Sharpe's Eagle s-8 Page 2

  Sharpe leaned forward to peer more closely at the map. Give or take the width of Hogan’s finger the bridge must be sixty miles beyond the border and they were that far from Spain already. “When do we leave?”

  “Now there’s a problem.” Hogan folded the map carefully. “We can leave for the frontier tomorrow but we can’t cross until we’re formally invited by the Spanish.” He leaned back with his cup of brandy. “And we have to wait for our escort.”

  “Escort!” Sharpe bridled. “We’re your escort.”

  Hogan shook his head. “Oh, no. This is politics. The Spanish will let us blow up their bridge but only if a Spanish Regiment goes along with us. It’s a question of pride, apparently.”

  “Pride!” Sharpe’s anger was obvious. “If you have a whole Regiment of Spaniards then why the hell do you need us?”

  Hogan smiled placatingly. “Oh, I need you. There’s more, you see.” He was interrupted by Harper. The Sergeant was standing at the window, oblivious of their conversation, and staring into the small square.

  “That is nice. Oh, sir, that can clean my rifle any day of the week.”

  Sharpe looked through the small window. Outside, on a black mare, sat a girl dressed in black; black breeches, black jacket, and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed her face but in no way obscured a beauty that was startling. Sharpe saw a wide mouth, dark eyes, coiled hair the colour of fine powder, and then she became aware of their scrutiny. She half smiled at them and turned away, snapped an order at a servant holding the halter of a mule, and stared at the road leading from the plaza towards the centre of Abrantes. Hogan made a small, contented noise. “That is special. They don’t come out like that very often. I wonder who she is?”

  “Officer’s wife?” Sharpe suggested.

  Harper shook his head. “No ring, sir. But she’s waiting for someone, lucky bastard.”

  And a rich bastard, thought Sharpe. The army was collecting its customary tail of women and children who followed the Regiments to war. Each Battalion was allowed to take sixty soldiers’ wives to an overseas war but no-one could stop other women joining the ‘official’ wives; local girls, prostitutes, seamstresses and washerwomen, all making their living from the army. This girl looked different. There was the smell of money and privilege about her, as if she had run away from a rich Lisbon home. Sharpe presumed she was the lover of a rich officer, one of the breed who would regard his woman as much a part of his equipment as his thoroughbred horses, his Manton pistols, his silver dinnerware for camp meals, and the hounds that would trot obediently at his horse’s tail. There were plenty of girls like her, Sharpe knew, girls who cost a lot of money, and he felt the old envy rise in him.

  “My God.” Harper, still staring out the window, had spoken again.

  “What is it?” Sharpe leaned forward and, like his Sergeant, he could hardly believe his eyes. A Battalion of British Infantry was marching steadily into the square but a Battalion the like of which Sharpe had not seen for more than twelve months. A year in Portugal had turned the army into a Drill-Sergeant’s nightmare: the soldiers’ uniforms had faded and been patched with the ubiquitous brown cloth of the Portuguese peasants, their hair had grown long, the polish had long disappeared from buttons and badges. Sir Arthur Wellesley did not mind; he only cared that a soldier had sixty rounds of ammunition and a clear head, and if his trousers were brown instead of white then it made no difference to the outcome of a fight. But this Battalion was fresh from England. Their coats were a brilliant scarlet, their crossbelts pipeclayed white, their boots a mirror-surfaced black. Each man wore tightly-buttoned gaiters and, even more surprising, they still wore the infamous stocks; four inches of stiffly varnished black leather that constricted the neck and was supposed to keep a man’s chin high and back straight. Sharpe could not remember when he had last seen a stock; once on campaign the men ‘lost’ them, and with them went the running sores where the rigid leather dug into the soft flesh beneath the jawbone.

  “They’ve taken the wrong turning for Windsor Castle,” Harper said.

  Sharpe shook his head. “They’re unbelievable!” Whoever commanded this Battalion must have made the men’s lives hell to keep them looking so immaculate despite the voyage from England in cramped and foul ships and the long march from Lisbon in the summer heat. Their weapons shone, their equipment was pristine and regular, while their faces bulged red from the constricting stocks and the unaccustomed sun. At the head of each company rode the officers, all, Sharpe noted, mounted superbly. The colours were cased in polished leather and guarded by Sergeants whose halberd blades had been burnished to a brilliant, glittering sheen. The men marched in perfect step, looking neither right nor left, for all the world, as Harper had said, as if they were marching for the Royal duty at Windsor.

  “Who are they?” Sharpe was trying to think of the Regiments who had yellow facings on their uniforms but this looked like none of the Regiments he knew.

  “The South Essex,” Hogan said.

  „The who?“

  “The South Essex. They’re new, very new. Just raised by Lieutenant Colonel Sir Henry Simmerson, a cousin of General Sir Banestre Tarleton.”

  Sharpe whistled softly. Tarleton had fought in the American war and now sat in Parliament as Wellesley’s bitterest military opponent. Sharpe had heard said that Tarleton wanted the command of the army in Portugal for himself and bitterly resented the younger man’s preferment. Tarleton was a man of influence, a dangerous enemy for Wellesley, and Sharpe knew enough about the politics of high command to realise that the presence of Tarleton’s cousin in the army would not be welcomed by Wellesley.

  “Is that him?” He pointed to a portly man riding a grey horse in the centre of the Battalion.

  Hogan nodded. “That is Sir Henry Simmerson, whom God preserve or preferably not.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Sir Henry Simmerson had a red face lined with purple veins and pendulous with jowls. His eyes, at the distance Sharpe was seeing them, seemed small and red, and on either side of the suspicious, questing face there sprung prominent ears that looked like the protruding trunnions either side of a cannon barrel. He looked, Sharpe thought, like a pig on horseback. “I’ve not heard of the man.”

  “That’s not surprising. He’s done nothing.” Hogan was scornful. “Landed money, in Parliament for Paglesham, justice of the peace and, God help us, a Militia Colonel.” Hogan seemed surprised by his own lack of charity. “He means well. He won’t be content till those lads are the best damned Battalion in the army but I think the man has a terrible shock coming when he finds the difference between us and the Militia.”

  Like other Regular officers Hogan had little time for the Militia, Britain’s second army. It was used exclusively within Britain itself, never had to fight, never went hungry, never slept in an open field beneath a cloudburst, yet it paraded with a glorious pomp and self-importance.

  Hogan laughed. “Mustn’t complain. We’re lucky to have Sir Henry.”

  “Lucky?” Sharpe looked at the greying Engineer.

  “Oh, yes. Sir Henry only arrived in Abrantes yesterday but he tells us he’s a great expert on war. The man’s not yet seen a Frenchman but he’s lectured the General on how to beat them!” Hogan laughed and shook his head. “Maybe he’ll learn. One battle could take the starch out of him.”

  Sharpe looked at the companies marching steadily through the square like automatons. The brass badges on their shakoes reflected the sun but the faces beneath the brilliance were expressionless. Sharpe loved the army, it was his home, the refuge that an orphan had needed sixteen years before, but he liked it most of all because it gave him, in a clumsy way, the opportunity to prove again and again that he was valued. He could chafe against the rich and the privileged but he acknowledged that the army had taken him from the gutter and put an officer’s sash round his waist and Sharpe could think of no other job that would offer a low-born bastard on the run from the law the chance of rank and responsibility. But Sharpe had also been l
ucky. In sixteen years he had rarely stopped fighting, and it had been his fortune that the battles in Flanders, India and Portugal had called for men like himself who reacted to danger the way a gambler reacted to a deck of cards. Sharpe suspected he would hate the peacetime army, with its church parades and pointless drills, its petty jealousies and endless polish, and in the South Essex he saw the peacetime army he did not want. “I suppose he’s a flogger?”

  Hogan grimaced. “Floggings, punishment parades, extra drills. You name it and Sir Henry uses it. He will have, he says, only the best. And they are. What do you think of them?”

  Sharpe laughed grimly. “God keep me from the South Essex. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

  Hogan smiled. “I’m afraid it is.”

  Sharpe looked at him, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Hogan shrugged. “I told you there was more. If a Spanish Regiment marches to Valdelacasa then Sir Arthur feels, for the sake of diplomacy, that a British one should go as well. Show the flag; that kind of thing.“ He glanced at the polished ranks and back to Sharpe. ”Sir Henry Simmerson and his fine men are going with us.“

  Sharpe groaned. “You mean we have to take orders from him?”

  Hogan pursed his lips. “Not exactly. Strictly speaking you will take your orders from me.” He had spoken primly, like a lawyer, and Sharpe glanced at him curiously. There could be only one reason why Wellesley had subordinated Sharpe and his Riflemen to Hogan, instead of to Simmerson, and that was because the General did not trust Sir Henry. Sharpe still wondered why he was needed; after all Hogan could expect the protection of two whole Battalions, at least fifteen hundred men. “Does the General expect there to be a fight?”

  Hogan shrugged. “He doesn’t know. The Spanish say that the French have a whole Regiment of cavalry on the south bank, with horse artillery, who’ve been chasing Guérilleros up and down the river since spring. Who knows? He thinks they may try to stop us blowing the bridge.”

  “I still don’t understand why you need us.”

  Hogan smiled. “Perhaps I don’t. But there won’t be any action for a month; the French will let us go deep into Spain before they fight, so Valdelacasa will at least be the chance of a scramble. And I want someone with me I can trust. Perhaps I just want you along as a favour?”

  Sharpe smiled. Some favour, wet-nursing a Militia Colonel who thought he knew it all, but he hid his feelings. “For you, sir, it will be a pleasure.”

  Hogan smiled back. “Who knows? It might be. She’s going along.” Sharpe followed Hogan’s gaze out of the window and saw the black-dressed girl raise a hand to an officer of the South Essex. Sharpe had an impression of a blond man, immaculately uniformed, mounted on a horse that had probably cost more than the rider’s commission. The girl spurred her mare forward and, followed by the servant and his mule, joined the rear of the Battalion that was marching down the road that led to Castelo Branco. The square became empty again, the dust settling in the fierce heat, and Sharpe leaned back and began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Hogan asked.

  Sharpe pointed with his cup of brandy at Harper’s tattered jacket and gaping trousers. “Sir Henry’s not exactly going to be fond of his new allies.”

  The Sergeant’s face stayed gloomy. “God save Ireland.”

  Hogan raised his cup. “Amen to that.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The drumbeats were distant and muffled, sometimes blending with the other sounds of the city, but insistent and sinister, and Sharpe was glad when the sound stopped. He was also glad they had reached Castelo Branco, twenty-four hours after the South Essex, after a tiresome journey that had consisted of forcing Hogan’s mules along a road cut with deep, jagged ruts showing where the field artillery had gone before them. Now the mules, laden with powder kegs, oilskin packets of match-fuse, picks, crowbars, spades, all the equipment Hogan needed for Valdelacasa, followed patiently behind the Riflemen and Hogan’s artificers as they pushed their way through the crowded streets towards the main square. As they spilled into the bright sunlight Sharpe’s suspicions about the drumbeats were confirmed.

  Someone had been flogged. It was over now. The victim had gone and Sharpe, watching the hollow square formation of the South Essex, remembered his own flogging, years before, and the struggle to keep the agony shut up, not to show to the officers that the lash had hurt. Sharpe would carry the scars of his flogging to his grave but he doubted whether Simmerson knew how savage was the punishment he had just meted to his men.

  Hogan reined in his horse in the shade of the Bishop’s palace. “This doesn’t seem to be the best moment to talk to the good Colonel.” Soldiers were taking down four wooden triangles that were propped against the far wall of the square. Four men flogged. Dear God, thought Sharpe, four men. Hogan turned his horse so that his back was to the Battalion. “I must lock up the powder, Richard. Otherwise every bloody grain will be stolen. I’ll meet you back here.“

  Sharpe nodded. “I need water anyway. Ten minutes?”

  Sharpe’s men collapsed at the foot of the wall, their packs and rifles discarded, their mood soured by the reminder before them of a discipline the Rifle Regiments had virtually discarded. Sir Henry rode his horse delicately to the centre of the square and his voice carried clearly to Sharpe and his men.

  “I have flogged four men because four men deserted.” Sharpe looked up, startled. Deserters already? He looked at the Battalion, their faces expressionless, and wondered how many others were tempted to escape from Simmerson’s ranks. The Colonel was half standing in his saddle. “Some of you know how those men planned their crime. Some of you helped them. But you preferred silence so I have flogged four men to remind you of your duty.” His voice was curiously high pitched; it would have been funny if the man’s presence was not so big. He had been speaking in a controlled manner, almost conversationally, but suddenly Sir Henry turned left and right and waved an arm as if to point at every man in his command. “You will be the best!” The loudness was so sudden that pigeons burst startled from the ledges of the convent. Sharpe waited for more, but there was none, and the Colonel turned his horse and rode away, leaving the battle cry lingering as a menacing echo.

  Sharpe caught Harper’s eye and the Sergeant shrugged. There was nothing to be said, the faces of the South Essex proclaimed Simmerson’s failure; they simply did not know how to be the best. Sharpe watched as the companies marched from the plaza and saw only sullenness and resentment in their expressions. Sharpe believed in discipline. Desertion to the enemy deserved death, some offences deserved a flogging, and if a man was hung for blatant looting then it was his fault because the rules were simple. And for Sharpe, that was the key; keep the rules simple. He asked three things of his men. That they fought, as he did, with a ruthless professionalism. That they stole only from the enemy and the dead unless they were starving. And that they never got drunk without his permission. It was a simple code, understandable by men who had mostly joined the army because they had failed elsewhere, and it worked. It was backed by punishment, and Sharpe knew, for all that his men liked him and followed him willingly, that they feared his anger when they broke his trust. Sharpe was a soldier.

  He crossed the square towards an alleyway, looking for a water fountain, and noticed a Lieutenant of the South Essex’s Light Company riding his horse towards the same shadowed gap between the buildings.

  It was the man who had waved to the black-dressed girl, and Sharpe felt a stab of irritation as he entered the alley first. It was an irrational jealousy. The Lieutenant’s uniform was elegantly tailored, the Light Infantry curved sabre was expensive, and the black horse he rode was probably worth a Lieutenant’s commission by itself. Sharpe resented the man’s wealth, his privilege, the easy superiority of a man born to the landed gentry, and it annoyed Sharpe because he knew that resentment was based on envy. He squeezed into the side of the alley to let the horseman pass, looked up and nodded affably, and had an impression of a thin, handsome face fringed with blo
nd hair. He hoped the Lieutenant would ignore him; Sharpe was bad at small talk and he had no wish to make stilted conversation in a foetid alley when he would doubtless be introduced to the Battalion’s officers later in the day.

  Sharpe was disappointed. The Lieutenant stopped and stared down at the Rifleman. “Don’t they teach you to salute in the Rifles?” The Lieutenant’s voice was as smooth and rich as his uniform. Sharpe said nothing. His epaulette was missing, torn off in the winter’s fighting, and he realised that the blond Lieutenant had mistaken him for a private. It was hardly surprising. The alleyway was deeply shadowed, Sharpe’s profile, with slung rifle, all helped to explain the Lieutenant’s mistake. Sharpe glanced up to the thin, blue-eyed face and was about to explain when the Lieutenant flicked his whip so that it slapped Sharpe’s face.

  “Damn you, man, answer me!”

  Sharpe felt the anger rise in him, but stayed still and waited for his moment. The Lieutenant drew the whip back.

  “What Battalion? What Company?”

  “Second Battalion, Fourth Company.” Sharpe spoke with deliberate insolence and remembered the days when he had no protection against officers like this. The Lieutenant smiled again, no more pleasantly.

  “You will call me ”sir“, you know. I shall make you. Who’s your officer?”

  “Lieutenant Sharpe.”

  “Ah!” The Lieutenant kept his whip raised. “Lieutenant Sharpe whom we’ve all been told about. Came up from the ranks, didn’t he?”

  Sharpe nodded and the Lieutenant drew the whip back further.

  “Is that why you don’t say ”sir“? Has Mr Sharpe strange ideas on discipline? Well, I will have to see Lieutenant Sharpe, won’t I, and arrange to have you punished for insolence.” He brought the whip slashing down towards Sharpe’s head. There was no room for Sharpe to step back, but there was no need; instead he put both hands under the man’s stirrup and heaved upwards with all his strength. The whip stopped somewhere in mid stroke, the man started to cry out, and the next instant he was flat on his back on the far side of his horse where another horse had dunged earlier.