Sharpe 12 - Sharpe's Battle (20 page)

Monsieur Loup couldn't resist the bait. It's all so clever, Richard, that I wish I'd thought of it myself, but I didn't. But no matter; this'll mean goodbye to our gallant allies and an end to all those rumours about Ireland."

“My men didn't spread those rumours,” Sharpe insisted.

“Your men?” Hogan mocked. “These aren't your men, Richard. They're Kiely's, or more likely Bonaparte's, but they're not your men.”

“They're good men, sir, and they fought well.”

Hogan shook his head at the anger in Sharpe's voice, then steered his friend along the eastern battlements with a touch on the rifle-man's elbow. “Let me try and explain something to you, Richard,” Hogan said. "One third of this army is Irish. There's not a battalion that doesn't have its ranks full of my countrymen and most of those Irishmen are not lovers of King George. Why should they be? But they're here because there's no work at home and because there's no food at home and because the army, God bless it, has the sense to treat the Irish well. But just suppose, Richard, just suppose, that we can upset all those good men from County Cork and County Offaly, and all those brave souls from Inniskilling and Ballybofey, and suppose we can upset them so badly that they mutiny. How long will this army hold together? A week? Two days? One hour? The French, Richard, very nearly ripped this army into two parts and don't think they won't try again, because they will. Only the next rumour will be more subtle, and the only way I can stop that next rumour is by ridding the army of the Real Companïa Irlandesa, because even if you're right and they didn't spread the tales of rape and massacre, then someone close to them did. So tomorrow morning, Richard, you're going to march these bastards down to headquarters where they will surrender those nice new muskets you somehow filched for them and draw rations for a long march. In effect,

Richard, they are under arrest until we can find the transport to carry them to Cadiz and there's nothing you can do about it. It's all been ordered."

Hogan took a piece of paper from his pouch and gave it to the rifleman. “And it isn't an order from me, Richard, but from the Peer.”

Sharpe unfolded the paper. He felt aggrieved at what he perceived to be an injustice. Men like Captain Donaju only wanted to fight the French, but instead they were to be shuffled aside. They were to be marched down to headquarters and disarmed like a battalion of turncoats. Sharpe felt a temptation to crumple Wellington's written order into a ball, but sensibly resisted the impulse. “If you want to get rid of the troublemakers,” he said instead, “then start with Kiely and his bloody whore, start with the-”

“Don't teach me my job,” Hogan interrupted tartly. “I can't act against Kiely and his whore because they're not in the British army. Valverde could get rid of them, but he won't, so the easy thing to do, the politic thing, is to get rid of the whole damned pack of them. And tomorrow morning, Richard, you do just that.”

Sharpe took a deep breath to curb his anger. “Why tomorrow?” he asked when he trusted himself to speak again. “Why not now?”

“Because it will take you the rest of today to bury the dead.”

“And why order me to do it?” Sharpe asked sullenly. "Why not Runciman, or

Kiely?"

“Because those two gentlemen,” Hogan answered, “will be going back with me to make their reports. There's going to be a court of inquiry and I need to make damn sure that the court discovers exactly what I want it to discover.”

“Why the hell do we want a court of inquiry?” Sharpe asked sourly. “We know what happened. We got beat.”

Hogan sighed. "We need a court of inquiry, Richard, because a decent

Portuguese battalion got torn to scraps, and the Portuguese government is not going to like that. Worse still, our enemies in the Spanish junta will love it. They'll say the events of last night prove that foreign troops can't be trusted under British command, and right now, Richard, what we want more than anything else is to have the Peer made the Generalisimo of Spain. We won't win otherwise. So what we need to do now, just to make sure that bloody Valverde doesn't have too much sunshine in which to make his hay, is hold a solemn court of inquiry and find a British officer on whom all the blame can be laid.

We need, God bless the poor bastard, a scapegoat."

Sharpe felt the long, slow dawning of disaster. The Portuguese and Spanish wanted a scapegoat, and Richard Sharpe would make a fine victim, a victim who would be trussed and basted by the reports Hogan would concoct this afternoon at headquarters. “I tried to tell Oliveira that Loup was going to attack,”

Sharpe said, “but he wouldn't believe me-”

“Richard! Richard!” Hogan interrupted in a long-suffering tone. "You're not the scapegoat! Good God, man, you're nothing but a captain, and only a captain on sufferance. Aren't you a lieutenant on the list? You think we can go to the

Portuguese government and say we allowed a greenjacket lieutenant to destroy a prime regiment of caçadores? Good Lord alive, man, if we're going to make a sacrifice then the very least we can do is find a big, plump beast with enough fat on its carcass to make the fire sizzle when we throw it on the flames."

“Runciman,” Sharpe said.

Hogan smiled wolfishly. “Exactly. Our Wagon Master will be sacrificed to make the Portuguese happy and to persuade the Spanish that Wellington can be trusted not to massacre their precious soldiers. I can't sacrifice Kiely, though I'd love to, because that will upset the Spaniards and I can't sacrifice you because you're too junior and, besides, I need you for the next time I've got a fool's errand, but Colonel Claud Runciman was born for this moment, Richard. This is Claud's proud and sole purpose in life: to sacrifice his honour, his rank and his reputation to keep Lisbon and Cadiz happy.” Hogan paused, thinking. “Maybe we'll even shoot him. Only pour encourager les autres.”

Sharpe guessed he was supposed to recognize the French phrase, but it meant nothing to him and he was too depressed to ask for a translation. He also felt desperately sorry for Runciman. “Whatever you do, sir,” Sharpe said, “don't shoot him. It wasn't his fault. It was mine.”

“If anyone's,” Hogan said brusquely, "it was Oliveira's responsibility. He was a good man, but he should have listened to you, but I dare not blame Oliveira.

The Portuguese need him as a hero, just as the Spanish need Kiely. So we'll pick on Runciman instead. It ain't justice, Richard, but politics, and like all politics it ain't pretty, but well done it can work wonders. I'll leave you to bury the dead and tomorrow morning you report to headquarters with all your Irishmen disarmed. We're looking for a place to billet them where they can't get into trouble, and you, of course, can then go back to some proper soldiering."

Sharpe again felt a pang at the injustice of the solution. “Suppose Runciman wants to call me as a witness?” he asked. “I won't lie. I like the man.”

“You have perverse tastes. Runciman won't call you, no one will call you. I'll make sure of that. This court of inquiry isn't supposed to establish the truth, Richard, but to ease Wellington and me off a painful hook that is presently inserted deep into our joint fundament.” Hogan grinned, then turned and walked away. “I'll send you some picks and shovels to bury the dead,” he called in callous farewell.

“You couldn't send us what we needed, could you?” Sharpe shouted after the

Major in bitterness. “But you can find bloody shovels fast enough.”

“I'm a miracle worker, that's why! Come and have lunch with me tomorrow!”

The smell of the dead was already rank in the fort. Carrion birds wheeled overhead or perched on the crumbling ramparts. There were a few entrenching tools in the fort already and Sharpe ordered the Real Companïa Irlandesa to start digging a long trench for a grave. He made his own riflemen join the diggers. The greenjackets grumbled that such labouring was beneath their dignity as elite troops, but Sharpe insisted. “We do it because they're doing it,” he told his unhappy men, jerking his thumb towards the Irish guardsmen.

Sharpe even took a hand himself, stripping to the waist and wielding a pickaxe as though it was an instrument of vengeance. He slammed the point repeatedly into the hard, rocky soil, wrenched it loose and swung again until the sweat poured off him.

“Sharpe?” A sad Colonel Runciman, mounted on his big horse, peered down at the sweating, bare-backed rifleman. “Is that really you, Sharpe?”

Sharpe straightened and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Yes, General. It's me.”

“You were flogged?” Runciman was staring aghast at the thick scars on Sharpe's back.

“In India, General, for something I didn't do.”

"You shouldn't be digging now! It's beneath an officer's dignity to dig,

Sharpe. You must learn to behave as an officer."

Sharpe wiped the sweat off his face. “I like digging, General. It's honest work. I always fancied that one day I might have a farm. Just a small one, but with nothing but honest work to do from sun-up to lights-out. Are you here to say goodbye?”

Runciman nodded. “You know there's going to be a court of inquiry?”

“I heard, sir.”

“They need someone to blame, I suppose,” Runciman said. “General Valverde says someone should hang for this.” Runciman fidgeted with his reins, then turned in his saddle to stare at the Spanish General who was a hundred paces away and deep in conversation with Lord Kiely. Kiely seemed to be doing most of the talking, gesticulating wildly, but also pointing towards Sharpe every few seconds. “You don't think they'll hang me, do you, Sharpe?” Runciman asked. He seemed very close to tears.

“They won't hang you, General,” Sharpe said.

“But it'll mean disgrace all the same,” Runciman said, sounding broken- hearted.

“So fight back,” Sharpe said.

“How?”

“Tell them you ordered me to warn Oliveira. Which I did.”

Runciman frowned. “But I didn't order you to do that, Sharpe.”

“So? They won't know that, sir.”

“I can't tell a lie!” Runciman said, shocked at the thought.

“It's your honour that's at stake, sir, and there'll be enough bastards telling lies about you.”

“I won't tell lies,” Runciman insisted.

“Then bend the truth, for God's sake, sir. Tell them how you had to play tricks to get some decent muskets, and if it hadn't been for those muskets then no one would have lived last night! Play the hero, sir, make the bastards wriggle!”

Runciman shook his head slowly. “I'm not a hero, Sharpe. I'd like to think there's a valued contribution I can make to the army, as my dear father made to the church, but I'm not sure I've found my real calling yet. But I can't pretend to be what I'm not.” He took off his cocked hat to wipe his brow. “I just came to say goodbye.”

“Good luck, sir.”

Runciman smiled ruefully. “I never had that, Sharpe, never. Except in my parents. I was lucky in my dear parents and in being blessed with a healthy appetite. But otherwise... ?” He shrugged as though the question was unanswerable, put his hat on again and then, with a forlorn wave, turned and rode to join Hogan. Two ox-drawn wagons had come to the fort with spades and picks and as soon as the tools were unloaded Father Sarsfield commandeered the two vehicles so that the wounded could be carried to doctors and hospitals.

Hogan waved goodbye to Sharpe and led the wagons out of the fort. The surviving caçadores followed, marching beneath their flags. Lord Kiely said nothing to his men, but just rode southwards. Juanita, who had not shown her face outside the gatehouse all morning, rode beside him with her dogs running behind. General Valverde touched his hat to greet Juanita, then pulled his reins sharply around and spurred his horse across the fire-blackened grass of the fort's yard until he came to where Sharpe was digging. “Captain Sharpe?” he said.

“General?” Sharpe had to shade his eyes to look up at the tall, thin, yellow- uniformed man in his high saddle.

“What reason did General Loup have for his attack last night?”

“You must ask him, General,” Sharpe said.

Valverde smiled. “Maybe I shall. Now back to your digging, Captain. Or should it be Lieutenant?” Valverde waited for an answer, but when none came he turned his horse and rammed his spurs hard back.

“What was all that about?” Harper asked.

“God knows,” Sharpe said, watching the elegant Spaniard gallop to catch up with the wagons and the other horsemen. Except he did know, and he knew it meant trouble. He swore, then plucked the pick out of the soil and rammed it hard down again. A spark flew from a scrap of flint as the pick's spike slashed deep. Sharpe let go of the handle. "But I'll tell you what I do know,

Pat. Everyone loses out of last night's business except goddamned Loup, and

Loup's still out there and that gives me the gripe."

“So what can you do about it, sir?”

“At this moment, Pat, nothing. I don't even know where to find the bastard.”

Then El Castrador arrived.

“El Lobo is in San Cristobal, señor,” El Castrador said. The partisan had come with five of his men to collect the muskets Sharpe had promised him. The

Spaniard claimed he needed a hundred weapons, though Sharpe doubted whether the man had even a dozen followers any more, yet doubtless any extra guns would be sold for a healthy profit. Sharpe gave El Castrador thirty of the muskets he had stored overnight in Runciman's quarters.

“I cannot spare more,” he had told El Castrador, who had shrugged acceptance in the manner of a man accustomed to disappointments.

Now El Castrador was poking among the Portuguese dead, searching for plunder.

He picked up a rifle horn, turned it over and saw it had been holed by a bullet. He nevertheless wrenched off the horn's metal spout and shoved it into a capacious pocket of his bloodstained apron. “El Lobo is in San Cristobal,” he said again.

“How do you know?” Sharpe asked.

“I am El Castrador!” the gross man said boastfully, then squatted beside a blackening corpse. He prised open the dead man's jaws with his big fingers.

“Is it true, señor, that you can sell the teeth of the dead?”

“In London, yes.”