Sharpe's Sword

  "He’s safe."

  "Where?"

  Spears shrugged. "He’s in a monastery today. Bowing and scraping."

  "You didn’t sell him?"

  Spears laughed, and the sound was harsh and bubbling because of the blood in his throat. He swallowed and grimaced. "I didn’t need to. Leroux had already found out."

  As Hogan had suspected. "Sweet God." Sharpe stared at the field after battle. He had once feared for La Marquesa’s body beneath Leroux’s torture, now he flinched from the thought of the elderly priest racked on a blood soaked table. "But you said he’s safe?"

  Curtis was safe, but he was an old man. Old men worry, Spears said, about dying before their work is done, and so Curtis had written the names and addresses of all his correspondents in a small, leather book. It was disguised as one of his notebooks of astronomical observations, filled with star charts and Latin names, but the codes could be broken.

  Leroux had bided his time. He had planned to take Curtis when the British had gone, but then came news of a great British victory, and he had demanded that Spears fetch the priest. Spears’ voice was small now. "I couldn’t do that. So I fetched him the book instead."

  Leroux no longer needed El Mirador. With the book in his hands he could find all the correspondents who wrote faithfully from throughout Europe and he could take them one by one, kill them, and Britain would be blind. Sharpe shook his head in disbelief. "Why didn’t you just lie? Why did you have to give them the book? They didn’t know about it!"

  "I thought they’d reward me." Lord Spears was pathetic.

  "Reward you! More blood money?"

  "No." Blood was dark on his cheek. "I wanted her body just once. Just once." He made a choking sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. "I didn’t get it. Leroux gave me back my parole instead. He returned me my honour." The bitterness was rank in his voice.

  The dark bulk of the Greater Arapile was topped by two small fires. It blocked Sharpe’s view of the lights of Salamanca. "Where’s Leroux now?"

  "He’s riding for Paris."

  "Which way?"

  "He’s going to Alba de Tormes."

  Sharpe looked at Spears, dying on the ground. "You didn’t tell him the Spanish were there?"

  "He didn’t seem to care."

  Sharpe swore softly. He must go. He swore again, louder, because he liked Spears and he hated this sudden weakness, this collapse of a man, this sale of honour. "You sold all our agents for one parole?"

  No. There had been money, too, Spears said, but the money was to be paid when Leroux reached Paris and it would go to Dorothy in England. A dowry, Spears’ last treacherous gift, and he pleaded with Sharpe, told Sharpe he could not understand; family was all, and Sharpe stood up. "I’m going."

  Spears lay on the ground, defeated, broken. "One last promise?"

  "What?"

  "If you find him she won’t get the money."

  "No."

  "Then keep my honour for her." The voice was husky, close to breaking. "Tell her I was a hero."

  Sharpe lifted the sword, put the point in the scabbard, and drove it home. "I’ll tell her you died a hero. Your wounds in front."

  Spears rolled onto his side because it was easier to void the blood. "And one thing more."

  "I’m in a hurry." Sharpe had to find Hogan. He would rouse Harper first, because the Sergeant would want to join this final hunt, this last chance against their enemy. Leroux had killed Windham, killed McDonald, he had come close to killing Sharpe, he had tortured Spanish priests, and he had taken the honour of Lord Spears. Sharpe had been given one more chance in the wreckage after the battle.

  "I’m in a hurry, too." Spears waved a feeble hand towards the battlefield. "I don’t want those bloody looters to kill me, Richard. Do that much for me." He blinked. "It hurts, Richard, it hurts."

  Sharpe remembered Connelley. Die well, lad, die well. "You want me to kill you?"

  "The last office of a friend?" It was a plea.

  Sharpe picked up Spears’ pistol, cocked it, and crouched beside the supine cavalryman. "Are you sure?"

  "It hurts. Tell her I died well."

  Sharpe had liked this man. He remembered the chicken being tossed like a howitzer shell at the ball, he remembered the great shout in the big Plaza on the morning after the first night on the mirador. This man had made Sharpe laugh, had shared wine with him, and now he was a miserable, broken man who had given his honour first to Leroux, and now to Sharpe. "I’ll tell her you died well. I’ll tell her you were a hero. I’ll make you into Sir Lancelot." Spears smiled. His eyes were on Sharpe. The Rifleman brought the pistol close to Spears’ neck. "I’ll tell her to build a new church big enough for the bloody plaque." Spears smiled wider and the bullet went beneath his chin, up through the skull, and erupted at the top of his head. It was the kind of wound that a hero, on horseback, might fetch. He died instantly, smiling, and Sharpe’s greatcoat was spattered by the wound. He pulled it out, then threw it down, hating it. He turned and hurled the pistol into the trees, heard it crash through branches and twigs, and then there was silence. He looked down on Spears and cursed himself that he had ever become involved. Spears had talked ofthejoy that war could bring, theirresponsibility of unshackled youth, but there was little joy in this secret war.

  He bent down and picked up his greatcoat, shook it out, and walked to the horses. He mounted his own, led Spears’ by the reins, and went down the bank. He paused at its foot, looked back, and the body was a dark shadow against the grass. He told himself that the tears in the corners of his eyes were just irritation from the smoke of battle; something any man could expect.

  Revenge was at Alba de Tormes, his heels scraped the horse’s flanks, and the Cathedral clock, above the Palacio Casares, struck twelve.

  Chapter 25

  Alba de Tormes was a town on a hill to the east of the River Tormes. The hill was crowned with an ancient castle and covered with jumbled roofs that led down to the magnificent convent where the body of St. Teresa of Avila was revered by pilgrims. Beside the convent was the bridge.

  The French needed the bridge to take their shattered army to the relative safety of the eastern bank and away from the pursuit that they knew would come with sabres in the dawn, but Wellington had denied them the bridge. Weeks before, when his army first came to Salamanca, he had put a Spanish garrison into the Castle and into the defence works at the bridge’s eastern end. The Spanish guns could rake the length of the bridge, rattle its stones with canister, and so the French were trapped in the great river bend.

  From Alba de Tormes the river flowed nine miles north and then, in a great curve, it turned westwards and flowed for ten miles before its waters passed beneath the arches of Salamanca’s Roman bridge. Within that great bend the French fled eastward through the night. Hundreds crossed by the ford, but most went towards the town that had the only bridge they could use. The French guns, baggage, pay-chest, wounded, all went to Alba de Tormes and to the bridge that was guarded by the guns of the Spanish.

  Except the Spanish were not there. They had fled three days before; fled without sight of an enemy. They knew the French were coming south, feared a British defeat, and so the Spanish garrison packed its baggage and marched south.

  They deserted their post. The bridge was left open to the French and, all night, Marmont’s men went eastward. A great victory had been devalued. The stragglers of the defeated army were collected on the eastern bank, formed into ranks, and marched away. A rearguard, that had not fought the previous day, barred the eastward road a little beyond the town and its empty bridge.

  The news reached Wellington’s Headquarters at the same time that Sharpe was persuading Hogan that Britain’s spy-ring had been betrayed. One notebook, just that, and a hundred doors would be beaten down from Madrid to Stettin, El Mirador’s correspondents would be dragged away and the French firing squads would be busy. Hogan shook his head. "But how do you know?"

  "Lord Spears found it missing, sir." Sha
rpe had already described a hero’s death for Jack Spears.

  Hogan stared suspiciously. "Just that? Nothing else?"

  "Isn’t it enough, sir? He died before he could say anything else."

  Hogan nodded slowly. "We must tell the Peer." Then there was the explosion of anger, of cursing, because Wellington in the next room was hearing from a cavalry patrol that the French were crossing the bridge at Alba de Tormes. The defeated army were escaping, not trapped as he had thought, because the Spanish had fled. The door between the two rooms was flung open.

  Sharpe had seen Wellington’s anger before. It was a cold anger, hidden by stillness, expressed in bitter politeness. Not this night. The Peer hit the table with his fist. "God damn them! God damn their bloody souls! Their bloody, rotten, filthy souls!" He looked at Hogan. "They deserted Alba de Tormes. Why didn’t we know?"

  Hogan shrugged. "Because they didn’t see fit to tell us, sir."

  "Alava!" Wellington bellowed the name of the Spanish General who was the liaison officer with the British. The staff officers were very still in the face of the General’s anger. He hit the table again. "They think we fight for their bloody country because we love it? They deserve to bloody lose it!" He stalked from the room, slammed the door, and Hogan let out a long, slow breath.

  "I don’t think the Peer’s in any mood for your news, Richard."

  "So what do we do, sir?"

  Hogan turned to a staff officer. "What’s the nearest cavalry?"

  "KGL Light, sir."

  Hogan turned for his hat. "Get them." He looked at Sharpe. "Not you, Richard. You’re not well."

  Sharpe rode, despite Hogan, and Harper rode beside him on Spears’ horse. Captain Lossow, with his troop, were their escort, and the German officer greeted Sharpe with undisguised pleasure. The pleasure was dissipated by the long, chafing ride. Hogan was at home on a horse, he rode straight backed and long stirruped, while Harper had been bred in a valley of the Donegal Moors, had ridden the ponies bareback as a child, and he sat easily on Spears’ horse. Sharpe was in a nightmare: He ached in every bone, the wound throbbed, and three times he nearly fell as sleep tried to claim him. Now, at dawn, he sat in agony above the Tormes and stared at a grey landscape through which the river twisted, sinewy and silver, past the silent town with its castle, convent, and empty bridge. The French had gone.

  And Leroux? Sharpe did not know. Perhaps the French Colonel had lied to Lord Spears. Perhaps Leroux planned to stay in Salamanca until the British moved on again, this time eastwards, but somehow Sharpe doubted it. Leroux wanted to take his treasure back to Paris, decode it, and then loose the cruel men against the names inside. Leroux had ridden, Sharpe was sure, but where? Alba de Tormes? Or had he gone directly east from Salamanca towards Madrid? Hogan doubted it. Leroux, Hogan was certain, would try to find the security of the French army, surround himself with muskets and sabres, and the great doubt in Hogan’s mind was simply whether Leroux had been given too great a start. They spurred down the hill towards the river that slid chill beneath the mockingly empty bridge.

  Sharpe had been given his last chance. He had ridden for it through the night and in this dawn his hopes were at their lowest. He wanted to take his sword, his unblooded sword, against the Kligenthal. He wanted Leroux because Leroux had beaten him, and if a man thought that was a bad reason, then a man had no pride. Yet how could they discover a lone rider in this immense countryside, skeined with early mist? Sharpe wanted revenge for the deaths of the crucified Spaniards, for the deaths of Windham and McDonald, for the pistol shot on the upper cloister, and for Spears whom Sharpe had liked, whom Sharpe had killed, and whose honour he protected.

  Hogan twisted in his saddle. He looked tired and irritable. "Do you think we’ve overtaken him?"

  "I don’t know, sir." In the dawn there was no certainty.

  They clattered over the bridge, the sabres of Lossow’s Germans drawn in case the French had left a rearguard in the town, and then the iron of the horses’ hooves filled the narrow streets with echoing din. As they breasted the hill at the town’s head they saw the horizon, that till now had been grey touched with spreading pink, suddenly blaze with the top edge of the rising sun. It was scarlet gold, dazzling, and the western wall of the castle keep was coloured rose. The new day.

  "Sir!" Harper was pointing, exultant. "Sir!"

  In the sunrise, in the glory of the new day, the doubts were put to rest. A rider, alone, going eastwards, and in the telescope, through the flare of the light, Sharpe saw green and black overalls, boots, a red jacket, and an unmistakeable black fur hat. A Chasseur of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard, alone, trotting eastwards. It had to be Leroux! The lone figure turned dark and blurred against the dawn, then dropped into a dip of the road. He had not looked back.

  They followed, urging the horses into a fast trot for their strength had to be conserved even though the riders all wanted to sound the pursuit, go into a gallop, and bring their sabres against the fugitive. Twice more they saw the Chasseur, each time closer, and on the second glimpse Leroux turned round, saw his pursuers, and the chase was on. Lossow’s trumpeter let go with the challenge, the spurs went back, and Sharpe tried to tug the huge sword from its clumsy scabbard.

  He was easily outstripped by the Germans, good riders all, and he cursed as his scabbard flapped and banged against his thigh. He lurched, unbalanced by the sudden gallop, then the blade came free, was shining in the dawn, and he saw Leroux once more. The Frenchman was less than half a mile ahead, his horse jaded, and Sharpe forgot his aching thighs, his sore seat, and clapped his heels to persuade more speed from his horse.

  The Germans were still ahead of Sharpe. They rode through a small village where Leroux, mysteriously, had turned left. They followed his northward course, the horses plunging a shallow bank into a stream, scattering the water silver bright in the dawn, then onto fields of the far bank. There were hills ahead, shallow hills, and Sharpe wondered if Leroux was hoping for a hiding place. It seemed a forlorn hope.

  Then Lossow was shouting, holding a hand up and signalling a stop, the troop pulled left, slowed, and Sharpe caught them up and his protest at abandoning the pursuit died in his throat. Their horses slowed to a walk, stopped. Leroux was safe.

  Leroux would reach Paris, the notebook would be decoded, and the Frenchman would win. If they had been given another two miles they might have caught him, but not now.

  Leroux was trotting his horse along the face of a shallow hill that sloped up from the wide valley. Lined on the slope was the French rearguard, a thousand cavalrymen, and Lossow spat in disgust. "We can’t do anything." He sounded apologetic as if he thought Sharpe might truly expect him to charge a thousand enemy with just a hundred and fifty men. He shrugged at Sharpe. "I’m sorry, my friend."

  Sharpe was watching Leroux. "What’s he doing?"

  The Frenchman was not joining his cavalry. He trotted along the face of the ranks and Sharpe could see that he raised his sword in salute to the French squadron commanders. Leroux was still going north, past the cavalry, and Sharpe urged his horse into a trot so he could follow the Frenchman. Sharpe led Lossow’s troop north, a half mile to the west of the French line and watched as Leroux went on riding, past his cavalry, and dropped into a valley at the end of the hill. Leroux was now in dead ground, invisible to them, and Sharpe pushed his tired horse into a canter.

  There was a hill ahead of them that would overlook the dead ground, and they rode up its slope, the dew sparkling where the hooves hammered the turf, and then it was Sharpe’s turn to hold up his hand, to slow, and to curse. He had half hoped that Leroux was planning to ride on, to go eastwards again with his own cavalry behind him, but Leroux had reached true safety. In the small valley were French infantry. Three Battalions in square and, some way behind them, another two Battalions who guarded the rear of the hill where the French cavalry barred the road east.

  Leroux was walking his horse towards the Battalions in square. Sharpe swore again, pushed his sword into
its scabbard, and slumped in his saddle.

  Hogan leaned on his pommel. "That’s that."

  One of the French squares opened its ranks, Leroux walked his horse inside, and for all Sharpe could have done Leroux might as well be in Paris already.

  Patrick Harper flexed his borrowed sabre and shook his head. "I was just beginning to look forward to a cavalry charge."

  "Not today." Hogan stretched his arms, yawned.

  Further eastwards, perhaps three miles away, the road was filled with retreating troops. Going east to safety. Leroux had reached the rearguard, was safe, and would soon be escorted by this infantry to the rest of the French army. Lossow had just a hundred and fifty men. The French rearguard was at least two and a half thousand men, infantry and cavalry, and Sharpe’s last hope vanished like the mist that faded from the landscape.

  It promised to be another beautiful day. The meadows of the gentle hills were lush with pasture, lavish with wild flowers, and the first warmth of the climbing sun was on Sharpe’s face. He hated to give up this pursuit, yet what else was there to do? They could ride back to Alba de Tormes, sit by the river’s edge, and drink harsh red wine till all the disappointment was drowned in the vintage of last year’s comet. There would be other days to fight, other enemies, and Curtis’ men were not the only brave people who sent messages to England. There was hope, and if the hope was not bright then there was always wine in Alba de Tormes.

  It was pointless, of course, to deal in what might have been, yet Sharpe cursed because they had not left the battlefield an hour earlier. He imagined what he could do if he had just a single battery of nine-pounder guns. He could open those squares with shot after shot, and if he had just two good British Battalions he could finish them off! Hogan must have thought the same for he looked gloomily at the three French squares. "We’ll have no guns or infantry till this afternoon. At the earliest!"