Читать книгу Sharpe’s Sword: The Salamanca Campaign, June and July 1812 - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 10

‘God damn it, Sharpe! Hurry, man!’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe made no attempt to hurry. He painstakingly read the piece of paper, knowing that his slowness irritated Lieutenant-Colonel Windham. The Colonel slapped a booted leg with his riding crop.

‘We haven’t got all day, Sharpe! There’s a war to win.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe repeated the words in a patient, stubborn tone. He would not hurry. This was his revenge on Windham for allowing Captain Delmas to have parole. He tipped the paper so that the firelight illuminated the black ink.

‘I, the undersigned, Paul Delmas, Captain in the Fifth Regiment of Dragoons, taken prisoner by the English Forces on 14th June, 1812, undertake upon my Honour not to seek to Escape nor to Remove myself from Captivity without Permission, and not pass any Knowledge to the French Forces or their Allies, until I have been Exchanged, Rank for Rank, or Otherwise Released from this Bond. Signed, Paul Delmas. Witnessed by me, Joseph Forrest, Major in His Britannic Majesty’s South Essex Regiment.’

Colonel Windham rapped with his crop again, the noise loud in the predawn chill. ‘Dammit, Sharpe!’

‘Seems to be in order, Sir.’

‘Order! Blood and hounds, Sharpe! Who are you to say what’s in order! Good God! I say it’s in order! I do! Remember me, Sharpe? Your commanding officer?’

Sharpe grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’ He handed the parole up to Windham who took it with elaborate courtesy.

‘Thank you, Mr Sharpe. We have your gracious permission to get bloody moving?’

‘Carry on, sir.’ Sharpe grinned again. He had come to like Windham in the six months that the Colonel had commanded the South Essex, a regard that was also held by the Colonel for his wayward and brilliant Captain of the Light Company. Now, though, Windham still seethed with impatience.

‘His sword, Sharpe! For God’s sake, man! Hurry!’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe turned to one of the houses in the village where the South Essex had bivouacked. The dawn was a grey line in the east. ‘Sergeant!’

‘Sir!’

‘The bloody frog’s sword!’

‘Sharpe!’ Colonel Windham’s protest sounded resigned.

Patrick Harper turned and bellowed into one of the houses. ‘Mr McDonald, sir! The French gentleman’s sword, sir, if you’d get a move on, sir!’

McDonald, Sharpe’s new Ensign, just sixteen years old and desperately eager to please his famous Captain, hurried from the house with the beautiful, scabbarded blade. He tripped in his haste, was held by Harper, and then he came to Sharpe and gave him the sword.

God, but he wanted it! He had handled the weapon during the night, feeling its balance, knowing the power of the plain, shining steel, and Sharpe had felt the lust to own this sword. This was a thing of lethal beauty, made by a master, worthy of a great fighter.

‘Monsieur?’ Delmas’s voice was mild, polite.

Beyond Delmas, Sharpe could see Lossow, the Captain of the German Cavalry and Sharpe’s friend, who had driven Delmas into the prepared trap. Lossow had held the sword too, and shaken his head in mute wonder at the weapon. Now he watched as Sharpe handed the weapon to the Frenchman, a symbol that he had given his parole and could be trusted with his personal weapon.

Windham gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Now, perhaps, we can start?’

The Light Company marched first behind Lossow’s cavalry screen, striking up onto the plains before the day’s heat rose in the sky to blind them with sweat and choke them with warm, gritty dust. Sharpe went on foot, unlike most officers, because he had always gone on foot. He had entered the army as a private, wearing the red jacket of the line Regiments and marching with a heavy musket on his shoulder. Later, much later, he had made the impossible jump from Sergeant to officer, joining the elite Rifles with their distinctive green jacket, but Sharpe still marched on foot. He was an infantryman and he marched as his men marched, and he carried a rifle as they carried their rifles or muskets. The South Essex were a redcoat Battalion, but Sharpe, Sergeant Harper, and the nucleus of the Light Company were all Riflemen, accidentally attached to the Battalion, and they proudly retained their dark green jackets.

Light flooded grey on the plain, the sun hinting with a pale red strip in the east of the heat to come, and Sharpe could see the dark shapes of the cavalry outlined on the dawn. The British were marching east, invading French-held Spain, aiming at the great city of Salamanca. Most of the army was far to the south, marching on a dozen roads, while the South Essex with Lossow’s men and a handful of Engineers had been sent north to destroy a small French fort that guarded a ford across the Tormes. The job had been done, the fort abandoned by the enemy, and now the South Essex marched to rejoin Wellington’s troops. It would take two days before they were back with the army and Sharpe knew they would be days of relentless heat as they crossed the dry plain.

Captain Lossow dropped behind his cavalry to be beside Sharpe. He nodded down at the Rifleman. ‘I don’t trust your Frenchman, Richard.’

‘Nor do I.’

Lossow was not discouraged by Sharpe’s curt tone. He was used to Sharpe’s morning surliness. ‘It’s strange, I think, for a Dragoon to have a straight sword. He should have a sabre, yes?’

‘True.’ Sharpe made an effort to sound more sociable. ‘We should have killed the bastard in the wood.’

‘That’s true. It’s the only thing to do with Frenchmen. Kill them.’ Lossow laughed. Like most of the Germans in Britain’s army, he came from a homeland that had been overrun by Napoleon’s troops. ‘I wonder what happened to the second man.’

‘You lost him.’

Lossow grinned at the insult. ‘Never. He hid himself. I hope the Partisans get him.’ The German drew a finger across his throat to hint at the way the Spanish Guerilleros treated their French captives. Then he smiled down at Sharpe. ‘You wanted his sword, ja?’

Sharpe shrugged, then spoke the truth. ‘Ja.’

‘You’ll get it, my friend! You’ll get it!’ Lossow laughed and trotted ahead, back to his men. He truly did believe that Sharpe would get the sword, though whether the sword would make Sharpe happy was another matter. Lossow knew Sharpe. He knew the restless spirit that drove the Rifleman through this war, a spirit that drove Sharpe from achievement to achievement. Once Sharpe had wanted to capture a French standard, an Eagle, something never done before by a Briton, and he had done it at Talavera. Later he had defied the Partisans, the French, even his own side, in taking the gold across Spain, and in doing it he had met and wanted Teresa. He had won her too, marrying her just two months ago, after he had been the first man across the death-filled breach at Badajoz. Sharpe, Lossow suspected, often got what he wanted, but the achievements never seemed to satisfy. His friend, the German decided, was like a man who, searching for a crock of gold, found ten and rejected them all because the pots were the wrong shape. He laughed at the thought.

They marched two days, bivouacking early and marching before dawn and, on the morning of the third day, the dawn revealed a smear of fine dust in the sky, a great plume that showed where Wellington’s main force covered the roads leading towards Salamanca. Captain Paul Delmas, conspicuous in his strange rust-red pantaloons and with the tall, brass helmet on his head, spurred past Sharpe to stare at the dust cloud as if he hoped to see beneath it the masses of infantry, cavalry and artillery that marched to challenge the greater forces of France. Colonel Windham followed the Frenchman, but reined in beside Sharpe. ‘A damn fine horseman, Sharpe!’

‘Yes, sir.’

Windham pushed back his bicorne hat and scratched at his greying scalp. ‘He seems a decent enough fellow, Sharpe.’

‘You talked to him, sir?’

‘Good God, no! I don’t speak Froggy. Snap! Come here! Snap!’ Windham was shouting at one of his foxhounds, perpetual companions to the Colonel. Most of the pack had been left in Portugal, in summer quarters, but half a dozen outrageously spoiled dogs came with the Colonel. ‘No, Leroy chatted to him.’ Windham managed to convey that the American Major was bound to speak French, being a foreigner himself. Americans were strange, anyone was strange to Windham who did not have true English blood. ‘He hunts, you know.’

‘Major Leroy, sir?’

‘No, Sharpe. Delmas. Mind you, they hunt bloody queer in France. Packs of bloody poodles. I suppose they’re trying to copy us and just can’t get it right.’

‘Probably, sir.’

Windham glanced at Sharpe to see if his leg was being pulled, but the Rifleman’s face was neutral. The Colonel courteously touched his hat. ‘Won’t keep you, Sharpe.’ He turned to the Light Company. ‘Well done, you scoundrels! Hard marching, eh? Soon over!’

It was over at mid-day when the Battalion reached the hills directly across the river from Salamanca. A messenger had come from the army, ordering the South Essex to that spot while the rest of the army marched further east to the fords that would take them to the north bank. The French had left a garrison in the city that overlooked the long Roman bridge and the job of the South Essex was to make sure that none of the garrison tried to escape across the river. It promised to be an easy, restful afternoon. The garrison planned to stay; the guard on the bridge was nothing more than a formal gesture.

Sharpe had been to Salamanca four years before with Sir John Moore’s ill fated army. He had seen the city then in winter, under a cold sleet and an uncertain future, but he had never forgotten it. He stood now on the hill crest two hundred yards from the southern end of the Roman bridge and stared at the city over the water. The rest of the Battalion were behind him, out of sight of the French guns in the forts, and only the Light Company and Windham were with him. The Colonel had come to see the city.

It was a place of honey-coloured stone, a riot of belfries and towers, churches and palaces, all dwarfed by the two Cathedrals on the highest hill. The New Cathedral, three centuries old with its two domed towers, was huge and serene in the sunlight. This city was not a place of trade, like London, nor a granite-faced fortress, like Badajoz, but a place of learning, of prayer, of grace, of beauty that had little purpose but to please. It was a city of gold above a river of silver, and Sharpe was happy to be back.

The city had been spoiled, though. The French had razed the south western corner of Salamanca and left just three buildings. The three had been changed into fortresses, given ditches and walls, loopholes and embrasures, and the old houses and churches, colleges and monasteries had been ruthlessly pulled down to give the three forts a wide field of fire. Two of them overlooked the bridge, denying its use to the British, the third was closer to the city centre. All three, Sharpe knew, would have to be taken before the British left the city and pursued the French army that had withdrawn to the north.

He looked down from the forts to the river. It flowed slowly under the bridge between green trees. Marsh harriers, their wing tips flicked up, glided between green islands. Sharpe looked again at the magnificence of the golden stoned Cathedral and looked forward to entering the city. He did not know when that would be. Once the far end of the bridge was secured by the Sixth Division, the South Essex would march two miles east to the nearest ford and then go north to join the rest of the army. Few men of Wellington’s forces would see Salamanca until Marmont’s army was defeated, but it was enough for Sharpe, at this moment, to stare at the intricate, serene beauty across the river and to hope that soon, very soon, he would have a chance to explore the streets once more.

Colonel Windham’s mouth twitched into a half smile. ‘Extraordinary!’

‘Extraordinary, sir?’

Windham gestured with his riding crop at the cathedral, then at the river. ‘Cathedral, Sharpe. River. Just like Gloucester.’

‘I thought Gloucester was flat, sir.’

Windham sniffed at the comment. ‘River and cathedral. Much the same, really.’

‘It’s a beautiful city, sir.’

‘Gloucester? Of course it is! It’s English. Clean streets. Not like that damned place.’ Windham probably never ventured out of the main street of any English town to explore the rubbish clogged alleyways and rookeries. The Colonel was a countryman, with the virtues of the country, and a deep suspicion of all things foreign. He was no fool, though Sharpe suspected that Lieutenant Colonel Windham sometimes liked to play the fool to avoid that most hurtful of all English insults; being too clever by half. Windham now twisted in his saddle and looked back at the resting Battalion. ‘Here comes that Frenchman.’

Delmas saluted Windham. Major Leroy had come with him and translated for the Colonel’s benefit. ‘Captain Delmas asks when he can be sent on to Headquarters, sir.’

‘In a damned hurry, ain’t he?’ Windham’s tanned leathery face scowled, then he shrugged. ‘Suppose he wants to get exchanged before the damn frogs run all the way to Paris.’

Delmas was leaning far down from his saddle to let one of the Colonel’s dogs lick his fingers. Leroy spoke with him while Windham fidgeted. The Major turned back to the Colonel. ‘He’d be grateful for an early exchange, sir. He says his mother is ill and he’s keen to get news of her.’

Sharpe made a sympathetic noise and Windham barked at Sharpe to be quiet. The Colonel watched the Frenchman fussing his dogs with approval. ‘I don’t mind, Leroy. Damned if I know who’s going to escort him to Headquarters. Do you fancy a hack?’

The Major shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

Windham screwed himself around again and peered at the Battalion. ‘I suppose we can ask Butler. He’s usually willing.’ He caught sight of Ensign McDonald, much closer. ‘Does your young man ride, Sharpe?’

‘Yes, sir. No horse, though.’

‘You have bloody strange ideas, Sharpe.’ Windham half disapproved of Sharpe’s belief that an infantry officer should walk like his men. It made sense for some officers to be mounted. They could see further in battle, and be seen by their men, but a Light Company fought on foot in the skirmish line and a man on horseback was a plain target. Sharpe’s officers wore their boots out. McDonald had heard the exchange between Sharpe and Windham and he came close and looked eager. Major Leroy swung himself off his own horse.

‘You can take mine. Ride her easy!’ Leroy opened his pouch and took out a folded piece of paper. ‘Here’s Captain Delmas’s parole. You give that to the Officer of the Day at Headquarters, understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ McDonald was excited.

Leroy gave the Ensign a leg up onto the horse. ‘You know where Headquarters is?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Nor does anyone.’ Windham grumbled. He pointed south. ‘Go that way till you find the army, then go east till you find Headquarters. I want you back here by dusk and if Wellington asks you to dinner, say you’re spoken for.’

‘Yes, sir.’ McDonald grinned delightedly. ‘Do you think he might, sir?’

‘Get away with you!’ Windham acknowledged Delmas’s salute. The Frenchman turned once more to look at Salamanca, staring intently as though looking to see if any British troops had yet made their journey back from the fords and were entering the city streets. Then the pale eyes turned to Sharpe. Delmas smiled. ‘Au revoir, M’sieur.’

Sharpe smiled back. ‘I hope your mother’s pox gets better.’

Windham bristled. ‘Damned unnecessary, Sharpe! Fellow was perfectly pleasant! French, of course, but pleasant.’

Delmas trotted obediently behind the sixteen year old Ensign and Sharpe watched them go before turning back to the gorgeous city across the river. Salamanca. It would be the first bloodless victory of Wellington’s summer campaign, and then Sharpe remembered it would not be quite bloodless. The makeshift fortresses left in the city would have to be reduced so that Wellington could pour his supplies and reinforcements across the long Roman bridge. The city of gold would have to be fought for so that the bridge, built so long ago by the Romans, could help a new army in a modern war.

Sharpe wondered that a bridge so old still stood. The parapets of the roadway were crenellated, like a castle wall, and almost in the centre of the bridge was a handsome small fortress arched above the road. The French had not garrisoned the tiny fort, leaving it in the possession of a statue of a bull. Colonel Windham also stared at the bridge and shook his head. ‘Bloody awful, eh Sharpe?’

‘Awful, sir?’

‘More damned arches than bones in a rabbit! An English bridge would be just two arches, ain’t I right? Not all that waste of damned good stone! Still, I suppose the Spanish thought they were bloody clever just to get it across, what?’

Leroy, his face still terribly scarred from Badajoz, answered in his laconic voice. ‘The Romans built it, sir.’

‘The Romans!’ Windham grinned happily. ‘Every damned bridge in this country was built by the Romans. If they hadn’t been here the Spanish would probably never cross a river!’ He laughed at the idea. ‘Good, that! I must write it home to Jessica.’ He let his reins drop onto his horse’s neck. ‘Waste of time this. No damn frogs are going to try and cross the bridge. Still, I suppose the lads could do with a rest.’ He yawned, then looked at Sharpe. ‘Your Company can keep an eye on things, Sharpe.’

Sharpe did not answer. The Colonel frowned. ‘Sharpe?’

But Sharpe was turning away from the Colonel, unslinging his rifle. ‘Light Company!’

By God! And wasn’t instinct always right? Sharpe was pulling back the flint of his rifle, moving ahead of Windham’s horse while to his right, down in the small valley which approached the southern end of the bridge was Delmas.

Sharpe had seen the movement in the corner of his eye and then, in a moment of shock, recognised the baggy pantaloons, the brass helmet, and only a rifle could stop the Frenchman now. Only a rifle had the range to kill the fugitive whom Sharpe’s instincts had said not to trust. Damn the parole!

‘Good God!’ Colonel Windham saw Delmas. ‘Good God! His parole! God damn him!’

God might well damn Delmas, but only a Rifleman could stop him reaching the bridge and the safety of the French forts on the far side. Delmas, low on his horse’s neck, was a hundred yards from the Riflemen, with the same distance to go to the bridge entrance. Sharpe aimed for the big horse, leading the galloping beast with his foresight, tightening his finger on the trigger and then his view was blocked by Colonel Windham’s horse.

‘View halloo!’ Windham, his sabre drawn, was spurring after the Frenchman, his dogs giving tongue either side.

Sharpe jerked his rifle up, cursing Windham for blocking the shot, and stared, hopelessly, as the Frenchman, his honour broken with his parole, raced for the bridge and safety.