Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil

  Seconds before the barge was poled away from the wharf a messenger arrived from Divisional Headquarters with a bag of mail for Frederickson’s company. The bag was small, for most of the company could not read or write, and of those who could there were few whose relatives would think to write letters. One letter was for a man who had died at Fuentes d’Onoro, but whose mother, refusing to believe the news, still insisted on writing each month with exhortations for her long dead son to be a good soldier, a fervent Christian, and a credit to his family.

  There was also a packet for Major Richard Sharpe, forwarded from London by his Army Agents. The packet had first been sent to the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, then forwarded to General Headquarters, then to Division, and had thus taken over a month to reach Sharpe.

  ‘So you needn’t have worried,’ Frederickson said, ‘Jane wrote after all.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Sharpe carried the packet forward to find a patch of privacy in the barge’s bows where he tore off the sealing wafer and, with a quite ridiculous and boyish anticipation, tore open the packet to find two letters.

  The first was from a man in Lancashire who claimed to have invented a chain-shot that could be fired from a standard musket or rifle and which, if fired low, would be fatal against the legs of cavalry horses. He begged Major Sharpe’s help in persuading the Master General of Ordnance to buy the device, which was called Armbruster’s Patent Horse-Leg Breaker. Sharpe screwed the letter into a ball and threw it over the barge’s gunwale.

  The second letter was from Sharpe’s Army Agents. They presented their compliments to Major Sharpe, then begged leave to inform him that, in accordance with his written instructions to allow Mrs Jane Sharpe authority over his account, they had sold all his 4 per cent stock and transferred the monies into the charge of Mrs Jane Sharpe of Cork Street, Westminster. They thanked Major Sharpe for the trust and privilege of handling his affairs, and hoped that should he ever need such services again, he would not forget his humble and obedient servants, Messrs Hopkinson and Son, Army Agents, of St Albans Street, London. The humble servants added that the expense of selling the 4 per cent stock and the necessary ledger work for the closure of his account amounted to £16. 14s. 4d, which sum had been deducted from the draft passed to Mrs Jane Sharpe. They wished to remind Major Sharpe that they still held his Presentation sword donated by the Patriotic Fund, and begged to remain, etc.

  The bargemen hoisted a clumsy gaff-rigged sail that made the tarred shrouds creak ominously. Sharpe stared uncomprehendingly at the letter, unaware that the barge was moving. A small child on the far bank sucked her thumb and stared solemnly at the strange soldiers who were being carried away from her.

  ‘Good news, I trust?’ Frederickson clambered into the bows to interrupt Sharpe’s reverie.

  Sharpe wordlessly handed the letter to Frederickson who read it swiftly. ‘I didn’t know you’d got a Presentation sword?’ Frederickson said cheerfully.

  ‘That was for taking the eagle at Talavera. I think it was a fifty guinea sword.’

  ‘A good one?’

  ‘Very ornate.’ Sharpe wondered how Frederickson could so completely have misunderstood the importance of the letter, and merely be curious about a blued and gilded sword. ‘It’s a Rinkfiel-Solingen blade and a Kimbley scabbard. Wouldn’t serve in a fight.’

  ‘Nice to hang on the wall, though.’ Frederickson handed the letter back. ‘I’m glad for you. It’s splendid news.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Jane’s collected the money, so presumably she’s off to buy your house in Dorset. Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?’

  ‘Eighteen thousand guineas?’

  Frederickson stared at Sharpe. He blinked. At length he spoke. ‘Jesus wept.’

  ‘We found diamonds at Vitoria, you see,’ Sharpe confessed.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Hundreds of the bloody things.’ Sharpe shrugged. ‘Sergeant Harper found them really, but he shared them with me.’

  Frederickson whistled softly. He had heard that much of the Spanish Crown jewels had disappeared when the French baggage was captured at Vitoria, and he had known that Sharpe and Harper had done well from the plunder, but he had never dared to put the two stories together. Sharpe’s fortune was vast. A man could live like a prince for a hundred years on such a fortune.

  ‘She could buy a splendid house for a hundred guineas,’ Sharpe said petulantly, ‘why does she need eighteen thousand?’

  Frederickson sat on the stump of the bowsprit. He was still trying to imagine Sharpe as an immensely wealthy man. ‘Why did you give her the authority?’ he asked after a while.

  ‘It was before the duel.’ Sharpe shrugged apologetically. ‘I thought I was going to die. I wanted her to be secure.’

  Frederickson tried to reassure his friend. ‘She’s probably found a better investment.’

  ‘But why hasn’t she written?’ And that was the real rub, the blistering rub that so insidiously attacked Sharpe. Why had Jane not written? Her silence was only made worse by this tantalizing evidence which suggested that his wife was a rich woman living in London’s Cork Street. ‘Where is Cork Street?’

  ‘Somewhere near Piccadilly, I think. It’s a good address.’

  ‘She can afford it, can’t she?’

  Frederickson twisted on his makeshift seat to watch a marsh harrier glide eastwards, then he shrugged. ‘You’ll be home in three weeks, so what does it matter?’

  ‘I suppose it doesn’t.’

  ‘That’s what women do to you,’ Frederickson said philosophically. ‘They choke up your barrel and chip your flint. Which reminds me. Some of these bastards think that just because we’re at peace they don’t have to clean their rifles. Sergeant Harper! Weapon inspection, now!’

  Thus they floated towards home.

  Later that day, as the barge wallowed between sunlit meadows, Sergeant Harper sat with Sharpe in the bows. ‘What will you do now, sir?’

  ‘Resign my commission, I suppose.’ Sharpe was staring at two fishermen. They wore white blouses and wide straw hats, and looked very peaceful. It was hard to imagine that a month ago this had been a country at war. ‘And I suppose you’ll go to Spain to fetch Isabella?’

  ‘If I’m allowed to, sir.’

  This was Harper’s rub. He, like Sharpe, was a wealthy man, and a married man, too. There was no longer any need for Patrick Harper to wear the King’s badge, which he had only ever assumed out of poverty and hunger. He wanted his precious discharge papers, and Sharpe had failed to secure them. Sharpe had collected all the requisite forms, but he had needed to secure the signatures of a Staff Medical Officer, a Regimental Surgeon of the 6oth, and of a General Officer. He would also have needed the imprint of the regimental seal of the 60th. Sharpe had blithely assumed that such things would be easily secured, but the army’s regulations had defeated him. The army was no longer run by men who understood that a favour would be repaid by victory on a battlefield, but instead by men who could only read the small print of the regulations. Those bureaucrats understood only too well how many men would try and leave the ranks, and extraordinary precautions were being taken to stop any such desertions. Harper was thus being forced to stay in the army.

  ‘There is another way,’ Sharpe said diffidently.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Become my servant.’

  Harper frowned, not at the prospect of menial servitude, but because he did not see how it would achieve his ambition.

  Sharpe explained. ‘So long as I’m on the active list, then I’m allowed a servant. That servant can travel at my discretion. So as soon as we’re in England we’ll go to Dorset, I’ll report that you were kicked to death by a horse, and then you just go free. The army will cross you off the list, and we won’t need a Regimental Surgeon to testify that you’re dead because you’ll have died outside of regimental lines. We’ll need a civilian doctor, and maybe even a coroner, but there’s bound to be some drunkards in Dorset who’ll take a bribe.’
/>
  Harper thought about it, then nodded. ‘It sounds good to me, sir.’

  ‘There is a small problem.’

  ‘Sir?’ Harper sounded guarded.

  ‘King’s Regulations, Sergeant, concerning the interior economy of a regiment, insist that no non-commissioned officer is on any account to be permitted to act as an officer’s servant.’

  ‘You looked the rules up, did you, sir?’

  ‘I just quoted them to you.’

  Harper smiled. Then he hooked his big powder-stained fingers into the frayed hems of his Sergeant’s badge. ‘I never wanted the stripes in the first place.’

  ‘I seem to remember it was one hell of a struggle to make you wear them.’

  ‘Should have saved your breath, sir.’ Harper ripped the stripes off his sleeve. He stared ruefully at the patch of dirty cloth for a moment, then threw it overboard. ‘Busted back to the ranks,’ he said, then laughed.

  Sharpe watched the drifting stripes, and he thought how many hard years had passed since he had first persuaded Harper to put up that patch of white cloth. It was all coming to an end, Sharpe thought; all that he had held most dear and known best.

  And ahead of him, beyond this placid river with its fishermen, herons, moorhens, and reeds, what then? The future was like a great mist, in which even Jane was indistinct. Sharpe touched the crumpled letter in his pocket, and persuaded himself that when he found Jane all would be well. He would discover that her letters had gone astray, nothing more.

  Frederickson came forward and saw the bare patch on Harper’s sleeve.

  ‘I demoted Rifleman Harper to the ranks,’ Sharpe explained.

  ‘May one ask why?’

  ‘For being Irish,’ Sharpe said, then he thought how much he would miss Patrick Harper’s friendship, but consoled himself that Jane was waiting for him, and thus he had all the happiness in the world to anticipate and then to enjoy.

  So they floated on.

  The quays at Bordeaux were busier than they had been for years. Wharves which had been kept empty by the Royal Navy’s blockade were suddenly sprouting with masts and spars. Fat-bellied merchant ships queued in the river for their turn at the stone quays where the soldiers waited between netted mounds of supplies. Cannon barrels were slung into holds, while the gun carriages were broken down to be stacked against bulkheads. Protesting horses were lowered into floating stalls. A British Army, fresh from victory, was being hurried out of France. ‘The very least they could have done,’ Harper grumbled, ‘was let us march into Paris.’

  That was a small grudge against the larger tragedies that were now the daily coin of the Bordeaux quays. Those tragedies were occasioned by an army decree which ruled that only those soldiers’ wives who could prove they had married with the permission of their husband’s commanding officers would be carried home. All other women, and their children, were to be abandoned in Bordeaux.

  The abandoned women were mostly Portuguese and Spanish who had left their villages when the army marched through. Some had been sold to a soldier by their families. Sharpe could remember when a strong young girl could be bought for marriage for just five guineas. Most of the women had gone through a camp-marriage, which was no marriage in the eyes of the Church, but many had persuaded a village priest to give a blessing to their union. It did not matter now for, unless the regimental records confirmed a Colonel’s permission, the marriage was reckoned to be false. Thousands of women were thus forcibly taken off the quays, then prevented from rejoining their men by a cordon of provosts armed with loaded muskets. The wailing of the women and their small children was ceaseless.

  ‘How are they supposed to get home?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Walk,’ Frederickson said harshly.

  ‘God save Ireland,’ Harper said, ‘but I hate this damned army.’

  On the morning that Frederickson’s Riflemen joined the chaos on the quays three men from redcoat battalions tried to desert to join their wives. One successfully swam upstream, his dark head constantly surrounded by the splashes of musket-balls. Men already on the ships cheered him. A Naval gig, ordered to cut him off, somehow managed to tangle her oars and Sharpe guessed that the sailors had no stomach for their job and had deliberately made a nonsense of the attempt. Two other redcoats, trying to climb a wall of the docks, were caught and charged with attempted desertion.

  Frederickson was busy scribbling pieces of paper which would serve as marriage certificates for the six men of his company who might otherwise lose their women. Sharpe, as the more senior officer, gladly added his own signature, then glossed his name with the description of Temporary Brigade Commander. He doubted if the papers would work, but they had to be tried.

  Sharpe and Frederickson carried the papers, along with all the company’s other musters, returns and order books, to an office that was guarded by provosts and administered by civilian officials of the Transport Board. Sharpe wanted to challenge their authority with his reputation, but when he reached the office the city’s multitude of church clocks successively pealed midday in a cacophony of time that sounded like a celebration of victory. It was also the signal for the Transport Board officials to close their ledgers for luncheon. They would return, they said, at three o’clock. Till then the Riflemen must wait, though if the officers wished to take luncheon in the city, then they were permitted to pass the picquet-line of provosts.

  Sharpe and Frederickson left the company under Rifleman Harper’s command and, out of curiosity, went to find their luncheon in the city. Yet, just as soon as the two officers were beyond the barrier, they were besieged by crying women. One held up a baby as though the infant’s mute appeal would be sufficient to change the heartless decision of the authorities. Sharpe tried to explain that he had no standing in the matter. This group of women were Spanish. They had no money, they were not permitted to see their men, they were just expected to walk home. No one cared about them. Some had spent five years with the British army, carrying packs and muskets like their men, but now they were to be discarded. ‘Are we to be whores?’ one screamed at Sharpe. ‘He wants us to be a whore!’ The woman pointed at a civilian who was standing a few yards away. It appeared he was a Frenchman who had come to the docks to recruit women for his house. The man, seeing Sharpe look at him, smiled and bowed.

  ‘I don’t like that man,’ Frederickson said mildly.

  ‘Nor me.’ Sharpe gazed at the well-dressed Frenchman who, under the scrutiny, feigned boredom. ‘Shall we let him know how much we dislike him?’

  ‘It would probably make both of us feel a great deal better if we did. You’ll cut off his retreat?’

  Sharpe gently extricated himself from the women, then sauntered past the Frenchman who was content to wait until the Spanish women had finished their importuning of the Riflemen. The Frenchman had watched every British officer so besieged, and knew that the women must soon abandon their hopeless appeals and that afterwards the prettiest among them would be glad of his offer of employment. He lit himself a cigar, blew smoke towards the gulls that screamed about the ships’ topmasts, and thought that never before, and perhaps never again, would whores be so cheap. Then, suddenly, he saw a one-eyed and toothless Rifleman moving fast towards him. The Frenchman twisted to run away.

  He twisted to find himself facing another scarred Rifleman. ‘Good afternoon,’ Sharpe said.

  The Frenchman tried to swerve round Sharpe, but the Rifleman reached out a hand, checked the Frenchman, then turned him and pushed him towards Frederickson. Frederickson, who had removed his eyepatch and false teeth in honour of the occasion, let the Frenchman come, then kicked him massively between the legs.

  The man collapsed. Frederickson stooped and retrieved the man’s fallen cigar.

  The Frenchman was breathless on the cobbles, his hands clutching a pain that was like a thousand red-hot musket balls exploding outwards from his groin. For a few seconds he could not draw breath, then he gasped and afterwards screamed so loud that even the gulls seemed to be sile
nced. The provosts twitched towards the sound, then decided that the two Rifle officers were best left in peace.

  ‘Shut your bloody face, you pimp.’ Sharpe slapped the man’s cheek hard enough to loosen teeth, then began cutting open his pockets and seams much as if the Frenchman was a battlefield corpse. He found a few coins that he distributed to the women. It was a small gesture, and one that was shrunk to nothing in the face of the women’s plight. It was also a gesture that could not be repeated for the sake of every woman who accosted the two Riflemen as they crossed the city’s bridge.

  To escape the hopeless appeals they ducked into a wineshop where Frederickson, who spoke good French, ordered ham, cheese, bread and wine. Outside the wineshop a legless man swung himself into the gutter where he held out a French infantry shako as a begging bowl.

  The weeping women, and the sight of the beggar who had once marched proudly beneath his regiment’s eagle, had depressed Sharpe. Nor did the pathetic paper signs pinned to the wineshop’s walls help his mood. Frederickson translated the small, handwritten notices. ‘Jean Blanchard, of the hundred and sixth of the line, seeks his wife, Marie, who used to live in the Fishmongers Street. If anyone knows of her please to tell the landlord.’ The next was a plea from a mother to anyone who could inform her where her son might be. He had been a Sergeant of the Artillery, and had not been seen or heard of in three years. Another family, moved to Argentan, had left a notice for their three sons in case any should ever come back from the wars. Sharpe tried to count the small notices, but abandoned the effort at a hundred. He supposed the inns and church porches of Britain would be just as thick with such small appeals. Back on the battlefield Sharpe had never somehow thought that a rifle shot could ricochet so far.