"That’s bloody rubbish. It’s got bloody woodworm. I want a Heavy sword, not that bent rubbish."
The Corporal storekeeper sniffed. He found another sword, this one straight. "Twenty pounds?"
"You want me to try it on you? I’ve paid already."
The Corporal shrugged. "I have to account for this lot."
"You poor wee man. And how do you account for the stuff you steal?" Harper went to the racks himself, raked through the weapons, and found a plain, sturdy, Heavy Cavalry blade. "I’ll take this one. Where are your rifles?"
"Rifles? You didn’t say nothing about any rifles."
"Well I am now." The huge Sergeant pushed past the storekeeper. "Well?"
The Corporal glanced at the open door. "More than my bloody job’s worth."
"Your job’s worth cowdung. Now where are the rifles?"
The Corporal reluctantly opened a box. "That’s all we’ve got. Don’t get many."
Harper picked one up. It was new, beautiful, the lock greased, but it would not do. "Are they all like this?"
"Yes." The Corporal was nervous.
"You can keep it." Harper put it back. He would have liked one for himself, let alone Sharpe, but these were the new rifles with the carbine bore, smaller than the old rifles, and he knew that they would never be able to get a reliable source of ammunition. The rifle would have to wait. He grinned at the storekeeper. "Now a scabbard."
The man shook his head. "Scabbards is difficult."
Harper pointed the blade at the storekeeper’s throat.
"You’ve got two dollars of mine. That says scabbards are easy. Now give."
He gave. The sword was not like Sharpe’s old sword. This one had not been looked after, it was dull, but it was a Heavy Cavalry sword and Harper set to work on it. The first day he remade the sword’s guard. The guard was slim at the pommel and then it broadened so that it would cover a man’s fist and it ended in a broad circle that guarded against an enemy’s blade sliding down the sword and slicing into a cavalryman’s hand. It was a comfortable guard if a man spent his life in the saddle, but the heavy, steel circle cut into a man’s ribs if he wore the sword as Sharpe would wear it. It was too long a blade to hang comfortably at the waist. The slings of the scabbard would have to be shortened so that the handle and guard of the sword would lie at the bottom of Sharpe’s left rib cage. Harper borrowed a hacksaw, some files, and he worked on the guard. He cut the right hand side of the circle back, past the small holes that could be tasselled for display, right down to within an inch of the blade. He made an edge that was crude, mis-shapen, and ugly, but he filed it obsessively until the shape of the new guard was smooth and easy on the eye. Then he polished the steel until it looked as if it was fresh from the Birmingham factory of Woolley & Deakin.
The handle of the sword was tight on the blade’s tang, but the wooden grip was rough to the palm. Harper took off the backpiece and filed the grip, and then he varnished it with oil and beeswax until the handle was dark brown and shining.
On the second day he remade the blade. The back edge of the sword was straight and the point was made by curving the fore edge back to meet it. That was not the point Sharpe liked. The rifleman liked a blade with two edges, both sharp, and a point that was symmetrical. Harper raked through the workshops of the College and found the wheel the gardeners used to sharpen their scythes. He oiled the wheel, treadled it, and then put the blade onto the stone so that it rang, it shrieked, and the sparks flowed like live-fire from the steel. He worked the back edge, curving the sword’s last two inches until the fore and back edges were the same. He had made a balanced point. Then he polished the sword, holding the blade up to the light to make sure the stone marks were even. The steel gleamed.
Finally, as the afternoon wore on, he sharpened the blade. He gave Sharpe an edge that the Captain had never had, and he worked at it, and worked, and the perfectionist in him would not give up until the fore edge, and the top seven inches of the back, were razor sharp. He let the wheel slow to a stop.
He took a rag and poured olive oil onto the sword. He polished it again, oiled it, and the sword was unrecognisable from the blade he had taken from the storekeeper. It was no Kligenthal, but it was no ordinary sword. He had remade Sharpe’s sword, done it with care and friendship, and he had put into his work all the Celtic magic that he could muster. It was as if in working on the sword he was working on Sharpe himself, and he held the finished blade up to the westering sun and it blazed white light in a dazzling burst. It was made.
He took the sword upstairs, looked forward to Sharpe’s face, and Isabella met him. She was running down the cloister and at first Harper was alarmed, and then he saw the look on her face and she threw herself at him, talked so fast that he had to slow her down, and she gabbled her news. A woman had come, and such a woman! Hair like gold and a coach with four horses! She had visited the hospital and she had given gifts to the wounded men and then—Isabella’s eyes still sparkled at the memory—the woman had come to Sharpe’s room and she had visited the Captain and she had been angry.
Harper slowed her down. "Angry?" The Captain was a hero, wasn’t he? La Marquesa had shouted at the doctors, had told them it was disgusting that a hero should live in such a place and tomorrow La Marquesa was sending a carriage that was to take Sharpe to a house outside the town, a house fey the river, and the best of it was, and here Isabella jumped up and down beside her huge Irishman, clutching at his jacket in her excitement, that the aristocrat had talked to her, Isabella! She and Harper were to go with the Captain. They would have servants, cooks, and Isabella twirled in the cloister and said that La Marquesa had been kind to her, grateful to her, and by the way the Captain was feeling better.
Harper grinned because of her infectious delight. "Say that all again."
She said it again, and this time she wanted to know where he had been. He had missed La Marquesa, the most gracious person Isabella had ever met, a Queen! Well, almost a Queen, and Harper missed her, and tomorrow they were all moving to a house by the river and they were to have servants! And by the way the Captain is much better.
"What do you mean, better?"
"I changed the bandage, si? She was here! I thought she might visit us. She visit everyone. So I change the bandage and no muck? Patrick! No muck!"
"No pus?"
"No nothing. No muck, no blood."
"Where is he now?"
She opened her eyes wide because her tale was dramatic. "He sit up in bed, si? Up! He very happy that La Marquesa see him!." She punched Harper. "And you do not see her! Four horses! And your friend was here."
"My friend?"
"The English Lord. Lord Spears." She sighed. "He has a blue and silver uniform, all shining, and no arm any more! The bandage is off!"
"You mean his arm is out of the sling?"
"That’s what I say." She smiled at him. "You would look good in blue and silver."
"Aye. It would make a change from black and blue." He grinned at her. "Would you stay here, woman? I want to talk to him."
He pushed open the door of Sharpe’s room and, as Isabella had said, Sharpe was sitting up. There was an expression of wonderment on Sharpe’s face as if he expected the clenching pain to come back at any moment. He looked up at Harper and smiled. "It’s better than it was. I don’t understand it."
"The doctors said it might happen."
"The doctors said I would die." He saw the sword in Harper’s hand. "What’s that?"
"Just an old sword, sir." Harper tried to keep his voice matter of fact, but he could not hide his grin. He shrugged. "I thought you might be wanting it."
"Show me." Sharpe held out a hand and Harper saw how desperately thin his Captain’s wrist was. Harper reversed the sword, held it out, and Sharpe grasped the handle. Harper pulled the scabbard away, the sword was in Sharpe’s hand, and the weight pulled it down, almost to the floor, and Sharpe had to use all his feeble strength to bring the long, clumsy blade up again. It shone
in the small light from the window. Sharpe’s eyes stayed on the blade and his face was all that Harper could want. The blade turned over, slowly, the arm horribly weak as it rehearsed the twist that the sword needed as it lunged into an enemy. Sharpe looked up at Harper. "You did it?"
"Aye, well, you know, sir. Not much to do, sir. Passed the time, so it did."
Sharpe twisted the blade back and the light ran down the steel. "It’s beautiful."
"Just the old ‘96 pattern, sir. Standard issue. Nothing special. I took the odd nick out the edge, sir. Would it be’true, sir, that we’re moving tomorrow? To higher circles, I hear?"
Sharpe nodded, but he was not listening to Harper’s words properly. He was looking at the blade, letting his gaze go up and down the steel, from the new point on the sword to the place where the steel buried itself into the reshaped guard. The weight was too much for him and it sank, slowly, until the tip rested on the rush matting. He looked up at Harper. "Thank you."
"For nothing, sir. Thought you might need it."
"I’ll kill the bastard with it." Sharpe grimaced with the effort, but the blade came up again. "I’ll slaughter the bastard."
Patrick Harper grinned. Richard Sharpe was going to live.
PART THREE
Tuesday, July 21st
to
Thursday, July 23rd, 1812
Chapter 17
Sometimes the river was silver, a sheen of pitted silver, and sometimes it was dark green like velvet. At dusk it could look like molten gold, heavy and slow, pouring itself richly towards the Roman bridge and then on towards its junction with the River Douro and then, the far off sea. Sometimes it was mirror smooth, so the far bank was perfectly seen upside down on its surface, and at other times it was grey and broken,r but Sharpe never tired of sitting in the pillared shelter that a previous Marques had built right on the water’s edge. It was a private place, entered only through one door, and when the door was shut and bolted, the sounds of the house and garden faded.
He exercised for hours in the shelter, strengthening his sword arm, and he walked further each day so that by the time they had been in the house six nights he could walk the mile to the city and back and the only pain was a dull, tugging ache. He ate prodigiously, wolfing down the beef that, as a true Englishman, he knew to be the only source of strength. Captain Lossow, of the King’s German Legion, contrived to send Sharpe a wooden crate that proved to be full of stone-bottled beer. A letter was nailed to the crate. It was very short. "The French could not kill you, so drink yourself to death. Your Friend. Lossow." Sharpe could not imagine how Lossow had contrived to find a whole crate of beer in Spain, but he knew how generous was the gift and he was touched by it.
On the fifth day he fired Harper’s rifle, letting the butt kick into his shoulder, forcing his tired arms to hold the barrel steady, and on his tenth shot he smashed one of the empty stone bottles into shards and felt content. He was strengthening. He had written to Hogan on the first day without cruel pain and the Town Major’s office forwarded the reply and Hogan was delighted at Sharpe’s news. The rest of the letter was grim. It told of fruitless marching and counter-marching across the plains, of the army’s discontent because the French seemed to be outmanoeuvring the British, beating them without a battle being fought, and Hogan hinted that soon the army might be retreating on Salamanca.
Hogan apologised in his letter because he had still not reached Teresa. The message, he knew, had travelled as far as Casatejada, but Sharpe’s wife was not there. She was further north harrying the troops of the French General Caffarelli and Hogan did not know how long it would be before she heard the news. He hoped it would be soon. Sharpe felt guilty, because he did not share Hogan’s hope. Once Teresa was in Salamanca then he would be forced to give up the company of La Marquesa. She visited most evenings, coming to the shelter beside the river, and Sharpe found himself looking forward to the visits, needing her company, and Harper kept his wonder to himself.
Major Hogan had spoken of Leroux in his letter. "You are not to concern yourself, Richard, nor to feel responsible for what happened." That, thought Sharpe, was kind of Hogan because Sharpe was responsible. The failure nagged at him, depressed him, and he tortured himself by imagining what the Frenchman would do to La Marquesa to make her talk. She thought that Leroux was probably in the city, and Hogan agreed. "He will lie low, we think, until Salamanca is again in the hands of the French, (for that, I fear, is a possibility if we cannot bring Marmont to battle) and we must hope that his plans are frustrated. If we do fight Marmont, and win, then Leroux will have to leave Salamanca. Perhaps he has already, we do not know, but in the meantime we have put a guard on El Mirador and you are not to concern yourself with anything except a full recovery."
The mention of a guard puzzled Sharpe. La Marquesa came alone, except for her coachman, postilion, and chaperone. The coachman and postilion would wait in the servants’ quarters, the chaperone be sent to read a book in the long, gloomy library of the house, while La Marquesa went alone with Sharpe to the pillared shelter beside the river. He showed her the letter and she laughed. "It would be a little obvious, Richard, wouldn’t it? If I rode out here with an armed man riding beside me? Stop worrying."
The next evening Lord Spears came with her and they could not hide in the small shelter. They walked in the garden, chatting, and Sharpe had to pretend, though he guessed Spears knew otherwise, that he hardly knew La Marquesa, that she had plucked him from the hospital as an object of charity, and he said ‘Ma’am’ and ‘Milady’ and felt tongue-tied and clumsy, just as he had at their first meeting. At one moment in the evening, when the sun was a glorious crimson in the west, La Marquesa went to the low wall beside the river and threw bread scraps to the ducks. Sharpe was alone with Spears. The Rifleman remembered how the cavalryman had so desperately wanted to know the identity of El Mirador; how he had quizzed Sharpe in the Plaza Mayor on the morning after the first assault on the three fortresses. Sharpe grinned at Spears. "So you found out?"
"About you and Helena? You were hardly discreet, my dear Richard, coming here to her lair."
Sharpe shook his head. "No. I meant about El Mirador."
An extraordinary look of alarm crossed Spears’ face. It was followed by anger and a question that was almost hissed at Sharpe. "You know?"
Sharpe nodded. "Yes."
"What the hell do you know?"
Sharpe tried to talk calmly, to quieten Spears’ anger. "I know that we’ve put a guard on El Mirador, and I presumed that you were doing that."
"How did you know?"
"Hogan wrote to me." It was not the whole truth. Hogan had written that El Mirador was guarded, but he had not named names. The rest had been Sharpe’s deduction and he had not expected this near violent reaction. He tried to calm Spears again. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend."
"No, no offence." Spears pushed his hair back. "Christ! We’re told this is the biggest bloody secret since turning water into wine and then Hogan has to write to you! How many more people know?" Spears glanced towards La Marquesa, then back at Sharpe. "Yes I am, but for God’s sake don’t tell anyone."
"I’m hardly likely to."
"No, no I suppose not."
Sharpe wished he had not mentioned it. He had traduced Hogan by suggesting that the Irish Major had written everything in his letter, but Spears’ anger had made Sharpe decide not to launch himself on a convoluted explanation.
La Marquesa came back and looked at Spears. "You’re looking positively flustered, Jack."
Spears smiled at her. "A wasp, Helena, threatening my virtue."
"Such a tiny thing to threaten." She looked at Sharpe. "You’re happy here, Captain?"
"Yes, Ma’am."
She made polite conversation for Spears’ benefit. "The house is rather pretty. My husband’s great-uncle built it. He was a leper, so he was forced to live outside the city. The house was built here and he could rot away happily on his own. They say he looked perfectly drea
dful which is why there are such high walls."
Spears grinned. "I hope you scrubbed the place before you put Sharpe here."
She looked at him, smiled, then touched his cheek with her fan. "Such a charming man you are, Jack. Tell my coachman to get ready, will you?"
Spears half bowed. "You’ll be safe with Sharpe?"
"I’ll risk it, Jack. Now begone."
She watched Spears walk towards the house and then drew Sharpe into the shade of some bushes. A stone bench was set in a small clearing and she ^at on it. "I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought him."
"I think you should."
She seemed unmoved by that. "Why?"
"He is your guard. It’s his job."
She watched Sharpe for a few seconds. "How do you deduce that, Richard?"
He felt confused. First Spears had reacted almost violently, and now La Marquesa was quizzing him as if he was rendering the accounts for her estates. Then he thought that she must be frightened. If Spears had told Sharpe, then Spears was not to be trusted. He smiled at her. "First, he’s here with you. Second, I asked him. He didn’t offer the information, in fact he was quite angry that I knew."
She nodded. "Good. What did he say?"
"That he was the guard for El Mirador." He smiled. "La Miradora."
She smiled at that. "There’s no such word, I’ve told you. Miradors are masculine in Spanish, they cannot be feminine. He can be trusted?"
"He got quite angry."
She sighed, then twitched her fan at a fly. "He’s a fool, Richard. He’s no money, he’s gambled it all away, but he is amusing sometimes. Are you jealous?"
"No."
"Liar." She smiled at him. "I won’t let him come again. He insisted tonight." She laughed at him. "You remind me tonight of the first time we met. You bristled with dignity. You were so ready to take offence."
"And you to give it."
"And something else, Richard."