Sharpe 16 sharpes enem.., p.22
Sharpe 16 - Sharpe's Enemy, page 22
Sharpe pulled the string open, undid the cloth wrapping, and there was a doll inside the parcel. He moved closer to the light, and smiled. The doll was a Rifleman.
Teresa seemed worried. ‘You like it?’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I made it for Antonia.’ She wanted Sharpe to like it.
He held it into the light and he saw the care and trouble that had gone into the tiny uniform. The doll was just six inches high, yet the green jacket showed every piece of black piping, small loops intricate at the facings crossed by a thin, black crossbelt. The face was carved from wood. He lifted off the tiny black-peaked shako and saw black hair beneath.
‘Wool.’ She smiled. ‘I was going to give it to her for Christmas. Today. It will wait.’
‘How is she?’
‘Lovely.’ Teresa took the doll back and began to wrap it with delicate care. ‘Lucia looks after her.’Lucia was Teresa’s sister-in-law. ‘She’s very good with her. I suppose she has to be, we’re not the best parents in the world.’ She shrugged.
‘Tell her the doll’s from me, too.’ He had nothing to give his daughter.
She nodded. ‘It’s supposed to be you.’ She smiled. ‘She can have a doll and call it Father. I’ll tell her it’s from you as well.’
Sharpe thought of his words to Frederickson. Leave her to life. He did not want that. Antonia was his only flesh and blood, but she did not know him, nor he her, and he looked up into the mist at a blurred star and thought how selfish he was. He preferred to live on the blade-edge of danger and glory rather than raise a family in peace and security. Antonia was a child of war, and war, as Ducos had said, brought death more often than life. ‘Does she speak yet?’
‘A few words.’Teresa’s voice was subdued. ‘Mamma. She calls Ramon “Gogga”, I don’t know why.’ She laughed, but there was little pleasure in her voice.
Antonia would speak Spanish. She had no one to call Father except her uncle, Ramon, and she was lucky in him. More fortunate in her uncle than in her father.
‘Major! Major Sharpe!’
The voice hailed him from the inn door, then Dubreton stepped into the street and walked towards them. ‘Major?’
Sharpe put a hand on Teresa’s shoulder, waited till the French Colonel was close. ‘My wife, M’sieu. Teresa? This is Colonel Dubreton.‘
Dubreton bowed to her. ‘La Aguja. You’re as beautiful as you are dangerous, Ma’am.‘ He gestured towards the inn. ’It would be my pleasure to have you join us. The ladies have withdrawn, but you would be welcome, I know.‘
Teresa, to Sharpe’s surprise, spoke politely. ‘I’m tired, Colonel. I would prefer to wait for my husband in the Castle.’
‘Of course, Madame.’ Dubreton paused. ‘Your husband has done me a great service, Madame, a personal service. To him I owe my wife’s safety. If it is ever in my power, then I will feel honoured to repay that debt.’
Teresa smiled. ‘You’ll forgive me if I hope it is never in your power?’
‘I regret we are enemies.’
‘You can leave Spain, then we need not be.’
‘To be your friend, Madame, makes the idea of losing this war bearable.’
She laughed, pleased with the compliment, and to Sharpe’s utter astonishment held out her hand and let the Frenchman kiss it. ‘Would you call my horse, Colonel? One of your men is holding it.’
Dubreton obeyed, smiling at the odd chance that had brought him so close to a woman on whose head France had a high price. La Aguja, ‘the needle’, fought a bitter war against his men.
Harper brought the horse, helped Teresa into the saddle, and walked back with her towards the Castle. Dubreton watched them go and took a cigar from a leather case. He offered one to Sharpe and the Rifleman, who rarely smoked, wanted one now. He waited as Dubreton blew the spark on the charred linen inside his tinder-box into a flame, then bent down to light the cigar.
The hooves of the horse faded on the brittle, frosted earth. Dubreton lit his own cigar. ‘She’s very beautiful, Major.’
‘Yes.’
The cigar smoke vanished into the mist. A small breeze was blowing now, a breeze to blow cannon smoke away from the guns’ muzzles. The mist would clear soon, blown into scraps, and then what? Rain or snow.
Dubreton gestured Sharpe back towards the inn. ‘Your Colonel demanded your presence. Not, I think, that he needs or wants your advice, I suspect he merely wanted to deprive you of your wife’s company.’
‘As you deprived him?’
Dubreton smiled. ‘My wife, who is no fool, has even suggested that the beautiful Lady Farthingdale is not all she is supposed to be.’
Sharpe laughed, made no reply, and stood aside to let Dubreton duck under the lintel of the inn door. Once inside, Sharpe pulled the curtain close, and found the room stuffy with the smoke of cigars, tense with serious talk. The Battalion of wine bottles had been destroyed, replaced with brandy that only the junior officers were drinking with enjoyment. Sir Augustus Farthingdale was frowning, Ducos was smiling his secret smile.
Dubreton looked at Ducos. ‘I’m afraid you just missed La Aguja, Ducos. I invited her to join us, but she pleaded tiredness.’
Ducos turned the smile on Sharpe and kept it on his face as he made an obscene gesture. He made a loop with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and thrust his right forefinger repeatedly into the loop. ‘La Aguja, yes? The needle. We all know what we do with needles. We thread them.’
The sword came from the scabbard so fast that even Dubreton, standing at Sharpe’s elbow, could not have stopped the movement. The steel glittered in the candle light, swooped as Sharpe leaned far over the table, and the tip stopped one inch from the bridge of Ducos’ nose. ‘Do you wish to repeat that, Major?’
The room was utterly still. Sir Augustus yelped his syllable. ‘Sharpe!’
Ducos did not move. A tiny pulse throbbed beneath the pox-scarred cheek. ‘She is a foul enemy of France.’
‘I asked if you cared to repeat your statement? Or give me satisfaction.’
Ducos smiled. ‘You’re a fool, Major Sharpe, if you think I’ll fight a duel with you.’
‘Then you’re a fool to provoke one. I’m waiting for your apology.’
Dubreton spoke in quick French, and Sharpe guessed he ordered the apology for Ducos shrugged then looked back to Sharpe. ‘I have no words base enough for La Aguja, but for the insult to you, M’sieu, I offer you my regrets.‘ It was said grudgingly, scornfully.
Sharpe smiled. The apology had been graceless and insufficient and he moved the sword blade, fast, and this time Ducos did react for the steel tip had grazed his left eyebrow and struck the spectacles from his nose. He reached for them and stopped. The blade blocked his hand.
‘How well do you see me now, Ducos?’
Ducos shrugged. He looked myopic and defenceless without the two, thick lenses. ‘You’ve had my apology, M’sieu.‘
‘It’s difficult to thread a needle when you’re half blind, Ducos.’ The heavy steel rapped on one lens, shattering it. ‘Remember me, your enemy.’ The sword blade struck on the second lens and then Sharpe leaned back, reversed the sword, and thrust it home.
‘Sharpe!’ Farthingdale looked with disbelief at the broken glasses. It would take Ducos weeks to replace them.
‘Bravo, sir!’ Harry Price was drunk, happily drunk. Even the French officers, disliking Ducos, grinned at Sharpe and thumped the table with approval.
Dubreton walked back to his chair and looked at the outraged Sir Augustus. ‘Major Sharpe showed restraint, Sir Augustus. I must apologize if one of the officers under my command is both offensive and drunk.’
Ducos smouldered. There had been two insults; that he was drunk, which he was not, and that he was under Dubreton’s orders, which was equally untrue. A dangerous man, Sharpe knew, and a man whose enmity could stretch far into the future.
Dubreton sat, tapped ash onto a plate, and turned to Sir Augustus. ‘Do I have your decision, Sir Augustus?’
Farthingdale touched the white bandage that hid part of his silver hair. His voice was very precise. ‘You wish us to leave the valley at nine tomorrow morning, yes?’
‘Indeed.’
‘After which you have orders to destroy the watchtower?’
‘Yes.’
‘Following which you will go home.’
‘Precisely!’ Dubreton smiled, poured brandy and offered the bottle towards Sharpe.
Sharpe shook his head. He blew out a plume of smoke. ‘Why do you want us to leave the valley before you destroy the watchtower? Couldn’t we watch from the Castle?’
Dubreton smiled, knowing the question to be as false as the information he had already given to Sir Augustus. ‘Of course you can watch.’
Farthingdale frowned at Sharpe. ‘Your interest is laudable, Major, but Colonel Dubreton has already given us good reason why it would be sensible for us to leave.’
Dubreton nodded. ‘We have another three Battalions of Infantry in the next village.’ He shrugged, and swirled the brandy in his glass. ‘They have come as a marching exercise, a hardening of young troops, and much as I appreciate your company, Major, I fear that too many troops in the valley might be explosive.’
So Dubreton was willing to reveal part of his hand, Sharpe guessed because the Colonel had realized that Farthingdale could be scared off with numbers. Sharpe leaned back. ‘You have orders to destroy the watchtower?’
‘Yes.’
‘Strange.’
Dubreton smiled. ‘It has been used in the past by Partisans. It is a danger to us, but not to you, I would suggest.’
Sharpe tapped his own cigar ash onto the floor. He heard the laughter of the women in the next room. ‘I thought these hills were little used by ourselves, yourselves, or the partisans. Four Battalions seem a strong force to destroy one small tower.’
‘Sharpe!’ Farthingdale had lit one of his own cigars, longer and fatter than Dubreton’s. ‘If the French want to make a fool of themselves by blowing up a useless tower, then it’s none of our business.’
‘If the French want something, sir, then it’s our business to deny it them.’ Sharpe’s voice was harsh.
‘I don’t need you to tell me my duty, Major!’ Sir Augustus’ voice was angry. Dubreton watched silent. The hand touched the bandage again. ‘Colonel Dubreton had given us his word. He will withdraw when his task is done. There is no need for a useless confrontation in this valley. You may wish a fight, Major, to burnish your laurels, but my job is done. I have destroyed Pot-au-Feu, retaken our deserters, and our orders are to go home!’
Sharpe smiled. They were not Farthingdale’s orders, they had been Kinney’s orders, and now Kinney was in his grave looking westward at the hills, and Farthingdale had fallen into this command. Sharpe blew smoke at the ceiling, looked at Dubreton. ‘You will go home?’
‘Yes, Major.’
‘And you call yourselves “the Army of Portugal”, yes?’
Silence. Sharpe knew he was right. The French maintained three armies in the west of Spain; the Army of the North, the Army of the Centre, and the Army of Portugal. Dubreton’s home was across the border, his words had been deliberately misleading, though not enough to compromise his honour.
Dubreton ignored Sharpe. He looked, instead at Sir Augustus, and he put steel into his voice. ‘I have four Battalions of infantry, Sir Augustus, and can summon more within a day. I have my orders, however foolish they may seem, and I intend to carry them out. I will begin my operations at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I leave the choice to you whether you care to obstruct them.‘
Dubreton knew his man. Sir Augustus saw the odds, and saw the French bayonets coming through the war-smoke, and he folded spinelessly in front of the threat. ‘And you say we can withdraw unmolested?’
‘Our truce is extended to nine o’clock in the morning, Sir Augustus. That should give you ample time to distance yourself from Adrados.‘
Farthingdale nodded. Sharpe could hardly believe what he was seeing, though he had known other officers like this, officers who had bought their way to high rank without ever seeing the enemy and who ran away the first moment they did. Farthingdale pushed at the table, scraping his chair back. ‘We will leave at dawn.’
‘Splendid!’ Dubreton raised his brandy glass. ‘I drink to such sense!’
Sharpe dropped his cigar butt on the floor. ‘Colonel Dubreton?’
‘Major?’
Sharpe had cards to play now, but in a different game, and he must play them carefully. ‘Sir Augustus had led a gallant attack today, as you can see.’
‘Indeed.’ Dubreton looked at the white bandage. Farthingdale’s peevish face looked suspiciously at Sharpe.
‘I’ve no doubt, sir, that the story of this morning’s attack will bring nothing but glory to Sir Augustus.’ Farthingdale’s face, in the presence of such praise, showed only more suspicion. Sharpe raised an eyebrow. ‘Sadly the despatch will have to record that Sir Augustus received an injury while leading.troops into the breach.’ Sharpe leaned forward. ‘I have known times, Colonel, when such an injury caused a serious relapse during the night.’
‘We must pray that doesn’t happen, Major.’ Dubreton said.
‘And we’ll be grateful for your prayers, sir. However, if it does, then the command of the British troops will fall on my unworthy shoulders.’
‘So?’
‘And I will exercise that command.’
‘Sharpe!’ Farthingdale protested, quite rightly. ‘You take too much on yourself, Major! I have made my decision, given my word, and I will not tolerate this insult. You will accept my orders!’
‘Of course, sir. I apologize.’
Dubreton understood. Sharpe, too, had been protecting his honour, disassociating himself from Farthingdale’s decision, and the Frenchman had caught the message Sharpe had wished to convey. He held up a hand. ‘We shall pray that Sir Augustus’ health lasts the night, and in the morning, Major, we will know he has happily lived if we see that you have withdrawn.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They stayed a half-hour more then made their farewells. Soldiers brought horses to the door, officers pulled on cloaks or greatcoats and stood to one side to allow Josefina to mount her horse. Sir Augustus mounted beside her, pulled his hat low over the bandage, and looked at the British officers at the inn door. ‘All Company officers to my quarters in a halfhour. All! That includes you, Sharpe.’ He raised a gloved finger to the tassel of his hat and nodded at Dubreton.
The French Colonel held Sharpe aside. ‘I will remember my debt to you, Sharpe.’
‘There’s no debt in my mind, sir.’
‘I’m a better judge.’ He smiled. ‘Are you going to fight us tomorrow?’
‘I shall obey orders, sir.’
‘Yes.’ Dubreton watched the first horses leave. He brought a bottle of brandy from behind his back. ‘To keep you warm on your march tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And a happy New Year, Major.’
Sharpe mounted and walked his horse after the receding officers. Harry Price hung back for him, fell in alongside, and when they were well out of earshot the Lieutenant looked at his tall Major. ‘Are we really going tomorrow morning, sir?’
‘No, Harry.’ Sharpe grinned at him, but the grin hid his real feelings. Many Riflemen and many Fusiliers, Sharpe knew, would never leave the high place in the hills that was called the Gateway of God. They had had their last Christmas.
CHAPTER 18
Christmas midnight. The mist clinging to stone and grass where the breeze had not yet taken it away, and the boot heels of sentries were loud on the Castle ramparts. Flame flared in the courtyard. From below, the greatcoat-skirts of the patrolling sentries could have been the surcoats of armoured knights; their bayonets, catching the gleam of fire, the spearpoints of men who waited for Islam to attack in the dawn.
Sharpe held Teresa close. Two of her men waited in the Castle gateway, her horse moved restlessly behind her. ‘You have the message.’
She nodded, pulled away from him. ‘I’ll be back in two days.’
‘I’ll still be here.’
She punched him softly. ‘Make sure you are.’ She turned, mounted the horse, and pulled it towards the gateway.
‘Take care!’
‘We ride more at night than at day! Two days!’ And she was gone through the arch, turning westward to take the news of the hidden French troops to Frenada. Another parting in a marriage that was made of too many partings, and he listened to the fading hooves and thought that at the end of two days’ fighting there would be a reward.
He was late for Sir Augustus’ meeting, and he hardly cared. The decision that Sharpe had made would render anything Sir Augustus had to say meaningless. Sharpe would take over. He climbed the stairway in the gate-tower, laboriously cleared of the windlass, and walked the circuit of the battlements towards the keep.
Sir Augustus had a huge fire in his room, the wood crackling fiercely as the thorns burned. The chimney, the only one in the Castle, opened up on the ramparts.
Farthingdale paused as Sharpe entered. A dozen officers sat or stood in the room, even Frederickson had been fetched from the watchtower, and the eyes looked at Sharpe. Farthingdale’s voice was hostile. ‘You’re late, Major.’
‘My apologies, sir.’
Pot-au-Feu had furnished the room in barbaric splendour, rugs on walls and floor, even serving as heavy curtains, and the curtains moved to reveal Josefina. She came from the balcony, smiled at Sharpe, then leaned against the wall as Sir Augustus lifted the piece of paper in his hand. ‘I will recapitulate for those who could not be here on time. We leave at first light. The prisoners will go first, suitably dressed, and guarded by four Companies of the Fusiliers.’
Brooker nodded, making notes on a folded square of paper.
‘Captain Gilliland will go next. You will make space on your carts for the wounded.’
Gilliland nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then the rest of the Fusiliers. Major Sharpe?’
‘Sir?’
‘Your Riflemen will be the rear-guard.’
