Sharpe 3-Book Collection 4: Sharpe's Escape, Sharpe's Fury, Sharpe's Battle Page 6

  Hogan returned the grin. “It is very ungentlemanly to gloat, Richard.”

  “How did Wellington know?”

  “I suppose Major Ferreira complained to him. He said he didn’t, but…” Hogan shrugged.

  “You can’t trust that Portuguese bugger,” Sharpe said. “Get one of your nasties to slit his throat.”

  “You’re the only nasty I know,” Hogan said, “and it’s past your bedtime. So good night, Richard.”

  It was not late yet, probably no more than nine o’clock, but the sky was black dark and the temperature had fallen sharply. A wind had come from the west to bring cold air from the distant sea and a mist was forming among the trees as Sharpe climbed back to the path where the strange statues were housed in their brick huts. The path was deserted now. The bulk of the army was up on the ridge and any troops bivouacking behind the line were encamped around the monastery where their fires offered some small light that filtered through the wood to throw Sharpe’s monstrous shadow flickering across tree trunks, but that small light faded as Sharpe climbed higher. There were no fires on the ridge top because Wellington had ordered that none were to be lit so that their glow could not betray to the French where the allied army was concentrated, though Sharpe suspected the enemy must have guessed. The lack of campfires made the upper hill bleakly dark. The mist thickened. Far off, beyond the wall that encircled the monastery and its forest, Sharpe could hear singing coming from the British and Portuguese encampments, but the loudest noise was his own footsteps on the pine needles that carpeted the path. The first of the shrines came into sight, lit from inside by votive candles that cast a small hazy glow through the chill mist. A black-gowned monk knelt in prayer by the last shrine and, as Sharpe passed, he thought of offering the man a greeting, then decided against interrupting the monk’s devotions, but just then the cowled man lashed out, catching Sharpe behind his left knee, and two more men came from behind the shrine, one with a cudgel that smacked into Sharpe’s belly. He went down hard, his metal scabbard clanging against the ground. He twisted away, trying to draw the sword, but the two men who had come from behind the shrine seized his arms and dragged him into the building where there was a small space in front of the statues. They kicked some candles aside to make more room. One drew Sharpe’s sword and tossed it onto the path outside, while the cowled monk pushed back his hood.

  It was Ferragus, vast and tall, filling the shrine with his menace. “You cost me a lot of money,” he said in his strongly accented English. Sharpe was still on the ground. He tried to stand up, but one of Ferragus’s two companions kicked him in the shoulder and forced him back. “A lot of money,” Ferragus said heavily. “You wish to pay me now?” Sharpe said nothing. He needed a weapon. He had a folding knife in one pocket, but he knew he would never have time to pull it out, let alone extract the blade. “How much money do you have?” Ferragus asked. Sharpe still said nothing. “Or would you rather fight me?” Ferragus went on. “Bare knuckles, Captain, toe to toe.”

  Sharpe made a curt suggestion of what Ferragus could do and the big man smiled and spoke to his men in Portuguese. They attacked with their boots, kicking Sharpe, who drew up his knees to shield his belly. He guessed they were ordered to disable him and thus leave him to Ferragus’s mercies, but the shrine was small, the space left by the statues cramped and the two men got in each other’s way. Their kicks still hurt. Sharpe tried to lunge up at them, but a boot caught him on the side of the face and he fell back heavily, rocking the kneeling image of Mary Magdalene, and that gave him his weapon. He hammered the statue with his right elbow, smacking its knee so hard that the clay shattered and Sharpe snatched up one shard that was nearly a foot long and ended in a wicked point. He stabbed the makeshift dagger at the nearest man, aiming at his groin, but the man twisted aside so that the clay sliced into his inner thigh. The man grunted. Sharpe was up from the floor now, using his head as a battering ram that he thumped into the wounded man’s belly. A fist caught him on the side of the nose, a boot slammed into his ribs, but he lunged the clay dagger at Ferragus, slicing it along the big man’s jawbone, then a mighty blow on the side of his head threw him back and he fell against Christ’s clay lap. Ferragus ordered his men to get out of the shrine, to give him room, and he punched Sharpe again, delivering a ringing blow on the temple, and Sharpe let go of his makeshift knife, put his arm round the Son of God’s neck and jerked it hard so that the whole head came clean off. Ferragus threw a straight left jab and Sharpe dodged it, then came off the ground to ram the broken head with its crown of thorns up into Ferragus’s face. The hollow clay skull cracked apart as it hit, its jagged edges gouging deep cuts in the big man’s cheeks, and Sharpe twisted to his left as Ferragus recoiled. Sharpe scrambled through the door, trying to reach his sword, but the two men were outside and they fell on him. Sharpe heaved, managed to half turn over, and then got a kick in the belly that drove all the wind out of him.

  Ferragus had kicked him, and now he ordered his two men to pull Sharpe up. “You can’t fight,” he told Sharpe, “you’re feeble,” and he began punching, using short, hard blows that looked to have little force in them, but they felt to Sharpe as if he was being kicked by a horse. The blows started at his belly, worked up his chest, then one slammed into his cheek and blood started inside Sharpe’s mouth. He tried to free himself from the two men’s grip, but they held him too tight and he was dazed, confused, half conscious. A fist caught him in the throat and now he could hardly breathe, gagging for air, and Ferragus laughed. “My brother said I shouldn’t kill you, but why not? Who’ll miss you?” He spat into Sharpe’s face. “Let him go,” he said to the two men in Portuguese, then changed to English. “Let’s see if this Englishman can fight.”

  The two men stepped away from Sharpe who spat blood, blinked, and staggered two paces backwards. His sword was out of reach, and even if he could have fetched it he doubted he would have the strength to use it. Ferragus smiled at his weakness, stepped towards him and Sharpe staggered again, this time half falling sideways, and he put his hand down to steady himself and there was a stone there, a big stone, the size of a ration biscuit, and he picked it up just as Ferragus threw a right fist intended to knock Sharpe down for ever. Sharpe, still half aware, reacted instinctively, blocking the fist with the stone, and Ferragus’s knuckles cracked on the rock and the big man flinched and stepped back, astonished by the sudden pain. Sharpe tried to step towards him and use the stone again, but a left jab banged into his chest and threw him back down onto the path.

  “Now you’re a dead man,” Ferragus said. He was massaging his broken knuckles, and was in such pain from them that he wanted to kick Sharpe to death. He began by aiming a massive boot at Sharpe’s groin but the blow landed short, on the thigh, because Sharpe had managed to twist feebly to one side, and Ferragus kicked his leg away, drew his boot back again and suddenly there was a light on the path behind him and a voice calling.

  “What’s going on!” the voice shouted. “Hold still! Whoever you are, hold still!” The boots of two or three men sounded on the path. The approaching men must have heard the fight, but they could surely see nothing in the thickening mist and Ferragus did not wait for them. He shouted at his two men and they ran past Sharpe, down through the trees, and Sharpe curled up on the ground, trying to squeeze the pain from his ribs and belly. There were thick gobs of blood in his mouth and his nose was bleeding. The light came nearer, a lantern held by a redcoat. “Sir?” one of the three men asked. He was a sergeant and had the dark-blue facings of the provosts, the army’s policemen.

  “I’m all right,” Sharpe grunted.

  “What happened?”

  “Thieves,” Sharpe said. “God knows who they were. Just thieves. Jesus. Help me up.”

  Two of them lifted him while the Sergeant retrieved his sword and shako. “How many were there?” the Sergeant asked.

  “Three. Bastards ran away.”

  “You want to see a surgeon, sir?” The Sergeant flinched as he s
aw Sharpe’s face in the lantern light. “I think you should.”

  “Christ, no.” He sheathed the sword, put his shako on his bruised skull and leaned against the shrine. “I’ll be all right,” he said.

  “We can take you to the monastery, sir.”

  “No. I’ll make my way up to the ridge.” He thanked the three men, wished them a peaceful night, waited until he had recovered some strength, and then limped back uphill, through the wall and down the ridge to find his company.

  Colonel Lawford had pitched a tent close to the new road that had been hacked along the ridge top. The tent flaps were open, revealing a candlelit table on which silver and crystal gleamed, and the Colonel heard a sentry challenge Sharpe, heard Sharpe’s muffled response and shouted through the open flaps, “Sharpe! Is that you?”

  Sharpe thought briefly about pretending not to have heard, but he was plainly within earshot so he turned towards the tent. “Yes, sir.”

  “Come and have some brandy.” Lawford was entertaining Majors Forrest and Leroy, and with them was Lieutenant Slingsby. All had on greatcoats for, after the last few days of brutal heat, the night was suddenly winter cold.

  Forrest made space on a bench made out of wooden ammunition crates, then stared up at Sharpe. “What happened to you?”

  “Took a tumble, sir,” Sharpe said. His voice was thick, and he leaned to one side and spat out a glutinous gobbet of blood. “Took a tumble.”

  “A tumble?” Lawford was gazing at Sharpe with an expression of horror. “Your nose is bleeding.”

  “Mostly stopped, sir,” Sharpe said, sniffing blood. He remembered the handkerchief that had been used as a white flag at the telegraph station and fished it out. It seemed a pity to stain the fine linen with blood, but he put it over his nose, flinching at the pain. Then he noticed his right hand was cut, presumably by the makeshift clay dagger.

  “A tumble?” Major Leroy echoed the Colonel’s question.

  “Treacherous path down there, sir.”

  “You’ve got a black eye too,” Lawford said.

  “If you’re not up to scratch,” Slingsby said, “then I’ll happily command the company tomorrow, Sharpe.” Slingsby was high-colored and sweating, as if he had drunk too much. He looked to Colonel Lawford and, because he was nervous, gave a snort of laughter. “Be honored to command, sir,” he added quickly.

  Sharpe gave the Lieutenant a look that would have killed. “I was hurt worse than this,” he said icily, “when Sergeant Harper and I took that damned Eagle on your badge.”

  Slingsby stiffened, appalled at Sharpe’s tone, and the other officers looked embarrassed.

  “Have some brandy, Sharpe,” Lawford said emolliently, pouring it from a decanter and pushing the glass across the trestle table. “How was Major Hogan?”

  Sharpe was hurting. His ribs were like strips of fire and it took him a moment to comprehend the question and find an answer. “He’s confident, sir.”

  “I should hope so,” Lawford said. “Aren’t we all? Did you see the Peer?”

  “The Peer?” Slingsby asked. He stumbled slightly on the word, then tossed down the rest of his brandy and helped himself to more.

  “Lord Wellington,” Lawford explained. “So did you see him, Sharpe?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hope you remembered me to him?”

  “Of course, sir.” Sharpe told the required lie and forced himself to add another. “And he asked me to present his regards.”

  “Very civil of him,” Lawford said, plainly pleased. “And does he think the French will come up and dance tomorrow?”

  “He didn’t say, sir.”

  “Perhaps this fog will deter them,” Major Leroy said, peering out of the tent where the haze was perceptibly thickening.

  “Or it will encourage them,” Forrest said. “Our gunners can’t aim into fog.”

  Leroy was watching Sharpe. “Do you need a doctor?”

  “No, sir,” Sharpe lied. His ribs hurt, his skull was throbbing and one of his upper teeth was loose. His belly was a mass of pain, his thigh hurt and he was angry. “Major Hogan,” he forced himself to change the subject, “thinks the French will attack.”

  “Then we’d best keep a keen eye in the morning,” Lawford said, hinting that the evening was over. The officers took the hint, standing and thanking the Colonel, who held out a hand to Sharpe. “Stay a moment, if you will, Sharpe.”

  Slingsby, who looked the worse for drink, drained his glass, banged it down and clicked his heels. “Thank you, William,” he said to Lawford, presuming on their relationship to use the Colonel’s Christian name.

  “Good night, Cornelius,” Lawford said, and waited until the three officers had gone from the tent and were lost in the mist. “He drank rather a lot. Still, I suppose on the eve of a man’s first battle a little fortification isn’t out of order. Sit, Sharpe, sit. Drink some brandy.” He took a glass himself. “Was it really a tumble? You look as if you’ve been in the wars.”

  “Dark in the trees, sir,” Sharpe said woodenly, “and I missed my footing on some steps.”

  “You must take more care, Sharpe,” Lawford said, leaning forward to light a cigar from one of the candles. “It’s gone damned cold, hasn’t it?” He waited for a response, but Sharpe said nothing and the Colonel sighed. “I wanted to talk to you,” he went on between puffs, “about your new fellows. Young Iliffe shaping up well, is he?”

  “He’s an ensign, sir. If he survives a year he might have a chance of growing up.”

  “We were all ensigns once,” Lawford said, “and mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow, eh?”

  “He’s still a bloody small acorn,” Sharpe said.

  “But his father’s a friend of mine, Sharpe. He farms a few acres near Benfleet and he wanted me to look after his son.”

  “I’ll look after him,” Sharpe said.

  “I’m sure you will,” Lawford said, “and what about Cornelius?”

  “Cornelius?” Sharpe asked, wanting time to think. He swilled his bloody mouth out with brandy, spat it onto the ground, then drank some and fancied it took away some of the hurt.

  “How’s Cornelius doing?” Lawford asked pleasantly. “Being useful, is he?”

  “He has to learn our ways,” Sharpe said warily.

  “Of course he must, of course. But I particularly wanted him to be with you.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Why?” The Colonel seemed taken aback by the direct question, but then waved the cigar as if to say the answer was obvious. “I think he’s a capital fellow, and I’ll be honest with you, Sharpe, I’m not sure young Knowles possesses the right verve for skirmishing.”

  “He’s a good officer,” Sharpe said indignantly, and then wished he had not spoken so forcibly for the pain in his ribs seemed to stab right to his heart.

  “Oh, none finer!” Lawford agreed hastily. “And an admirable character, but you skirmishers aren’t dull fellows, are you? You’re the whippers-in! I need my light company to be audacious! Aggressive! Astute!” Each quality was accompanied by a thump that rattled the glass and silverware on the table, but the Colonel paused after the third, evidently realizing that astuteness lacked the force of audacity and aggression. He thought for a few seconds, trying to find a more impressive word, then carried on without thinking of it. “I believe Cornelius has those qualities and I look to you, Sharpe, to bring him on.” Lawford paused again, as if expecting Sharpe to respond, but when the rifleman said nothing the Colonel looked acutely embarrassed. “The nub of the matter is, Sharpe, that Cornelius seems to think you don’t like him.”

  “Most people think that, sir,” Sharpe said woodenly.

  “Do they?” Lawford looked surprised. “I suppose they might. Not everyone knows you as well as I do.” He paused to draw on his cigar. “Do you ever miss India, Sharpe?”

  “India,” Sharpe responded cautiously. He and Lawford had served there together when Lawford had been a lieutenant and Sharpe a private. “I liked i
t well enough.”

  “There are regiments in India that could use an experienced officer,” Lawford said casually and Sharpe felt a stab of betrayal because the words suggested the Colonel did want to be rid of him. He said nothing, and Lawford seemed unaware of having given any offence. “So I can reassure Cornelius that all is well?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sharpe said, then stood. “I must go and inspect the picquets, sir.”

  “Of course you must,” Lawford said, not hiding his frustration with the conversation. “We should talk more often, Sharpe.”

  Sharpe took his battered shako and walked out into the fog-shrouded night. He picked his way through the thick darkness, going across the ridge’s wide crest and then some short way down the eastern slope until he could just see the mist-blurred string of enemy fires in the valley’s deep darkness. Let them come, he thought, let them come. If he could not murder Ferragus then he would take out his anger on the French. He heard footsteps behind him, but did not turn round. “Evening, Pat,” he said.

  “What happened to you?” Harper must have seen Sharpe inside the Colonel’s tent and had followed him down the slope.

  “That bloody Ferragus and two of his coves.”

  “Tried to kill you?”

  Sharpe shook his head. “Bloody nearly succeeded. Would have done, except three provosts came along.”

  “Provosts! Never thought they’d be useful. And how is Mister Ferragus?”

  “I hurt him, but not enough. He beat me, Pat. Beat me bloody.”

  Harper thought about that. “And what did you tell the Colonel?”

  “That I had a tumble.”

  “So that’s what I’ll tell the lads when they notice you’re better-looking than usual. And tomorrow I’ll keep an eye open for Mister Ferragus. You think he’ll be back for more?”

  “No, he’s buggered off.”

  “We’ll find him, sir, we’ll find him.”

  “But not tomorrow, Pat. We’re going to be busy tomorrow. Major Hogan reckons the Frogs are coming up this hill.”