Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (58 page)

Back in the grove he took off his greatcoat, rolled it tight, and strapped it to his pack. He shivered. He took the rag off the lock of his rifle that had protected it from the dew and tested the tension of the spring with his thumb. He slung it on his shoulder, slapped his sword, and started moving the Light Company down to the treeline. The skirmishers would go first, the thin line of Riflemen and redcoats wading the Alberche to drive off the sentries and lock up the French Voltigeurs so that they could not blunt the attack of the massed British Battalions which would follow on to the French flank. He made the men lie down a few feet inside the grove where they merged into the shadows of the trees, while behind he could see the other nine companies of the Battalion forming up for the assault that could not be far away.

Dawn crept over the mountains, flooding the valley with a silver-grey light, shrinking the pools of shadow and revealing the shapes of trees and bushes on the far bank. It would still be a few moments, Sharpe decided, before the Spanish would break the silence and start the attack. He walked along the treeline, nodded to the Captain of the Light Company of the 29th who was on his right flank, made the polite small talk, wishing each other luck, and then strolled back to stand beside Harper. They did not speak but Sharpe knew the big Irishman was thinking of the promise Lennox had extracted from them by the bridge. But for Sharpe the Eagle had more urgency. If he could not pluck it from its perch today there might not be another chance for months and that meant no chance at all. In a few weeks, unless he could blunt Simmerson’s letter, he might be on a ship for the West Indies and the inevitable fever that made the posting a virtual death warrant. He thought of Josefina, asleep in the town, her black hair spread on a pillow, and wondered why suddenly his life had been enmeshed in a series of problems that one month ago he had not even suspected existed.

Muskets banged erratically in the distance. The men cocked their ears, murmured to each other, listened to the sporadic firing that rattled up and down the French lines. Lieutenant Knowles came up to Sharpe and raised his eyebrows in a question. Sharpe shook his head. ‘They’re clearing their muskets, that’s all.’ The French sentries had been changed and the men going off duty were getting rid of their charges that might have become damp in the night air. Musket fire would not herald the attack. Sharpe was waiting for the red flashes that would illumine the western sky like summer lightning and show that the Spanish artillery was opening the battle. It could not be far off.

There were shouts from the river. Again the men pricked their ears, strained forward, but again it was a false alarm. A group of the enemy appeared, chasing and shouting at each other in horseplay, carrying buckets to the water’s edge. One of them held up his bucket and shouted something to the British bank; his companions all laughed, but Sharpe had no idea what the joke was.

‘Watering horses?’ Knowles asked.

‘No.’ Sharpe stifled a yawn. ‘Artillery buckets. There must be guns to our front.’ That was bad news. A dozen men were carrying buckets in which the sponges that damped out the sparks in discharged guns were dipped. The water in the pails would be black as ink after a few shots, and if the guns were directly ahead Sharpe knew that the South Essex might be marching into a storm of canister fragments. He felt tired, achingly tired; he wanted to begin the fight, he wanted the Eagle out of his dreams.

Simmerson and Forrest appeared, both on foot, and stared at the artillerymen filling their buckets. Sharpe said good morning and Simmerson, his antagonism blunted by nervousness, nodded back. ‘Those musket shots?’

‘Just clearing their charges, sir. Nothing else.’

Simmerson grunted. He was doing his best to be civil, as if he realised at this moment that he needed Sharpe’s skill on his side. He pulled out a vast watch, opened the lid, and shook his head. ‘Spanish are late.’

The light began to lose its greyness. There was a sparkle on the far bank, and behind them Sharpe could see the smoke of the hundreds of French cooking fires. ‘Permission to relieve the picquets, sir?’

‘Yes, Sharpe, yes.’ Simmerson was making a huge effort to sound normal, and Sharpe wondered if suddenly the Colonel was regretting the letter he had written. Sometimes the imminence of battle made seemingly intractable quarrels seem like things of no importance. Simmerson looked as if he would say more, but instead he shook his head again and led Forrest further down the line.

The sentries were changed, the minutes passed, the sun climbed over the mist, and the last vestiges of night disappeared like fading cannon smoke in the western sky. Damn the Spanish, thought Sharpe, as he listened to the bugles calling the French Regiments to parade. A group of horsemen appeared on the far bank and inspected the British side through telescopes. There would be no surprise now. The French officers would be able to see the batteries of guns, the saddled cavalry horses, the rows of infantry lined in the trees. All surprise had gone, vanished with the shadows and the cold, for the first time the French would know how many men opposed them, where the attack was planned, and how they should meet it.

The sound of church bells came from the town and Sharpe wondered what Josefina was doing: had the bells wakened her? He imagined her body stretching between warm sheets, a body that would not be his till after battle. The sound of the bells reminded him of England and he thought of all the village churches that would be filling with people. Would they be thinking of their army in Spain? He doubted it. The British were not fond of their army. They celebrated its victories, of course, but there had been no such celebrations for a long time. The navy was fêted, Nelson’s captains had been household names, but Trafalgar was a memory and Nelson was in his tomb, and the British went their way oblivious of the war. The morning became warm, the men somnolent; they leaned against the cork trees and slept with their muskets propped on their knees. From somewhere in the French camp was the harsh sound of a muleteer’s bell reminding Sharpe of normality.

‘Sir!’ A Sergeant was calling him from one of the companies higher in the grove. ‘Company officers, sir. To the Colonel!’

Sharpe waved his reply, picked up the rifle, left Knowles in charge and walked up the grove. He was late. The Captains stood in a bunch listening to a Lieutenant from Hill’s staff. Sharpe caught snatches of his words.

‘Fast asleep… no battle…usual routine.’

There was a buzz of questions. The Lieutenant, glorious in the silvered Dragoon uniform, sounded bored. ‘The General requests that we keep posted, sir. But we’re not expecting the French to do anything.’

He rode away leaving the officers puzzled. Sharpe made his way towards Forrest to find out what he had missed, when he saw a familiar figure riding hard down the track. He walked into the road and held up a hand. It was Lieutenant Colonel Lawford and he was furious. He saw Sharpe, reined in, and swore.

‘Bloody hell, Richard! Bloody, bloody, bloody hell! Bloody Spanish!’

‘What’s happened?’

Lawford could barely contain his anger. ‘The bloody Spanish refused to wake up! Can you believe it?’

Other officers drew round. Lawford took off his hat and wiped his forehead; he had deep circles under his eyes. ‘We get up at two o’clock in the bloody morning to save their bloody country and they can’t be bothered to get out of bed!’ Lawford looked round as though hoping to see a Spaniard on whom to vent his seething fury. ‘We rode over there at six. Cuesta’s in his bloody coach lying on bloody cushions and says his army is too tired to fight! Can you believe it? We had them. Like that!’ He pinched a finger and thumb together. ‘We would have murdered them this morning! We could have wiped Victor off the map. But no. It’s
mañana, mañana
, tomorrow and tomorrow! There won’t be a bloody tomorrow! Victor’s no fool, he’ll march today. Damn, damn, damn.’ The Honourable William Lawford stared down at Sharpe. ‘You know what happens now?’

‘No.’

Lawford pointed towards the east. ‘Jourdan’s over there, with Joseph Bonaparte. They’ll join up with Victor, then we’ll have twice as many to fight. Twice as many! And there are rumours that Soult has scraped an army together and is coming from the north. God! The chance we lost today! You know what I think?’ Sharpe shook his head. ‘I think the bastard wouldn’t fight because it’s Sunday. He’s got priests mumbling prayers round his bloody bed on wheels. Bloody Catholics! And there’s still no bloody food!’

Sharpe felt the tiredness course through him. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Now? We bloody wait. Cuesta says we’ll attack tomorrow. We won’t because the French won’t be there.’ Lawford dropped his shoulders and let out a sigh. ‘Do you know where Hill is?’

Sharpe pointed along the track and Lawford rode on. Damn the Spaniards, thought Sharpe, damn everything. He was officer of the day and he would have to organise the picquets, inspect the lines, scrape together some supplies from the Commissary, who would have none. He would not be able to see Josefina. There would be no battle, no Eagle, not even a taste of garlic sausage. Damn.

‘I saw a man today…’

‘Yes?’ Sharpe looked over at Josefina. She was sitting naked on the bed with her knees drawn up and trying to file her toe-nails on the edge of his sword. She was laughing at her attempts, and then she dropped the blade and looked at him. ‘He was lovely. A blue coat with white bits here.’ She brushed her breasts with her hands. ‘And lots of gold lace.’

‘On a horse?’

She nodded. ‘And there was a bag hanging down…’

‘His sabretache. And a curved sword?’ She nodded again and Sharpe grinned at her. ‘Sounds like the Prince of Wales Dragoons. Very rich.’

‘How do you know?’

‘All cavalrymen are rich. Unintelligent, but rich.’

She cocked her head in her characteristic gesture and frowned slightly. ‘Unintelligent?’

‘All cavalry officers are. The horse has all the brains and they have all the money.’

‘Ah, well.’ She shrugged her bare shoulders. ‘It doesn’t matter. I have enough brains for two.’ She looked at him and grinned. ‘You’re jealous.’

‘Yes.’ He had picked up her penchant for honesty. She nodded seriously.

‘I’m bored, Richard.’

‘I know.’

‘Not with you.’ She looked up from her toe-nails and stared at him gravely. ‘You’re good for me. But we’ve been here a week and nothing is happening.’

Sharpe leaned forward and tugged his boots up over the overalls. ‘Don’t worry. Something will happen tomorrow.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Tomorrow we fight.’ This time though, he thought, we will be outnumbered.

She pulled her knees tight into her body, clasped them, and looked questioningly at him. ‘Are you frightened?’

‘Yes.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Who’ll win?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Will you get your Eagle?’

‘I don’t know.’

She nodded seriously. ‘I have a present for you. I will give it to you after the battle.’

He was embarrassed. He did not have the money to buy presents. ‘I don’t want it. I want you.’

‘You have me already.’ She knew what he meant, but she deliberately misunderstood him. She watched him stand up. ‘You want your sword?’

‘Yes.’ Sharpe buckled the belt tight, pulling the scabbard into place.

She grinned at him. ‘Come and get it.’ She lay the great blade on the bed and, rolling over, laid her naked belly on its chill steel.

Sharpe crossed to her. ‘Give it to me.’

‘Get it yourself.’

Her body was warm and strong, the muscles hardened by exercise, and she clung to him. Sharpe pushed her face away and stared into her eyes. ‘What will happen?’ he asked.

‘You will get your Eagle. You always get what you want.’

‘I want you.’

She shut her eyes and kissed him hard, then pulled away and smiled at him. ‘We’re just stragglers, Richard. We drifted together, but we’re both on a journey.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You do. We’re going two different ways. You want a home. You want someone to love you and want you, someone to take the burden away from you.’

‘And you?’

She smiled. ‘I want silk dresses and music. Candles in the dawn.’ He began to say something, but she put a finger on his lips. ‘I know what you think. That’s just silliness, but it’s what I want. Perhaps one day I’ll want something sensible.’

‘Am I sensible?’

‘There are times, my love, when you take things a little too seriously.’

‘Are you saying goodbye?’

She laughed. ‘There! You see? You are taking things too seriously.’ She kissed him swiftly, on the tip of his nose. ‘Come after the battle. Get your present.’

He reached down for the handle of his sword. ‘Move over, I don’t want to cut you.’

She moved to one side and touched the blade with her finger. ‘How many men have you killed with it?’

‘I don’t know.’ It slid into the scabbard, the weight congenial on his hip. He crouched by the bed and took her naked waist in his hands. He stared at her body as if trying to commit it to memory: the fullness of it, the beauty of it, the mystery that made it seem unattainable. She touched his face with a finger.

‘Go and fight.’

‘I’ll be back.’

‘I know.’

Everything seemed unreal to Sharpe. The soldiers in Talavera’s streets, the people who avoided his passage, the afternoon itself. Tomorrow there would be a battle. Hundreds would die, mangled by roundshot, sliced by cavalry sabres, pierced by musket shot, yet still the town was busy. People were in love, out of love, bought their food, made jokes, yet tomorrow there would be a battle. He wanted Josefina. He could hardly think of the battle, of the Eagle—only of her teasing face. She was going from him, he knew that, yet he could not accept it. The battle was almost an irrelevance to the overwhelming need to entrap her, to make her his, and he knew it could not happen.

He walked to the town gate that overlooked the plain to the west. The Light Company was mounting a guard on the gate, and Sharpe nodded at Harper and then climbed the steep steps to the parapet, where Hogan stared down into the olive groves and woods that were full of Spanish soldiers filing into the positions Wellesley had carefully prepared for them. Cuesta, after refusing to attack on the Sunday, had impetuously marched after the retreating French. Now, four days later, his army was scuttling back and bringing behind them a French army that had more than doubled in size. Tomorrow, Sharpe knew, this Spanish army would have to fight. The French would wake them up, and the allied army that could have taken its victory last Sunday would now have to fight a defensive battle against the united forces of Victor, Jourdan and Joseph Bonaparte.

Not, Sharpe thought bitterly, that the Spanish would have to do too much of the actual killing. Wellesley had drawn his army back to create a defensive line next to Talavera itself. The right-hand end of the line was made up of the town walls, olive groves, tangled fields and woods, all made impregnable by Hogan’s hard work. He had felled trees, thrown up earthworks, strengthened walls, and in the tangle of barricades and obstacles the Spanish troops took up their positions. No French infantryman could hope to fight his way across Hogan’s breastworks as long as the defenders stayed at their posts; instead the French army would swing north to the left side of Wellesley’s line, where the British would wait for the attack. Sharpe looked at the northern plain. There were no obstacles there that an engineer could make more formidable; there was just the Portina stream that a man could cross without the water coming over his boot-tops, and rolling grassland that was an invitation for the massed French Battalions and their long lines of splendid cavalry. In the distance was the Medellin, the hill which dominated the plain, and Sharpe had walked the grass often enough to know what would happen tomorrow. The French columns would cross the stream and attack the gentle slopes of the Medellin. That was the killing place. The Spanish troops, thirty thousand of them, could stay safely behind their breastworks and watch as the Eagles stormed the British in the open northern plain and the smoke covered Medellin.

‘How are you?’ Hogan asked.

‘I’m fine.’ Sharpe grinned.

The Irishman turned to watch the Spanish filling up the positions he had prepared. On the plain beyond, hidden by the trees where the Alberche River emptied itself into the Tagus, came the crackle of musketry. It had gone on all afternoon like a distant forest fire, and Sharpe had seen dozens of British wounded carried through the gate into town. The British had covered the last mile of the Spanish retreat and the wounded men said that the French skirmishers had won the day. Two British Battalions had been mauled badly; there was even a rumour that Wellesley himself had just escaped capture; the Spanish looked nervous, and Sharpe wondered what kind of troops the French had found to hurl against the allied army. He looked down at Harper. The Sergeant, with a dozen men, was guarding the gate of the town, not against the enemy, but to stop any British or Spanish soldiers who might be tempted to lose themselves in Talavera’s dark alleyways and avoid the fight that was inevitable. The Battalion itself was on the Medellin, and Sharpe waited for the orders that would send his company up the shallow Portina stream to find the patch of grass they would defend in the morning.

‘And how’s the girl?’ Hogan was sitting on the powdery stone.

‘She’s happy. Bored.’

‘That’s the way of women. Never content. Will you be needing more money?’

Sharpe looked at the middle-aged Engineer and saw the concern in his eyes. Already Hogan had lent Sharpe more than twenty guineas, a sum that was impossible for him to repay unless he was lucky on the battlefield. ‘No. I’m all right for the moment.’

Hogan smiled. ‘You’re lucky.’ He shrugged. ‘God knows, Richard, she’s a beautiful creature. Are you in love?’

Sharpe looked over the parapet where the Spanish had filled Hogan’s makeshift fortresses. ‘She won’t let me be.’

‘Then she’s more sensible than I thought.’

The afternoon passed slowly. Sharpe thought of the girl, bored in her room, and watched the Spanish soldiers chop at the beeches and oaks to build their evening fires. Then, with a suddenness that Sharpe had been waiting for, there were flashes of light far away in the hazy trees and bushes that edged the plain to the east. It was the sun, he knew, reflecting from muskets and breastplates. Sharpe nudged Hogan and pointed. ‘The French.’

Hogan stood up and stared at them. ‘My God.’ He spoke quietly. ‘There’s a good few of them.’

The infantry marched onto the far plain like a spreading dark stain on the grass. Sharpe and Hogan watched Battalion after Battalion march into the pale fields, squadron after squadron of cavalry, the small squat shapes of guns scattered in the formations, the largest army Sharpe had ever seen in the field. The galloping figures of staff officers could be seen as they directed the columns to their places ready for the next morning’s advance and battle. Sharpe looked left to the British lines that waited beside the Portina. The smoke from hundreds of camp fires wound into the early evening air; crowds of men clustered by the stream and on the Medellin for a far glimpse of their enemy, but the British force looked woefully small beside the massive tide of men, horses and guns that filled the plain to the east and grew by the minute. Napoleon’s brother was there, King Joseph, and with him two full Marshals of France, Victor and Jourdan. They were leading sixty-five Battalions of infantry, a massive force of the men who had made Europe into Napoleon’s property, and they had come to swat this small British army and send it reeling to the sea. They planned to break it for ever to ensure that Britain never again dared to challenge the Eagles on land.

Hogan whistled softly. ‘Will they attack this evening?’

‘No.’ Sharpe scanned the far lines. ‘They’ll wait for their artillery.’

Hogan pointed into the darkening east. ‘They’ve got guns. Look, you can see them.’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘Those are just the small ones they attach to each infantry Battalion. No, the big bastards will be back on the road somewhere. They’ll come in the night.’

And in the morning, he thought, the French will open with one of their favourite cannonades, the massed artillery hurling its iron shot at the enemy lines before the dense, drummed columns follow the Eagles across the stream. French tactics were hardly subtle. Not for them the clever manoeuvrings of turning an enemy’s flank. Instead, again and again, they massed the guns and the men and they hurled a terrifying hammer blow at the enemy line and, again and again, it worked. He shrugged to himself. Who needed to be subtle? The guns and men of France had broken every army sent against them.

There were shouts from behind him and he crossed the battlement and peered down at the gate where Harper and his men were on guard. Lieutenant Gibbons was there with Berry, both mounted, both shouting at Harper. Sharpe leaned over the parapet.

‘What’s the problem?’

Gibbons turned round slowly. It dawned on Sharpe that the Lieutenant was slightly drunk and was having some difficulty in staying on his horse. Gibbons saluted Sharpe with his usual irony.

‘I didn’t see you there, sir. So sorry.’ He bowed. Lieutenant Berry giggled. Gibbons straightened up. ‘I was just telling your Sergeant here that you can go back to the Battalion now, all right?’

‘But you stopped on the way for refreshment?’

Berry giggled loudly. Gibbons looked at him and burst into a laugh himself. He bowed again. ‘You could say so, sir.’

The two Lieutenants urged their horses under the gateway and started up the road to the British lines to the north. Sharpe watched them go.

‘Bastards.’

‘Do they give you problems?’ Hogan was sitting on the parapet again.

Sharpe shook his head. ‘No. Just insolence, remarks in the mess, you know.’ He wondered about Josefina. Hogan seemed to read his thoughts. ‘You’re thinking about the girl?’

Sharpe nodded. ‘Yes. But she should be all right.’ He was thinking out loud. ‘She keeps the door locked. We’re on the top floor and I can’t see how they’d find us.’ He turned to Hogan and grinned. ‘Stop worrying about it. They’ve done nothing so far; they’re cowards. They’ve given up!’

Hogan shook his head. ‘They would kill you, Richard, with as little regret as putting down a lame horse. Less regret. And as for the girl? They’ll try to hurt her, too.’

Sharpe turned back to the spectacle on the plain. He knew Hogan was right, knew that too much was unsettled, but the game was not in his hands; everything must wait for the battle. The French troops had flooded the end of the plain, they flowed round woods, trees, farms, coming ever forward towards the stream and the Medellin Hill. They darkened the plain, filled it with a tide of men flecked with steel, and still they came; Hussars, Dragoons, Lancers, Chasseurs, Grenadiers and Voltigeurs, the followers of the Eagles, the men who had made an Empire, the old enemy.

‘Hot work tomorrow.’ Hogan shook his head as he watched the French.

‘It will be.’ Sharpe turned and called to Harper. ‘Come here!’ The big Irish Sergeant scrambled up the broken wall and stood beside the two officers. The first of thousands of fires sparkled in the French lines. Harper shook his massive head.