Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (65 page)

It was still not over, but very nearly so. As the British troops in the centre of the field sank in exhausted lines by the edge of the discoloured Portina stream, they heard flurries of firing and the shrill tones of cavalry trumpets from the ground north of the Medellin. But nothing much happened; the 23rd Light Dragoons made a suicidal charge, the British six-pounders ground twelve French Battalion squares into horror, and then the French gave up. Silence fell on the field. The French were done, defeated, and the British had the victory and the field.

And with it the dead and wounded. There were more than thirteen thousand casualties but no-one knew that yet. They did not know that the French would not attack again, that King Joseph Bonaparte and the two French Marshals would ride away eastward through the night, so the exhausted and blackened victors stayed in the field. The wounded cried for water, for their mothers, for a bullet, for anything other than the pain and helplessness in the heat. And the horror was not done with them. The sun had burned relentlessly for days, the grass on the Medellin and in the valley was tinder dry, and from somewhere a flame began that rippled and spread and flared through the grass and burned wounded and dead alike. The smell of roasting flesh spread and hung like the lingering palls of smoke. The victors tried to move the wounded but it was too much, too soon, and the flames spread and the rescuers cursed and dropped beside the fouled Portina stream and slaked their thirst in its bloodied water.

Vultures circled the northern hills. The sun dropped red and slanted shadows on the burning field, on the men who struggled to escape the flames, and on the blackened troops who stirred themselves to loot the dead and move the wounded. Sharpe and Harper wandered their own course, two men in the curtains of smoke and burning grass, both bleeding but with their faces creased in private mirth. Sharpe held the Eagle. It was not much to look at: a light blue pole eight feet long and on its top the gilded bird with wings outspread and in its left raised claw a thunder-bolt it was about to launch at the enemies of France. There was no flag attached; like so many other French Battalions the previous owners had left their colour at the depot and just carried Napoleon’s gift to the war. It was less then two hands’ breadth across, and the same in height, but it was an Eagle and it was theirs.

The Light Company had watched them go. Only Sharpe, Harper and Denny had gone through the ranks of the enemy Battalion, and when the French attack crumbled the rest of the Light Company had been pushed to one side by the panicked rush of the survivors fleeing from the clockwork volleys. Lieutenant Knowles, a bullet in his shoulder, watched as the men went on firing at the retreating French and then led them back to meet the Battalion. He knew Sharpe and Harper were somewhere in the smoke and they would turn up, with or without the Eagle.

Lieutenant Colonel the Honourable William Lawford sat his horse and stared at the bodies on the field. He had led the South Essex down the slope and watched as they fired their muskets, slowly but calmly, into the white-jacketed enemy. He had seen the fight for the Eagle, but the spreading smoke of the Battalion’s volleys had blotted out the scene and the survivors of the Light Company told him little more. A Lieutenant brought in forty-three bleeding and stained men, grinning like monkeys, who talked of the Eagle but where was it? He wanted to see Sharpe, wanted to see his friend’s face when he discovered that his companion of the Seringapatam jail was now his Colonel, but the field was shrouded in flames and smoke, so he gave up looking and started the Battalion on the grisly task of stripping the dead and piling the naked bodies like cordwood for the fire. There were too many to bury.

Sir Henry Simmerson was done. Wellesley had sworn, briefly and fluently, and sent Lawford to take over the Battalion. Lawford hoped to keep it, it was time he commanded a Battalion, and there was much to be done with it. Major Forrest rode up to him and saluted.

‘Major?’

‘Except for the Light Company, sir, we’ve lost very few.’

‘How many?’ Lawford watched as Forrest fetched a piece of paper from his pouch.

‘A dozen dead, sir, perhaps twice as many wounded.’

Lawford nodded. ‘We got off lightly, Major. And the Light Company?’

‘Lieutenant Knowles brought in forty-three, sir, and most of them are wounded. Sergeant Read stayed with the baggage with two others, that’s forty-six. There were five men too sick to fight who are in the town.’ Forrest paused. ‘That’s fifty-one, sir, out of a complement of eighty-nine.’

Lawford said nothing. He leaned forward on his saddle and peered into the shifting smoke. Forrest cleared his throat nervously. ‘You don’t think, sir…’ He tailed the question away.

‘No, Major, I don’t.’ Lawford sat upright and turned his charm onto the Major. ‘I’ve known Richard Sharpe since I was a Lieutenant and he was a Sergeant. He should have died a dozen times, Major, at least a dozen, but he crawls through somehow.’ Lawford grinned. ‘Don’t worry about Sharpe, Major. It’s much better to let him worry about you. Who else is missing?’

‘There’s Sergeant Harper, sir…

‘Ah!’ Lawford interrupted. ‘The legendary Irishman.’

‘And Lieutenant Gibbons, sir.’

‘Lieutenant Gibbons?’ Lawford remembered the meeting in Wellesley’s headquarters at Plasencia and the petulant expression on the blond Lieutenant’s face. ‘I wonder how he’ll get on without his uncle?’ The Lieutenant Colonel smiled briefly; Gibbons was his least concern. There was still so much to do, so many men to be rescued before the townspeople spread into the carnage to loot the bodies. ‘Thank you, Major. We’ll just have to wait for Captain Sharpe. In the meantime would you arrange a party to get water for the men? And let’s hope these French dead have got food in their packs, otherwise we’re in for a lean night.’

The French did carry food, and gold, and Sharpe, as he always did, split his finds with Harper. The Sergeant was carrying the Eagle, and he peered at the bird thoughtfully.

‘Is it worth money, sir?’

‘I don’t know.’ Out of habit Sharpe was reloading his rifle, and he grunted as he forced the ramrod into the fouled barrel.

‘But they’ll reward us, sir, surely?’

Sharpe grinned at the Sergeant. ‘I’d think so. The Patriotic fund ought to be good for a hundred guineas, who knows?’ He slid the ramrod back into place. ‘Perhaps they’ll just say “thank you”.’ He bowed ironically to the Irishman. ‘Thank you, Sergeant Harper.’

Harper bowed clumsily back. ‘It was a pleasure, Captain Sharpe.’ He paused. ‘The bastards had better pay something. I can’t wait to see Simmerson’s face when you give him this.’

Sharpe laughed, he was looking forward to that moment. He took the Eagle from Harper. ‘Come on. We’d better find them.’

Harper touched Sharpe’s shoulder and froze, staring into the smoke above the stream. Sharpe could see nothing. ‘What is it?’

‘Don’t you see it, sir?’ Harper’s voice was hushed, excited. ‘There! Damn! It’s gone.’

‘What, for God’s sake, what?’

Harper turned to him. ‘Would you wait, sir? Two minutes?’

Sharpe grinned. ‘A bird?’

‘Aye. The magpie with the blue tail. It went over the stream and it can’t be far.’ Harper’s face was lit up, the battle suddenly forgotten, the capture of the Eagle a small thing against the spotting of the rare bird he had yearned so long to see.

Sharpe laughed. ‘Go on. I’ll wait here.’

The Sergeant went silently towards the stream, leaving Sharpe in the drifting smoke among the bodies. Once a horse trotted past, intent on its own business, its flank a sheet of blood, and far off, behind the flames, Sharpe could hear bugles calling the living into ranks. He stared at the Eagle, at the thunderbolt gripped in the claw, the wreath round the bird’s neck, and felt a fresh surge of elation at its capture. They could not send him to the West Indies now! Simmerson could do his worst, but the man who brought back the first captured French Eagle was safe from Sir Henry. He smiled, held the bird up so its wings caught the light, and heard the hoof beats behind him.

His rifle was on the ground and he had to leave it as he rolled desperately to avoid Gibbons’ charge. The Lieutenant, curved sabre drawn, was wild-eyed and leaning from the saddle; the blade hissed over Sharpe’s head, he fell, kept rolling, and knelt up to see Gibbons reining in the horse, turning it with one hand, and urging it forward. The Lieutenant was giving Sharpe no time, even to draw his sword; instead he pointed the sabre like a lance and spurred forward so that the blade would spear into Sharpe’s stomach. Sharpe dropped and the horse went thundering beside him, turned on its back legs, and Gibbons was high over him with the sabre stabbing downwards. Neither man spoke. The horse whinnied, reared and lashed with its feet, and Sharpe twisted away as the sabre jabbed down.

Sharpe swung with the Eagle, aiming for the horse’s head, but Gibbons was too good a horseman and he smiled as he easily avoided the wild blow. The Lieutenant hefted the sabre in his hand. ‘Give me the Eagle, Sharpe.’

Sharpe looked round. The loaded rifle was five yards away and he ran towards it, knowing it was too far, hearing the hooves behind him, and then the sabre cut into his pack and threw him flat on the ground. He fell on the Eagle, twisted to his right, and the horse was pirouetting above him, the hooves like hammers above his face, and the sabre blade was a curve of light behind the glinting horseshoes. He rolled again, felt a numbing blow as one of the hooves struck his shoulder, but he kept rolling away from Gibbons’ sabre. It was hopeless. The grass smelt in his nostrils, the air was full of the flying hooves, the horse staying above him, treading beside him; he waited for the blade to spike into him and pin him to the dry ground. He was angry with himself, for being caught, for forgetting about Gibbons, and he wondered how long the Lieutenant had stalked him through the smoke.

He could hardly move his right arm, the whole of it seemed paralysed by the blow from the hoof, but he lunged up with the Eagle as if it was a quarterstaff, trying to force the hooves away from his body. Damn that magpie! Couldn’t Harper hear the fight? Then the sabre was over his stomach and Gibbons’ smiling face was above him, and the Lieutenant paused. ‘She felt good, Sharpe. And I’ll take that Eagle as well.’

Gibbons seemed to laugh at him, the Lieutenant’s mouth stretching and stretching, and still he did not stab downwards. His eyes widened and Sharpe began to move, away from the sabre, climbing to his feet, and he saw the blood coming from Gibbons’ throat and falling, slowly and thickly, on the sabre. Sharpe was still moving, the Eagle swinging, and the wing of the French trophy smashed into Gibbons’ mouth, breaking the teeth, forcing back the head, but the Lieutenant was dead. The Eagle had forced him back, but the body toppled towards Sharpe and in its back, through the ribs, was a bayonet on a French musket. Sergeant Harper stood on the far side of the horse and grinned at Sharpe.

Gibbons’ body slumped beside the horse and Sharpe stared at it, at the bayonet and strange French musket that had been driven clean into the lungs and was stuck there, swaying above the body. He looked at Harper.

‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’ The Sergeant was grinning broadly, as if he had been pleased to see Sharpe scrambling for his life. ‘It was worth being in this army just to do that.’

Sharpe leaned on the Eagle’s staff, catching his breath, appalled at the closeness of death. He shook his head at Harper. ‘The bastard nearly got me!’ He sounded astonished, as if it had been unthinkable for Gibbons to prove the better fighter.

‘He would have had to finish me off first, sir.’ It was said lightly enough, but Sharpe knew the Sergeant had spoken the truth, and he smiled in acknowledgement and then went to pick up his rifle. He turned again. ‘Patrick?’

‘Sir?’

‘Thank you.’

Harper brushed it off. ‘Just make sure they give us more than a hundred guineas. It’s not every day we capture a bloody Eagle.’

Gibbons was not carrying much: a handful of guineas, a watch broken by his fall, and the expensive sabre that they would be forced to leave behind. Sharpe joined Harper and, kneeling by the crumpled body, he thrust his hand into Gibbons’ collar and found what he had half expected: a gold chain. Most soldiers carried something valuable round their necks and Sharpe knew that, should he die, some enemy would find the bag of coins round his own neck. Harper glanced up. ‘I missed that.’

It was a locket and inside, a girl’s picture. She was blonde, like Gibbons, but her lips were full where his were thin. Her eyes, despite the smallness of the miniature, seemed to look out of the gold case with amusement and life. Harper leaned over. ‘What does it say, sir?’

Sharpe read the words inscribed inside the open lid.

‘God keep you. Love, Jane.’

Harper whistled very softly. ‘She’s a pretty one, sir. Must be his sister.’

Sharpe took the locket and pushed it into his cartridge pouch and then glanced once more at the dead man with the blood glistening on his thin face. Did she know what kind of man her brother was?

‘Come on, Sergeant.’

They walked over the grass, stamping through the flames, until they saw the solitary yellow colour of the South Essex. Lieutenant Knowles saw them first, shouted, and suddenly the Light Company were round them, slapping their backs, speaking words they could not hear and pushing them towards the group of horsemen by the colour. Sharpe looked past a beaming Forrest to see Lawford. ‘Sir?’

Lawford laughed at Sharpe’s surprise. ‘I understand you have the honour to command my Light Company?’

‘Yours?’

Lawford raised his eyebrows. He was exquisite with silver lace. ‘Do you disapprove, Captain Sharpe?’

Sharpe grinned and shook his head. ‘Sir Henry?’

Lawford shrugged his elegant shoulders. ‘Shall we just say that Sir Henry suddenly felt a burning desire to return to the good Burghers of Paglesham.’

Sharpe wanted to laugh. He had kept the promise to Lennox, but he knew the real reason he had hacked his way to the French Eagle was to save his own career, and had it all been unnecessary? Denny’s death, the killing of so many others, just so he would not go to the West Indies? The trophy was low at his side, hidden in the press of men, but he dragged it clear so that the gilded statuette suddenly flashed in the light. He handed it up to Lawford. ‘The Battalion’s missing colour, sir. It was the best Sergeant Harper and I could do.’