Sharpe’s Sword: The Salamanca Campaign, June and July 1812
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‘Which I doubt I’ll ever see. Is he truly a hero?’ Her huge eyes were fixed on Spears.
‘Good Lord, yes! Absolutely genuine. The poor fool must have a death wish. He took an Eagle, he was first into Badajoz, and there’s a rumour he blew up Almeida.’
‘How delicious.’ She opened her fan. ‘You’re a little jealous of him, aren’t you?’
He laughed, because the accusation was not true. ‘I wish to have a long, long life, Helena, and die in the bed of someone very young and breathtakingly beautiful.’
She smiled. Her teeth were unusually white. ‘I rather want to meet a real hero, Jack. Persuade him to come to the Palacio.’
Spears twisted in his saddle, grimacing suddenly because the arm in its sling hurt. ‘You feel like slumming, Helena?’
She smiled. ‘If I do, Jack, I’ll come to you for guidance. Just bring him to me.’
He grinned and saluted. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
The French would not be goaded into battle. They made no attempt to throw the British off the knoll. Marmont could not see beyond the great ridge and he feared, sensibly, to attack Wellington in a position of the Englishman’s choosing.
Smoke drifted from the knoll, dissipating into shimmering heat over the grass. Men lay on the ground and drank brackish warm water from their canteens. A few desultory fires burned from the musket fire, but no-one moved to stamp them out. Some men slept.
‘Is that it?’ Lieutenant Price frowned towards the French.
‘You want more, Harry?’ Sharpe grinned at his Lieutenant.
‘I sort of expected more.’ Price laughed and turned round to look at the ridge. A staff officer was riding his horse recklessly down the slope. ‘Here comes a fancy boy.’
‘We’re probably being pulled back.’
Harper gave a massive yawn. ‘Perhaps they’re offering us free entrance to the staff brothel tonight.’
‘Isabella would kill you, Harps!’ Price laughed at the thought. ‘You should be unattached, like me.’
‘It’s the pox, sir. I couldn’t live with it.’
‘And I can’t live without it. Hello!’ Price frowned because the staff officer, instead of riding towards the Colours where the Battalion’s commanding officer would be found, was aiming straight for the Light Company. ‘We’ve got a visitor, sir.’
Sharpe walked to meet the staff officer who called out when he was still thirty yards away. ‘Captain Sharpe?’
‘Yes!’
‘You’re wanted at Headquarters. Now! Do you have a horse?’
‘No.’
The young man frowned at the reply and Sharpe knew he was considering yielding up his own horse to expedite the General’s orders. The consideration did not last long in the face of the steep uphill climb. The staff officer smiled. ‘You’ll have to walk! Quick as you can, please.’
Sharpe smiled at him. ‘Bastard. Harry?’
‘Sir?’
‘Take over! Tell the Major I’ve been called to see the General!’
‘Aye aye, sir! Give him my best wishes!’
Sharpe walked away from the Company, between the small fires, and up the hillside that was littered with the torn cartridge papers of his skirmishers. Leroux. It had to be Leroux who was pulling Sharpe back towards the city. Leroux, his enemy, and the man who possessed the sword Sharpe wanted. He smiled. He would have it yet.
CHAPTER SIX
Wellington was angry, the officers about him nervous of his irritability. They watched Sharpe walk up to the General and salute.
Wellington scowled from the saddle. ‘By God, you took your time, Mr Sharpe.’
‘I came as fast as I could, my lord.’
‘Dammit! Don’t you have a horse?’
‘I’m an infantryman, sir.’ It was an insolent reply, one that made the aristocratic aides-de-camp that Wellington liked look sharply at the dishevelled, hot Rifleman with the scarred face and battered weapons. Sharpe was not worried. He knew his man. He had saved the General’s life in India and ever since there had been a strange bond between them. The bond was not of friendship, never that, but a bond of need. Sharpe needed a patron, however remote, and Wellington sometimes had reluctant need of a ruthless and efficient soldier. Each man had a respect for the other. The General looked sourly at Sharpe. ‘So they didn’t fight?’
‘No, sir.’
‘God damn his French soul.’ He was talking of Marshal Marmont. ‘They march all this bloody way just to pose for us? God damn them! So you met Leroux?’ He asked the question in exactly the same tone in which he had damned the French.
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘You’d recognise him again?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Good.’ Wellington sounded far from pleased. ‘He’s not to escape from us, d’you understand? You’re to capture him. Understand?’
Sharpe understood. He would be going back to Salamanca and his job, suddenly, was to trap the pale-eyed French Colonel who even had Wellington worried. ‘I understand, sir.’
‘Thank God somebody does.’ The General snapped. ‘I’m putting you under Major Hogan’s command. He seems to have the knack of making you toe the line, God knows how. Good day, Mr Sharpe.’
‘My lord?’ Sharpe raised his voice for the General was already wheeling away.
‘What is it?’
‘I have a whole Company that would recognise him, sir.’
‘You do, do you?’ Wellington’s bad mood had driven him into clumsy sarcasm. ‘You want me to strip the South Essex of a Light Company just to make your life easier?’
‘There are three forts, my lord, a long perimeter, and one man can’t have eyes everywhere.’
‘Why not? They expect it of me.’ Wellington laughed, breaking his bad mood with an extraordinary suddenness. ‘All right, Sharpe, you can have them. But don’t you lose him. Understand? You will not lose him.’ The blue eyes conveyed the message.
‘I won’t lose him, sir.’
Wellington half smiled. ‘He’s all yours, Hogan. Gentlemen!’
The staff officers trotted obediently after the General, leaving Hogan alone with Sharpe.
The Irishman laughed quietly. ‘You have a deep respect for senior officers, Richard, it’s what makes you into such a great soldier.’
‘I’d have been here sooner if that bastard had lent me his horse.’
‘He probably paid two hundred guineas for it. He reckons it’s worth more than you are. On the other hand that nag cost ten pounds, and you can borrow it.’ Hogan was pointing towards his servant who was leading a spare horse towards them. Hogan had anticipated Sharpe arriving on foot and he waited as the Rifleman climbed clumsily into the saddle. ‘I’m sorry about the panic, Richard.’
‘Is there a panic?’
‘God, yes. Your piece of paper started it.’
Sharpe hated riding. He liked to be in control of his destiny, but horses seemed not to share that wish. He gingerly urged it forward, hoping it would keep pace with Hogan’s walking animal and, somehow, he managed to stay abreast. ‘The list?’
‘Didn’t it look familiar?’
‘Familiar?’ Sharpe frowned. He could only remember a list of Spanish names with sums of money beside them. ‘No.’
Hogan glanced behind to make sure his servant was out of earshot. ‘It was in my handwriting, Richard.’
‘Yours? Good God!’ Sharpe’s hands fumbled with the rein while his right boot had come out of the stirrup. He never understood how other people made riding look easy. ‘How in hell’s name did Leroux get a list in your handwriting?’
‘Now there’s a question to cheer up a dull morning. How in hell’s name did he? Horse dealers!’ He said the last words scornfully, as if Sharpe had been at fault.
The Rifleman had managed to get his foot back into the stirrup. ‘So what was it?’
‘We have informants, yes? Hundreds of them. Almost every priest, doctor, mayor, shoemaker, blacksmith and anyone else you care to mention sends us snippets of news about the French. Marmont can’t break wind without ten messages telling us. Some of them, Richard, are very good messages indeed, and some of them cost us money.’ Hogan paused as they passed a battery of artillery. He returned a Lieutenant’s salute, then looked back at Sharpe. ‘Most of them do it out of patriotism, but a few need money to keep their loyalty intact. That list, Richard, was my list of payments for the month of April.’ Hogan looked and sounded sour. ‘It means, Richard, that someone in our headquarters is working for the French, for Leroux. God knows who! We’ve got cooks, washerwomen, grooms, clerks, servants, sentries, anyone! God! I thought I’d just misplaced that list, but no.’
‘So?’
‘So? So Leroux has worked his way through that list. He’s killed most of them in ways that are pretty horrid, and that’s bad enough, but the really bad news is yet to come. One man on that list, a priest, just happened to know something that I’d rather he hadn’t known. And now, I think, Leroux knows it.’
Sharpe said nothing. His horse was ambling happily enough, going westward on the track that led behind the ridge. He would let Hogan tell his unhappy tale at his own pace.
The Irish Major wiped sweat from his face. ‘Leroux, Richard, is damned close to hurting us really badly. We can afford to lose a few priests and mayors, but that’s not what Leroux wants. We can afford to lose Colquhorn Grant, but that isn’t what Leroux came here to do either. There’s one person, Richard, we can’t afford to lose. That’s the person Leroux came to get.’
Sharpe frowned. ‘Wellington?’
‘Him too, maybe, but no. Not Wellington.’ Hogan slapped irritably at a fly. ‘This is the bit I shouldn’t tell you, Richard, but I’ll tell you a little of it, just enough so you know how important it is for you to stop that bastard getting out of the forts.’ He paused again, collecting his thoughts. ‘I told you we have informants throughout Spain. They’re useful, God knows they’re useful, but we have informants of much more value than that. We have men and women in Italy, in Germany, in France, in Paris itself! People who hate Bonaparte and want to help us, and they do. A regiment of Lancers leaves Milan and we know it within two weeks, and we know where they’re going and how good their horses are, and even the name of their Colonel’s mistress. If Bonaparte bawls out a General, we know about it, if he asks for a map of Patagonia we hear about it. Sometimes I think we know more about Bonaparte’s empire than he does, and all, Richard, because of one person who just happens to live in Salamanca. And that person, Richard, is the person Leroux has come to find. And once he’s found them, he’ll torture them, he’ll find out all the names of the correspondents throughout Europe, and suddenly we’ll be blind.’
Sharpe knew better than to ask who the person was. He waited.
Hogan smiled wryly. ‘You want to know who it is? Well, I won’t tell you. I know, Wellington knows, and a few Spaniards know because they’re responsible for passing the messages to Salamanca.’
‘The priest knew?’
‘Aye. The priest on my list knew, and now, God rest his soul, he’s dead. Most of the messengers don’t know the real name, they just know the codename. El Mirador.’
‘El Mirador.’ Sharpe repeated the words.
‘Right. El Mirador, the best damned spy in Britain’s service, and our job is to stop Leroux finding El Mirador. And the easiest way to do that, Richard, is for you to stop Leroux. He’ll try and escape, I know that, and I can guess when he’ll do it.’
‘When?’
‘During our attack on the forts. He can’t do it at any other time. We’ve got those forts surrounded, but in the turmoil of a fight, Richard, he’ll have his plans ready. Stop him!’
‘That’s all? Stop him? Capture him?’
‘That’s all, but don’t underestimate him. Capture him and give him to me and I promise you Colonel Leroux will not see daylight again till this war’s over. We’ll lock him up so tight he’ll wish he hadn’t been born.’
Sharpe thought about it. It would not be so difficult. The Sixth Division had sealed off the forts, and even in an attack the cordon of men would still ring the wasteland. All that would be left was for Sharpe, or one of his Company, to recognise Leroux among the prisoners. He grinned at Hogan, wanting to cheer him up. ‘Consider it done.’
‘If you’re doing it, Richard, I will.’ It was a nice compliment.
They had ridden close to the hill on which the spectators had gathered and Sharpe looked to his right to see a grinning figure coming towards them on a fiery, well-ridden horse. Even one-handed Lord Spears was a finer horseman than Sharpe could hope to be. His Lordship was in high spirits.
‘Michael Hogan! By the Good Lord! You’re looking dull as a parson, sir! Where are your Irish spirits? Your carefree, devil-may-care attitude to life’s daily toil?’
Hogan looked with some fondness at the cavalryman. ‘Jack! How’s the arm?’
‘Totally mended, sir. As good as the day it was born. I’m keeping it in a sling so you won’t send me back to work. Richard Sharpe! I watched your Company at work. They were hungry!’
‘They’re good.’
‘And you’re both invited to a pique-nique. Now.’ He grinned at them.
‘A what?’ Hogan frowned.
‘A pique-nique. It’s a French word, but I suppose we’ll all be using it soon. For you peasants who don’t speak French it means a simple, light repast taken in the open air. We’ve got chicken, ham, spiced sausages, some delicious cake, and best of all some wine. We, of course, are myself and La Marquesa de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba. You’re both specifically invited.’
Hogan smiled. It seemed that Sharpe accepting the responsibility for Leroux had lifted a weight from his shoulders. ‘La Marquesa! It’s time I rubbed shoulders with the aristocracy!’
‘What about me?’ Spears looked aggrieved. ‘Am I not noble enough for you? Good Lord! When my ancestors ate the forbidden fruit in Eden they insisted on having it served on a silver platter. You’re coming?’ This last he addressed to Sharpe.
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