“A good one,” Luis said.
“You look as if you could do with a barber, Sharpe,” Christopher said. “Cut your own hair,
do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Looks like it. Looks like the rats got to it.” The razor made a slight scratching noise as
it glided down his chin. Luis wiped the blade with a flannel, scraped again. “My wife,”
Christopher said, “will have to stay here. I ain’t happy.”
“No, sir?”
“But she ain’t safe anywhere else, is she? She can’t go to Oporto, it’s full of Frenchmen
who are raping anything that isn’t dead and probably things that are dead if they’re still
fresh, and they won’t get the place under decent control for another day or two, so she must
stay here, and I’ll feel a great deal more comfortable, Sharpe, if she’s protected. So you
will guard my wife, let your wounded fellow recover, have a rest, contemplate God’s
ineffable ways and in a week or so I’ll be back and you can go.”
Sharpe looked out of the window where a gardener was scything the lawn, probably the
first cut of the year. The scythe slid through the pale blossoms blown from the wisteria.
“Mrs. Christopher could accompany you south, sir,” he suggested.
“No, she bloody well can’t,” Christopher snapped. “I told her it’s too dangerous. Captain
Argenton and I have to get through the lines, Sharpe, and we won’t make things easier for
ourselves by taking a woman with us.” The true reason, of course, was that he did not want
Kate to meet her mother and tell her of the marriage in Vila Real de Zedes’s small church.
“So Kate will stay here,” Christopher went on, “and you will treat her with respect.” Sharpe
said nothing, just looked at the Colonel, who had the grace to shift uncomfortably. “Of
course you will,” Christopher said. “I’ll have a word with the village priest on our way out
and make sure his people deliver food for you. Bread, beans and a bullock should do your
fellows for a week, eh? And for God’s sake don’t make yourselves obvious; I don’t want the
French sacking this house. There’s some damn fine pipes of port in the cellars and I don’t want
your rogues helping themselves.”
“They won’t, sir,” Sharpe said. Last night, when Christopher had first told him that he and
his men must stay at the Quinta, the Colonel had produced a letter from General Cradock. The
letter had been carried around for so long that it was fragile, especially along the
creases, and its ink was faded, but it clearly stated, in English and Portuguese, that
Lieutenant-Colonel James Christopher was employed on work of great importance and enjoined
every British and Portuguese officer to attend to the Colonel’s orders and offer him
whatever help he might require. The letter, which Sharpe had no reason to believe was
counterfeit, made it clear that Christopher was in a position to give Sharpe orders and so
he now sounded more respectful than he had the previous evening. “They won’t touch the port,
sir,” he said.
“Good. Good. That’s all, Sharpe, you’re dismissed.” “You’re going south, sir?” Sharpe asked
instead of leaving. “I told you, we’re going to see General Cradock.” “Then perhaps you’d
take a letter to Captain Hogan for me, sir?” “Write it quick, Sharpe, write it quick. I have to
be off.” Sharpe wrote it quick. He disliked writing for he had never learned his letters
properly, not school proper, and he knew his expressions were as clumsy as his
penmanship, but he wrote to tell Hogan that he was stranded north of the river, that he was
ordered to stay at the Quinta do Zedes and that, just as soon as he was released from those
orders, he would return to duty. He guessed that Christopher would read the letter and so he
had made no mention of the Colonel nor offered any criticism of his orders. He gave the
letter to Christopher who, dressed in civilian clothes and accompanied by the Frenchman
who was also out of uniform, left in mid-morning. Luis rode with them.
Kate had also written a letter, this one to her mother. She had been pale and tearful in
the morning, which Sharpe put down to her imminent parting from her new husband, but in
truth Kate was upset that Christopher would not let her accompany him, an idea the Colonel
had brusquely refused to consider. “Where we are going,” he had insisted, “is
exceedingly dangerous. Going through the lines, my dear one, is perilous in the extreme
and I cannot expose you to such risk.” He had seen Kate’s unhappiness and taken both her
hands in his. “Do you believe that I wish to part from you so soon? Do you not understand that
only matters of duty, of the very highest duty, would tear me from your side? You must trust
me, Kate. I think trust is very important in marriage, don’t you?”
And Kate, trying not to cry, had agreed that it was.
“You will be safe,” Christopher had told her. “Sharpe’s men will guard you. I know he looks
uncouth, but he’s an English officer and that means he’s almost a gentleman. And you’ve
got plenty of servants to chaperone you.” He frowned. “Does having Sharpe here worry
you?”
“No,” Kate said, “I’ll just stay out of his way.”
“I’ve no doubt he’ll be glad of that. Lady Grace might have tamed him a little, but he’s
plainly uncomfortable around civilized folk. I’m sure you’ll be quite safe till I return. I
can leave you a pistol if you’re worried?”
“No,” Kate said, for she knew there was a pistol in her father’s old gun room and, anyway,
she did not think she would need it to deter Sharpe. “How long will you be away?” she asked.
“A week? At most ten days. One cannot be precise about such things, but be assured, my
dearest, that I shall hurry back to you with the utmost dispatch.”
She gave him the letter for her mother. The letter, written by candlelight just before
dawn, told Mrs. Savage that her daughter loved her, that she was sorry she had deceived her,
but nevertheless she was married to a wonderful man, a man Mrs. Savage would surely come
to love as though he were her own son, and Kate promised she would be back at her mother’s side
just as soon as she possibly could. In the meantime she commended herself, her husband and
her mother to God’s tender care.
Colonel James Christopher read his wife’s letter as he rode toward Oporto. Then he read
Sharpe’s letter.
“Something important?” Captain Argenton asked him.
“Trivialities, my dear Captain, mere trivialities,” Christopher said and read Sharpe’s
letter a second time. “Good God,” he said, “but they allow utter illiterates to carry the
King’s commission these days,” and with those words he tore both letters into tiny shreds
that he let fly upon the cold, rain-laden wind so that, for a moment, the white scraps looked
like snow behind his horse. “I assume,” he asked Argenton, “that we shall need a permit to
cross the river?”
“I shall get one from headquarters,” Argenton said.
“Good,” Christopher said, “good,” because in his saddlebag, unknown to Captain
Argenton, was a third letter, one that Christopher had written himself in polished,
perfect French, and it was addressed, care of Marshal Soult’s headquarters, to Brigadier
Henri Vuillard, the man who was most feared by Argenton and his fellow plotters.
Christopher smiled, remembered the joys of the night and anticipated the greater joys to
come. He was a happy man.
“Spider webs,” Hagman whispered, “and moss. That’ll do it, sir.”
“Spider webs and moss?” Sharpe asked.
“A poultice, sir, of spider webs, moss and a little vinegar. Back it with brown paper and
bind it on tight.”
“The doctor says you should just keep the bandage damp, Dan, nothing else.”
“We knows better than a doctor, sir.” Hagman’s voice was scarcely audible. “My mother
always swore by vinegar, moss and webs.” He fell silent, except that every breath was a
wheeze. “And brown paper,” he said after a long while. “And my father, sir, when he was shot
by a gatekeeper at Dunham on the Hill, he was brought back by vinegar, moss and spider silk.
She was a wonderful woman, my mother.”
Sharpe, sitting beside the bed, wondered if he would be different if he had known his
mother, if he had been raised by a mother. He thought of Lady Grace, dead these three years,
and how she had once told him he was full of rage and he wondered if that was what mothers did,
took the rage away, and then his mind sheered away from Grace as it always did. It was just too
painful to remember and he forced a smile. “You were talking about Amy in your sleep, Dan. Is
she your wife?”
“Amy!” Hagman blinked in surprise. “Amy? I haven’t thought of Amy in years. She was the
rector’s daughter, sir, the rector’s daughter, and she did things no rector’s daughter
ought to have even known about.” He chuckled and it must have hurt him for the smile vanished
and he groaned, but Sharpe reckoned Hagman had a chance now. For the first two days he had been
feverish, but the sweat had broken. “How long are we staying here, sir?”
“Long as we need to, Dan, but the truth is I don’t know. The Colonel gave me orders so we’ll
just stay till he gives us more.” Sharpe had been reassured by the letter from General
Cradock, and even more by the news that Christopher was going to meet the General. Plainly
the Colonel was up to his neck in strange work, but Sharpe now wondered whether he had
misconstrued Captain Hogan’s words about keeping a close eye on Christopher. Perhaps Hogan
had meant that he wanted Christopher protected because his work was so important.
Whatever, Sharpe had his orders now and he was satisfied that the Colonel had the
authority to issue them, yet even so he felt guilty that he and his men were resting in the
Quinta do Zedes while a war went on somewhere to the south and another to the east.
At least he assumed there was fighting for he had no real news in the next few days. A
peddler came to the Quinta with a stock of bone buttons, steel pins and stamped tin
medallions showing the Virgin Mary, and he said the Portuguese still held the bridge at
Amarante where they were opposed by a big French army. He also claimed the French had gone
south toward Lisbon, then reported a rumor which said Marshal Soult was still in Oporto. A
friar who called at the Quinta to beg for food brought the same news. “Which is good,” Sharpe
told Harper.
“Why’s that, sir?”
“Because Soult isn’t going to linger in Oporto if there’s a chance of Lisbon falling, is
he? No, if Soult is in Oporto then that’s as far as the Frogs have got.”
“But they are south of the river?”
“A few bloody cavalrymen maybe,” Sharpe said dismissively, but it was frustrating not
to know what was happening and Sharpe, to his surprise, found himself wanting Colonel
Christopher to return so he could learn how the war progressed.
Kate doubtless wanted her husband to return even more than Sharpe did. For the first few
days after the Colonel’s departure she had avoided Sharpe, but increasingly they began to
meet in the room where Daniel Hagman lay. Kate brought the injured man food and then would sit
and talk with him and, once she had convinced herself that Sharpe was not the scurrilous rogue
she had supposed him to be, she invited him into the front of the house where she made tea in
a pot decorated with embossed china roses. Lieutenant Vicente was sometimes invited,
but he said almost nothing, just sat on the edge of a chair and gazed at Kate in sad
adoration. If she spoke to him he blushed and stammered, and Kate would look away, seemingly
equally embarrassed, yet she seemed to like the Portuguese Lieutenant. Sharpe sensed she was
a lonely woman, and always had been. One evening, when Vicente was supervising the
pic-quets, she spoke of growing up as a single child in Oporto and of being sent back to
England for her education. “There were three of us girls in a parson’s house,” she told him.
It was a cold evening and she sat close to a fire that had been lit in the tile-edged hearth of
the Quinta’s parlor. “His wife made us cook, clean and sew,” Kate went on, “and the clergyman
taught us scripture knowledge, some French, a little mathematics and Shakespeare.”
“More than I ever learned,” Sharpe said.
“You are not the daughter of a wealthy port merchant,” Kate said with a smile. Behind her,
in the shadows, the cook knitted. Kate, when she was with Sharpe or Vicente, always had one
of the women servants to chaper-one her, presumably so that her husband would have no
grounds for suspicion. “My father was determined to make me accomplished,” Kate went on,
looking wistful. “He was a strange man, my father. He made wine, but wouldn’t drink it. He
said God didn’t approve. The cellar here is full of good wine and he added to it every year
and he never opened a bottle for himself.” She shivered and leaned toward the fire. “I
remember it was always cold in England. I hated it, but my parents didn’t want me schooled
in Portugal.”
“Why not?”
“They feared I might be infected with papism,” she said, fidgeting with the tassels on
the edge of her shawl. “My father was very opposed to papism,” she continued earnestly,
“which is why, in his will, he insisted I must marry a communicant of the Church of
England, or else.”
“Or else?”
“I would lose my inheritance,” she said.
“It’s safe now,” Sharpe said.
“Yes,” she said, looking up at him, the light from the small fire catching in her eyes,
“yes, it is.”
“Is it an inheritance worth keeping?” Sharpe asked, suspecting the question was
indelicate, but driven to it by curiosity.
“This house, the vineyards,” Kate said, apparently unoffended, “the lodge where the
port is made. It’s all held in trust for me at the moment, though my mother enjoys the
income, of course.”
“Why didn’t she go back to England?”
“She’s lived here for over twenty years,” Kate said, “so her friends are here now. But after
this week?” She shrugged. “Maybe she will go back to England. She always said she’d go home to
find a second husband.” She smiled at the thought.
“She couldn’t marry here?” Sharpe asked, remembering the good-looking woman climbing
into the carriage outside the House Beautiful.