Sharpe's Enemy Page 2

  The Day of the Miracle had come to Adrados again and the dogs of the village sniffed at the blood that stiffened in the single street.

  Chapter 1

  Richard Sharpe, Captain of the Light Company of the South Essex Regiment's one and only Battalion, stood at the window and stared at the procession in the street below. It was cold outside, he knew that too well. He had just marched his shrunken company north from Castelo Branco, ordered to Army Headquarters by a mysterious summons for which he had still not been given an explanation. Not that Headquarters often explained itself to mere Captains, but it annoyed Sharpe that he had now been in Frenada two days and was still none the wiser about the urgent orders. The General, Viscount Wellington of Talavera, no by God, that was wrong! He was now the Marquess of Wellington, Grandee of Spain, Duque de Ciudad Rodrigo, Generalissimo of all the Spanish Armies, 'Nosey' to his men, 'the Peer' to his officers, and the man, Sharpe assumed, who had wanted him in Frenada, but the General was not here. He was in Cadiz, or Lisbon, or God only knew where, and the British army was huddling in its winter quarters while only Sharpe and his Company were out on the cold December roads. Major Michael Hogan, Sharpe's friend, and the man who ran Wellington's Intelligence department, had gone south with the General and Sharpe missed him. Hogan would not have kept him waiting.

  At least Sharpe was warm. He had given his name yet again to the clerk on the ground floor and then growled that he would wait upstairs in the Headquarters mess where there was a fire. He was not supposed to use the room, but few people wanted to argue with the tall, dark haired Rifleman with the scar that gave his face a slightly mocking look in repose.

  He stared down at the roadway. A priest sprinkled Holy Water. Acolytes rang bells and swung censers of burning incense. Banners followed the litter-borne statue of the Virgin Mary. Women knelt by the buildings and held clasped hands towards the statue. A weak sunlight lit the streets, winter sunlight, and Sharpe's eyes automatically searched the sky for clouds. There were none.

  The mess was empty. With Wellington away most of the officers seemed to spend their mornings in bed, or else sitting in the inn next door where the landlord had been educated in the making of a proper breakfast. Pork chops, fried eggs, fried kidneys, bacon, toast, claret, more toast, butter, and tea so strong that it could scour a fouled howitzer barrel. Some officers had already gone to Lisbon for Christmas. If the French attacked now, Sharpe thought, they could stroll through Portugal to the sea.

  The door banged open and a middle-aged man wearing a voluminous dressing-gown over his uniform trousers walked in. He scowled at the Rifleman. 'Sharpe?'

  'Yes, sir.' The 'sir' seemed judicious. The man had an air of authority despite a streaming cold.

  'Major General Nairn.' The Major General dropped papers on a low table, next to the back numbers of the Times and the Courier from London, then crossed to the other tall window. He scowled at the street. 'Damned Papists.’

  ’Yes, sir.' Another judicious reply.

  'Damned Papists! The Nairns, Sharpe, are all Scottish Presbyterians! We may be boring, but by God we are Godly!' He grinned, then sneezed violently before vigorously wiping his nose with a huge grey handkerchief. He gestured with the handkerchief at the procession. Another god-damned feast-day, Sharpe, can't think why they're all so bloody thin.' He laughed, then looked with shrewd eyes at the Rifleman. 'So you're Sharpe?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Well don't come near me, I've got a bloody cold.' He walked towards the fire. 'Heard about you, Sharpe. Bloody impressive! Scottish, are you?'

  'No, sir.' Sharpe grinned.

  'Not your fault, Sharpe, not your fault. Can't help our damned parents which is why we have to thrash our damned children.' He glanced quickly at Sharpe, making sure he was being appreciated. 'Came up from the ranks, didn't you?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You've done bloody well, Sharpe, bloody well.'

  'Thank you, sir.' It was amazing how few words were usually needed to get by with senior officers.

  Major General Nairn bent down and damaged the fire by bashing its logs with a poker. 'I suppose you're wondering why you're here. That right?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You're here because this is the warmest damned room in Frenada and you're obviously no fool.' Nairn laughed, dropped the poker, and worried his nose with his handkerchief. 'Bloody awful place, Frenada.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Nairn looked accusingly at Sharpe. 'Do you know why the Peer chose Frenada as his winter Headquarters?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Some people will tell you,' and here the Major General broke off to collapse with a satisfied sigh into a vast horsehair armchair, 'that it was chosen because it is near the Spanish border.' He wagged a finger at Sharpe. 'That bears some truth, but not the whole truth. Some people will tell you that the Peer chose this benighted town because it is bloody miles from Lisbon and no snivelling place-seekers and bum-lickers will bother to make the journey up here to annoy him. Now that, too, might contain a grain of the eternal truth, except that the Peer's down there half the time which makes life bloody easy for the sycophantic bastards. No, Sharpe, we must look for the real reason elsewhere.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Nairn groaned as he stretched himself out. 'The real reason, Sharpe, the immaculately conceived reason, is that this God-damned excuse for a bloody miserable little hovel of a crippled town being chosen is that it is right in the centre of the best God-damned fox-hunting in Portugal.'

  Sharpe grinned. 'Yes, sir.'

  'And the Peer, Sharpe, likes to chase foxes. Thus are the rest of us consigned to the eternal torments of this bloody place. Sit down, man!'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And stop saying ‘yes, sir’, ‘no, sir’ like a bloody bumlicker.'

  'Yes, sir.' Sharpe sat in the chair opposite Major General Nairn. The Scotsman had huge grey eyebrows that seemed to be trying to grow upwards to meet his shock of grey hair. The face was good and strong, shrewd-eyed and humorous, spoilt only by his cold-reddened nose. Nairn returned the gaze, looking Sharpe up and down from the French cavalry boots to the Rifleman's black hair, then he twisted round in the armchair.

  'Chatsworth! You scum! You varlet! Chatsworth! Heel! You hear me? Heel!'

  An orderly appeared who grinned happily at Nairn. 'Sir?’

  ’Tea, Chatsworth, tea! Bring me strong tea! Something that will rekindle my military ardour. And kindly try to bring it before the New Year.'

  'I've already wet it, sir. Something to eat, sir?'

  'Eat? I've got a cold, Chatsworth. I'm nigh unto death and you blather at me about eating! What have you got?'

  'I've some ham, sir, that you liked. Mustard. Bread and fresh butter?' Chatsworth was solicitous, obviously liking Nairn.

  'Ah, ham! Bring us ham, Chatsworth, ham and mustard, with your bread and butter. Did you steal the toasting fork from this mess, Chatsworth?

  'No, sir.'

  'Then find which of your thieving comrades did take it, have them flogged, then bring the fork to me!'

  'Yes, sir.' Chatsworth grinned as he left the room.

  Nairn smiled at Sharpe. 'I'm a harmless old man, Sharpe, left in charge of this bloody madhouse while the Peer gallivants round half of the bloody Peninsula. I am supposed, God help me, to be running this Headquarters. Me! If I had time, Sharpe, I suppose I could lead the troops on a winter campaign! I could inscribe my name in glory, but I don't have bloody time! Look at this!' He picked a paper from the pile beside him. 'A letter, Sharpe, from the Chaplain General. The Chaplain General, no less! Do you know that he is in receipt of a salary of five hundred and sixty-five pounds a year, Sharpe, and in addition is named advisor on the establishment of semaphore stations for which nonsensical bloody job he receives a further six hundred pounds! Can you believe that? And what does God's vicar to His Majesty's Army do with his well-paid time? He writes to me thus!' Nairn held the letter in front of his face.' ‘I require of you to report on the containment of Methodism w
ithin the Army.’ Good God Almighty, Sharpe! What's a man to do with such a letter?'

  Sharpe smiled. 'I wouldn't know, sir.'

  'I do, Sharpe, I do. That's why I'm a Major General.' Nairn leaned forward and threw the letter onto the fire. 'That's what you do with letters like that.' Nairn chuckled happily as the paper caught fire and flared brightly. 'You want to know why you're here, don't you?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You are here, Sharpe, because the Prince of Wales has gone mad. Just like his Father, poor man, stark staring raving mad.' Nairn leaned back and nodded triumphantly at Sharpe. The letter shrivelled to a black wisp on the logs as Nairn waited for a reaction. 'Good God, Sharpe! You're supposed to say something! God bless the Prince of Wales would do at a pinch, but you sit there as though the news means nothing. Comes of being a hero, I suppose, always keeping a straight face. Stern business is it? Being a hero?'

  'Yes, sir.' Sharpe was grinning broadly.

  The door opened and Chatsworth edged in with a heavy wooden tray that he put on the floor in front of the fire. 'Bread and ham, sir, mustard in the small pot. Tea's well brewed, sir, and I beg to report that the toasting fork was in your room, sir. Here it is, sir.'

  'You're a rogue and a scoundrel, Chatsworth. You'll be accusing me of burning correspondence from the Chaplain General next.'

  'Yes, sir.' Chatsworth grinned contentedly.

  'Are you a Methodist, Chatsworth?'

  'No, sir. Don't rightly know what a Methodist is, sir.'

  'You are fortunate indeed.' Nairn was fixing a slice of bread to the toasting fork. A Lieutenant appeared at the open door behind him, knocked hesitantly to attract attention. 'General Nairn, sir?'

  'Major General Nairn is in Madrid! Negotiating a surrender to the French!' Nairn pushed the bread close to the logs, wrapping his hand in his handkerchief to keep the scorching heat away.

  The Lieutenant did not smile. He hovered at the door. 'Colonel Greave's compliments, sir, and what's he to do with the iron brackets for the pontoons?'

  Nairn rolled his eyes to the yellowed ceiling. 'Who is in charge of the pontoons, Lieutenant?'

  'The Engineers, sir.'

  'And who, pray, is in charge of our gallant Engineers?'

  'Colonel Fletcher, sir.'

  'So what do you tell our good Colonel Greave?'

  'I see, sir. Yes, sir.' The Lieutenant paused. 'To ask Colonel Fletcher, sir?'

  'You are a General in the making, Lieutenant. Go and do that thing, and should the Washerwoman General want to see me, tell her I am a married man and cannot accede to her importunings.'

  The Lieutenant left and Nairn glared at the orderly. 'Take that grin off your face, Private Chatsworth! The Prince of Wales has gone mad and all you can do is grin!'

  'Yes, sir. Is that all, sir?'

  'It is, Chatsworth, and I thank you. Go now, and close the door silently.'

  Nairn waited till the door was shut. He turned the bread on the fork. 'You're not a fool are you, Sharpe?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Thank God for that. It's possible that the Prince of Wales does have a touch of his Father's madness. He's interfering in the army, and the Peer's damned annoyed.' Nairn paused, holding the bread dangerously close to the flames. Sharpe said nothing, but he knew that the Peer's annoyance and the Prince of Wales' interference had something to do with the sudden summons north. Nairn glanced at Sharpe from beneath the bushy eyebrows. 'Have you heard of Congreve?'

  'The rocket man?'

  'That's the one. Sir William Congreve who has the patronage of Prinny and is the begetter of a system of rocket artillery.' Smoke came from the bread and Nairn snatched it towards him. 'At a time, Sharpe, when we need cavalry, artillery, and infantry, what are we sent? Rockets! A troop of Rocket Cavalry! And all because Prinny, with a touch of his father's madness, thinks they'll win the war. Here.' He held the toasting fork to Sharpe then proceeded to lavish butter on his blackened slice. 'Tea?'

  'I'm sorry, sir.' Sharpe should have poured. He filled two cups while Nairn dressed his toast with a massive chunk of ham liberally smeared with mustard. Nairn sipped the tea and sighed.

  'Chatsworth makes a cup of tea fit for heaven. He'll make some woman a lovely wife one day.' He watched Sharpe toast a slice of bread. 'Rockets, Sharpe. We have in town one troop of Rocket Cavalry and we are ordered by the Horse Guards to give this rocket troop a fair and searching test.' He grinned. 'Don't you like it blacker than that?'

  'No, sir.' Sharpe liked his toast pale. He turned the bread.

  ‘I like it smoking like the bloody pit.' Nairn paused while he ate a huge mouthful of ham. 'What we have to do, Sharpe, is test these bloody rockets and when we find they don't work we send them back to England and keep all their horses which we can put to good use. Understand?’

  ’Yes, sir.'

  'Good! Because you've got the job. You will take command of Captain Gilliland and his infernal machines and you will practice him as if he were in battle. That's what your orders say. What I say, and what the Peer would say if he were here, is that you've got to test him so bloody hard that he slinks back to England with a grain of sense in his head.’

  ’You want the rockets to fail, sir?' Sharpe buttered his bread.

  'I don't want them to fail, Sharpe. I'd be delighted if they worked, but they won't. We had a few a couple of years back and they're as flighty as a bitch in heat, but Prinny thinks he knows best. You are to test them, and you are also to practice Captain Gilliland in the manoeuvres of war. In plain words, Sharpe, you've to teach him how to co-operate with infantry on the grounds that infantry, if he were ever to go into battle, would have to protect him from the troops of the Proud Tyrant.' Nairn wolfed another bite of ham. 'Personally speaking,' his voice was muffled, 'I'd be delighted if Boney got him and his bloody rockets, but we've got to show willing.'

  'Yes, sir.' Sharpe sipped his tea. There was something odd here, something still unsaid. Sharpe had heard of Congreve's rocket system, indeed the army had been having rumours of the new secret artillery for five or six years, but why was Sharpe selected to test them? He was a Captain, and Nairn had spoken of him taking command of another Captain? It did not make sense.

  Nairn had another piece of bread by the fire. 'You're wondering why you were chosen, is that right? Out of all the brave officers and gentlemen, we chose you, yes?'

  'I was wondering, sir. Yes.'

  'Because you're a nuisance, Sharpe. Because you do not fit into the Peer's well ordered scheme of things.' Sharpe ate his toast and ham, saving himself the need to answer. Nairn seemed to have forgotten the toasting fork, that lay on the hearth, and instead had plucked another piece of paper from the table. 'I told you, Sharpe, that Prinny has gone mad. Not only has he foisted the dreadful Gilliland on us with his dreadful Congreve rockets, but he has foisted this on us as well.’This' was the piece of paper that Nairn dangled between finger and thumb as if contagious. 'Appalling! I suppose you'd better read it, though God only knows why I don't just put it on the fire with that bloody man's letter. Here.' He held the paper to Sharpe, then returned to his toast.

  The paper was thick and creamy. A seal was big and red on its wide left margin. Sharpe twisted it towards the windows so he could read the words. The top two lines were printed in decorative copperplate script.

  'George the Third by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith'. The next words were hand written on ruled lines. 'Trusty and Well-beloved Richard Sharpe, Esq.' The printing resumed. 'Greeting: We do by these Presents, Constitute and Appoint you to be'. Sharpe looked up at Nairn.

  The Major General was grumbling as he scooped butter from the dish. 'Waste of time, Sharpe! Throw it on the fire! Man's mad!'

  Sharpe grinned. He tried to control the elation that was growing in him, elation and sheer disbelief, he almost dared not read the next words.

  'Major in Our Army now in Portugal and Spain'. Dear God! Dear, sweet God! A Major! The paper
shook in his hands. He leaned back for an instant, letting his head touch the chair behind him, a Major! Nineteen years he had been in this army. He had joined days before his sixteenth birthday and he had marched across India in the ranks, musket and bayonet in his hands, and now he was a Major! Dear God! He had fought so hard for his Captaincy, thinking it would never come, and now, suddenly, out of the blue, from nowhere, this! Major Richard Sharpe!

  Nairn smiled at him. 'It's only army rank, Sharpe.' A Brevet Major, then, but still a Major. Regimental rank was a man's real rank, and if the commission had said 'a Major in our South Essex Regiment', then it would have been Regimental rank. Army rank meant that he was a Major as long as he served outside of his own Regiment, paid as a Major, though if he were to retire now his pay would be computed by his Regimental rank and not his new Majority. But who cared? He was a Major!

  Nairn looked at the tanned, hard face. He knew he was seeing someone remarkable, someone who had risen this far, this quickly, and Nairn wondered what drove a man like Sharpe. Sitting by the fire, the Commission in his hand, he seemed a quiet, contained man, yet Nairn knew of this soldier. Few people in the army did not know of Sharpe. The Peer called him the best leader of a Light Company in the army and perhaps, Nairn wondered, that was why Wellington had been angered by the Prince of Wales' interference. Sharpe was a good Captain, but would he be a good Major? Nairn shrugged to himself. This Sharpe, this man who still insisted on wearing the green uniform of the 95th Rifles, had not let the army down yet, and making him into a Major was hardly likely to still the ferocity of his fighting power.