Sharpe's Fury - 11 (27 page)

This was repeated to Sir Thomas when he trotted back. He nodded in acknowledgment, then shouted for Captain Vetch, the engineer officer who had burned the fire rafts and who had been posted with the advance guard to make just such assessments. “Make a reconnaissance, Captain,” Sir Thomas ordered, “and tell me if the guns can use the road.”

Captain Vetch rode his horse across the flooded stretch and came back with a confident report that the road was eminently passable, but General Lapeña insisted that the causeway might have been damaged by the water and that it must be properly surveyed and, if necessary, repaired before any cannons could be drawn across the lake. “Then at least send the infantry across,” Sir Thomas suggested, and after a while it was tentatively agreed that perhaps the infantry could risk the crossing.

“Bring your boys up,” Sir Thomas said to Brigadier General Dilkes and Colonel Wheatley. “I want both your brigades close to the bank. Don’t want them strung along the road.” There was no danger in having his brigades tailing away into the distance, but Sir Thomas hoped that under the eyes of the British and Portuguese troops the Spaniards would show some alacrity.

The two brigades closed onto the lake bank, leaving the guns on the highway, but the arrival of Sir Thomas’s men had no effect on the Spaniards. Their soldiers insisted on stripping off their boots and stockings before stepping cautiously onto the flooded road. Most of Lapeña’s officers had no horses, for few mounts had been shipped in the feluccas, and those unmounted officers demanded to be carried by their men. They all went painfully slowly, as if they feared the ground would give way beneath them and the waters engulf them. “God in his heaven,” Sir Thomas groused as he watched a small group of mounted Spanish officers who were halfway across and nervously probing the hidden road with long sticks. “John”—he turned to his nephew—“my compliments to Major Duncan. Tell him I want the guns here now and I want them across this damned lake by mid-afternoon.”

Major Hope rode to fetch the guns. Lord William Russell dismounted, took a telescope from his saddlebag, and rested it on his horse’s back as he searched the northern landscape. It was low country, edged on the horizon by bare hills on which white villages reflected the winter sun. The plain was dotted with strange evergreens that looked for all the world like a child’s drawing of what a tree should be. They were lofty trees with a black bare trunk and a dark puff of foliage spreading wide above. “I like those trees,” he said, still staring through his glass.

“
Sciadopitys verticillata
,” Sir Thomas said casually, then saw Lord William look at him with awe and astonishment. “My dear Mary took a fancy to them on our travels,” Sir Thomas explained, “and we tried planting a stand in Balgowan, but they didn’t take. You’d think pines would grow well in Perthshire, wouldn’t you? But these didn’t. Died the very first winter.” He sounded relaxed, but Lord William could see the general’s fingers drumming impatiently on his saddle pommel. Lord William looked back through the glass, edging the lens past a small village half hidden by the tracery of a winter olive grove, and then the glass stopped. He stared.

“We’re being watched, Sir Thomas,” he said.

“Aye, I should imagine so. Marshal Victor’s no fool. Dragoons, are they?”

“A troop of them.” Lord William twitched the long barrel to bring the lens into finer focus. “There’s not a lot of them. Maybe twenty.” He could see the horsemen’s green uniforms against the white walls of the houses. “They’re dragoons, sir, yes, and they’re in a village between two low hills. Three miles off.” A flash of light showed from a roof and Lord William guessed that a Frenchman was staring back through another telescope. “They’re just watching us, it seems.”

“Watching and reporting back,” Sir Thomas said gloomily. “They’ll have no orders to trouble us, Willie, just to keep a sharp eye on us, and I’ll wager your father’s dukedom to one of my gamekeeper’s cottages that Marshal Victor’s already marching.”

Lord William searched the hills on either side of the village, but no enemy showed on those low heights. “Should we tell Doña Manolito?” he asked.

Sir Thomas, for once, did not object to the mocking nickname. “Leave him in peace,” he said softly, glancing at the Spanish general. “If he knows there are green men stalking him he’ll like as not turn and run. You’ll not repeat that, Willie.”

“Soul of discretion, sir,” Lord William said, then collapsed the glass and put it back into his saddlebag. “But if Victor’s marching, sir—” he added, thinking about the implications, but leaving the question unfinished.

“He’ll bar our road!” Sir Thomas said, at last sounding cheerful, “and that means we have to fight. And we need to fight. If we just run away then those bastard lawyers in Cádiz will say the French can’t be beaten. They’ll sue for peace, then they’ll throw us out of Cádiz and invite the French in. We have to fight, Willie, and we have to show the Spaniards we can win. Look at those troops.” He pointed to where his redcoats and greenjackets waited. “Finest men in the world, Willie, finest in the world! So let’s force a battle, eh? Let’s do what we came to do!”

The Spanish infantry waiting to cross the causeway had to hurry off the road to let the two batteries of British guns pass. Those guns came in a rattling jangle of trace chains and a clatter of hooves. General Lapeña, seeing his men scatter, spurred to Sir Thomas and indignantly demanded to know why the ten cannons, with their limbers and caissons, had broken the order of march.

“You need them on the far bank,” Sir Thomas said encouragingly, “in case the French come while your brave men are crossing.” He waved the leading gun onto the causeway. “And go hard,” he told the officer commanding the gun. “Force those buggers to hurry!”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said as he grinned.

A company of riflemen were sent to escort the guns. They stripped off their cartridge boxes and waded onto the causeway where they lined the verges, their presence intended to calm the horse teams. The first battery, under Captain Shenley, made fine time. The water came above the guns’ axles, but four nine-pounder cannons and a five-and-a-half-inch howitzer, each weapon pulled by eight horses, made the crossing without mishap. The limbers had to be emptied so that the water would not ruin the twenty-powder charges they each carried. The charges were placed on one of the battery’s wagons that stood high enough to keep the charges dry and carried another hundred rounds of spare ammunition besides. “Now the second battery!” Sir Thomas ordered. He was in a fine mood now because Shenley’s battery, chains jingling and wheels throwing up cockscombs of spray, had harried the laggard Spaniards to the far bank. There was suddenly a sense of urgency.

Then the leading gun of the second battery slewed off the causeway. Sir Thomas did not see what happened. Later he learned that one of the horses had stumbled, the team veered left, the drivers had hauled them back, and the gun, swinging behind its limber, had skidded off the road, bounced across the verge, then slammed down into the flood, spilling the gunners off the limber and bringing the horses to a sudden, sodden halt.

General Lapeña turned his head very slowly to give Sir Thomas an accusing look.

The gunners whipped the horses, the horses pulled, and the gun would not move.

And across the plain, beyond the long stretch of marshes, a glint of sun reflected from metal.

Dragoons.

I
T WAS
over that night, all except for the fighting that would determine whether Cádiz would survive or fall. But the treacherous part ended when Lord Pumphrey came to the house Sharpe had rented in San Fernando. He came after dark, carrying the same bag he had taken to the cathedral crypt, and it seemed to Sharpe that His Lordship was even more nervous than when he had gone down the steps to where Father Montseny had waited in the dark. Pumphrey edged into the room and his eyes widened slightly when he saw Sharpe sitting by the hearth. “I thought you might be here,” he said. He forced a smile for Caterina, then looked around the room. It was small, sparsely furnished with a dark table and high-backed chairs. The walls were lime washed and hung with portraits of bishops and with an old crucifix. The light came from a small fire and from a flickering lantern hanging under one of the black beams that crossed the ceiling. “This isn’t the comfort you like, Caterina,” Pumphrey said lightly.

“It’s heaven compared to the home where I grew up.”

“There is that, of course,” Lord Pumphrey said. “I forget you grew up in a garrison town.” He gave a worried glance at Sharpe. “She tells me she can geld hogs, Sharpe.”

“You should see what she can do to men,” Sharpe said.

“But you’d be much more comfortable back in the city,” Pumphrey said to Caterina, ignoring Sharpe’s sour words. “You have nothing to fear now from Father Montseny.”

“I don’t?”

“He was injured when the scaffolding fell in the cathedral. I hear he won’t ever walk again, not ever.” Pumphrey looked again at Sharpe, waiting for a reaction. He got none so he smiled at Caterina, put the bag on the table, drew a handkerchief from his sleeve, dusted a chair, and sat. “So your reason for leaving the city, my dear, no longer applies. Cádiz is safe.”

“What about my reasons for staying here?” Caterina asked.

Pumphrey’s eyes rested briefly on Sharpe. “Those reasons are your affair, my dear. But do come back to Cádiz.”

“Are you Henry’s procurer?” Sharpe asked scornfully.

“His Excellency,” Pumphrey said with assumed dignity, “is in some ways relieved that Señorita Blazquez is gone. He feels, I think, that an unfortunate chapter in his life is now over. It can be forgotten. No, I merely wish Caterina to return so I can enjoy her company. We are friends, are we not?” He appealed to Caterina.

“We’re friends, Pumps,” she said warmly.

“Then as a friend I have to tell you that the letters no longer have value.” He smiled at her. “They ceased to have value the moment Montseny was crippled. I only learned of that unfortunate outcome this morning. No one else, I assure you, will try to publish them.”

“So why did you bring the money, my lord?” Sharpe asked.

“Because I had withdrawn it before I heard the sad news about Father Montseny, and because it is safer with me than left in my house, and because His Excellency is willing to pay a smaller sum for the return of the letters.”

“A smaller sum,” Sharpe repeated tonelessly.

“Out of the kindness of his heart,” Lord Pumphrey said.

“How small?” Sharpe asked.

“One hundred guineas,” Pumphrey proposed. “It is really very generous of His Excellency.”

Sharpe stood and Lord Pumphrey’s hand twitched toward the pocket of his coat. Sharpe laughed. “You’ve brought a pistol! You really think you can fight me?” Lord Pumphrey’s hand went very still and Sharpe walked behind him. “His Excellency doesn’t know a damn bloody thing about these letters, my lord. You didn’t tell him. You want them for yourself.”

“Don’t be absurd, Sharpe.”

“Because they’d be valuable, wouldn’t they? A small lever to hold over the Wellesley family forever? What does Henry’s oldest brother do?”

“The Earl of Mornington,” Pumphrey said very stiffly, “is foreign secretary.”

“Of course he is,” Sharpe said, “and a useful man to have indebted to you. Is that why you want the letters, my lord? Or do you plan to sell them to His Excellency?”

“You have a fertile imagination, Captain Sharpe.”

“No. I’ve got Caterina, and Caterina has the letters, and you’ve got money. Money’s easy for you, my lord. What did you call it? Subventions to the guerrilleros and bribes for the deputies? But the gold is for Caterina now, which is a hell of a better cause than filling the purses of a pack of bloody lawyers. And there’s one other thing, my lord.”

“Yes?” Lord Pumphrey asked.

Sharpe laid a hand on Pumphrey’s shoulder, making His Lordship shiver. Sharpe bent down to whisper hoarsely in His Lordship’s ear. “If you don’t pay her, then I’ll do to you what you ordered done to Astrid.”

“Sharpe!”

“Throat cut,” Sharpe said. “It’s harder than gelding hogs, but just about as messy.” He drew a few inches of his sword, letting the blade scrape against the scabbard’s throat. He felt a quiver in Lord Pumphrey’s shoulder. “I ought to do it to you, my lord, for Astrid’s sake, but Caterina doesn’t want me to. So, are you paying her the money?”

Pumphrey stayed very still. “You won’t cut my throat,” he said with surprising calm.

“I won’t?”

“People know I’m here, Sharpe. I had to ask two provosts where you were billeted. You think they’ll forget me?”

“I take risks, my lord.”

“Which is why you are valuable, Sharpe, but you are not a fool. Kill one of His Majesty’s diplomats and you will die yourself. Besides, as you say, Caterina won’t let you kill me.”

Caterina said nothing. Instead she just shook her head slightly, though whether that was a denial of Lord Pumphrey’s confident assertion or a sign that she did not want him killed, Sharpe could not tell.

“Caterina wants money,” Sharpe said.

“A motive I entirely comprehend,” Pumphrey said, and pushed his bag into the center of the table. “You have the letters?”

Caterina gave the six letters to Sharpe, who showed them to His Lordship, then carried them to the fire.

“No!” Pumphrey said.

“Yes,” Sharpe said, and threw them on the burning driftwood. The letters flared up, sudden and bright, filling the room with a flickering glow that lit Lord Pumphrey’s pale face. “Why did you kill Astrid?” Sharpe asked.

“To preserve Britain’s secrets,” Pumphrey said harshly, “which is my job.” He stood abruptly, and there was a sudden air of authority in his frail figure. “You and I are alike, Captain Sharpe, we know that in war, as in life, there is only one rule. To win. I am sorry about Astrid.”

“No, you’re not,” Sharpe said.

Pumphrey paused. “You’re right. I’m not.” He smiled suddenly. “You play the game very well, Captain Sharpe, I congratulate you.” He blew a kiss to Caterina, then left without another word.

“I do like Pumps,” Caterina said when his lordship had gone, “so I’m glad you didn’t kill him.”