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

by Bernard Cornwell

  "Have to get Your Lordship's breakfast."

  "So you do, Pearce, so you do. Beefsteak, I hope?"

  "Might I wish Your Lordship good hunting?" Pearce said, flicking a speck of dust from one of Lord William's epaulettes.

  "That's uncommonly kind of you, Pearce, thank you. Come on, Sharpe, we can't dillydally. We have a tide to catch!" Lord William set off after Sir Thomas at a half run. Sharpe and Harper, still bemused, followed him to a long wharf where, in the small moonlight, Sharpe could see files of redcoats clambering into boats. General Graham was dressed in black boots, black breeches, red coat, and a black cocked hat. He had a claymore at his belt and was talking to a naval officer, but stopped long enough to greet Sharpe again. "Good man! How's your head?"

  "I'll live, sir."

  "That's the spirit! And that's our boat. In you get."

  The boat was a big, flat-bottomed lighter, manned by a score of sailors with long sweeps. It was a short jump down onto the wide aft deck. The boat's hold was already occupied by grinning redcoats. "What the hell are we doing?" Harper asked.

  "Damned if I know," Sharpe said, "but I need to talk to the general and this looks like as good a chance as I'll get."

  Four other lighters lay astern and all were slowly filling with redcoats. An engineer officer threw a coil of quick match down onto the rearmost barge. Then a file of his men carried kegs of powder to the hold. Lord William Russell jumped down beside Sharpe, while General Graham, almost alone on the quay now, walked above the lighters. "No smoking, boys!" the general called. "We can't have the French seeing a light just because you need a pipe. No noise, either. And make damned sure your guns aren't cocked. And enjoy yourselves, you hear me? Enjoy yourselves." He repeated the injunctions to the men in each of the barges, then clambered down onto the foremost lighter. The spacious afterdeck had room for a dozen officers to stand or sit and still leave space for the sailor who wielded the long tiller. "Those rogues," Sir Thomas said to Sharpe, gesturing at the redcoats crouched in the lighter's hold, "are from the 87th. Is that who you are, boys? Damned Irish rebels?"

  "We are, sir!" two or three men called back.

  "And you'll not find better soldiers this side of the gates of hell," Sir Thomas said, loud enough for the Irishmen to hear. "You're most welcome, Sharpe."

  "Welcome to what, sir?"

  "You don't know? Then why are you here?"

  "Came to ask a favor of you, sir."

  Sir Thomas laughed. "And I thought you wanted to join us! Ah well, the favor must wait, Sharpe, it must wait. We have work to do."

  The lighters had cast off and were now being rowed down a channel through the marshes that edged the Isla de León. Ahead of Sharpe, north and east, the long, low black silhouette of the Trocadero Peninsula just showed in the night. Sparks of light betrayed where the French forts lay. Lord William told him there were three forts. The farthest away was the Matagorda, which lay closest to Cádiz, and it was the giant mortar in the Matagorda Fort that did most damage to the city. Just to its south was the Fort San José and, farther south still and closest to the Isla de León, was the Fort San Luis. "What we're doing," Lord William explained, "is rowing past San Luis to the river just beyond. The river mouth is a creek, and once we're in that creek, Sharpe, we'll be plumb between the San Luis and the San Jose. Enfiladed, you might say."

  "And what's in the creek?"

  "Five damned great fire rafts." Sir Thomas Graham had heard Sharpe's question and now answered it. "The bastards are just waiting for a brisk northerly wind to set them loose on our fleet. Can't have that." The fleet, mostly small coasters with a few larger merchantmen, was assembling to take Graham's men and General Lapeña's Spanish army south. They would land on the coast, then march north to assault the siege lines from the rear. "We plan to burn the rafts tonight," Sir Thomas went on. "It'll be past midnight before we get there. Perhaps you'll do the 87th the honor of joining them?"

  "With pleasure, sir."

  "Major Gough! You've met Captain Sharpe?"

  A shadowy officer appeared at Sir Thomas's side. "I have not, sir," Gough said, "but I remember you from Talavera, Sharpe."

  "Sharpe and his sergeant would beg the privilege of fighting with your boys tonight, Hugh," Sir Thomas said.

  "They'll be most welcome, sir." Gough spoke in a soft Irish accent.

  "Warn your boys they have two stray riflemen, will you?" Sir Thomas said. "We don't want your rogues shooting two men who captured a French eagle. So there you are, Sharpe. Major Gough is landing his lads on the south side of the creek. There are some guards there, but they'll be easy enough to take care of. Then I imagine the French will send a relief party from the San Luis fort so it should all become fairly interesting."

  Sir Thomas's plan was to land two lighters on the southern bank and two on the northern, and the men would disembark to drive off the French guards, then defend the creek against the expected counterattacks. Meanwhile the fifth lighter, which carried engineers, would row to the fire rafts that were just upstream of the twin French encampments, capture them, and set their explosives. "It should look like Guy Fawkes Night," Sir Thomas said wolfishly.

  Sharpe settled on the deck. Lord William Russell had brought cold sausage and a flask of wine. The sausage was chopped into slices and the flask handed around as the sailors heaved on the great sweeps and the lighter steadily butted its way through the small choppy waves. A Spaniard stood beside the steersman. "Our guide," Sir Thomas explained. "A fisherman. A good fellow."

  "He doesn't hate us, sir?" Sharpe asked.

  "Hate us?"

  "I keep being told how the Spanish hate us, sir."

  "He hates the French, like I do, Sharpe. If there is one constancy in this vale of tears, it is to always hate the damned French, always." Sir Thomas spoke with a real vehemence. "I trust you hate the French, Sharpe?"

  Sharpe paused. Hate? He was not sure he hated them. "I don't like the bastards, sir," he said.

  "I used to," Sir Thomas said.

  "Used to?" Sharpe asked, puzzled.

  "I used to like them," Sir Thomas said. The general was staring ahead at the small lights showing through the embrasures of the forts. "I liked them, Sharpe. I rejoiced in their revolution. I believed it was a dawn for mankind. Liberty. Equality. Fraternity. I believed in all those things and I believe in them still, but now I hate the French. I've hated them, Sharpe, since the day my wife died."

  Sharpe felt almost as uncomfortable as when the ambassador had confessed his foolishness in writing love letters to a whore. "I'm sorry, sir," he muttered.

  "It was nineteen years ago," Sir Thomas said, apparently oblivious of Sharpe's inadequate sympathy, "off the southern coast of France. June twenty-sixth, 1792, was the day my dear Mary died. We took her body ashore and we placed it in a casket, and it was my wish that she should be buried in Scotland. So we hired a barge to take us to Bordeaux where we might find a ship to take us home. And just outside Toulouse, Sharpe"—the general's voice was turning into a growl as he told the tale—"a rascally crowd of half-drunk Frenchmen insisted on searching the barge. I showed them my permits, I pleaded with them, I entreated them to show respect, but they ignored me, Sharpe. They were men wearing the uniform of France, and they tore that coffin open and they molested my dear Mary in her shroud, and from that day, Sharpe, I have hardened my heart against their damned race. I joined the army to get my revenge and I pray to God daily that I live long enough to see every damned Frenchman scoured off the face of this earth."

  "Amen to that," Lord William Russell said.

  "And tonight, for my Mary's sake," Sir Thomas said with relish, "I'll kill a few more."

  "Amen to that," Sharpe said.

  * * *

  A SMALL wind came from the west. It threw up tiny waves in the Bay of Cádiz across which the five lighters crawled slow, low and dark against the black water. It was chilly, not truly cold, but Sharpe wished he had worn a greatcoat. Five miles to the north and off to his left the
lights of Cádiz glimmered against white walls to make a pale streak between the sea and sky, while closer, perhaps a mile to the west, yellow lantern light spilled from the stern windows of the anchored ships. Yet here, in the belly of the bay, there was no light, just the splash of black-painted oar blades. "It would have been quicker"—Sir Thomas broke a long silence—"to have rowed from the city, but if we'd have put lighters against the city wharves then the French would have known we're coming. That's why I didn't tell you about this little jaunt last night. If I'd said a word of what we were planning, then the French would have known it all by breakfast time."

  "You think they have spies in the embassy, sir?"

  "They have spies everywhere, Sharpe. Whole city is riddled with them. They get their messages out on the fishing boats. The bastards already know we're sending an army to attack their siege lines and I suspect Marshal Victor knows more about my plans than I do."

  "The spies are Spanish?"

  "I assume so."

  "Why do they serve the French, sir?"

  Sir Thomas chuckled at that question. "Well, some of them think as I used to think, Sharpe, that liberty, equality, and fraternity are fine things. And so they are, but God knows not in French hands. And some of them just hate the British."

  "Why?"

  "They've got plenty of reasons, Sharpe. Good Lord, it was only fourteen years ago we bombarded Cádiz! And six years ago we broke their fleet at Trafalgar! And most merchants here believe we want to destroy their trade with South America and take it for ourselves, and they're right. We deny it, of course, but we're still trying to do it. And they believe we're fomenting rebellion in their South American colonies, and they're not far wrong. We did encourage rebellion, though now we're pretending we didn't. Then there's Gibraltar. They hate us for being in Gibraltar."

  "I thought they gave it to us, sir."

  "Aye, so they did, by the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713, but they were raw damn fools to sign that piece of paper and well they know it. So enough of them hate us, and now the French are spreading rumors that we'll annex Cádiz as well! God knows that isn't true, but the Spanish are willing to credit it. And there are men in Spain who fervently believe a French alliance would serve their country better than a British friendship, and I'm not sure they're wrong. But here we are, Sharpe, allies whether we like it or not. And there are plenty of Spaniards who hate the French more than they dislike us, so there's hope."

  "There's always hope," Lord William Russell said cheerfully.

  "Aye, Willie, maybe," Sir Thomas said, "but when Spain is reduced to Cádiz and Lord Wellington only holds the patch of land around Lisbon, it's hard to see how we'll drive the damn French back to their pigsties. If Napoleon had a scrap of sense he'd offer the Spanish their king back and make peace. Then we'd be properly cooked."

  "At least the Portuguese are on our side," Sharpe said.

  "True! And fine fellows they are. I've got two thousand of them here."

  "If they'll fight," Lord William said dubiously.

  "They'll fight," Sharpe said. "I was at Bussaco. They fought."

  "So what happened?" Sir Thomas asked, and the telling of that story carried the lighter close to the reed-thick shore of the Trocadero Peninsula. The Fort of San Luis was close now. It stood two or three hundred paces inland, where the marshes gave way to ground firm enough to support the massive ramparts. Beyond the fort's flooded ditch Sharpe could just see a small glow of light above the glacis. That was a mistake by the French. Sharpe suspected that the sentries had braziers burning on the firestep to keep themselves warm, and even the small light of the coals would make it difficult for them to see anything moving in the black shallows. Yet the greater danger was not the fort's sentries, but guard boats, and Sir Thomas whispered that they were to keep a good lookout. "Listen for their oars," he suggested.

  The French evidently possessed a dozen guard boats. They had been seen in the dusk as they patrolled the Trocadero's low coast, but there was no sign of them now. Either they were deeper in the bay or, more likely, their crews had been driven back to the creek by the chill wind. Sir Thomas suspected the crews of the boats were soldiers rather than sailors. "Bastards are shirking, aren't they?" he whispered.

  A hand touched Sharpe's shoulder. "It's Major Gough," a voice said from the darkness, "and this is Ensign Keogh. Stay with him, Sharpe, and I'll warrant we won't shoot you."

  "We probably won't." Ensign Keogh corrected the major.

  "He probably won't shoot you." Major Gough accepted the correction.

  There was light ahead now, just enough for Sharpe to see that Ensign Keogh was absurdly young with a thin and eager face. The light came from campfires that burned perhaps a quarter mile ahead. The five boats were turning into the creek, creeping through the water to avoid the withies that marked the shallow channel, and the campfires burned where the French sentries guarded the fire rafts. The lighters' black oars scarce touched the water now. The naval officer who led the boats had timed the expedition to arrive just as the tide finished its flood and so the rising water carried the lighters against the river's small current. By the time the raid was over the tide should have turned and the ebb would hurry the British away. Still no Frenchman saw the boats, though the sentries were certainly on duty, for Sharpe could see a blue uniform with white crossbelts beside one of the fires. "I hate them," Sir Thomas said softly, "God, how I do hate them."

  Sharpe could see the dim trace of light leaking over the glacis of Fort San Jose. It looked about half a mile away. Long cannon shot, he thought, especially if the French used canister, but the southernmost fort, San Luis, was much closer, close enough to shred the creek with rounds of canister, which were missiles of musket balls encased in tin cylinders that burst apart at the cannon's muzzle. The balls, hundreds of them, spread like duck shot. Sharpe hated canister. All infantrymen did. "Buggers are asleep," Lord William murmured.

  Sharpe was suddenly struck by guilt. He had arranged to meet Lord Pumphrey at midday to discover whether the blackmailers had sent any message, and though he doubted there would be any word he knew his place was in Cádiz, not here. His duty was to Henry Wellesley, not to General Graham, yet here he was and he could only pray that he was not gutted by canister fired in the night. He touched his sword hilt and wished he could have sharpened the blade before he came. He liked to go into battle with a sharpened blade. Then he touched his rifle. Not many officers carried a longarm, but Sharpe was not like most officers. He was gutter-born, gutter-bred, and a gutter fighter.

  Then the lighter's bows ran softly onto the mud.

  "Let's kill some bastards," Sir Thomas said vengefully.

  And the first troops went ashore.

  CHAPTER 5

  S HARPE JUMPED FROM THE lighter into water that came over his boot tops. He waded ashore, following Ensign Keogh whose cocked hat looked as though it had belonged to his grandfather. It had exaggeratedly hooked points from which hung skimpy tassels and at its crown was a massive blue plume that matched the facings of the 87th's red coats. "Follow, follow, follow," Keogh hissed, not at Sharpe, but at a big sergeant and a score of men who were evidently his responsibility this night. The sergeant had become entangled in a wicker fish trap and was cursing as he tried to kick it free of his boots. "Do you need help, Sergeant Masterson?" Keogh asked.

  "Jesus no, sir," Masterson said, trampling on the trap's remnants. "Bloody thing, sir."

  "Fix bayonets, boys!" Keogh said. "Do it quietly now!"

  It seemed extraordinary to Sharpe that four or five hundred men could disembark so close to the twin encampments on the creek's banks and not be noticed, but the French were still oblivious of the attackers. Sharpe could see small tents in the firelight, and among the tents were crude shelters made of branches thatched with reeds. A stand of muskets stood outside one sagging tent and Sharpe wondered why in God's name the French had provided tents. The men were supposed to be guarding the rafts, not sleeping, but at least a few of the sentries were stil
l awake. Two men wandered slowly across the encampment, muskets slung, suspecting nothing as a second lighter disgorged another company of redcoats alongside the men of the 87th. Two more companies were wading ashore on the northern bank.

  "For a balla, boys," Major Gough appeared to say softly and urgently just behind Keogh's men, "for a balla!"

  "For a what?" Sharpe whispered to Harper.

  "Faugh a ballagh, sir. Clear the way, it means. Get out of our path because the Irish are coming." Harper had drawn his sword bayonet. He was evidently reserving the seven bullets in the volley gun for later in the fight. "We bloody well are coming too," he said, and clicked the sword's brass hilt over his rifle's muzzle so that the barrel now held twenty-three inches of murderous steel.

  "Forward now!" Major Gough reverted to English, but still spoke quietly. "And slaughter the bastards. But do it softly, boys. Don't wake the little darlings till you have to."

  The 87th started forward, their bayonets glinting in the small light of the fires. Clicks sounded as men cocked their muskets and Sharpe was certain the French must hear that noise, but the enemy stayed silent. It was a sentry on the northern bank who first realized the danger. Perhaps he saw the dark shape of the lighters in the creek, or else he glimpsed the glimmering blades coming from the west, but whatever alarmed him prompted a strangled cry of astonishment followed by a bang as he fired his musket.

  "Faugh a ballagh!" Major Gough yelled. "Faugh a ballagh! Hard at them, boys, hard at them!" Gough, now that surprise was lost, had no intention of keeping his advance slow and disciplined. Sharpe remembered the battalion from Talavera, and he knew them to be a steady unit, but Gough wanted speed and savagery now. "Run, you rogues!" he shouted. "Take them fast! And give tongue! Give tongue!"

  The men responded to this hunting command by screaming like banshees. They began running through the marsh, stumbling on tussocks, and jumping small ditches. Ensign Keogh, lithe and young, ran ahead with his slender-bladed infantry officer's sword held aloft. "Faugh a ballagh!" he shouted. "Faugh a ballagh!" Then he leaped a ditch, all sprawling legs and flapping scabbard, while his left hand clutched at his oversized hat to keep it from falling off. He stumbled, but Sergeant Masterson, who was almost as big as Harper, snatched the frail-looking ensign back to his feet. "Kill them!" Keogh screamed. "Kill them!" Muskets sparked among the campfires, but Sharpe neither heard a ball pass nor saw anyone fall. The French, scattered and dozy, were scrambling out of their tents and shelters. An officer, his sword reflecting the firelight, tried to rally his troops, but the screams of the attacking Irish were enough to drive the newly woken men into the farther darkness. There was a smattering of musket fire from Gough's Irishmen, but most of the work was done by the mere threat of their seventeen-inch bayonets. A woman, bare-legged, scooped up her bedding and sprinted after her man. Two dogs were running in circles, barking. Sharpe saw a pair of mounted men vanishing into the darkness behind him. He whirled, rifle raised, but the horsemen had galloped past the Irish flank into the dark toward the place where the lighters had grounded. Keogh had vanished ahead, followed by his men, but Sharpe held Harper back. "We've got green coats, Pat," he warned. "Someone will mistake us for Crapauds if we're not careful."