Читать книгу Sharpe’s Revenge: The Peace of 1814 - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 10

‘Of course the Peer knew about it,’ Major-General Nairn was speaking of the duel, ‘but between you and me I don’t think he was unhappy about it. The Navy’s been rather irritating him lately.’

‘I expected to be arrested,’ Sharpe said.

‘If you’d have killed the bugger, you would have been. Even Wellington can’t absolutely ignore a deceased Naval Captain, but it was clever of you just to crease the man’s bum.’ Nairn gave a joyful bark of laughter at the thought of Bampfylde’s wound.

‘I was trying to kill him,’ Sharpe confessed.

‘It was much cleverer of you to give him a sore arse. And let me say how very good it is to see you, my dear Sharpe. I trust Jane is well?’

‘Indeed, sir.’

Sharpe’s tone caused Nairn to give the Rifleman an amused look. ‘Do I detect that you are in marital bad odour, Sharpe?’

‘I stink, sir.’

It had taken Sharpe three days to catch up with the advancing army, and another half-day to find Nairn, whose brigade was on the left flank of the advance. Sharpe had eventually discovered the Scotsman on a hilltop above a ford which the British had captured that morning and through which a whole Division now marched. The French were only visible as a few retreating squadrons of cavalry far to the east, though a battery of enemy artillery occasionally fired from a copse of trees about a mile beyond the river.

‘You brought Frederickson?’ Nairn now asked.

‘His men are at the foot of the hill.’

‘Creased his bum!’ Nairn laughed again. ‘Can I assume from your marital odour that Jane is not with you?’

‘She sailed for home two days ago, sir.’

‘Best place for a woman. I never really did approve of officers carrying wives around like so much baggage. No offence, of course, Jane’s a lovely girl, but she’s still baggage to an army. Hello! Christ!’ These last words were a greeting for a French cannonball that had thumped across the river and bounced uphill to force Nairn into a frantic evasion that almost spilled him from his saddle. The Scotsman calmed his horse, then gestured over the river. ‘You can see what’s happening, Sharpe. The bloody French try to stop us at every river, and we just outflank the buggers and keep moving.’ At the foot of the slope Nairn’s brigade patiently waited their turn to cross the ford. The brigade was composed of one Highland battalion and two English county battalions.

‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ Sharpe asked Nairn.

‘Damned if I know. Enjoy yourself. I am!’ And indeed the Scotsman, who had endured years of dreary staff work for Wellington, revelled in his new command. Nairn’s only regret was that so far there had been no battle in which he could demonstrate how foolish Wellington had been in not giving him a brigade much earlier. ‘God damn it, Richard, there’s not much of the war left. I want one crack at the garlic-reekers.’

Sharpe might have been ordered to enjoy himself, but he soon discovered that being chief of staff to a brigade entailed enormously long days and seemingly endless problems. He worked wherever Nairn’s headquarters happened to be; sometimes in a sequestrated farmhouse, but more usually in a group of tents pitched wherever the brigade happened to bivouac. Sometimes Sharpe would hear the thump of guns to the east and he would know that a French rearguard was in action, but Sharpe had neither the time, nor the responsibility, to join the fighting. He only knew that every river crossed and every mile of country captured meant more work for the harried staff officers who had to marry men to food, weapons to ammunition, and Divisional Headquarters’ orders to a baser reality.

It was a salutary job. Sharpe had always expressed a combat soldier’s scorn for most staff officers, believing that such arrogant creatures were overpaid and under-worked, but as Sharpe discovered the problems of organizing a brigade, so he learned that it was his job, rather than Nairn’s, to solve those problems. Thus one typical day, just two weeks after his arrival at the brigade, began with an appeal from the commander of a battery of horse artillery whose supply wagon had become lost in the tangle of French lanes behind the British advance, Retrieving the errant wagon was no part of Sharpe’s duties, except that the gunners were detailed to support Nairn’s forward positions and Sharpe knew that field guns without roundshot were useless, and so he sent an aide in search of the missing supplies.

At breakfast a patrol of the King’s German Legion light cavalry fetched a score of French prisoners to the farmhouse that was Nairn’s temporary headquarters. The cavalry commander bellowed for a competent officer and, when Sharpe appeared, the man waved at the frightened enemy soldiers. ‘I don’t want the buggers!’ He and his men galloped away and Sharpe had to feed the Frenchmen, guard them, and find medical help for the half-dozen men whose faces and shoulders had been slashed by the German sabres.

A message arrived from Division ordering Nairn to move his brigade three miles eastward. The brigade was supposed to be enjoying a rest day while the southern divisions caught up, but evidently the orders had been changed. Sharpe sent an aide in search of Nairn who had snatched the opportunity to go duck-shooting, then, just as he had all the clerks, cooks, prisoners, and officers’ servants ready to move, another message cancelled the first. The mules were unloaded and urgent messages sent to countermand the march orders which had long gone to the battalions. Another aide was sent to tell Nairn he could continue slaughtering ducks.

Then three provosts brought a Highlander to headquarters. They had caught the man stealing a goose from a French villager and, though the Scotsman was undoubtedly guilty, and the goose indisputably dead, Sharpe had no doubt that Nairn would find some reason for sparing a fellow Scotsman’s life. Two Spanish officers arrived asking for directions to General Morillo’s Division and, because they were in no hurry, and because Wellington had stressed how vital it was that the Spanish allies were treated well, Sharpe pressed them to stay to lunch which promised to be hastily cooked stolen goose and hard-baked bread.

A village priest arrived to seek assurances that the women of his parish would be safe from the molestation of the British, and in the very next breath mentioned that he had seen some of Marshal Soult’s cavalry to the north-west of his village. Sharpe did not believe the report, which would have implied that the French were attempting an outflanking march, but he had to report the sighting to Division who then did nothing about it.

In the afternoon there were a dozen new standing orders for the clerks to copy and send to Nairn’s three battalions. Sharpe wondered if he would now have time to join the Spaniards who were lingering over the lunch table, but then the problem of the brigade’s cattle landed on his lap.

‘They’re just no damned good, sir.’ The head drover, a Yorkshireman, stared gloomily at the beasts which had been driven into a pasture behind the headquarters. These animals had been sent as the brigade’s walking larder which the Yorkshireman was supposed to herd forward as the army advanced. ‘It’s the wet that’s done it, sir.’

‘They look plump,’ Sharpe said, hoping that optimism would drive the problem away.

‘They’re fleshy, right enough,’ the Yorkshireman allowed, ‘but you should see their hooves, sir. It’s fair cruel to do that to a beast.’

Sharpe stooped by the nearest cow and saw how the hoof had separated from the pelt. The gap was filled with a milky, frothy ooze.

‘Once they start seeping like that,’ the drover said grimly, ‘then you’ve lost the beasts. They’ve walked their last mile, sir, and I can’t understand the nature of a man who’d do this to a creature. You can’t walk cattle like men, sir, they have to rest.’ The Yorkshireman was bitter and resentful.

Two hundred cattle stared reproachfully as Sharpe straightened up. ‘Are they all like it?’

‘All but a handful, sir, and it’ll mean a killing. Nothing else will serve.’

So butchers had to be fetched, ammunition authorised, and barrels and salt found for the meat. All afternoon the sound of bellowing and musket shots, mingling with the stench of blood and powder smoke, filled headquarters. The sounds and smells at least served to drive away the two Spaniards who otherwise seemed intent on draining away Nairn’s precious hoard of captured brandy. An aide arrived from Division demanding to know what the firing was, and Sharpe sent the man back with a curt complaint about the quality of the cattle. The complaint, he knew, would be ignored.

At the day’s end, and despite its unrelenting activity, Sharpe felt that most of his work was still unfinished. He said as much to Nairn when they met before supper in the farm’s parlour. The Scotsman, as ever, was ebullient. ‘Four brace of duck! Almost as satisfying as a good battle.’

‘I’ve got enough work without fighting battles,’ Sharpe grumbled.

‘There speaks the true staff officer.’ Nairn stretched out his legs so his servant could tug off his muddied boots. ‘Any important news?’ he asked Sharpe.

Sharpe decided not to worry Nairn with the problem of the cattle. ‘The only remarkable aspect of today, sir, is that Colonel Taplow didn’t make any trouble.’

Lieutenant Colonel Taplow commanded one of Nairn’s two English battalions. He was a short and choleric man with a manner of astonishing incivility who perceived slights to his dignity in every order. Nairn rather liked the foul man. ‘Taplow’s easy enough to understand. Think of him as typically English; stubborn, stupid, and solid. Like a lump of undercooked pork.’

‘Or salt beef,’ Sharpe would not rise to the Scotsman’s bait, ‘and I hope you like salt beef, sir, because you’re going to get a damned lot of it.’

Next day the advance continued. Every village greeted the British with a sullen curiosity that later turned to astonished approval when the villagers discovered that, unlike their own armies, this one paid for the food they took from barns and storehouses. Soldiers found French girls who then joined the Spanish and Portuguese wives who straggled behind the advancing battalions. The women were more trouble than the soldiers, for many of the Spanish wives had an ineradicable hatred of the French that could lead to quick savage knife fights. Sharpe once had to kick two women apart, then, when the Spanish girl turned from her French enemy and tried to stab Sharpe, he stunned her with his rifle butt before spurring his horse onwards.

Sergeant Harper, before leaving St Jean de Luz, had sent his own Spanish wife home. She and the baby had gone to Pasajes, just across the French border, with orders to wait there for Harper. ‘She’ll do just fine, sir,’ Harper said to Sharpe. ‘She’s happier with her own people, so she is.’

‘You don’t worry about her?’

Harper was astonished at the question. ‘Why should I? I gave the lass money, so I did. She knows I’ll fetch her and the child when it’s time.’

Harper might not have worried about his Isabella, but Sharpe found Jane’s absence hard to bear. He persuaded himself that it was unreasonable to expect any letters to have yet reached him from Britain, but he still eagerly searched each new bag of mail that came to the brigade. At other times he tried to imagine where Jane was and what she did. He constructed a dream in his head of the house she would buy; a gracious stone house set in a placid gentle countryside. There would be a place in the house where he could hang up his ugly heavy sword, and another place for his battered rifle. He imagined friends visiting, and long conversations by candlelight in which they would remember these lengthening spring days as they pursued an army across its homeland. He imagined a nursery where his children would grow up far from the stink of powder smoke.

They were a soldier’s dreams of peace, and peace was in the air like the smell of almond blossom. Each day brought a new rumour of the war’s ending; Napoleon was confidently said to have taken poison, then a contrary rumour claimed that the Emperor had broken a Russian army north of Paris, but the very next day a Spanish Colonel swore on the six bleeding wounds of Christ that the Prussians had trounced Bonaparte and fed his body to their hunting dogs. An Italian deserter from Marshal Soult’s army reported that the Emperor had fled to the United States, while the chaplain of Colonel Taplow’s fusiliers was entirely certain that Napoleon was negotiating a personal peace with Britain’s Prince Regent; the chaplain had heard as much from his wife whose brother was a dancing-master to a discarded mistress of the Prince.

Fed by such rumours the talk of the army turned more and more to the mysterious condition of peacetime. Except for a few months in 1803, most men had never known Britain and France to be at peace. These men were soldiers, their trade was to kill Frenchmen, and peace was as much a threat as a promise. The threats of peace were very real, unemployment and poverty, while the promises of peace were more tenuous and, for most men in the army, nonexistent. An officer could resign his commission, take his half pay, and chance his arm at civilian life, but most of the soldiers had enlisted for life, and peace for them would simply mean their dispersal to garrisons across the world. A few would be discharged, but without pension and with a bleak future in a world where other men had learned useful skills.

‘You’ll get me papers?’ Harper nevertheless asked Sharpe one night.

‘I’ll get you papers, Patrick, I promise.’ The ‘papers’ were the certificate of discharge that would guarantee that Sergeant Patrick Harper had been retired because of wounds. ‘What will you do then?’ Sharpe asked.

Harper had no doubts. ‘Fetch the wife, sir, then go home.’

‘To Donegal?’

‘Where else?’

Sharpe was thinking that Donegal was a long way from Dorset. ‘We’ll miss our friends,’ he said instead.

‘That’s the truth, sir.’

Sharpe was visiting Captain William Frederickson’s company that had taken over a windmill on a shallow hill above a wide, tree-bordered stream. The Riflemen’s supper was roast pork, a dish that Captain Frederickson was very partial to and which meant that no sow or piglet was safe if it was close to his line of march. Sharpe was given a generous helping of the stolen meat, after which Frederickson led him up the dizzying cradle of ladders which climbed to the mill’s cap. There Frederickson opened a small door and the two officers crawled out on to a tiny platform that gave access to the mill’s big axle. A spitting rain was being gusted by an east wind. ‘There,’ Frederickson pointed eastwards.

Beyond the stream, and beyond the dark loom of some further woods, there was a glimmering smear of light in the night sky. Only one thing could make a light such as that: the flames of an army’s bivouac fires reflecting off low clouds. The two Rifle officers were looking towards the French.

‘They’re camped around Toulouse,’ Frederickson said.

‘Toulouse?’ Sharpe repeated vaguely.

‘It’s a French city, though I wouldn’t expect anyone as exalted as a staff officer to know that. It’s also the place where Marshal Soult doubtless hopes to stop us, unless the war ends first.’

‘Perhaps it’s all wishful thinking.’ Sharpe took the bottle of wine that Frederickson offered him. ‘Boney’s escaped from disaster before.’

‘There’ll be peace,’ Frederickson said firmly. ‘Everyone’s tired of the fighting.’ He paused. ‘I wonder what the devil we’ll all do in peacetime?’

‘Rest,’ Sharpe said.

‘In your Dorset home?’ Frederickson, knowing that Jane had gone home to purchase a country property, was amused. ‘And after a month of it you’ll be wishing to hell that you were back here in the rain, wondering just what the bastards are planning, and whether you’ve got enough ammunition for the morning.’

‘Have you?’ Sharpe asked with professional concern.

‘I stole four cartridge boxes from Taplow’s quarter-master.’ Sweet William fell silent as a billow of wind stirred the furled and tethered mill-sails.

Sharpe gazed towards the French encampment. ‘Is it a big city?’

‘Big enough.’

‘Fortified?’

‘I would imagine so.’ Frederickson took the wine bottle back and tipped it to his mouth. ‘And I imagine it will be a bastard of a city to take.’

‘They all are,’ Sharpe said drily. ‘Do you remember Badajoz?’

‘I doubt I’ll ever forget it,’ Frederickson said, though nor would any man who had fought across that ditch of blood.

‘We took that at Eastertime,’ Sharpe said, ‘and next week is Easter.’

‘Is it, by God?’ Frederickson asked. ‘By God, so it is.’

Both men fell silent, both wondering whether this would be their last Easter. If peace was a promise, then it was a promise barred by that great red smear of light for, unless the French surrendered in the next few days, then a battle would have to be fought. One last battle.

‘What will you do, William?’ Sharpe took the bottle and drank.

Frederickson did not need the question explained. ‘Stay in the army. I don’t know another life and I don’t think I’d be a good tradesman.’ He fumbled with flint and steel, struck a spark to his tinder box, then lit a cheroot. ‘I find I have a talent for violence,’ he said with amusement.

‘Is that good?’ Sharpe asked.

Frederickson hooted with laughter at the question. ‘Violence solved your problem with bloody Bampfylde! If you hadn’t fought the bugger then you can be certain he’d even now be making trouble for you in London. Violence may not be good, my friend, but it has a certain efficiency in the resolution of otherwise insoluble problems.’ Frederickson took the bottle. ‘I can’t say I’m enamoured of a peacetime army, but there’ll probably be another war before too long.’

‘You should get married,’ Sharpe said quietly.

Frederickson sneered at that thought. ‘Why do condemned men always encourage others to join them on the gallows?’

‘It isn’t like that.’

‘Marriage is an appetite,’ Frederickson said savagely, ‘and once you’ve enjoyed the flesh, all that’s left is a carcass of dry bones.’

‘No,’ Sharpe protested.

‘I do hope it isn’t true,’ Frederickson toasted Sharpe with the half empty wine bottle, ‘and I especially hope it isn’t true for all of my dear friends who have pinned their hopes of peacetime happiness on something as wilfully frail as a wife.’

‘It isn’t true,’ Sharpe insisted, and he hoped that when he returned to headquarters he would find a letter from Jane.

But there was none, and he remembered their arguments before the duel and he wondered whether his own peacetime happiness had been soured by his stubbornness.

And in the morning the brigade was ordered to advance eastwards. Towards Toulouse.

In finding Sergeant Challon, Major Pierre Ducos had unwittingly found his perfect instrument. Challon liked to have a woman in his bed, meat at his table, and wine in his belly, but most of all Challon liked to have his decisions made for him and he was ready to reward the decision maker with a dogged loyalty.

It was not that Challon was a stupid man; far from it, but the Dragoon Sergeant understood that other men were cleverer than himself, and he quickly discovered that Pierre Ducos was among the cleverest he had ever known. That was a comfort to Challon, for if he was to survive his treachery to the Emperor’s cause, then he would need cleverness.

The nine horsemen had travelled eastwards from Bordeaux. Their route took them far to the north of where Marshal Soult retreated in front of the British army, and far to the south of where the Emperor protected Paris with a dazzling display of defensive manoeuvres. Ducos and his men rode into the deserted uplands of central France. They lived well on their journey. There was money for an inn room each night, and money for those men who wanted whores, and money for food, and money for spare horses, and money for good civilian clothes to replace the Dragoons’ uniforms, though Ducos noted that each man saved his green uniform coat. That was pride; the same pride that made the Dragoons wear their hair long so that, one day, they might again plait it into the distinctive cadenettes. Their possession of money also made the nine men ride circumspectly, for the forests were full of dangers, yet by avoiding the main roads they travelled safely around the places where hungry brigands laid desperate ambushes.

Ducos, Sergeant Challon, and three of the troopers were Frenchmen. One of the other Dragoons was a German; a great hulking Saxon with eyes the colour of a winter’s sky and hands that, despite the loss of two fingers on his right hand, could still break a man’s neck with ease. There was a Pole who sat dark and quiet, yet seemed eager to please Ducos. The other two Dragoons were Italians, recruited in the early heady days of Napoleon’s career. All spoke French, all trusted Challon and, because Challon trusted Ducos, they were happy to offer allegiance to the small bespectacled Major.

After a week’s eastward travel Ducos found a deserted upland farm where for a few days the nine men lay up in seclusion. They were not hiding, for Ducos was happy to let the Dragoons ride to the nearby town so long as they fetched him back whatever old newspapers were available. ‘If we’re not hiding,’ one of the Italians grumbled to Challon, ‘then what are we doing?’ The Italians disliked being stranded in the primitive comforts of the turf-roofed farmhouse, but Challon told them to be patient.

‘The Major’s sniffing the wind,’ Challon said, and Ducos was indeed sniffing the strange winds that blew across France, and he was beginning to detect a danger in them. After two weeks in the farm Ducos told Challon of his fears. The two men walked down the valley, crossed an uncut meadow and walked beside a quick stream. ‘You realize,’ Ducos said, ‘that the Emperor will never forgive us?’

‘Does it matter, sir?’ Challon, ever the soldier, had a carbine in his right hand while his eyes watched the forest’s edge across the stream. ‘God bless the Emperor, sir, but he can’t last for ever. The bastards will get him sooner rather than later.’

‘Did you ever meet the Emperor?’ Ducos asked.

‘Never had that honour, sir. I saw him often enough, of course, but never met him, sir.’

‘He has a Corsican’s sense of honour. If his family is hurt, Sergeant, then Napoleon will never forgive. So long as he has a breath in his body he will seek revenge.’

The grim words made Challon nervous. The four crates that Challon had escorted to Bordeaux had contained property that belonged to the Emperor and to his family, and soon the Emperor would have all the leisure in the world to wonder what had happened to that precious consignment. ‘Even so, sir, if he’s imprisoned, what can he do?’

‘The Emperor of France,’ Ducos said pedantically, ‘is the head of the French State. If he falls from power, Challon, then there will be another head of state. That man, presumably the King, will regard himself as Napoleon’s legitimate heir. I presume that you would like to die of a peaceful old age in France?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So would I.’ Ducos was staring over the stream and dark trees towards a tall crag of pale rock about which two eagles circled in the cold wind, but Ducos was not seeing the rock, nor even the handsome birds, but instead was remembering the Teste de Buch fort where, once again, he had been humiliated by an English Rifleman. Sharpe. It was odd, Ducos thought, how often Sharpe had crossed his path, and even odder how often that crude soldier had succeeded in frustrating Ducos’s most careful plans. It had happened again at the benighted fort on the French coast and Ducos, seeking some clever stroke that would give himself and Sergeant Challon freedom, had found himself thinking more and more about Major Richard Sharpe.

At first Ducos had resented the intrusion of Sharpe into his thoughts, but in these last two days he had begun to see that there was a possible purpose to that intrusion. Perhaps it would be possible for Ducos to take revenge on his old enemy as a part of the concealment of the theft. The plan was intricate, but the more Ducos tested it, the more he liked it. What he needed now was Challon’s support, for without the Sergeant’s physical courage, and without the loyalty that the other Dragoons felt for Challon, the intricacy was doomed. So, as they walked beside the stream, Ducos spoke low and urgently to the Sergeant, and what he said revealed a golden bridge to a wonderful future for Sergeant Challon.

‘It will mean a visit to Paris,’ Ducos warned, ‘then a killing somewhere in France.’

Challon shrugged. ‘That doesn’t sound too dangerous, sir.’

‘After which we’ll leave France, Sergeant, till the storm blows out.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Challon was quite content so long as his duties were clear. Ducos could do the planning, and Challon would doubtless do the killing. Thus, in Challon’s world, it had ever been; he was content to let the officers devise their campaign plans, and he would cut and hack with a blade to make those plans work.

Ducos’s clever mind was racing backwards and forwards, sensing the dangers in his ideas and seeking to pre-empt those risks. ‘Do any of your men write?’

‘Herman’s the only one, sir. He’s a clever bugger for a Saxon.’

‘I need an official report written, but not in my own handwriting.’ Ducos frowned suddenly. ‘How can he write? He’s had two fingers chopped off.’

‘I didn’t say he wrote so as you can read it, sir,’ Challon said chidingly, ‘but he’s got his letters.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ for Ducos could even see a virtue in the Saxon’s illegible handwriting. And that, he realized, was the hallmark of a good plan, when even its apparent frailties turned into real advantages.

So that night, under a flickering rushlight, the nine men made a solemn agreement. The agreement was a thieves’ pact which pledged them to follow Ducos’s careful plan and, to further that plan, the Saxon laboriously wrote a long document to Ducos’s dictation. Afterwards, as the Dragoons slept, Ducos wrote his own long report which purported to describe the fate of the Emperor’s missing baggage. Then, in the morning, with panniers and saddle-bags still bulging, the nine men rode north. They faced a few weeks of risk, a few months of hiding, then triumph.