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

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Damn Sharpe,” Wellington said.

  Damn Valverde, Hogan thought, but Britain needed Spanish goodwill more than it needed one rogue rifleman. “I haven’t talked to Sharpe, my lord,” Hogan said, “but I suspect he did kill the two men. I hear it was the usual thing: Loup’s men had raped village women.” Hogan shrugged as if to imply that such horror was now commonplace.

  “It may be the usual thing,” Wellington said acidly, “but that hardly condones the execution of prisoners. It’s my experience, Hogan, that when you promote a man from the ranks he usually takes to drink, but not in Mister Sharpe’s case. No, I promote Sergeant Sharpe and he takes to conducting private wars behind my back! Loup didn’t attack the San Isidro to destroy Oliveira or Kiely, Hogan, he did it to find Sharpe, which makes the loss of the caçadores all Sharpe’s fault!”

  “We don’t know that, my lord.”

  “But the Spanish will deduce it, Hogan, and proclaim it far and wide, which makes it hard, Hogan, damned hard for us to blame Runciman. They’ll say we’re hiding the real culprit and that we’re cavalier with allied lives.”

  “We can say the allegations against Captain Sharpe are malicious and false, my lord?”

  “I thought he admitted them?” Wellington retorted sharply. “Didn’t he boast to Oliveira about executing the two rogues?”

  “So I understand, my lord,” Hogan said, “but none of Oliveira’s officers survived to testify to that admission.”

  “So who can testify?”

  Hogan shrugged. “Kiely and his whore, Runciman and the priest.” Hogan tried to make the list sound trivial, then shook his head. “Too many witnesses, I’m afraid, my lord. Not to mention Loup himself. Valverde could well attempt to get a formal complaint from the French and we’d be hard put to ignore such a document.”

  “So Sharpe has to be sacrificed?” Wellington asked.

  “I fear so, my lord.”

  “Goddamn it, Hogan!” Wellington snapped. “Just what the devil was going on between Sharpe and Loup?”

  “I wish I knew, my lord.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to know?” the general asked angrily.

  Hogan soothed his tired horse. “I’ve not been idle, my lord,” he said with a touch of tetchiness. “I don’t know all that happened between Sharpe and Loup, but what does seem to be happening is a concerted effort to sow discord in this army. There’s a new man come south from Paris, a man called Ducos, who seems to be cleverer than the usual rogues. He’s the fellow behind this scheme of counterfeit newspapers. And I’ll guess, my lord, that there are more of those newspapers on the way, designed to arrive here just before the French themselves.”

  “Then stop them!” Wellington demanded.

  “I can and shall stop them,” Hogan said confidently. “We know it’s Kiely’s whore who brings them over the frontier, but our problem is finding the man who distributes them in our army, and that man is the real danger, my lord. One of our correspondents in Paris warns us that the French have a new agent in Portugal, a man of whom they expect great things. I would dearly like to find him before he fulfills those expectations. I’m rather hoping the whore will lead us to him.”

  “You’re sure about the woman?”

  “Quite sure,” Hogan said firmly. His sources in Madrid were explicit, but he knew better than to mention their names aloud. “Sadly we don’t know who this new man in Portugal is, but given time, my lord, and a touch of carelessness on the part of Kiely’s whore, we’ll find him.”

  Wellington grunted. A rumble in the sky announced the passage of a French roundshot, but the general did not even look up to see where the shot might fall. “Damn all this fuss, Hogan, and damn Kiely and his damned men, and damn Sharpe too. Is Runciman trussed for the sacrifice?”

  “He’s in Vilar Formoso, my lord.”

  The general nodded. “Then truss Sharpe too. Put him to administrative duties, Hogan, and warn him that his conduct will be the subject of a court of inquiry. Then inform General Valverde that we’re pursuing the matter. You know what to say.” Wellington pulled out a pocket watch and clicked its lid open. An expression of distaste showed on his thin face. “I suppose, if I’m here, that I’ll have to visit Erskine. Or do you think the madman is still in bed?”

  “I’m sure his aides will have apprised Sir William of your presence, my lord, and I can’t think he’d be flattered if you were to ignore him.”

  “Touchier than a virgin in a barracks room. And mad as well. Just the man, Hogan, to conduct Sharpe and Runciman’s court of inquiry. Let us see, Hogan, whether Sir William is experiencing a lucid interval and can thus understand what verdict is required of him. We must sacrifice one good officer and one bad officer to draw Valverde’s fangs. Goddamn it, Hogan, goddamn it, but needs must when the devil drives. Poor Sharpe.” His lordship gave one backward glance at the town of Almeida, then led his entourage toward the besieging force’s headquarters.

  While Hogan worried about the narrow bridge at Castello Bom, about Sharpe and, even more, about a mysterious enemy come into Portugal to sow discord.

  The house with the smoking chimney lay where the street opened into the small plaza before the church, and it was in there that the howling had begun. Sharpe, who had been rising to his feet, had crouched instantly back into the shadows as a gate beside the house creaked open.

  Then the hounds had poured out. They had been pent up too long and so ran joyously up and down the deserted street. A figure wearing uniform led a horse and a mule out and then turned away from Sharpe, evidently planning to leave San Cristóbal by the gated entrance on the village’s far side. One of the hounds leaped playfully at the mule and received a curse and a kick for its trouble.

  The curse sounded plainly in the street. It was a woman’s voice, the voice of the Doña Juanita de Elia who now put her foot in the stirrup of the saddled horse, but the hound came back to plague the mule again just as she tried to haul herself up into the saddle. The mule, which was loaded with a pair of heavy panniers, brayed and shied away from the hound and pulled its leading rein out of Juanita’s grip, then, frightened by the excited dogs, it trotted toward Sharpe.

  Juanita de Elia cursed again. Her plumed bicorne hat had fallen off in the commotion so that her long black hair began to come out of its pins. She pushed it roughly into place as she hurried after the frightened mule, which had come to a stop just a few paces from Sharpe’s hiding place. The hounds ran in the other direction, baptizing the church steps in their joy at being released from confinement in the yard.

  “Come on, you bastard,” Juanita told the mule in Spanish. She was wearing the elegant uniform of the Real Compañía Irlandesa.

  She leaned to pick up the mule’s leading rein and Sharpe stepped out into the moonlight. “I never know,” he said, “whether Doña is a title or not. Do I say ‘good morning, milady’? Or just good morning?” He stopped three paces from her.

  It took Juanita a few seconds to recover her poise. She straightened up, glanced at the rifle in Sharpe’s hands, then at her horse thirty paces away. She had left a carbine in the saddle holster, but knew she had no chance of reaching the weapon. She had a short sword at her side and her hand went to the hilt, then stopped as Sharpe raised the rifle’s muzzle. “You wouldn’t kill a woman, Captain Sharpe,” she said coldly.

  “In the dark, milady? With you in uniform? I don’t think anyone would blame me.”

  Juanita watched Sharpe carefully, trying to judge the veracity of his threat. Then a means of salvation occurred to her and she smiled before giving a brief tuneless whistle. Her hounds stopped and pricked their ears. “I’ll set the dogs on you, Captain,” she said.

  “Because that’s all you’ve got left here, isn’t it?” Sharpe said. “Loup has gone. Where?”

  Juanita still smiled. “I’ve seen my bitches pull down a prime stag, Captain, and turn it into offal in two minutes. The first to reach you will go for your throat and she’ll hold you down while the others feed on you.�
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  Sharpe returned the smile, then raised his voice. “Pat! Bring ’em in!”

  “Damn you,” Juanita said, then she whistled again and the hounds began loping down the street. At the same time she turned and began running toward her horse, but she was slowed by the spurs on her heavy riding boots and Sharpe caught her from behind. He put his left arm round her waist and held her body in front of his like a shield as he backed against the nearest wall.

  “Whose throat will they go for now, my lady?” he asked. Her tousled hair was in his face. It smelled of rosewater.

  She kicked at him, tried to elbow him, but he was much too strong. The fastest hound came running toward them and Sharpe lowered the rifle with his right hand and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot was brutally loud in the confined street. Sharpe’s aim had been confused by Juanita’s struggles, but his bullet caught the attacking animal in the haunch and sent it spinning and yelping to the ground just as Harper led the riflemen through the entrance maze. The Irishman’s sudden appearance confused the other hounds. They slowed down, then whined as they clustered about the wounded bitch.

  “Put the bugger out of its misery, Pat,” Sharpe said. “Harris? Go back to Captain Donaju, give him my compliments and tell him to bring his men into the village. Cooper? Get her ladyship’s horse. And Perkins? Take her ladyship’s sword.”

  Harper waded into the hounds, drew his sword bayonet and stooped to the bleeding, snapping bitch. “Be still, you bugger,” he said gently, then sliced once. “You poor beast,” he said as he straightened up with his bayonet dripping blood. “God save Ireland, sir, but look what you found. Lord Kiely’s fancy lady.”

  “Traitor!” Juanita said to Harper, then spat at him. “Traitor! You should be fighting the English.”

  “Oh, my lady,” Harper said as he wiped the blade on the skirt of his green jacket, “some time you and me must enjoy a long talk about who should be fighting on whose side, but right now I’m busy with the war I’ve already got.”

  Perkins gingerly extracted the short sword from Juanita’s slings, then Sharpe released his grip on her. “My apologies for manhandling you, ma’am,” he said very formally.

  Juanita ignored the apology. She stood straight and stiff, keeping her dignity in front of the foreign riflemen. Dan Hagman was coaxing the mule out of the street corner where it had taken refuge. “Bring it with you, Dan,” Sharpe said, then led the way up the street toward the house Juanita had vacated. Harper escorted her, making her follow Sharpe into the yard.

  The house must have been one of the largest in the village, for the gate led into a spacious courtyard that possessed stabling on two sides and an elaborately crowned well in its center. The kitchen door was open and Sharpe ducked inside to find the fire still smoldering and the remains of a meal on the table. He found some candle stubs, lit them from the fire, and placed them back on the table amid the litter of plates and cups. At least six people had eaten at the table, suggesting that Loup and his men had left very recently. “Look round the rest of the village, Pat,” Sharpe told Harper. “Take half a dozen men and go carefully. I reckon everyone’s gone, but you never know.”

  “I’ll take care, sir, so I will.” Harper took the riflemen out of the kitchen, leaving Sharpe alone with Juanita.

  Sharpe gestured at a chair. “Let’s talk, my lady.”

  She walked with a slow dignity to the far side of the table, put a hand on the chair back, then suddenly broke away and ran for a door across the room. “Go to hell,” was her parting injunction. Sharpe was encumbered by the furniture so that by the time he reached the door she was already halfway up a dark flight of stairs. He scrambled after her. She turned right at the stairhead and ran through a door that she slammed behind her. Sharpe kicked it a split second before it would have latched and hurled himself through the opening to see, in the moonlight, that Juanita was sprawled across a bed. She was struggling to free an object from a discarded valise then, as Sharpe crossed the room, she turned with a pistol in her hand. He threw himself at her, slamming his left hand at the pistol just as she pulled the trigger. The bullet cracked into the ceiling as he landed full on her. She gasped from the impact, then tried to claw at his eyes with her free hand.

  Sharpe rolled off her, stood and backed to the window. He was panting. His left wrist hurt from the impact of striking the pistol aside. The moonlight came past him to silver the haze of pistol smoke and to shine on the bed that was nothing but a raft of straw-filled mattresses on which a jumble of pelts provided the covers. Juanita half sat up, glared at him, then seemed to realize that her defiance had run its course. She let out a disgruntled sigh and collapsed back onto the furs.

  Dan Hagman had heard the pistol shot from the courtyard and now came pounding up the stairs and into the bedroom with his rifle leveled. He looked from the woman prone on the bed to Sharpe. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Just a disagreement, Dan. No one hurt.”

  Hagman looked back at Juanita. “A right little spitfire, sir,” he said admiringly. “She probably needs a spanking.”

  “I’ll look after her, Dan. You get those panniers off the mule. Let’s see what the spitfire was taking away, eh?”

  Hagman went back downstairs. Sharpe massaged his wrist and looked about the room. It was a large high-ceilinged chamber with dark wood paneling, thick ceiling beams, a fireplace and a heavy linen press in one corner. It was obviously the bedroom of a substantial man and the room that a commanding officer, quartering his men in a small village, would naturally take as his own billet. “It’s a big bed, my lady, too big for just one person,” Sharpe said. “Are those wolf skins?”

  Juanita said nothing.

  Sharpe sighed. “You and Loup, eh? Am I right?”

  She stared at him with dark resentful eyes, but still refused to speak.

  “And all those days you went hunting alone,” Sharpe said, “you were coming here to see Loup.”

  Again she refused to speak. The moonlight put half her face in shadow.

  “And you opened the San Isidro’s gate for Loup, didn’t you?” Sharpe went on. “That’s why he didn’t attack the gatehouse. He wanted to make sure no harm came to you in the fighting. That’s nice in a man, isn’t it? Looking after his woman. Mind you, he can’t have liked the thought of you and Lord Kiely. Or isn’t Loup the jealous kind?”

  “Kiely was usually too drunk,” she said in a low voice.

  “Found your tongue, have you? So now you can tell me what you were doing here.”

  “Go to hell, Captain.”

  The sound of boots in the street made Sharpe turn to the window to see that the men of the Real Compañía Irlandesa had arrived in the street below. “Donaju!” he shouted. “Into the kitchen here!” He turned back to the bed. “We’ve got company, my lady, so let’s go and be sociable.” He waited for her to stand up, then shook his head when she obstinately refused to move. “I’m not leaving you on your own, my lady, so you can either go downstairs on your own two feet or have me carry you.”

  She stood, straightened her uniform and tried to rearrange her hair. Then, followed by Sharpe, she went down into the candlelit kitchen where El Castrador, Donaju and Sergeant Major Noonan were standing by the table. They gaped at Juanita, then looked at Sharpe, who did not feel inclined to offer an immediate explanation of the lady’s presence. “Loup’s gone,” Sharpe told Donaju. “I’ve got Sergeant Harper making sure the place is empty, so why don’t you have your lads man the defenses? Just in case Brigadier Loup decides to come back.”

  Donaju glanced at Juanita, then turned on Noonan. “Sergeant Major? You heard the order. Do it.”

  Noonan went. El Castrador was watching Hagman unpack the dismounted mule panniers. Juanita had gone to the remnants of the fire where she was warming herself. Donaju looked at her, then gave Sharpe an inquiring look. “The Doña Juanita,” Sharpe explained, “is a woman of many parts. She’s Lord Kiely’s betrothed, General Loup’s lover, and an agent of the
French.”

  Juanita’s head jerked up at the last phrase, but she made no effort to contradict Sharpe. Donaju stared at her as though he was unwilling to believe what he had just heard. Then he turned back to Sharpe with a frown. “She and Loup?” he asked.

  “Their love nest’s upstairs, for Christ’s sake,” Sharpe said. “Go and look if you don’t believe me. Her ladyship here let Loup into the fort last night. Her ladyship, Donaju, is a goddamned traitor.”

  “Hymn sheets, sir,” Hagman interrupted in a puzzled tone. “But bloody odd ones. I’ve seen things like it at church at home, you know, for the musicians, but not like this.” The old poacher had unpacked the panniers to reveal a great pile of manuscripts that were lined with staves and inscribed with words and music.

  “They’re very old.” Donaju was still dazed by the revelations about Juanita, but now moved across to examine the papers unearthed by Hagman. “See, Sharpe? Just four staves instead of five. They could be two or three hundred years old. Latin words. Let’s see now.” He frowned as he made a mental translation. “‘Clap your hands, everyone, call unto God with a voice of victory.’ The psalms, I think.”