Sharpe 3-Book Collection 4: Sharpe's Escape, Sharpe's Fury, Sharpe's Battle Page 7

  Which was a comforting thought to end the day, and the two sat, listening to the singing from the dark encampments behind. A dog began barking somewhere in the British lines and immediately dozens of others echoed the sound, prompting angry shouts as the beasts were told to be quiet, and slowly peace descended again, all but for one dog that would not stop. On and on it went, barking frantically, until there was the sudden harsh crack of a musket or pistol.

  “That’s the way to do it,” Harper said.

  Sharpe said nothing. He just gazed down the hill to where the French fires were a dull, hazed glow in the mist. “But what will we do about Mister Ferragus?” Harper asked. “He can’t be allowed to get away with assaulting a rifleman.”

  “If we lose tomorrow,” Sharpe said, “we’ll have to retreat through Coimbra. That’s where he lives.”

  “So we’ll find him there,” Harper said grimly, “and give him what he deserves. But what if we win tomorrow?”

  “God only knows,” Sharpe said, and nodded down the hill to the misted firelight. There were thousands of fires. “Follow those bastards back to Spain, I suppose,” he went on, “and fight them there.” And go on fighting them, he thought, month after month, year after year, until the very crack of doom. But it would begin tomorrow, with sixty thousand Frenchmen who wanted to take a hill. Tomorrow.

  MARSHAL NEY, second in command of l’Armée de Portugal, reckoned the whole of the enemy army was on the ridge. There were no fires in the high darkness to betray their presence, but Ney could smell them. A soldier’s instinct. The bastards were laying a trap, hoping the French would stroll up the hill to be slaughtered, and Ney reckoned they should be obliged. Send the Eagles up the hill and beat the bastards into mincemeat, but Ney was not the man to make that decision and so he summoned an aide, Captain D’Esmenard, and told him to find Marshal Masséna. “Tell his highness,” Ney said, “that the enemy’s waiting to be killed. Tell him to get back here fast. Tell him there’s a battle to be fought.”

  Captain D’Esmenard had a journey of more than twenty miles and he had to be escorted by two hundred dragoons who clattered into the small town of Tondella long after nightfall. A tricolor flew above the porch of the house where Masséna lodged. Six sentries stood outside, their muskets tipped by bayonets that reflected the firelight of the brazier that offered a small warmth in the sudden cold.

  D’Esmenard climbed the stairs and hammered on the Marshal’s door. There was silence.

  D’Esmenard knocked again. This time there was a woman’s giggle followed by the distinct sound of a hand slapping flesh, then the woman laughed. “Who is it?” the Marshal called.

  “A message from Marshal Ney, your highness.” Marshal André Masséna was Duke of Rivoli and Prince of Essling.

  “From Ney?”

  “The enemy has definitely stopped, sir. They’re on the ridge.”

  The girl squealed.

  “The enemy has what?”

  “Stopped, sir,” D’Esmenard shouted through the door. “The Marshal believes you should come back.” Masséna had been in the valley beneath the ridge for a few moments in the afternoon, given his opinion that the enemy would not stand and fight, and ridden back to Tondela. The girl said something and there was the sound of another slap followed by more giggling.

  “Marshal Ney believes they are offering battle, sir,” D’Esmenard said.

  “Who are you?” the Marshal asked.

  “Captain D’Esmenard, sir.”

  “One of Ney’s boys, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you eaten, D’Esmenard?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Go downstairs, Captain, tell my cook to give you supper. I shall join you.”

  “Yes, sir.” D’Esmenard paused. He heard a grunt, a sigh, then the sound of bedsprings rhythmically squeaking.

  “Are you still there, Captain?” the Prince of Essling shouted.

  D’Esmenard crept downstairs, timing his steps on the creaking stair treads to the regular bounce of the bedsprings. He ate cold chicken. And waited.

  PEDRO AND LUIS FERREIRA had always been close. Luis, the oldest, the rebel, the huge, uncontrollable boy, had been the brighter of the two, and if he had not been exiled from his family, if he had not been sent to the nuns who beat and mocked him, if he had not run away from Coimbra to see the world, he might have secured an education and become a scholar, though in truth that would have been an unlikely fate for Luis. He was too big, too belligerent, too careless of his own and other men’s feelings, and so he had become Ferragus. He had sailed the world, killed men in Africa, Europe and America, had seen the sharks eat the dying slaves thrown overboard off the Brazilian coast, and then he had come home to his younger brother and the two of them, so different and yet so close, had embraced. They were brothers. Ferragus had come home rich enough to set himself up in business, rich enough to own a score of properties about the city, but Pedro insisted that he have a room in his house to use when he wished. “My house is your house,” he had promised Ferragus, and though Major Ferreira’s wife might wish otherwise she dared not protest.

  Ferragus rarely used the room in his brother’s house, but on the day when the two armies faced each other at Bussaco, after his brother had promised to lure Captain Sharpe to a beating among the trees, Ferragus had promised Pedro that he would return to Coimbra and there guard the Ferreira household until the pattern of the French campaign was clear. Folk were supposed to be fleeing the city, going to Lisbon, but if the French were stopped then no such flight would be necessary, and whether they were stopped or not, there was unrest in the streets because people were unhappy with the orders to abandon their homes. Ferreira’s house, grand and rich, bought with the legacy of his father’s wealth, would be a likely place for thieves to plunder, though none would dare touch it if Ferragus and his men were there and so, after his failure to kill the impudent rifleman, the big man rode to keep his promise.

  The journey from the ridge of Bussaco to the city of Coimbra was less than twenty miles, but the mist and the darkness slowed Ferragus and his men, so it was just before dawn that they rode past the imposing university buildings and down the hill to his brother’s house. There was a squeal from the hinges of the gates to the stable yard where Ferragus dismounted, abandoned his horse and pushed into the kitchen to thrust his injured hand into a vat of cool water. Sweet Jesus, he thought, but the damned rifleman had to die. Had to die. Ferragus brooded on the unfairness of life as he used a cloth to wipe the wounds on his jawbone and cheeks. He winced at the pain, though it was not as bad as the throbbing in his groin that persisted from their confrontation at the shrine. Next time, Ferragus promised himself, next time he would face Mister Sharpe with nothing but fists and he would kill the Englishman as he had killed so many other men, by pulverizing him into a bloody, whimpering mess. Sharpe had to die, Ferragus had sworn it, and if he did not keep the oath then his men would think he was weakening.

  He was being weakened anyway. The war had seen to that. Many of his victims had fled Coimbra and its surrounding farmlands, gone to take shelter in Lisbon. That temporary setback would pass, and, anyway, Ferragus hardly needed to go on extorting money. He was rich, but he liked to keep cash flowing for he did not trust the banks. He liked land, and the vast profits of his slaving years had been invested in vineyards, farms, houses and shops. He owned every brothel in Coimbra and scarcely a student at the university did not live in a house owned by Ferragus. He was rich, rich beyond his childhood dreams, but he could never be rich enough. He loved money. He yearned for it, loved it, caressed it, dreamed of it.

  He rinsed his jaw again and saw how the water dripped pink from the cloth. Capitâo Sharpe. He said the name aloud, feeling the pain in his mouth. He looked at his hand that was hurting. He reckoned he had cracked some knuckle bones, but he could still move his fingers so the damage could not be that bad. He dipped the knuckles in the water, then turned suddenly as the kitchen door opened and his brother’s
governess, Miss Fry, dressed in a nightdress and a heavy woolen gown, came into the kitchen. She was carrying a candle and gave a small start of surprise when she saw her employer’s brother. “I am sorry, senhor,” she said, and made to leave.

  “Come in,” Ferragus growled.

  Sarah would rather have gone back to her room, but she had heard the horses clattering in the stable yard and, hoping it might be Major Ferreira with news of the French advance, she had come to the kitchen. “You’re hurt,” she said.

  “I fell from my horse,” Ferragus said. “Why are you up?”

  “To make tea,” Sarah said. “I make it every morning. And I wondered, senhor,” she took a kettle off the shelf, “whether you have news of the French.”

  “The French are pigs,” Ferragus said, “which is all you need to know, so make your tea and make some for me too.”

  Sarah put down the candle, opened the stove and fed kindling onto the embers. When the kindling was blazing she put more wood onto the fire. By the time the fire was properly burning there were other servants busy around the house, opening shutters and sweeping the corridors, but none came into the kitchen where Sarah hesitated before filling the kettle. The water in the big vat was bloodstained. “I’ll draw some from the well,” she said.

  Ferragus watched her through the open door. Miss Sarah Fry was a symbol of his brother’s aspirations. To Major Ferreira and his wife an English governess was as prized a possession as fine porcelain or crystal chandeliers or gilt furniture. Sarah proclaimed their good taste, but Ferragus regarded her as a priggish waste of his brother’s money. A typical, snobbish Englishwoman, he reckoned, and what would she turn Tomas and Maria into? Little stuck-up copies of herself? Tomas did not need manners or to know English; he needed to know how to defend himself. And Maria? Her mother could teach her manners, and so long as she was pretty, what else mattered? That was Ferragus’s view, anyway, but he had also noticed, ever since Miss Fry had come to his brother’s house, that she was pretty, more than just pretty, beautiful. Fair-skinned, fair-haired, blue-eyed, tall, elegant. “How old are you?” he asked as she came back to the kitchen.

  “Is it any business of yours, senhor?” Sarah asked briskly.

  Ferragus smiled. “My brother sent me here to protect you all. I like to know what I’m protecting.”

  “I’m twenty-two, senhor.” Sarah set the kettle on the stove, then stood the big brown English teapot close by so that the china would warm. She took down the tin caddy, then had nothing to do because the pot was still cold and the kettle would take long minutes to boil on the newly awakened fire so, abhorring idleness, she began polishing some spoons.

  “Are Tomas and Maria learning properly?” Ferragus addressed her back.

  “When they apply themselves,” Sarah said briskly.

  “Tomas tells me you hit him.”

  “Of course I hit him,” Sarah said, “I am his governess.”

  “But you don’t hit Maria?”

  “Maria does not use bad language,” Sarah said, “and I detest bad language.”

  “Tomas will be a man,” Ferragus said, “so he will need bad language.”

  “Then he may learn it from you, senhor,” Sarah retorted, looking Ferragus in the eye, “but I shall teach him not to use it in front of ladies. If he learns that alone then I shall have been useful.”

  Ferragus gave a grunt that might have been amusement. He was challenged by her gaze, which showed no fear of him. He was accustomed to his brother’s other servants shrinking when he passed; they dropped their eyes and tried to become invisible, but this English girl was brazen. But also beautiful, and he marveled at the line of her neck which was shadowed by unruly fair hair. Such white skin, he thought, so delicate. “You teach them French. Why?” he asked.

  “Because the Major’s wife expects it,” Sarah said, “because it is the language of diplomacy. Because possession of French is a requisite of gentility.”

  Ferragus made a growling noise in his throat that was evidently a verdict on gentility, then shrugged. “The language will at least be useful if the French come here,” he said.

  “If the French come here,” Sarah said, “then we should be long gone. Is that not what the government has ordered?”

  Ferragus flinched as he moved his right hand. “But perhaps they won’t come now. Not if they lose the battle.”

  “The battle?”

  “Your Lord Wellington is at Bussaco. He hopes the French will attack him.”

  “I pray they do,” Sarah said confidently, “because then he will beat them.”

  “Perhaps,” Ferragus said, “or perhaps your Lord Wellington will do what Sir John Moore did at La Coruña. Fight, win and run away.”

  Sarah sniffed to show her opinion of that statement.

  “Os ingleses,” Ferragus said savagely, “por mar.”

  The English, he had said, are for the sea. It was a general belief in Portugal. The British were opportunists, looking for victory, but running from any possible defeat. They had come, they had fought, but they would not stay to the end. Os ingleses por mar.

  Sarah half feared Ferragus was right, but would not admit it. “You say your brother sent you to protect us?” she asked instead.

  “He did. He can’t be here. He has to stay with the army.”

  “Then I shall rely on you, senhor, to make certain I am long gone to safety if, as you say, the English take to the sea. I cannot stay here if the French come.”

  “You cannot stay here?”

  “Indeed not. I am English.”

  “I shall protect you, Miss Fry,” Ferragus said.

  “I am glad to hear it,” she said briskly and turned back to the kettle.

  Bitch, Ferragus thought, stuck-up English bitch. “Forget my tea,” he said and stalked from the kitchen.

  And then, from far off, half heard, there was a noise like thunder. It rose and fell, faded to nothing, came again, and at its loudest the windows shook softly in their frames. Sarah stared into the yard and saw the cold gray mist and she knew it was not thunder she heard from so far away.

  It was the French.

  Because it was dawn and, at Bussaco, the guns were at work.

  Chapter 3

  SHARPE SLEPT BADLY. The ground was damp, it got colder as the night wore on and he was hurting. His damaged ribs stabbed like knives every time he moved, and when he finally abandoned sleep and stood in the pre-dawn darkness, he wanted to lie down again because of the pain. He fingered his ribs, wondering if the injury was worse than he feared. His right eye was swollen, tender to the touch and half shut.

  “You awake, sir?” a voice called from nearby.

  “I’m dead,” Sharpe said.

  “Mug of tea, then, sir?” It was Matthew Dodd, a rifleman in Sharpe’s company who had been newly made up to corporal while Sharpe was away. Knowles had given Dodd the extra stripe and Sharpe approved of the promotion.

  “Thanks, Matthew,” Sharpe said and grimaced with pain as he stooped to collect some damp scraps of wood to help make a fire. Dodd had already used a steel and flint to light some kindling that he now blew into bright flame.

  “Are we supposed to have fires, sir?” Dodd asked.

  “We weren’t supposed to last night, Matthew, but in this damned fog who could see one? Anyway, I need some tea, so get her going.” Sharpe added his wood, then listened to the crack and hiss of the new flames as Dodd filled a kettle with water and threw in a handful of tea leaves that he kept loose in his pouch. Sharpe added some of his own, then fed the fire with more wood.

  “Damp old morning,” Dodd said.

  “Bloody mist.” Sharpe could see the fog was still thick.

  “Be reveille soon,” Dodd said, settling the kettle in the flames.

  “Can’t even be half past two yet,” Sharpe said. Here and there along the ridge other men were lighting fires that made glowing, misted patches in the fog, but most of the army still slept. Sharpe had picquets out at the ridge’s eastern e
dge, but he did not need to check them for another few minutes.

  “Sergeant Harper said you fell down some steps, sir,” Dodd said, looking at Sharpe’s bruised face.

  “Dangerous things, steps, Matthew. Especially in the dark when it’s slippery.”

  “Sexton back home died like that,” Dodd said, his gaunt face lit by the flames. “He went up the church tower to fasten a new rope on the big tenor bell and he slipped. Some said he was pushed, mind, because his wife was sweet on another man.”

  “You, Matthew?”

  “Mister Sharpe!” Dodd said, shocked. “Not me, no!”

  The tea brewed quickly enough and Sharpe scooped some out with his tin mug and then, after thanking Dodd, went across the ridge top towards the French. He did not go down the slope, but found a small spur that jutted out close to the road. The spur, which protruded like a bastion from the ridge’s top, extended out for a hundred paces before ending in a knoll crowned with a ragged jumble of scattered boulders and it was there he expected to find the sentries. He stamped his feet as he went, wanting to alert the picquets to his presence.

  “Who’s there?” The challenge came smartly enough, but Sharpe had expected it because Sergeant Read was doing duty.

  “Captain Sharpe.”

  “Countersign, Captain?” Read demanded.

  “A sip of hot tea, Sergeant, if you don’t shoot me,” Sharpe said.

  Read was a stickler for following the rules, but even a Methodist could be persuaded to ignore a missing password by an offer of tea. “The password’s Jessica, sir,” he told Sharpe reprovingly.

  “The Colonel’s wife, eh? Mister Slingsby forgot to tell me.” He handed Read the mug of tea. “Anything nasty about?”

  “Not a thing, sir, not a thing.”

  Ensign Iliffe, who was nominally in charge of the picquet, though under standing orders to do nothing without his Sergeant’s agreement, came and gawped at Sharpe.

  “Good morning, Mister Iliffe,” Sharpe said.

  “Sir,” the boy stammered, too scared to make conversation.