Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (28 page)

The Marshal had invited a dozen guests to breakfast and all had arrived before nine in the morning and were forced to wait in one of the great reception rooms on the palace’s western side where tall glass doors opened onto a terrace decorated with flowers planted in carved stone urns and with laurel bushes that an elderly gardener was trimming with long shears. The guests, all but one of them men, and all but two of them French, continually strolled onto the terrace which offered, from its southern balustrade, a view across the river and thus a sight of the guns that fired over the Douro. In truth there was not much to see because the British cannon were emplaced in Vila Nova de Gaia’s streets and so, even
with the help of telescopes, the guests merely saw gouts of dirty smoke and then heard the crash of the round shots striking the buildings that faced Oporto’s quay. The only other sight worth seeing was the remains of the pontoon bridge which the French had repaired at the beginning of April, but had now blown up because of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s approach. Three scorched pontoons still swung to their anchors, the rest, along with the roadway, had been blasted to smithereens and carried by the tide to the nearby ocean.

Kate was the only woman invited to the Marshal’s breakfast and her husband had been adamant that she wear her hussar uniform and his insistence was rewarded by the admiring glances that the other guests gave to his wife’s long legs. Christopher himself was in civilian clothes, while the other ten men, all officers, were in their uniforms and, because a woman was present, they did their best to appear insouciant about the British cannonade. “What they are doing,” a dragoon major resplendent in aiguillettes and gold braid remarked, “is shooting at our sentries with six-pound shots. They’re swatting at flies with a bludgeon.” He lit a cigar, breathed deep and gave Kate a long appreciative look. “With a butt like that,” he said to his friend, “she should be French.”

“She should be on her back.”

“That too, of course.”

Kate kept herself turned away from the French officers. She was ashamed of the hussar uniform which she thought immodest and, worse, appeared to suggest her sympathies were with the French. “You might make an effort,” Christopher told her.

“I am making an effort,” she answered bitterly, “an effort not to cheer every British shot.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I am?” Kate bridled.

“This is merely a demonstration,” Christopher explained, waving toward the powder smoke that drifted like patchy fog through the red-tiled roofs of Vila Nova. “Wellesley has marched his men up here and he can’t go any further. He’s stuck. There are no boats and the navy isn’t foolish enough to try and sail past the river forts. So Wellesley will hammer a
few cannonballs into the city, then turn around and march back to Coimbra or Lisbon. In chess terms, my dear, this is a stalemate. Soult can’t march south because his reinforcements haven’t arrived and Wellesley can’t come further north because he doesn’t have the boats. And if the military can’t force a decision here then the diplomats will have to settle matters. Which is why I am here, as I keep trying to tell you.”

“You’re here,” Kate said, “because your sympathies are with the French.”

“That is an exceptionally offensive remark,” Christopher said haughtily. “I am here because sane men must do whatever they can to prevent this war continuing, and to do that we must talk with the enemy and I cannot talk with them if I am on the wrong side of the river.”

Kate did not answer. She no longer believed her husband’s complicated explanations of why he was friendly with the French or his high talk of the new ideas controlling Europe’s destiny. She clung instead to the simpler idea of being a patriot and all she wanted now was to cross the river and join the men on the far side, but there were no boats, no bridge left and no way to escape. She began to weep and Christopher, disgusted at her display of misery, turned away. He worked at his teeth with an ivory pick and marveled that a woman so beautiful could be so prey to vapors.

Kate cuffed at her tears, then walked to where the gardener was slowly clipping the laurels. “How do I get across the river?” she asked in Portuguese.

The man did not look at her, just clipped away. “You can’t.”

“I must!”

“They shoot you if you try.” He looked at her, taking in the tight-fitting hussar uniform, then turned away. “They shoot you anyway.”

A clock in the palace’s hallway struck eleven as Marshal Soult descended the great staircase. He wore a silk robe over his breeches and shirt. “Is breakfast ready?” he demanded.

“In the blue reception room, sir,” an aide answered, “and your guests are here.”

“Good, good!” He waited as the doors were thrown open for him, then greeted the visitors with a broad smile. “Take your seats, do. Ah, I see we are being informal.” This last remark was because the breakfast was laid in silver chafing dishes on a long sideboard, and the Marshal went along the row lifting lids. “Ham! Splendid. Braised kidneys, excellent! Beef! Some tongue, good, good. And liver. That does look tasty. Good morning, Colonel!” This greeting was to Christopher who replied by giving the Marshal a bow. “How good of you to come,” Soult went on, “and did you bring your pretty wife? Ah, I see her. Good, good. You shall sit there, Colonel.” He pointed to a chair next to the one he would occupy. Soult liked the Englishman who had betrayed the plotters who would have mutinied if Soult had declared himself king. The Marshal still harbored that ambition, but he acknowledged that he would need to beat back the British and Portuguese army that had dared to advance from Coimbra before he assumed the crown and scepter.

Soult had been surprised by Sir Arthur Wellesley’s advance, but not alarmed. The river was guarded and the Marshal had been assured there were no boats on the opposite bank and so, as far as King Nicolas was concerned, the British could sit on the Douro’s southern bank and twiddle their thumbs forever.

The tall windows rattled in sympathy with the pounding guns and the sound made the Marshal turn from the chafing dishes. “Our gunners are a bit lively this morning, are they not?”

“They’re mostly British guns, sir,” an aide answered.

“Doing what?”

“Firing at our sentries on the quay,” the aide said. “They’re swatting at flies with six-pound balls.”

Soult laughed. “So much for the vaunted Wellesley, eh?” He smiled at Kate and gestured that she should take the place of honor at his right. “So good to have a pretty woman for company at breakfast.”

“Better to have one before breakfast,” an infantry colonel remarked and Kate, who spoke more French than any of the men knew, blushed.

Soult heaped his plate with liver and bacon, then took his seat. “They’re swatting sentries,” he said, “so what are we doing?”

“Counter-battery fire, sir,” the aide answered. “You don’t have any kidneys, sir? Can I bring you some?”

“Oh do, Cailloux. I like kidneys. Any news from the Castelo?” The Castelo de São was on the Douro’s north bank where the river met the sea and was heavily garrisoned to fight off a British seaborne assault.

“They report two frigates just out of range, sir, but no other craft in sight.”

“He dithers, doesn’t he?” Soult said with satisfaction. “This Wellesley, he’s a ditherer. Help yourself to the coffee, Colonel,” he told Christopher, “and if you would be so kind, a cup for me as well. Thank you.” Soult took a bread roll and some butter. “I talked with Vuillard last night,” the Marshal said, “and he’s making excuses. Hundreds of excuses!”

“Another day, sir,” Christopher said, “and we would have captured the hill.”

Kate, her eyes red, looked down at her empty plate.
Nous
, her husband had said, “we.”

“Another day?” Soult responded scornfully. “He should have taken it in a short minute the very first day he arrived!” Soult had recalled Vuillard and his men from Vila Real de Zedes the instant he heard that the British and Portuguese were advancing from Coimbra, but he had been annoyed that so many men had failed to dislodge so small a force. Not that it mattered; what mattered now was that Wellesley had to be taught a lesson.

Soult did not think that should prove too difficult. He knew Wellesley had a small army and was weak in artillery. He knew that because Captain Argenton had been arrested five days before and was now spilling all he knew and all he had observed on his second visit to the British. Argenton had even met with Wellesley himself and the Frenchman had seen the preparations being made for the allied advance, and the warning given to Soult by Argenton had enabled the French regiments south of the river to skip backward out of the way of a force sent to hook about their rear. So now Wellesley was stuck on the wrong side of the Douro without any boats to make a crossing except for any craft
brought by the British navy and that, it seemed, was no danger at all. Two frigates dithering offshore! That was hardly going to make the Duke of Dalmatia quake in his boots.

Argenton, who had been promised his life in exchange for information, had been captured thanks to Christopher’s revelation, and that put Soult in the Englishman’s debt. Christopher had also revealed the names of the other men in the plot, Donadieu of the 47th, the brothers Lafitte of the 18th Dragoons, as well as three or four other experienced officers, and Soult had decided to take no action against them. The arrest of Argenton would be a warning to them, and they were all popular officers and it did not seem sensible to stir up resentment in the army by a succession of firing squads. He would let the officers know that he knew who they were, then hint that their lives depended on their future conduct. Better to have such men in his pocket than in their graves.

Kate was crying. She made no noise, the tears just rolled down her cheeks and she brushed them away in an attempt to hide her feelings, but Soult had noticed. “What is the matter?” he asked gently.

“She fears, sir,” Christopher said.

“She fears?” Soult asked.

Christopher gestured toward the window which still rattled from the pummelling of the cannons. “Women and battle, sir, don’t mix.”

“Only between the sheets,” Soult said genially. “Tell her,” he went on, “that she has nothing to fear. The British cannot cross the river, and if they try they will be repulsed. In a few weeks we shall be reinforced.” He paused so that the translation could be made and hoped he was right in saying that reinforcements would come soon or else he did not know how he was to continue his invasion of Portugal. “Then we shall march south to taste the joys of Lisbon. Tell her we shall have peace by August. Ah! The cook!”

A plump Frenchman with extravagant mustaches had come into the room. He wore a blood-streaked apron with a wicked-looking carving knife thrust into its belt. “You sent for me” he sounded grudging—“sir.”

“Ah!” Soult pushed back his chair and rubbed his hands. “We must
plan supper, Sergeant Deron, supper! I intend to sit sixteen, so what do you suggest?”

“I have eels.”

“Eels!” Soult responded happily. “Stuffed with buttered whiting and mushrooms? Excellent.”

“I shall fillet them,” Sergeant Deron said doggedly, “fry them with parsley and serve the fillets with a red wine sauce. Then for an entrée I have lamb. Very good lamb.”

“Good! I do like lamb,” Soult said. “You can make a caper sauce?”

“A caper sauce!” Deron looked disgusted. “The vinegar will drown the lamb,” he said indignantly, “and it is good lamb, tender and fat.”

“A very delicate caper sauce, perhaps?” Soult suggested.

The guns rose to a sudden fury, shaking the windows and rattling the crystal peardrops of the two chandeliers above the long table, but both the Marshal and the cook ignored the sound. “What I will do,” Deron said in a voice which suggested that there could be no discussion, “is bake the lamb with some goose fat.”

“Good, good,” Soult said.

“And garnish it with onions, ham and a few
cèpes
.”

A harassed-looking officer, sweating and red-faced from the day’s heat, came into the room. “Sir!”

“A moment,” Soult said, frowning, then looked back to Deron. “Onions, ham and some
cèpes
?” he repeated. “And perhaps we might add some
lardons
, Sergeant?
Lardons
go so well with lamb.”

“I shall garnish it with a little chopped ham,” Deron said stoically, “some small onions and a few
cèpes
.”

Soult surrendered. “I know it will taste superb, quite superb. And Deron, thank you for this breakfast. Thank you.”

“It would have been better eaten when it was cooked,” Deron said, then sniffed and went from the room.

Soult beamed at the cook’s retreating back, then scowled at the newcomer who had interrupted him. “You’re Captain Brossard, are you not? You wish some breakfast?” The Marshal indicated with a butter knife that Brossard should take the seat at the end of the table. “How’s General Foy?”

Brossard was an aide to Foy and he had no time for breakfast nor indeed to offer a report on General Foy’s health. He had brought news and, for a second, he was too full of it to speak properly, but then he controlled himself and pointed eastward. “The British, sir, they’re in the seminary.”

Soult stared at him for a heartbeat, not quite believing what he heard. “They are what?” he asked.

“British, sir, in the seminary.”

“But Quesnel assured me there were no boats!” Soult protested. Quesnel was the city’s French governor.

“None on their bank, sir.” All the boats in the city had been pulled from the water and piled on the quays where they were available for the French to use, but would be of no use to anyone coming from the south.

“But they’re nevertheless crossing,” Brossard said. “They’re already on the hill.”

Soult felt his heart miss a beat. The seminary was on a hill that dominated the road to Amarante, and that road was his lifeline back to the depots in Spain and also the connection between the garrison in Oporto and General Loison’s men on the Tamega. If the British cut that road then they could pick off the French army piece by piece and Soult’s reputation would be destroyed along with his men. The Marshal stood, knocking over his chair in his anger. “Tell General Foy to push them back into the river!” he roared. “Now! Go! Push them into the river!”