Sharpe looked at the cavalryman’s horse which was still tethered in the settlement’s center and thought of the infantryman he had captured. “This Brigade Loup,” he asked, “is it cavalry or infantry?”
“The brigade has both, sir,” Harris said. “It’s a special brigade, sir, formed to fight the partisans, and Loup’s got two battalions of infantry and one regiment of dragoons.”
“And they all wear gray?”
“Like wolves, sir,” Harris said helpfully.
“We all know what to do with wolves,” Sharpe said, then turned as Sergeant Latimer shouted a warning. Latimer was commanding the tiny picket line that stood between Sharpe and the French, but it was no new attack that had caused Latimer to shout his warning, but rather the approach of four French horsemen. One of them carried the tricolor guidon, though the swallowtailed flag was now half obscured by a dirty white shirt that had been impaled on the guidon’s lance head. “Bastards want to talk to us,” Sharpe said.
“I’ll talk to them,” Harper said viciously and pulled back the cock of his seven-barreled gun.
“No!” Sharpe said. “And go round the company and tell everyone to hold their fire, and that’s an order.”
“Aye, sir.” Harper lowered the flint, then, with a baleful glance toward the approaching Frenchmen, went to warn the greenjackets to hold their tempers and keep their fingers off their triggers.
Sharpe, his rifle slung on his shoulder and his sword at his side, strolled toward the four Frenchmen. Two of the horsemen were officers, while the flanking pair were standard-bearers, and the ratio of flags to men seemed impertinently high, almost as if the two approaching officers considered themselves greater than other mortals. The tricolor guidon would have been standard enough, but the second banner was extraordinary. It was a French eagle with gilded wings outspread perched atop a pole that had a crosspiece nailed just beneath the eagle’s plinth. Most eagles carried a silk tricolor from the staff, but this eagle carried six wolf tails attached to the crosspiece. The standard was somehow barbaric, suggesting the far-off days when pagan armies of horse soldiers had thundered out of the Steppes to rape and ruin Christendom.
And if the wolf-tail standard made Sharpe’s blood run chill, then it was nothing compared to the man who now spurred his horse ahead of his companions. Only the man’s boots were not gray. His coat was gray, his horse was a gray, his helmet was lavishly plumed in gray and his gray pelisse was edged with gray wolf fur. Bands of wolf pelt encircled his boot tops, his saddlecloth was a gray skin, his sword’s long straight scabbard and his carbine’s saddle holster were both sheathed in wolfskin while his horse’s nose band was a strip of gray fur. Even the man’s beard was gray. It was a short beard, neatly trimmed, but the rest of the face was wild and merciless and scarred fit for nightmare. One bloodshot eye and one blind milky eye stared from that weather-beaten, battle-hardened face as the man curbed his horse beside Sharpe.
“My name is Loup,” he said, “Brigadier General Guy Loup of His Imperial Majesty’s army.” His tone was strangely mild, his intonation courteous and his English touched with a light Scottish accent.
“Sharpe,” the rifleman said. “Captain Sharpe. British army.”
The three remaining Frenchmen had reined in a dozen yards away. They watched as their Brigadier swung his leg out of the stirrup and dropped lightly down to the path. He was not as tall as Sharpe, but he was still a big man and he was well muscled and agile. Sharpe guessed the French brigadier was about forty years old, six years older than Sharpe himself. Loup now took two cigars from his fur-edged sabretache and offered one to Sharpe.
“I don’t take gifts from murderers,” Sharpe said.
Loup laughed at Sharpe’s indignation. “More fool you, Captain. Is that what you say? More fool you? I was a prisoner, you see, in Scotland. In Edinburgh. A very cold city, but with beautiful women, very beautiful. Some of them taught me English and I taught them how to lie to their drab Calvinist husbands. We paroled officers lived just off Candlemaker Row. Do you know the place? No? You should visit Edinburgh, Captain. Despite the Calvinists and the cooking it is a fine city, very learned and hospitable. When the peace of Amiens was signed I almost stayed there.” Loup paused to strike flint on steel, then to blow the charred linen tinder in his tinderbox into a flame with which he lit his cigar. “I almost stayed, but you know how it is. She was married to another man and I am a lover of France, so here I am and there she is and doubtless she dreams about me a lot more than I dream about her.” He sighed. “But this weather reminded me of her. We would so often lie in bed and watch the rain and mist fly past the windows of Candlemaker Row. It is cold today, eh?”
“You’re dressed for it, General,” Sharpe said. “Got as much fur as a Christmas whore, you have.”
Loup smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. He was missing two teeth, and those that remained were stained yellow. He had spoken pleasantly enough to Sharpe, even charmingly, but it was the smooth charm of a cat about to kill. He drew on his cigar, making the tip glow red, while his single bloodshot eye looked hard at Sharpe from beneath the helmet’s gray visor.
Loup saw a tall man with a well-used rifle on one shoulder and a battered ugly-bladed sword at his hip. Sharpe’s uniform was torn, stained and patched. The jacket’s black cord hung in tatters between a few silver buttons that hung by threads, while beneath the jacket Sharpe wore a set of leather-reinforced French cavalry overalls. The remains of an officer’s red sash encircled Sharpe’s waist, while around his neck was a loosely knotted black choker. It was the uniform of a man who had long discarded the peacetime trappings of soldiering in exchange for the utilitarian comforts of a fighting man. A hard man, too, Loup guessed, not just from the evidence of the scar on Sharpe’s cheek, but from the rifleman’s demeanor, which was awkward and raw-edged as though Sharpe would have preferred to be fighting than talking. Loup shrugged, abandoned his pleasantries and got down to business. “I came to fetch my two men,” he said.
“Forget them, General,” Sharpe replied. He was determined not to dignify this Frenchman by calling him “sir” or “monsieur.”
Loup raised his eyebrows. “They’re dead?”
“They will be.”
Loup waved a persistent fly away. The steel-plaited straps of his helmet hung loose beside his face, resembling the cadenettes of braided hair that French hussars liked to wear hanging from their temples. He drew on his cigar again, then smiled. “Might I remind you, Captain, of the rules of war?”
Sharpe offered Loup a word that he doubted the Frenchman had heard much in Edinburgh’s learned society. “I don’t take lessons from murderers,” Sharpe went on, “not in the rules of war. What your men did in that village wasn’t war. It was a massacre.”
“Of course it was war,” Loup said equably, “and I don’t need lectures from you, Captain.”
“You might not need a lecture, General, but you damn well need a lesson.”
Loup laughed. He turned and walked to the stream’s edge where he stretched his arms, yawned hugely, then stooped to scoop some water to his mouth. He turned back to Sharpe. “Let me tell you what my job is, Captain, and you will put yourself in my boots. That way, perhaps, you will lose your tedious English moral certainties. My job, Captain, is to police the roads through these mountains and so make the passes safe for the supply wagons of ammunition and food with which we plan to beat you British back to the sea. My enemy is not a soldier dressed in uniform with a color and a code of honor, but is instead a rabble of civilians who resent my presence. Good! Let them resent me, that is their privilege, but if they attack me, Captain, then I will defend myself and I do it so ferociously, so ruthlessly, so comprehensively, that they will think a thousand times before they attack my men again. You know what the major weapon of the guerrilla is? It is horror, Captain, sheer horror, so I make certain I am more horrible than my enemy, and my enemy in this area is horrible indeed. You have heard of El Castrador?”
“The Castrato
r?” Sharpe guessed the translation.
“Indeed. Because of what he does to French soldiers, only he does it while they are alive and then he lets them bleed to death. El Castrador, I am sorry to say, still lives, but I do assure you that none of my men has been castrated in three months, and do you know why? Because El Castrador’s men fear me more than they fear him. I have defeated him, Captain, I have made the mountains secure. In all of Spain, Captain, these are the only hills where Frenchmen can ride safely, and why? Because I have used the guerrilleros’ weapon against them. I castrate them, just as they would castrate me, only I use a blunter knife.” Brigadier Loup offered Sharpe a grim smile. “Now tell me, Captain, if you were in my boots, and if your men were being castrated and blinded and disemboweled and skinned alive and left to die, would you not do as I do?”
“To children?” Sharpe jerked his thumb at the village.
Loup’s one eye widened in surprise, as though he found Sharpe’s objection odd in a soldier. “Would you spare a rat because it’s young? Vermin are vermin, Captain, whatever their age.”
“I thought you said the mountains were safe,” Sharpe said, “so why kill?”
“Because last week two of my men were ambushed and killed in a village not far from here. The families of the murderers came here to take refuge, thinking I would not find them. I did find them, and now I assure you, Captain, that no more of my men will be ambushed in Fuentes de Oñoro.”
“They will if I find them there.”
Loup shook his head sadly. “You are so quick with your threats, Captain. But fight me and I think you will learn caution. But for now? Give me my men and we shall ride away.”
Sharpe paused, thinking, then finally shrugged and turned. “Sergeant Harper!”
“Sir?”
“Bring the two Frogs out!”
Harper hesitated as though he wanted to know what Sharpe intended before he obeyed the order, but then he turned reluctantly toward the houses. A moment later he appeared with the two French captives, both of whom were still naked below the waist and one of whom was still half doubled over in pain. “Is he wounded?” Loup asked.
“I kicked him in the balls,” Sharpe said. “He was raping a girl.”
Loup seemed amused by the answer. “You’re squeamish about rape, Captain Sharpe?”
“Funny in a man, isn’t it? Yes, I am.”
“We have some officers like that,” Loup said, “but a few months in Spain soon cures their delicacy. The women here fight like the men, and if a woman imagines that her skirts will protect her then she is wrong. And rape is part of the horror, but it also serves a secondary purpose. Release soldiers to rape and they don’t care that they’re hungry or that their pay is a year in arrears. Rape is a weapon like any other, Captain.”
“I’ll remember that, General, when I march into France,” Sharpe said, then he turned back toward the houses. “Stop there, Sergeant!” The two prisoners had been escorted as far as the village entrance. “And Sergeant!”
“Sir?”
“Fetch their trousers. Get them dressed properly.”
Loup, pleased with the way his mission was going, smiled at Sharpe. “You’re being sensible, good. I would hate to have to fight you in the same way that I fight the Spanish.”
Sharpe looked at Loup’s pagan uniform. It was a costume, he thought, to scare a child, the costume of a wolfman walking out of nightmare, but the wolfman’s sword was no longer than Sharpe’s and his carbine a good deal less accurate than Sharpe’s rifle. “I don’t suppose you could fight us, General,” Sharpe said, “we’re a real army, you see, not a pack of unarmed women and children.”
Loup stiffened. “You will find, Captain Sharpe, that the Brigade Loup can fight any man, anywhere, anyhow. I do not lose, Captain, not to anyone.”
“So if you never lose, General, how were you taken prisoner?” Sharpe sneered. “Fast asleep, were you?”
“I was a passenger on my way to Egypt, Captain, when our ship was captured by the Royal Navy. That hardly counts as my defeat.” Loup watched as his two men pulled on their trousers. “Where is Trooper Godin’s horse?”
“Trooper Godin won’t need a horse where he’s going,” Sharpe said.
“He can walk? I suppose he can. Very well, I yield you the horse,” Loup said magniloquently.
“He’s going to hell, General,” Sharpe said. “I’m dressing them because they’re still soldiers, and even your lousy soldiers deserve to die with their trousers on.” He turned back to the settlement. “Sergeant! Put them against the wall! I want a firing squad, four men for each prisoner. Load up!”
“Captain!” Loup snapped and his hand went to his sword’s hilt.
“You don’t frighten me, Loup. Not you nor your fancy dress,” Sharpe said. “You draw that sword and we’ll be mopping up your blood with your flag of truce. I’ve got marksmen up on that ridge who can whip the good eye out of your face at two hundred yards, and one of those marksmen is looking at you right now.”
Loup looked up the hill. He could see Price’s redcoats there, and one greenjacket, but he plainly could not tell just how many men were in Sharpe’s party. He looked back to Sharpe. “You’re a captain, just a captain. Which means you have what? One company? Maybe two? The British won’t entrust more than two companies to a mere captain, but within half a mile I have the rest of my brigade. If you kill my men you’ll be hunted down like dogs, and you will die like dogs. I will exempt you from the rules of war, Captain, just as you propose exempting my men, and I will make sure you die in the manner of my Spanish enemies. With a very blunt knife, Captain.”
Sharpe ignored the threat, turning toward the village instead. “Firing party ready, Sergeant?”
“They’re ready, sir. And eager, sir!”
Sharpe looked back to the Frenchman. “Your brigade is miles away, General. If it was any closer you wouldn’t be here talking to me, but leading the attack. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ve got some justice to execute.”
“No!” Loup said sharply enough to turn Sharpe back. “I have made a bargain with my men. You understand that, Captain? You are a leader, I am a leader, and I have promised my men never to abandon them. Don’t make me break my promise.”
“I don’t give a bugger about your promise,” Sharpe said.
Loup had expected that kind of answer and so shrugged. “Then maybe you will give a bugger about this, Captain Sharpe. I know who you are, and if you do not return my men I will place a price on your head. I will give every man in Portugal and Spain a reason to hunt you down. Kill those two and you sign your own death warrant.”
Sharpe smiled. “You’re a bad loser, General.”
“And you’re not?”
Sharpe walked away. “I’ve never lost,” he called back across his shoulder, “so I wouldn’t know.”
“Your death warrant, Sharpe!” Loup called.
Sharpe lifted two fingers. He had heard that the English bowmen at Agincourt, threatened by the French with the loss of their bowstring fingers at the battle’s end, had first won the battle and then invented the taunting gesture to show the overweening bastards just who were the better soldiers. Now Sharpe used it again.
Then went to kill the wolfman’s men.
Major Michael Hogan discovered Wellington inspecting a bridge over the River Turones where a force of three French battalions had tried to hold off the advancing British. The resulting battle had been swift and brutal, and now a trail of French and British dead told the skirmish’s tale. An initial tide line of bodies marked where the sides had clashed, a dreadful smear of bloodied turf showed where two British cannon had enfiladed the enemy, then a further scatter of corpses betrayed the French retreat across the bridge which their engineers had not had time to destroy. “Fletcher thinks the bridge is Roman work, Hogan,” Wellington greeted the Irish major.
“I sometimes wonder, my Lord, whether anyone has built a bridge in Portugal or Spain since the Romans.” Hogan, swathed in a cloak be
cause of the day’s damp chill, nodded amicably to his Lordship’s three aides, then handed the General a sealed letter. The seal, which showed the royal Spanish coat of arms, had been lifted. “I took the precaution of reading the letter, my Lord,” Hogan explained.
“Trouble?” Wellington asked.
“I wouldn’t have bothered you otherwise, my Lord,” Hogan answered gloomily.
Wellington frowned as he read the letter. The general was a handsome man, forty-two years old, but as fit as any in his army. And, Hogan thought, wiser than most. The British army, Hogan knew, had an uncanny knack of finding the least qualified man and promoting him to high command, but somehow the system had gone wrong and Sir Arthur Wellesley, now the Viscount Wellington, had been given command of His Majesty’s army in Portugal, thus providing that army with the best possible leadership. At least Hogan thought so, but Michael Hogan allowed that he could be prejudiced in this matter. Wellington, after all, had promoted Hogan’s career, making the shrewd Irishman the head of his intelligence department, and the result had been a relationship as close as it was fruitful.
The general read the letter again, this time glancing at a translation Hogan had thoughtfully provided. Hogan meanwhile looked about the battlefield where fatigue parties were clearing up the remnants of the skirmish. To the east of the bridge, where the road came delicately down the mountainside in a series of sweeping curves, a dozen work parties were searching the bushes for bodies and abandoned supplies. The French dead were being stripped naked and stacked like cordwood next to a long, shallow grave that a group of diggers was trying to extend. Other men were piling French muskets or else hurling canteens, cartridge boxes, boots and blankets into a cart. Some of the plunder was even more exotic, for the retreating French had weighed themselves down with the loot of a thousand Portuguese villages and Wellington’s men were now recovering church vestments, candlesticks and silver plate. “Astonishing what a soldier will carry on a retreat,” the general remarked to Hogan. “We found one dead man with a milking stool. A common milking stool! What was he thinking of? Taking it back to France?” He held the letter out to Hogan. “Damn,” he said mildly, then, more strongly, “Goddamn!” He waved his aides away, leaving him alone with Hogan. “The more I learn about His Most Catholic Majesty King Ferdinand VII, Hogan, the more I become convinced that he should have been drowned at birth.”
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 4: Sharpe's Escape, Sharpe's Fury, Sharpe's Battle Page 76
