Читать книгу Sharpe’s Honour: The Vitoria Campaign, February to June 1813 - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 15

They rode for an hour, threading the valleys towards the army’s headquarters. Major Hogan, out of embarrassment and awkwardness, kept Provosts between himself and Sharpe.

At the town, which they entered by back streets, Sharpe was taken to the house where Wellington himself was quartered. He dismounted, was led to the stable yard, and locked into a small, bare room without windows. It had a stone-flagged floor that, like the wall above, was stained with blood. Above the bloodstains on the limewashed wall were large rusty nails. Sharpe presumed that shot hares or rabbits had been hung there, but the conjunction of rusty nails and blood somehow took on a more sinister aspect. The only light came from above and below the ill-fitting door. There was a table, two chairs, and an insidious smell of horse urine.

Beyond the locked door Sharpe could hear the boots of his guard in the stable yard. He could hear, too, the homely sounds of pails clanking, water washing down stone, and horses moving in their stalls. He sat, put his heels on the table, and waited.

Hogan had ridden fast. Once at this house he had made a brief farewell, offered no words of hope, then left Sharpe alone. Murder. Sharpe knew the penalty for that well enough, but it seemed unreal. The Marqués dead? Nothing made sense. If he had been arrested for attempting to fight a duel, he could have understood it. He could have endured one of Wellington’s cold tongue lashings, but this predicament made no sense. He waited.

The sunlight that came beneath the lintel moved about the floor as the morning wore on. He smelt the burning tobacco of his sentry’s pipe. He heard men laugh in the stables. The bell of the village church struck eleven and then there came the scrape of the bolt in the door and Sharpe took his heels from the table and stood upright.

A lieutenant in the blue jacket of a cavalry regiment came into the room. He blinked as his eyes went from the bright sunshine into the makeshift cell’s shadow, and then he smiled nervously as he put a bundle of papers onto the table. ‘Major Sharpe?’

‘Yes.’ Somehow the young man looked familiar.

‘It’s Trumper-Jones, sir, Lieutenant Michael Trumper-Jones?’

The boy expected Sharpe to recognise him. Sharpe remembered there had been a cavalry Colonel called Trumper-Jones who had lost an arm and an eye at Rolica. ‘Did I meet your father?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Trumper-Jones took off his hat and smiled. ‘We met last week.’

‘Last week?’

‘At the battle, sir?’

‘Battle? Oh.’ Sharpe remembered. ‘You’re an aide-de-camp to General Preston?’

‘Yes, sir. And your defending officer.’

‘My what?’ Sharpe growled it, making Trumper-Jones step backwards towards the door which had been closed by the guard.

‘I’m your defence, sir.’

Sharpe sat down. He stared at the frightened young man who looked as if he was scarce out of school. He beckoned at the vacant chair. ‘Sit down, Trumper-Jones, for God’s sake. Defend me from what?’ He knew, but he wanted to hear it again.

Trumper-Jones came nervously forward. He put his hat on the table beside his papers and pushed a lock of light brown hair from his forehead. He cleared his throat. ‘You’re charged with the murder of the Spanish General Casares, the Marqués de …’

‘I know who the hell he is.’ Sharpe watched as Trumper-Jones fidgeted with his papers. ‘Is there a cup of tea in this damned place?’

The question only made Trumper-Jones more nervous. ‘There’s not much time, sir.’

‘Time?’

‘The General Court-Martial is convened for half past noon, sir. Today,’ he added lamely.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Sharpe shouted the words. Trumper-Jones said nothing. He was nervous of the scarred Rifleman who now leaned his elbows on the table. ‘Are you a lawyer, Trumper-Jones?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’ve done this before?’

‘No, sir.’ He smiled weakly. ‘I’ve only been out here a month.’

‘Where’s Major Hogan?’

‘Don’t know, sir.’

‘So how do you plan to prove my innocence, Trumper-Jones?’

The young man pushed the lick of hair away from his forehead. He had a voice like d’Alembord’s, but without the easy confidence. He smiled nervously. ‘I fear it looks bleak, sir.’

‘Tell me.’

Trumper-Jones seemed happier now that he could read from his papers. ‘It seems, sir, that you are acquainted with the Marquesa de Casares el Grande …’

‘True.’

‘And that you threatened her, sir.’ Trumper-Jones said it timidly.

‘I did what?’

Trumper-Jones nearly jumped out of his chair. ‘You threatened her …’ He blushed. ‘Well, you threatened her, sir.’

‘I did no such goddamn thing!’

Trumper-Jones swallowed, cleared his throat, and gestured with a piece of paper. ‘There is a letter, sir, from her Ladyship to her husband, and it says …’

Sharpe leaned back. ‘Spare me, Lieutenant. I know the Marquesa. Let’s accept they have a letter. Go on.’ So she had provoked the duel. D’Alembord had hinted at it, Sharpe had refused to believe it, but he supposed it made sense. Yet he found it hard to accept that a woman who had loved him could so easily betray him.

Trumper-Jones pushed the hair back again. ‘The letter provoked a duel, sir, that you were prevented from finishing?’

‘True.’ It all sounded so hopeless.

‘And because you were prevented from fighting, sir, the prosecution is alleging that you went to the General’s quarters last night and murdered him.’

‘Not true.’

‘They have a witness, sir.’

‘Really?’ Sharpe said the word scornfully. ‘Who?’

The papers rustled. ‘A Captain Morillos, sir, of the Princessa Regiment. He commanded the guard on General Casares’s house last night and he saw a British Rifle officer leave the house at three in the morning. The officer, he says, wore a straight sword.’

That was a nice touch, Sharpe thought. Rifle officers were issued with curved cavalry sabres, and only Sharpe wore a straight sword. He shook his head. ‘And why didn’t Captain Morillos stop this man?’

‘He was ordered only to stop people from going into the house, sir, not from leaving it.’

‘Go on.’

Trumper-Jones shrugged. ‘That’s it, sir. I thought, sir …’ He stopped, nervous again.

‘Well?’

‘I thought, sir, that if we presented your record to the court, sir, that they must be lenient. The Eagle, sir, the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz …’ His voice tailed away.

Sharpe smiled. ‘You want me to plead guilty and trust that they won’t shoot a hero, is that it?’