Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (7 page)

“And right now,” Sharpe went on, “you’re going to start fighting. You’re going to make three ranks and you’ll fire a volley at some French cavalry.” He would have preferred two ranks, but only the British fought in two ranks. Every other army used three and so, for the moment, he would too, even though thirty-seven men in three ranks offered a very small frontage. “And you won’t pull your trigger until Lieutenant Vicente gives the order. You can trust him! He’s a good soldier, your Lieutenant!” Vicente blushed and perhaps made some modest changes to his interpretation, but the grins on his men’s faces suggested the lawyer had conveyed the gist of Sharpe’s words. “Make sure your muskets are loaded,” Sharpe said, “but not cocked. I don’t want the enemy knowing we’re here because some careless halfwit lets off a cocked musket. Now, enjoy killing the bastards.” He left them on that bloodthirsty note and walked back to the crest where he knelt beside Harper. “Are they doing anything?” he asked, nodding toward the dragoons.

“Getting drunk,” Harper said. “Gave them the talk, did you?”

“Is that what it is?”

“Don’t get drunk, don’t thieve and fight like the devil. Mister Sharpe’s sermon.”

Sharpe smiled, then took the telescope from the Sergeant and trained it at the village where a score of dragoons, their green coats unbuttoned,
were squirting wineskins into their mouths. Others were searching the small houses. A woman with a torn black dress ran from one house, was seized by a cavalryman and dragged back indoors. “I thought the villagers were gone,” Sharpe said.

“I’ve seen a couple of women,” Harper said, “and doubtless there are plenty more we can’t see.” He ran a huge hand over the lock of his rifle. “So what are we going to do with them?”

“We’re going to piss up their noses,” Sharpe said, “till they decide to swat us away and then we’re going to kill them.” He collapsed the glass and told Harper exactly how he planned to defeat the dragoons.

The vineyards gave Sharpe the opportunity. The vines grew in close thick rows that stretched from the stream on their left to some woodland off to the west, and the rows were broken only by a footpath that gave laborers access to the plants which offered dense cover for Sharpe’s men as they crawled closer to Barca d’Avintas. Two careless French sentries watched from the village’s edge, but neither saw anything threatening in the spring countryside and one of them even laid his carbine down so he could pack a small pipe with tobacco. Sharpe put Vicente’s men close to the footpath and sent his riflemen off to the west so that they were closer to the paddock in which the dragoons’ horses were picketed. Then he cocked his own rifle, lay down so that the barrel protruded between two gnarled vine roots and aimed at the nearest sentry.

He fired, and the butt slammed back into his shoulder and the sound was still echoing from the village’s walls when his riflemen began shooting at the horses. Their first volley brought down six or seven of the beasts, wounded as many again and started a panic among the other tethered animals. Two managed to pull their picketing pins out of the turf and jumped the fence in an attempt to escape, but then circled back toward their companions just as the rifles were reloaded and fired again. More horses screamed and fell. A half-dozen of the riflemen were watching the village and began shooting at the first dragoons to run toward the paddock. Vicente’s infantry remained hidden, crouching among the vines. Sharpe saw that the sentry he had shot was crawling up the street, leaving
a bloody trail, and, as the smoke from that shot faded, he fired again, this time at an officer running toward the paddock. More dragoons, fearing they were losing their precious horses, ran to unpicket the beasts and the rifle bullets began to kill men as well as horses. An injured mare whinnied pitifully and then the dragoons’ commanding officer realized he could not rescue the horses until he had driven away the men who were slaughtering them and so he shouted at his cavalrymen to advance into the vines and drive the attackers off.

“Keep shooting the horses!” Sharpe shouted. It was not a pleasant job. The screams of the wounded beasts tore at men’s souls and the sight of an injured gelding trying to drag itself along by its front legs was heartbreaking, but Sharpe kept his men firing. The dragoons, spared the rifle fire now, ran toward the vineyard in the confident belief that they were dealing with a mere handful of partisans. Dragoons were supposed to be mounted infantry and so they were issued with carbines, short-barrelled muskets, with which they could fight on foot, and some carried the carbines while others preferred to attack with their long straight swords, but all of them instinctively ran toward the track which climbed among the vines. Sharpe had guessed they would follow the track rather than clamber over the entangling vines and that was why he had put Vicente and his men close by the path. The dragoons were bunching together as they entered the vines and Sharpe had an urge to run across to the Portuguese and take command of them, but just then Vicente ordered his men to stand.

The Portuguese soldiers appeared as if by magic in front of the disorganized dragoons. Sharpe watched, approvingly, as Vicente let his men settle, then ordered them to fire. The French had tried to check their desperate charge and swerve aside, but the vines obstructed them and Vicente’s volley hammered into the thickest press of cavalrymen bunched on the narrow track. Harper, off on the right flank, had the riflemen add their own volley so that the dragoons were assailed from both sides. Powder smoke drifted over the vines. “Fix swords!” Sharpe shouted. A dozen dragoons were dead and the ones at the back were
already running away. They had been convinced they fought against a few undisciplined peasants and instead they were outnumbered by real soldiers and the center of their makeshift line had been gutted, half their horses were dead and now the infantry was coming from the smoke with fixed bayonets. The Portuguese stepped over the dead and injured dragoons. One of the Frenchmen, shot in the thigh, rolled over with a pistol in his hand and Vicente knocked it away with his sword and then kicked the gun into the stream. The unwounded dragoons were running toward the horses and Sharpe ordered his riflemen to drive them off with bullets rather than blades. “Just keep them running!” he shouted. “Panic them! Lieutenant!” He looked for Vicente, “Take your men into the village! Cooper! Tongue! Slattery! Make these bastards safe!” He knew he had to keep the Frenchmen in front moving, but he dared not leave any lightly wounded dragoons in his rear and so he ordered the three riflemen to disarm the cavalrymen injured by Vicente’s volley. The Portuguese were in the village now, banging open doors and converging on a church that stood next to the bridge that crossed the small stream.

Sharpe ran toward the field where the horses were dead, dying or terrified. A few dragoons had tried to untie their mounts, but the rifle fire had chased them off. So now Sharpe was the possessor of a score of horses. “Dan!” he called to Hagman. “Put the wounded ones out of their misery. Pendleton! Harris! Cresacre! Over there!” He pointed the three men toward the wall on the paddock’s western side. The dragoons had fled that way and Sharpe guessed they had taken refuge in some trees that stood thick just a hundred paces away. Three picquets were not enough to cope with even a half-hearted counterattack by the French so Sharpe knew he would have to strengthen those picquets soon, but first he wanted to make sure there were no dragoons skulking in the houses, gardens and orchards of the village.

Barca d’Avintas was a small place, a straggle of houses built about the road that ran down to the river where a short jetty should have accommodated the ferry, but some of the smoke Sharpe had seen earlier was coming from a barge-like vessel with a blunt bow and a dozen rowlocks.
Now it was smoking in the water, its upper works burned almost to the waterline and its lower hull holed and sunken. Sharpe stared at the useless boat, looked across the river that was over a hundred yards broad and then swore.

Harper appeared beside him, his rifle slung. “Jesus,” he said, staring at the ferry, “that’s not a lot of good to man or beast, is it now?”

“Any of our boys hurt?”

“Not a one, sir, not even a scratch. The Portuguese are the same, all alive. They did well, didn’t they?” He looked at the burning boat again. “Sweet Jesus, was that the ferry?”

“It was Noah’s bloody ark,” Sharpe snapped. “What do you goddamned think it was?” He was angry because he had hoped to use the ferry to get all his men safe across the Douro, but now it seemed he was stranded. He stalked away, then turned back just in time to see Harper making a face at him. “Have you found the taverns?” he asked, ignoring the grimace.

“Not yet, sir,” Harper said.

“Then find them, put a guard on them, then send a dozen more men to the far side of the paddock.”

“Yes, sir!”

The French had set more fires among sheds on the river bank and Sharpe now ducked beneath the billowing smoke to kick open half-burned doors. There was a pile of tarred nets smoldering in one shed, but in the next there was a black-painted skiff with a fine spiked bow that curved up like a hook. The shed had been fired, but the flames had not reached the skiff and Sharpe managed to drag it halfway out of the door before Lieutenant Vicente arrived and helped him pull the boat all the way out of the smoke. The other sheds were too well alight, but at least this one boat was saved and Sharpe reckoned it could hold about half a dozen men safely, which meant that it would take the rest of the day to ferry everyone across the wide river. Sharpe was about to ask Vicente to look for oars or paddles when he saw that the young man’s face was white and shaken, almost as if the Lieutenant was on the point of tears. “What is it?” Sharpe asked.

Vicente did not answer, but merely pointed back to the village.

“The French were having games with the ladies, eh?” Sharpe asked, setting off for the houses.

“I would not call it games,” Vicente said bitterly, “and there is also a prisoner.”

“Only one?”

“There are two others,” Vicente said, frowning, “but this one is a lieutenant. He had no breeches which is why he was slow to run.”

Sharpe did not ask why the captured dragoon had no breeches. He knew why. “What have you done with him?”

“He must go on trial,” Vicente said.

Sharpe stopped and stared at the Lieutenant. “He must what?” he asked, astonished. “Go on trial?”

“Of course.”

“In my country,” Sharpe said, “they hang a man for rape.”

“Not without a trial,” Vicente protested and Sharpe guessed that the Portuguese soldiers had wanted to kill the prisoner straight away and that Vicente had stopped them out of some high-minded idea that a trial was necessary.

“Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, “you’re a soldier now, not a lawyer. You don’t give them a trial. You chop their hearts out.”

Most of Barca d’Avintas’s inhabitants had fled the dragoons, but some had stayed and most of them were now crowded about a house guarded by a half-dozen of Vicente’s men. A dead dragoon, stripped of shirt, coat, boots and breeches, lay face down in front of the church. He must have been leaning against the church wall when he was shot for he had left a smear of blood down the limewashed stones. Now a dog sniffed at his toes. The soldiers and villagers parted to let Sharpe and Vicente into the house where the young dragoon officer, fair-haired, thin and sullen-faced, was being guarded by Sergeant Macedo and another Portuguese soldier. The Lieutenant had managed to pull on his breeches, but had not had time to button them and he was now holding them up by the waist. As soon as he saw Sharpe he began gabbling in French. “You speak French?” Sharpe asked Vicente.

“Of course,” Vicente said.

But Vicente, Sharpe reflected, wanted to give this fair-haired Frenchman a trial and Sharpe suspected that if Vicente interrogated the man he would not learn the real truth, merely hear the excuses, so Sharpe went to the house door. “Harper!” He waited till the Sergeant appeared. “Get me Tongue or Harris,” he ordered.

“I will talk to the man,” Vicente protested.

“I need you to talk to someone else,” Sharpe said and he went to the back room where a girl—she could not have been a day over fourteen—was weeping. Her face was red, eyes swollen and her breath came in fitful jerks interspersed with grizzling moans and cries of despair. She was wrapped in a blanket and had a bruise on her left cheek. An older woman, dressed all in black, was trying to comfort the girl who began to cry even louder the moment she saw Sharpe, making him back out of the room in embarrassment. “Find out from her what happened,” he told Vicente, then turned as Harris came through the door. Harris and Tongue were Sharpe’s two educated men. Tongue had been doomed to the army by drink, while the red-haired, ever cheerful Harris claimed to be a volunteer who wanted adventure. He was getting plenty now, Sharpe reflected. “This piece of shit,” Sharpe told Harris, jerking his head at the fair-haired Frenchman, “was caught with his knickers round his ankles and a young girl under him. Find out what his excuse is before we kill the bastard.”

He went back to the street and took a long drink from his canteen. The water was warm and brackish. Harper was waiting by a horse trough in the center of the street and Sharpe joined him. “All well?”

“There’s two more Frogs in there.” Harper flicked a thumb toward the church behind him. “Live ones, I mean.” The church door was guarded by four of Vicente’s men.

“What are they doing in there?” Sharpe asked. “Praying?”

The tall Ulsterman shrugged. “Looking for sanctuary, I’d guess.”

“We can’t take the bastards with us,” Sharpe said, “so why don’t we just shoot them?”

“Because Mister Vicente says we mustn’t,” Harper said. “He’s very particular about prisoners is Mister Vicente. He’s a lawyer, isn’t he?”

“He seems halfway decent for a lawyer,” Sharpe admitted grudgingly.

“The best lawyers are six feet under the daisies, so they are,” Harper said, “and this one won’t let me go and shoot those two bastards. He says they’re just drunks, which is true. They are. Skewed to the skies, they are.”