Wellington!” Lawford said in alarm. He had once been an aide to the General and knew how his lordship detested being niggled by minor concerns, and, besides, to make such a request would only betray Lawford’s failure. And it was failure. He knew Sharpe was a far finer officer than Slingsby, but the Colonel had promised Jessica, his wife, that he would do all he could to press Cornelius’s career and the promise had to be kept. “Talk to him,” he encouraged Leroy. “Suggest a written apology, perhaps? He won’t have to deliver it in person. I’ll convey it myself and tear it up afterwards.”

  “I’ll suggest it,” Leroy said, then went down the reverse slope of the ridge where he found the battalion’s temporary quartermaster sitting with a dozen of the battalion’s wives. They were laughing, but fell silent as Leroy approached. “Sorry to disturb you, ladies.” The Major took off his battered cocked hat as a courtesy to the women, then beckoned to Sharpe. “A word?” He led Sharpe a few paces down the hill. “Know what I’m here to say?” Leroy asked.

  “I can guess.”

  “And?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Reckoned as much,” Leroy said. “Jesus Christ, who is that?” He was looking back at the women and Sharpe knew the Major had to be referring to an attractive, long-haired Portuguese girl who had joined the battalion the week before.

  “Sergeant Enables found her,” Sharpe explained.

  “Christ! She can’t be more than eleven,” Leroy said, then stared at the other women for a moment. “Damn,” he went on, “but that Sally Clayton is pretty.”

  “Pretty well married, too,” Sharpe said.

  Leroy grinned. “You ever read the story of Uriah the Hittite, Sharpe?”

  “Hittite? A prizefighter?” Sharpe guessed.

  “Not quite, Sharpe. Fellow in the Bible. Uriah the Hittite, Sharpe, had a wife and King David wanted her in his bed, so he sent Uriah to war and ordered the general to put the poor bastard in the front line so some other bastard would kill him. Worked, too.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Sharpe said.

  “Can’t remember the woman’s name,” Leroy said. “Weren’t Sally. So what shall I tell the Colonel?”

  “That he’s just got himself the best damned quartermaster in the army.”

  Leroy chuckled and walked uphill. He paused and turned after a few paces. “Bathsheba,” he called back to Sharpe.

  “Bath what?”

  “That was her name, Bathsheba.”

  “Sounds like another prizefighter.”

  “But Bathsheba hit below the belt, Sharpe,” Leroy said, “well below the belt!” He raised his hat again to the battalion wives and walked on.

  “He’s thinking about it,” he told the Colonel a few moments later.

  “Let us hope he thinks clearly,” Lawford said piously.

  But if Sharpe was thinking about it, no apology came. Instead, as evening fell, the army was ordered to ready itself for a retreat. The French could be seen leaving, evidently going towards the road that looped about the ridge’s northern end and so the gallopers pounded along the ridge with orders that the army was to march towards Lisbon before dawn. The South Essex, alone among the British battalions, received different orders. “It seems we’re to retreat, gentlemen,” Lawford said to the company commanders as his tent was taken down by orderlies. There was a murmur of surprise that Lawford stilled with a raised hand. “There’s a route round the top of the ridge,” he explained, “and if we stay the French will outflank us. They’ll be up our backsides, so we’re dancing backwards for a few days. Find somewhere else to bloody them, eh?” Some of the officers still looked surprised that, having won a victory, they were to yield ground, but Lawford ignored their puzzlement. “We have our own orders, gentlemen,” he went on. “The battalion is to leave tonight and hurry to Coimbra. A long march, I fear, but necessary. We’re to reach Coimbra with all dispatch and aid the commissary officers in the destruction of th
e army’s supplies on the river quays. A Portuguese regiment is being sent as well. The two of us are the vanguard, so to speak, but our responsibility is heavy. The General wants those provisions brought to ruin by tomorrow night.”

  “We’re expected to reach Coimbra tonight?” Leroy asked skeptically. The city was at least twenty miles away and, by any reckoning, that was a very ambitious march, especially at night.

  “Wagons are being provided for baggage,” Lawford said, “including the men’s packs. Walking wounded will guard those packs, women and children go with the wagons. We march light, we march fast.”

  “Advance party?” Leroy wanted to know.

  “I’m sure the quartermaster will know what to do,” Lawford said.

  “Dark night,” Leroy said, “probably chaotic in Coimbra. Two battalions looking for quarters and the commissary people will mostly be drunk. Even Sharpe can’t do that alone, sir. Best let me go with him.”

  Lawford looked indignant for he knew Leroy’s suggestion was an expression of sympathy for Sharpe, but the American’s objections had been cogent and so, reluctantly, Lawford nodded. “Do that, Major,” he said curtly, “and as for the rest of us? I want to be the first battalion into Coimbra, gentlemen! We can’t have the Portuguese beating us, so be ready to march in one hour.”