‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’ She seemed desperate for his certainty.
Sharpe shrugged. ‘I can’t be sure. The army will go there, but we may be sent to Lisbon, or maybe stay here. I don’t know. Why?’
‘Because I want you to be there.’
Sharpe waited for her to continue, but she stopped talking and stared, instead, into the fire. The wine was sour, but he drank some, and then pulled the stiff blanket up round her shoulders. She looked sad. ‘Why do you want me to be there?’ he asked gently.
‘Because I will be there.’
‘You’ll be there.’ He spoke the words as if they described the most normal thing on earth, but inside he was grasping for a reason, any reason, that would take Teresa into the largest French fortress in Spain.
She nodded. ‘Inside. I’ve been there, Richard, since April.’
‘In Badajoz? Fighting?’
‘No. They don’t know me as “La Aguja”. They think I am Teresa Moreno, niece of Rafael Moreno. That’s my father’s brother.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘The French even let me carry a rifle outside the city, can you imagine that? To protect myself against the horrid Guerilleros.’ She laughed. ‘We live there, my aunt, uncle, myself, and we trade in furs, leather, and we want peace so the profits can be high.’ She made a face.
‘I don’t understand.’
She leaned away from him, poked at the fire with the bayonet, and then drank more wine. ‘Will there be trouble there?’
‘Trouble?’
‘Like tonight? Killings? Thieving? Rape?’
‘If the French fight, yes.’
‘They will fight. ‘ She looked at him. ‘You must find me in the city, you understand?’
He nodded, puzzled. ‘I understand.’ A dog howled outside at the soft, falling snow. ‘But why in Badajoz?’
‘You’ll be angry.’
‘I won’t be angry. Why Badajoz?’
Again she was silent, biting her lip and searching his face, and then she took his hand and placed it, beneath the blanket, on her bare stomach. ‘Is it different?’
‘No.’ He stroked her skin, not understanding. She breathed deep.
‘I had a baby.’ His hand went still on the warm flesh. She shrugged. ‘I said you’d be angry.’
‘A baby?’ His mind seemed to whirl like the snow above the flames.
‘Your baby. Our daughter.’ Tears came to her eyes, and she buried her head on his shoulder. ‘She’s ill, Richard, so ill, and she cannot travel. She could die. She is so little.’
‘Our daughter? Mine?’ He felt the beginnings of joy.
‘Yes.’
‘What did you call her?’
She looked up at him, her eyes bright with tears. ‘Antonia.’
It was my mother’s name. If it had been a boy I would have called him Ricardo.’
‘Antonia. ‘ He said the name. ‘I like it.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re not angry?’
‘Why should I be?’
She shrugged. ‘Soldiers do not need children.’
He pulled her close, remembering the first kiss, not many miles from here, under the rainstorm as the French Lancers searched the streambed. They had been given so little time together. He remembered the parting in the shadow of Almeida’s smoke. ‘How old is she?’
‘Just over seven months. She’s very small.’
He supposed she would be. Tiny, vulnerable, ill, and inside Badajoz, surrounded by the French, ringed with the walls that rose dark above the Guadiana. His daughter.
Teresa shook her head. ‘I thought you’d be angry.’ She spoke the words as soft as the snow that fell beyond the shuttered windows.
‘Angry? No. I’m... ‘ But the words could not be found. A daughter? His? And this woman was the mother of his child? It seemed to sink in, with a wonderment and a confusion, and there were no words for him/More than a daughter, a family, and Sharpe thought he had no family, not since his mother died near thirty years before, and he held Teresa tight, crushing her, because he did not want her to see his eyes. He had a family, at last, a family.
In Badajoz.
Chapter 6
'Where are we going?'
‘Badajoz!’
The Battalion found the joke endlessly amusing. It took just one man in a company to shout the question and the rest of the men took a deep breath and bawled out the answer. They exaggerated the Spanish pronunciation; the guttural, choking sound of the ‘j’ drawn out to the final ‘th’ sound of the Spanish V. The name, shouted by the South Essex, sounded like four hundred men simultaneously vomiting and spitting, and the amusement had carried them far down the familiar Portuguese roads. They marched close to the frontier, going south.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Badajoz!’
It was still cold. The snow had gone, except from the hilltops, and the final ice had melted in the rivers, but the wind stayed in the north and brought daily rain that flogged through the greatcoats, soaked blankets, and made the nightly billets steamy and damp. Most of the army was still in the north, close to Ciudad Rodrigo, attempting to persuade the French that no move was contemplated against the huge southern fortress that guarded the invasion route from Lisbon.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Badajoz!’
Lawford was alive, feverish and weak, but growing stronger in the convent hospital where Crauford had died. In a month or so, as his old battalion faced Badajoz, the Colonel would be shipped home and, doubtless, taken by carriage from the dockside to the family estate. He had smiled when Sharpe visited him, and struggled to sit up. ‘It’s only the left arm, Richard.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I can still ride, carry a sword. I’ll be back.’
‘I hope so, sir.’
Lawford shook his head. ‘Bloody foolish thing to do, eh? Still, you were wrong about one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘No one shot me, and I didn’t wear the cloak.’
‘Then you deserved to be shot.’
Lawford smiled. ‘I’ll take your advice next time.’
If there was a next time, Sharpe thought. Lawford might be back, as he hoped, but not for months, and not with the South Essex. There would be a new Colonel and the rumors had blown through the Regiment like musket smoke over a battlefield. There had been a suggestion, greeted with dismay, that Sir Henry Simmerson might return to Spain, but Sharpe doubted whether the old Colonel would want to give up his lucrative job with the new-fangled Income Tax. Another thought was that Forrest might be promoted, then that was discounted, and other names came and went. Every Lieutenant Colonel whose path brought him near the South Essex was carefully scrutinized in case he should be the new man, but, as they marched one dawn across the Tagus, into the south, Forrest still commanded and there was no news of Lawford’s replacement.
Teresa rode with the Battalion. The Light Company knew her, remembered her from the fighting around Almeida and, somehow, though Sharpe never spoke of it, the men learned of the child’s existence. Harper, marching with his effortless stride, grinned at Sharpe. ‘Not to worry, sir. The baby’l be all right, so she will. The lads will all look out for her.’
The wives of the Battalion, marching at the rear with their children, brought small presents to Sharpe and Teresa. A blanket, a pair of baby’s mittens knitted from an unraveled sock, a carved rattle. Sharpe was surprised, touched and embarrassed by the pleasure the news had caused.
The men themselves were confident, looking forward to Badajoz because the casualties at Ciudad Rodrigo had been blessedly light. The South Essex, like the rest of the army, thought that if they could storm the breaches at Ciudad Rodrigo for only sixty dead, men they would slice through the defences of Badajoz for a similarly light loss. Teresa listened to them and had shaken her head. ‘They don’t know Badajoz.’ Perhaps, Sharpe thought, it was as well that they did not.
‘Where are
we going?’
‘Badajoz!’
They stopped three days in Portalegre, letting a rainstorm hammer overhead that had made the roads treacherous and a river crossing impassable. They were the only battalion in town, living in comfort, but Sharpe could see from the doorposts of the houses how frequently the army had used this road. The Commissary marked the doors with chalk; thus SE/L/6 meant that six men of the South Essex’s Light Company were to be billeted in that particular house, but each house had a jumble of such fading marks that spoke of the years of this war. The marks told of English Regiments, Irish, Welsh, Scottish, German, Portuguese, and there were even strange markings left by the French battalions. Only when Badajoz was taken would the war move again into Spain and leave Portalegre to its customary peace.
Sharpe and Teresa slept in an inn, the Battalion’s headquarters, and for Sharpe the three days were a period of contentment, perhaps his last before they would meet again, if they did, inside high, dark fortress walls. Teresa was leaving soon, riding on ahead to Badajoz, to the small, sick baby. She had to leave before the British arrived at the city and its gates were shut.
‘Why Badajoz?’ Sharpe asked the question again, lying in the Portalegre attic as the afternoon rained itself into a soaking night.
‘I had family there. I didn’t want her born at home.’
He knew why! Because his daughter was a bastard, with the mark of shame on her. ‘But they know, don’t they?’
She shrugged. ‘They know, but they don’t see what they know, so they pretend they do not know.’ She shrugged again. ‘And my father’s brother is a rich man, they’re childless, and they look after her well.’
Antonia was ill. Teresa did not know what was the matter, nor indeed did the doctors, but the child was small, did not hold her food, and the sisters in the convent had said that the child would die.
Teresa shook her head. ‘She will not.’ It was said with grim determination; no child of hers would give up easily its hold on life.
‘And she has black hair?’ Sharpe was enthralled by any scrap of information.
‘You know she has, I have told you a hundred times. Long, black hair, and she was born with it, then it all fell out, and now it is coming back. And she has a little nose. Not like mine, and not bent like yours.’
‘Perhaps she isn’t mine.’
She hit him, laughing. ‘She’s yours. She scowls, like this.’ And she screwed up her face in imitation of Sharpe and growled at him so that he pulled her down on to the bed and they lay in silence, the rain slapping at the window, and he wondered what lay ahead on the greasy, stony road.
‘Perhaps we should marry?’
She did not reply at first. She lay beside him and listened to the rain, to voices downstairs, and then the clatter of hooves in the stable yard. ‘Someone’s traveling.’
He said nothing.
She traced the scar on his cheek. ‘Would you live in Casatejada?’
He still lay silent. To be a stranger in a strange land? To be Teresa’s man, dependant on her for survival? He sighed. ‘Maybe. After the war.’
She smiled, knowing the answer to be meaningless. This was the fourth year of fighting the French in Spain, and stillthe country was occupied by the enemy. No one could remember a time of peace. Before they fought France, the Spanish had fought against the English until their fleet sailed to utter defeat at Trafalgar, sunk or captured with the French fleet. There was no peace beyond the borders. Russia, Austria, Italy, Prussia, Denmark, Egypt, India, war everywhere, until now even the Americans were talking of war as if the young nation wanted to prove it could stand with the old world in a game that had racked the globe for two decades. It was a war fought on three continents, on all the oceans, and some men believed this was the final war, the ending of everything, the withering destruction foretold in the Bible. God only knew when it would end. Perhaps only when the last Frenchman, still dreaming of ruling the world, was hammered and battered into the blood-soaked mud.
Teresa kissed him. ‘After the war, Richard.’
Her hand lay over the pocket in his shirt and she pushed in her fingers to draw out the gold locket which contained Jane Gibbons’s picture. Sharpe had stolen the locket from her murdered brother. Teresa clicked it open and mocked him with her smile. ‘You met her, in England?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s pretty.’
‘I suppose so.’
He tried to take the locket from her, but she closed strong fingers on it.
‘You suppose so! She is pretty, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, very.’
She nodded, satisfied. ‘You’ll marry her.’ He laughed, thinking of the impossibility of the idea, but she shook her head. ‘You will, I can tell. Otherwise why do you carry this?’
He shrugged. ‘Superstition? It keeps me alive.’
She frowned at him and crossed herself; forehead, belly, nipple to nipple, an extravagant cross to warn off a demon. ‘What’s she like?’
Sharpe pulled a blanket over Teresa; her only dress was drying by the small fire. ‘She’s slim, she smiles a lot. She’s very rich and she’ll marry a very rich man.’ He grinned at her. ‘She’s soft. Comfortable.’
Teresa dismissed the implied criticism; anyone who had the chance to live in soft comfort was a fool to refuse. ‘How did you meet her?’
Sharpe was feeling uncomfortable and tried to change the subject, but she insisted. ‘Tell me, how?’
‘She wanted to know how her brother died.’
Teresa laughed. ‘And you told her?’
‘Not the truth. I told her he was killed by the French, fighting bravely.’
She laughed again. She knew the story; how Lieutenant Gibbons had tried to kill Sharpe and how Patrick Harper had bayoneted the Lieutenant. Sharpe thought back to the small, dark church in Essex, the blonde girl listening to his stumbling story, and the white marble stone that mocked the truth about her vicious, selfish, and sadistic brother.
To the memory of Lieutenant Christian Gibbons, a Native of this Parish, who Volunteered 4 February, 1809, from the Militia of this County into the Regiment of the South Essex, then United with the British Army in the Wars against Tyranny in Spain. He Distinguished Himself on the Field of Talavera where, by Night and by Day, the Attacks of the Enemy were Routed. Such was his Intrepidity that, having Endured the Assault of the Outnumbering Enemy, He and His Company Attacked and Captured a Standard of the French, the First such Glory to be Gained by our Armies in Spain. While thus Confirming his Courage and Spirit, he met a Hero's Death on the 8th Day of July, 1809, in the Twenty-Fifth Year of his Age. This Monument is erected as a Just Tribute to so much Heroism and Worth by Sir Henry Simmerson, Commander of the Victorious Regiment, and by His Fellow Parishioners. A. D. 1810.
Sharpe had laughed to himself, not just because Sir Henry had managed to claim a marble credit for the capture of the Eagle, which had happened after Sir Henry had been relieved of command, but because the whole stone was a lie. Gibbons had been nowhere near the Eagle when Sharpe and Harper had fought their way through the enemy battalion, but the marble would still be there, surmounted by its carved pile of weapons, when the truth had long been forgotten. There was a knock on the door. 'Who is it?'
‘Price, sir.’
‘What is it?’
‘Someone to see you, sir. Downstairs.’
Sharpe swore. ‘Who?’
‘Major Hogan, sir?” Price made it a question, as if Sharpe might not recognize the name.
‘Good God! I’m on my way down!’
Teresa watched as he pulled on long boots and buckled the sword. ‘Is this the Hogan we send papers to?’
‘Yes. You’ll like him.’ He felt her dress, it was still damp. ‘You’ll come down?’
She nodded. ‘Soon.’
The main room of the inn was noisy, good natured, and boisterous. Sharpe pushed his way through the officers and saw Hogan, dripping wet, by the serving hatch. The Irish Major held out a hand in w
elcome, but gestured first at the officers. ‘They’re in good spirits.’
‘They think Badajoz will be easy.’
‘Oh.’ Hogan raised his eyebrows, then made room for Sharpe on the bench. ‘I hear you’re a father.’
‘Does anybody not know?’
‘Don’t be ashamed. It’s a fine thing, so it is. Wine?’
Sharpe nodded. ‘How are you?”
‘Cold, wet, busy. Yourself?’
‘Dry, warm and lazy. What’s the news?’
Hogan poured wine and took out his snuffbox. ‘The French are dithering like wet hens. They’re not trying to retake Ciudad Rodrigo, and they’re not sending troops to the south, instead they’re all sending letters to each other, blaming each other.’ Hogan raised his glass. ‘Your health, Richard, your family’s health.’
Sharp blushed self-consciously, but raised his glass. He watched Hogan take a vast pinch of snuff. ‘What are you doing here?’
The Major’s eyes watered, his mouth opened, and he sneezed fit to extinguish a chandelier. ‘Mary, Moses and Martha, but that’s powerful muck! Badajoz, Richard, always Badajoz. I’m taking a wee look and then reporting back to the Peer.’ He wiped his moustache. ‘Mind you, I don’t expect it to have changed much from the last year.’
‘And?’ Sharpe knew Hogan had been present at both failures to take Badajoz in 1811.
Hogan shrugged. ‘It’s a bastard, Richard, a real bastard. The walls are like the Tower of London, so they are, and you can add Windsor Castle up on that hill over the river. They’ve got ditches that can swallow an army.’ The Irishman shook his head. ‘I would not be hopeful.’
‘As bad as that?’
‘Who knows?’ Hogan swallowed wine. ‘It’s a big place, so it is, and they can’t defend every inch of those walls. I suppose the Peer will put in several attacks at once, I don’t know.’
Wellington probably would attack the walls in several different places, just as he had put three attacks on to Ciudad Rodrigo in the one night, but several attacks at once did not guarantee success. Old soldiers, men who had fought with Wellington in India, knew that he did not like siege work. The Peer was frugal with his men in battles, fought for their health between campaigns, but would throw them like random grapeshot at the walls of a fortress to shorten a siege. Sharpe shrugged. ‘It has to be done.’