Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold (8 page)

“We can’t cope with prisoners,” Sharpe said. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, then pulled his shako back on. The visor was coming away from the crown, but there was nothing he could do about that here. “Get Tongue,” he suggested, “and see if he can find out what these two were up to. If they’re just drunk on communion wine then march them out west, strip them of anything valuable and boot them back where they came from. But if they raped anyone…”

“I know what to do, sir,” Harper said grimly.

“Then do it,” Sharpe said. He nodded to Harper, then walked on past the church to where the stream joined the river. The small stone bridge carried the road eastward through a vineyard, past a walled cemetery and then twisted through pastureland beside the Douro. It was all open land and if more French came and he had to retreat from the village then he dared not use that road and he hoped to God he had time to ferry his men over the Douro and that thought made him go back up the street to look for oars. Or maybe he could find a rope? If the rope were long enough he could rig a line across the river and haul the boat back and forth and that would surely be quicker than rowing.

He was wondering if there were bell ropes in the small church that might stretch that far when Harris came out of the house and said that the prisoner’s name was Lieutenant Olivier and he was in the 18th Dragoons and that the Lieutenant, despite being caught with his breeches round his ankles, had denied raping the girl. “He said French officers don’t behave like that,” Harris said, “but Lieutenant Vicente says the girl swears he did.”

“So did he or didn’t he?” Sharpe asked irritably.

“Of course he did, sir. He admitted as much after I thumped him,”
Harris said happily, “but he still insists she wanted him to. He says she wanted comforting after a sergeant raped her.”

“Wanted comforting!” Sharpe said scathingly. “He was just second in line, wasn’t he?”

“Fifth in line,” Harris said tonelessly, “or so the girl says.”

“Jesus,” Sharpe swore. “Why don’t I just give the bugger a smacking, then we’ll string him up.” He walked back to the house where the civilians were screaming at the Frenchman, who gazed at them with a disdain that would have been admirable on a battlefield. Vicente was protecting the dragoon and now appealed to Sharpe for help to escort Lieutenant Olivier to safety. “He must stand trial,” Vicente insisted.

“He just had a trial,” Sharpe said, “and I found him guilty. So now I’ll thump him and then I’ll hang him.”

Vicente looked nervous, but he did not back down. “We cannot lower ourselves to their level of barbarity,” he claimed.

“I didn’t rape her,” Sharpe said, “so don’t place me with them.”

“We fight for a better world,” Vicente declared.

For a second Sharpe just stared at the young Portuguese officer, scarce believing what he had heard. “What happens if we leave him here, eh?”

“We can’t!” Vicente said, knowing that the villagers would take a far worse revenge than anything Sharpe was proposing.

“And I can’t take prisoners!” Sharpe insisted.

“We can’t kill him”—Vicente was blushing with indignation as he confronted Sharpe and he would not back down—“and we can’t leave him here. It would be murder.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Sharpe said in exasperation. Lieutenant Olivier did not speak English, but he seemed to understand that his fate was in the balance and he watched Sharpe and Vicente like a hawk. “And who’s going to be the judge and jury?” Sharpe demanded, but Vicente got no opportunity to answer for just then a rifle fired from the western edge of the village and then another sounded and then there was a whole rattle of shots.

The French had come back.

C
OLONEL
J
AMES
Christopher liked wearing the hussar uniform. He decided it suited him and he spent a long time admiring himself in the pier glass in the farmhouse’s largest bedroom, turning left and right, and marveling at the feeling of power conveyed by the uniform. He deduced it came from the long tasseled boots and from the jacket’s high stiff collar that forced a man to stand upright with his head back, and from the fit of the jacket that was so tight that Christopher, who was lean and fit, still had to suck in his belly to fasten the hooks and eyes down its silver-laced front. The uniform made him feel encased in authority, and the elegance of the outfit was enhanced by the fur-edged pelisse that was draped from his left shoulder and by the silver-chained saber scabbard that chinked as he went downstairs and as he paced up and down the terrace where he waited for his guest. He put a sliver of wood into his mouth, obsessively working it between his teeth as he gazed at the distant smear of smoke which showed where buildings burned in the captured city. A handful of fugitives had stopped at the farm to beg for food and Luis had talked with them and then told Christopher that hundreds if not thousands of people had drowned when the pontoon bridge broke. The refugees claimed that the French had wrecked the bridge with cannon fire and Luis, his hatred of the enemy fueled by the false rumor, eyed his master with a surly expression until Christopher had finally lost his patience. “It is only a uniform, Luis! It is not a sign of a changed allegiance!”

“A French uniform,” Luis had complained.

“You wish Portugal to be free of the French?” Christopher snapped. “Then behave respectfully and forget this uniform.”

Now Christopher paced the terrace, picking at his teeth and constantly watching the road that led across the hill. The clock in the farm’s elegant parlor struck three and no sooner had the last chime faded than a large column of cavalry appeared across the far crest. They were dragoons and they came in force to make sure that no partisans or fugitive Portuguese troops gave trouble to the officer who rode to meet Christopher.

The dragoons, all from the 18th regiment, wheeled away into the fields beneath the farmhouse where a stream offered water for their horses. The cavalrymen’s rose-fronted green coats were white with dust. Some, seeing Christopher in his French hussar’s uniform, offered a hasty salute, but most ignored him and just led their horses toward the stream as the Englishman turned to greet his visitor.

His name was Argenton and he was a captain and the Adjutant of the 18th Dragoons and it was plain from his smile that he knew and liked Colonel Christopher. “The uniform becomes you,” Argenton said.

“I found it in Oporto,” Christopher said. “It belonged to a poor fellow who was a prisoner and died of the fever and a tailor trimmed it to size for me.”

“He did well,” Argenton said admiringly. “Now all you need are the
cadenettes
.”

“The
cadenettes
?”

“The pigtails,” Argenton explained, touching his temples where the French hussars grew their hair long to mark themselves as elite cavalrymen. “Some men go bald and have wigmakers attach false
cadenettes
to their shakoes or colbacks.”

“I’m not sure I want to grow pigtails,” Christopher said, amused, “but perhaps I can find some girl with black hair and cut off a pair of tails, eh?”

“A good idea,” Argenton said. He watched approvingly as his escort set picquets, then smiled his thanks as a very sullen-looking Luis brought him and Christopher glasses of
vinho verde
, the golden white wine of the Douro valley. Argenton sipped the wine cautiously and was surprised that it was so good. He was a slight man with a frank, open face and red hair that was damp with sweat and marked where his helmet had been. He smiled easily, a reflection of his trusting nature. Christopher rather despised the Frenchman, but knew he would be useful.

Argenton drained the wine. “Did you hear about the drownings in Oporto?” he asked.

“My servant says you broke the bridge.”

“They would say that,” Argenton said regretfully. “The bridge collapsed under the weight of the refugees. It was an accident. A sad
accident, but if the people had stayed in their homes and given our men a decent welcome then there wouldn’t have been any panic at the bridge. They’d all be alive now. As it is, we’re being blamed, but it had nothing to do with us. The bridge wasn’t strong enough and who built the bridge? The Portuguese.”

“A sad accident, as you say,” Christopher said, “but all the same I must congratulate you on your swift capture of Oporto. It was a notable feat of arms.”

“It would have been still more notable,” Argenton observed, “if the opposition had been better soldiers.”

“I trust your losses were not extravagant?”

“A handful,” Argenton said dismissively, “but half of our regiment was sent eastward and they lost a good few men in an ambush by the river. An ambush”—he looked accusingly at Christopher—“in which some British riflemen took part. I didn’t think there were any British troops in Oporto?”

“There shouldn’t have been,” Christopher said, “I ordered them south of the river.”

“Then they disobeyed you,” Argenton said.

“Did any of the riflemen die?” Christopher asked, mildly hoping that Argenton would have news of Sharpe’s death.

“I wasn’t there. I’m posted to Oporto where I find billets, look for rations and do the errands of war.”

“Which I am sure you discharge admirably,” Christopher said smoothly, then led his guest into the farmhouse where Argenton admired the tiles about the dining room hearth and the simple iron chandelier that hung above the table. The meal itself was commonplace enough: chicken, beans, bread, cheese and a good country red wine, but Captain Argenton was complimentary. “We’ve been on short rations,” he explained, “but that should change now. We’ve found plenty of food in Oporto and a warehouse stuffed to the rafters with good British powder and shot.”

“You were short of those too?” Christopher asked.

“We have plenty,” Argenton said, “but the British powder is better
than our own. We have no source of saltpeter except what we scrape from cesspit walls.”

Christopher grimaced at the thought. The best saltpeter, an essential element of gunpowder, came from India and he had never considered that there might be a shortage in France. “I assume,” he said, “that the powder was a British gift to the Portuguese.”

“Who have now given it to us,” Argenton said, “much to Marshal Soult’s delight.”

“Then it is time, perhaps,” Christopher suggested, “that we made the Marshal unhappy.”

“Indeed,” Argenton said, “indeed,” and then fell silent because they had reached the purpose of their meeting.

It was a strange purpose, but an exciting one. The two men were plotting mutiny. Or rebellion. Or a coup against Marshal Soult’s army. But however it was described it was a ploy that might end the war.

There was, Argenton now explained, a great deal of dissatisfaction in Marshal Soult’s army. Christopher had heard all this before from his guest, but he did not interrupt as Argenton rehearsed the arguments that would justify his disloyalty. He described how some officers, all devout Catholics, were mortally offended by their army’s behavior in Spain and Portugal. Churches had been desecrated, nuns raped. “Even the holy sacraments have been defiled,” Argenton said in a horrified tone.

“I can hardly believe it,” Christopher said.

Other officers, a few, were simply opposed to Bonaparte. Argenton was a Catholic monarchist, but he was willing to make common cause with those men who still held Jacobin sympathies and believed that Bonaparte had betrayed the revolution. “They cannot be trusted, of course,” Argenton said, “not in the long run, but they will join us in resisting Bonaparte’s tyranny.”

“I pray they do,” Christopher said. The British government had long known that there was a shadowy league of French officers who opposed Bonaparte. They called themselves the
Philadelphes
and London had once sent agents in search of their elusive brotherhood, but had finally
concluded that their numbers were too few, their ideals too vague and their supporters too ideologically divided for the
Philadelphes
ever to succeed.

Yet here, in remote northern Portugal, the various opponents of Bonaparte had found a common cause. Christopher had first got wind of that cause when he talked with a French officer who had been taken prisoner on Portugal’s northern border and who had been living in Braga where, having given his parole, his only restriction was to remain within the barracks for his own protection. Christopher had drunk with the unhappy officer and heard a tale of French unrest that sprang from one man’s absurd ambition.

Nicolas Jean de Dieu Soult, Duke of Dalmatia, Marshal of France and commander of the army that was now invading Portugal, had seen other men who served the Emperor become princes, even kings, and he reckoned his own dukedom was a poor reward for a career that out-shone almost all the Emperor’s other marshals. Soult had been a soldier for twenty-four years, a general for fifteen and a marshal for five. At Austerlitz, the greatest of all the Emperor’s victories so far, Marshal Soult had covered himself with glory, far outfighting Marshal Bernadotte who, nevertheless, was now Prince of Ponte Corvo. Jérôme Bonaparte, the Emperor’s youngest brother, was an idle, extravagant wastrel, yet he was King of Westphalia while Marshal Murat, a hot-headed braggart, was King of Naples. Louis Napoleon, another of the Emperor’s brothers, was King of Holland, and all those men were nonentities while Soult, who knew his own high worth, was a mere duke and it was not enough.