Sharpe's Eagle

  Sir Henry Simmerson was done. Wellesley had sworn, briefly and fluently, and sent Lawford to take over the Battalion. Lawford hoped to keep it, it was time he commanded a Battalion, and there was much to be done with it. Major Forrest rode up to him and saluted.

  “Major?”

  “Except for the Light Company, sir, we’ve lost very few.”

  “How many?” Lawford watched as Forrest fetched a piece of paper from his pouch.

  “A dozen dead, sir, perhaps twice as many wounded.”

  Lawford nodded. “We got off lightly, Major. And the Light Company?”

  “Lieutenant Knowles brought in forty-three, sir, and most of them are wounded. Sergeant Read stayed with the baggage with two others, that’s forty-six. There were five men too sick to fight who are in the town.” Forrest paused. “That’s fifty-one, sir, out of a complement of eighty-nine.”

  Lawford said nothing. He leaned forward on his saddle and peered into the shifting smoke. Forrest cleared his throat nervously. “You don’t think, sir… „ He tailed the question away.

  “No, Major, I don’t.” Lawford sat upright and turned his charm onto the Major. “I’ve known Richard Sharpe since I was a Lieutenant and he was a Sergeant. He should have died a dozen times, Major, at least a dozen, but he crawls through somehow.” Lawford grinned. “Don’t worry about Sharpe, Major. It’s much better to let him worry about you. Who else is missing?”

  “There’s Sergeant Harper, sir… „

  “Ah!” Lawford interrupted. “The legendary Irishman.”

  “And Lieutenant Gibbons, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Gibbons?” Lawford remembered the meet­ing in Wellesley’s headquarters at Plasencia and the petulant expression on the blond Lieutenant’s face. “I wonder how he’ll get on without his uncle?” The Lieutenant Colonel smiled briefly; Gibbons was his least concern. There was still so much to do, so many men to be rescued before the townspeople spread into the carnage to loot the bodies. “Thank you, Major. We’ll just have to wait for Captain Sharpe. In the meantime would you arrange a party to get water for the men? And let’s hope these French dead have got food in their packs, otherwise we’re in for a lean night.”

  The French did carry food, and gold, and Sharpe, as he always did, split his finds with Harper. The Sergeant was carrying the Eagle, and he peered at the bird thoughtfully.

  “Is it worth money, sir?”

  “I don’t know.” Out of habit Sharpe was reloading his rifle, and he grunted as he forced the ramrod into the fouled barrel.

  “But they’ll reward us, sir, surely?”

  Sharpe grinned at the Sergeant. “I’d think so. The Patriotic fund ought to be good for a hundred guineas, who knows?” He slid the ramrod back into place. “Perhaps they’ll just say ”thank you“.” He bowed ironically to the Irishman. “Thank you, Sergeant Harper.”

  Harper bowed clumsily back. “It was a pleasure, Captain Sharpe.” He paused. “The bastards had better pay some­thing. I can’t wait to see Simmerson’s face when you give him this.”

  Sharpe laughed, he was looking forward to that mo­ment. He took the Eagle from Harper. “Come on. We’d better find them.”

  Harper touched Sharpe’s shoulder and froze, staring into the smoke above the stream. Sharpe could see nothing. “What is it?”

  “Don’t you see it, sir?” Harper’s voice was hushed, excited. “There! Damn! It’s gone.”

  “What, for God’s sake, what?”

  Harper turned to him. “Would you wait, sir? Two minutes?”

  Sharpe grinned. “A bird?”

  “Aye. The magpie with the blue tail. It went over the stream and it can’t be far.” Harper’s face was lit up, the battle suddenly forgotten, the capture of the Eagle a small thing against the spotting of the rare bird he had yearned so long to see.

  Sharpe laughed. “Go on. I’ll wait here.”

  The Sergeant went silently towards the stream, leaving Sharpe in the drifting smoke among the bodies. Once a horse trotted past, intent on its own business, its flank a sheet of blood, and far off, behind the flames, Sharpe could hear bugles calling the living into ranks. He stared at the Eagle, at the thunderbolt gripped in the claw, the wreath round the bird’s neck, and felt a fresh surge of elation at its capture. They could not send him to the West Indies now! Simmerson could do his worst, but the man who brought back the first captured French Eagle was safe from Sir Henry. He smiled, held the bird up so its wings caught the light, and heard the hoof beats behind him.

  His rifle was on the ground and he had to leave it as he rolled desperately to avoid Gibbons’ charge. The Lieuten­ant, curved sabre drawn, was wild-eyed and leaning from the saddle; the blade hissed over Sharpe’s head, he fell, kept rolling, and knelt up to see Gibbons reining in the horse, turning it with one hand, and urging it forward. The Lieutenant was giving Sharpe no time, even to draw his sword; instead he pointed the sabre like a lance and spurred forward so that the blade would spear into Sharpe’s stomach. Sharpe dropped and the horse went thundering beside him, turned on its back legs, and Gibbons was high over him with the sabre stabbing downwards. Neither man spoke. The horse whinnied, reared and lashed with its feet, and Sharpe twisted away as the sabre jabbed down.

  Sharpe swung with the Eagle, aiming for the horse’s head, but Gibbons was too good a horseman and he smiled as he easily avoided the wild blow. The Lieutenant hefted the sabre in his hand. “Give me the Eagle, Sharpe.”

  Sharpe looked round. The loaded rifle was five yards away and he ran towards it, knowing it was too far, hearing the hooves behind him, and then the sabre cut into his pack and threw him flat on the ground. He fell on the Eagle, twisted to his right, and the horse was pirouetting above him, the hooves like hammers above his face, and the sabre blade was a curve of light behind the glinting horseshoes. He rolled again, felt a numbing blow as one of the hooves struck his shoulder, but he kept rolling away from Gibbons’ sabre. It was hopeless. The grass smelt in his nostrils, the air was full of the flying hooves, the horse staying above him, treading beside him; he waited for the blade to spike into him and pin him to the dry ground. He was angry with himself, for being caught, for forgetting about Gibbons, and he wondered how long the Lieutenant had stalked him through the smoke.

  He could hardly move his right arm, the whole of it seemed paralysed by the blow from the hoof, but he lunged up with the Eagle as if it was a quarterstaff, trying to force the hooves away from his body. Damn that magpie! Couldn’t Harper hear the fight? Then the sabre was over his stomach and Gibbons’ smiling face was above him, and the Lieutenant paused. “She felt good, Sharpe. And I’ll take that Eagle as well.”

  Gibbons seemed to laugh at him, the Lieutenant’s mouth stretching and stretching, and still he did not stab down­wards. His eyes widened and Sharpe began to move, away from the sabre, climbing to his feet, and he saw the blood coming from Gibbons’ throat and falling, slowly and thickly, on the sabre. Sharpe was still moving, the Eagle swinging, and the wing of the French trophy smashed into Gibbons’ mouth, breaking the teeth, forcing back the head, but the Lieutenant was dead. The Eagle had forced him back, but the body toppled towards Sharpe and in its back, through the ribs, was a bayonet on a French musket. Sergeant Harper stood on the far side of the horse and grinned at Sharpe.

  Gibbons’ body slumped beside the horse and Sharpe stared at it, at the bayonet and strange French musket that had been driven clean into the lungs and was stuck there, swaying above the body. He looked at Harper.

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” The Sergeant was grinning broadly, as if he had been pleased to see Sharpe scrambling for his life. “It was worth being in this army just to do that.”

  Sharpe leaned on the Eagle’s staff, catching his breath, appalled at the closeness of death. He shook his head at Harper. “The bastard nearly got me!” He sounded aston­ished, as if it had been unthinkable for Gibbons to prove the better fighter.

  “He would have had to finish me o
ff first, sir.” It was said lightly enough, but Sharpe knew the Sergeant had spoken the truth, and he smiled in acknowledgement and then went to pick up his rifle. He turned again. “Patrick?”

  “Sir?”

  “Thank you.”

  Harper brushed it off. “Just make sure they give us more than a hundred guineas. It’s not every day we capture a bloody Eagle.”

  Gibbons was not carrying much: a handful of guineas, a watch broken by his fall, and the expensive sabre that they would be forced to leave behind. Sharpe joined Harper and, kneeling by the crumpled body, he thrust his hand into Gibbons’ collar and found what he had half expected: a gold chain. Most soldiers carried something valuable round their necks and Sharpe knew that, should he die, some enemy would find the bag of coins round his own neck. Harper glanced up. “I missed that.”

  It was a locket and inside, a girl’s picture. She was blonde, like Gibbons, but her lips were full where his were thin. Her eyes, despite the smallness of the miniature, seemed to look out of the gold case with amusement and life. Harper leaned over. “What does it say, sir?”

  Sharpe read the words inscribed inside the open lid.

  “God keep you. Love, Jane.”

  Harper whistled very softly. “She’s a pretty one, sir. Must be his sister.”

  Sharpe took the locket and pushed it into his cartridge pouch and then glanced once more at the dead man with the blood glistening on his thin face. Did she know what kind of man her brother was?

  “Come on, Sergeant.”

  They walked over the grass, stamping through the flames, until they saw the solitary yellow colour of the South Essex. Lieutenant Knowles saw them first, shouted, and suddenly the Light Company were round them, slapping their backs, speaking words they could not hear and pushing them towards the group of horsemen by the colour. Sharpe looked past a beaming Forrest to see Lawford. “Sir?”

  Lawford laughed at Sharpe’s surprise. “I understand you have the honour to command my Light Company?”

  “Yours?”

  Lawford raised his eyebrows. He was exquisite with silver lace. “Do you disapprove, Captain Sharpe?”

  Sharpe grinned and shook his head. “Sir Henry?”

  Lawford shrugged his elegant shoulders. “Shall we just say that Sir Henry suddenly felt a burning desire to return to the good Burghers of Paglesham.”

  Sharpe wanted to laugh. He had kept the promise to Lennox, but he knew the real reason he had hacked his way to the French Eagle was to save his own career, and had it all been unnecessary? Denny’s death, the killing of so many others, just so he would not go to the West Indies? The trophy was low at his side, hidden in the press of men, but he dragged it clear so that the gilded statuette suddenly flashed in the light. He handed it up to Lawford. “The Battalion’s missing colour, sir. It was the best Ser­geant Harper and I could do.”

  Lawford stared at the two men, at the tiredness beneath the powder stains, at the lines on their faces grooved with blood from scalp wounds, and at the black patches where bayonets had sprung blood into their green jackets. He took the Eagle, disbelieving, knowing it was the one thing that would restore the Battalion’s pride, and hoisted it high into the air. The South Essex, so long scorned by the army, saw it and cheered, slapped each other’s backs, hoisted their muskets triumphantly into the air, and cheered until other Battalions stopped to see what the noise was about.

  Above them, on the Medellin, General Hill heard the excitement and trained a telescope onto the Battalion that had so nearly lost the battle. He caught the Eagle in the lens and his mouth dropped open. „I’ll be damned! Bless my soul! The strangest thing. The South Essex have captured an Eagle!“

  There was a dry laugh beside him, and Hill turned to see Sir Arthur Wellesley. “Sir?”

  “I’ll be damned too, Hill. That’s only the third time I’ve ever heard you swear.” He took the glass from Hill and looked down the slope. “God damn it! You’re right! Let’s go and see this strange bird.”

  Epilogue

  The wine was dark red in the crystal glasses, the deep polished table shone from a score of candles in their silver holders, the paintings whose ancient varnish reflected the circle of light showed grave and eminent ancestors of the Spanish family in whose Talavera mansion Sir Arthur Wellesley was host to a dinner party. Even the food was fairly equal to the occasion. In the week since the battle the supply situation had worsened, the Spanish promises unfulfilled, and the troops were on meagre half-rations. Wellesley, as befitted a General, had done better than most, and Sharpe had sipped a slightly watered down chicken soup, enjoyed jugged hare, eaten amply of Wellesley’s favourite mutton, and listened to his fellow guests grumble about the diet as they drank unending bottles of wine. “Daddy‘ Hill was there, rubicund and happy, continually smiling at Sharpe, shaking his head and saying, ”Bless me, Sharpe, an Eagle.“ Robert Crauford sat opposite Sharpe; Black Bob, whom Sharpe had not seen since the retreat to Corunna. Crauford had missed the Battle of Talavera by one day even though he had marched his crack Light Division forty-two miles in twenty-six hours to catch up with Wellesley. Among the troops he had brought from England were the First Battalion of the 95th Rifles, and Sharpe had already been generously entertained by their mess in celebration of his feat. They had done more than that. They had presented him with a new uniform and he sat at Wellesley’s table resplendent in smart green cloth, black leather, and silver trappings. He had kept his old uniform. Tomorrow, when the army marched again, he would prefer to wear the bloodstained cavalry overalls and the comfortable French boots rather than this immac­ulate uniform and fragile shoes.

  Black Bob Crauford was in good form. He was the sternest disciplinarian in the army, a tyrant of excessive rages, loved and hated by his troops. Few Generals asked more of their men, or received it, and if his demands were backed up by savage punishments then at least the men knew Crauford’s justice was even-handed and impartial. Sharpe remembered seeing Crauford catch a company officer being carried piggy-back across an ice cold stream in the northern mountains.

  “Drop him, sir! Drop him!” the General shouted from the dry safety of his horse to the astonished private and, to the delight of the suffering troops, the officer was dumped unceremoniously into the waist-high water. Now Crauford fixed Sharpe with a cynical eye and thumped the table, rattling the silverware. “You were lucky, Sharpe, lucky!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t you ”yes sir“ me.” Sharpe saw Wellesley watching with an amused eye. Crauford pushed a bottle of red wine towards Sharpe. “You lost damn near half your company! If you hadn’t come back with the Eagle you would have deserved to have been broken right back to private again. Aren’t I right?”

  Sharpe inclined his head. “You are, sir.”

  Crauford leaned back, satisfied, and raised his glass to the Rifleman. “But it was damn well done, all the same.”

  There was laughter round the table. Lawford, a confec­tion of silver and lace, and confirmed, at least temporarily, as Commanding Officer of the South Essex, leaned back and put two more opened bottles on the table. “How’s the excellent Sergeant Harper?”

  Sharpe smiled. “Recovering, sir.”

  “Was he wounded badly?” Hill leaned forward into the candlelight, his round, farmer’s face suffused with con­cern. Sharpe shook his head. “No, sir. The Sergeant’s mess of the First Battalion were kind enough to celebrate with him. I believe he proposed the theory that one man from Donegal could drink as much as any three Englishmen.”

  Hogan slapped the table. The Irish Engineer was cheerfully drunk and he raised his glass to Wellesley. “We Irishmen are never beaten. Isn’t that so, sir?”

  Wellesley raised his eyebrows. He had drunk even less than Sharpe. “I never count myself an Irishman, Captain Hogan, though perhaps I share that characteristic with them.”

  “Damn that, sir,” Crauford growled. “I’ve heard you say that just because a man is born in a stable it doesn’t make him into a h
orse!”

  There was more laughter. Sharpe leaned back and listened to the talk round the table and let the meal rest heavy in his stomach. The servants were bringing in brandy and cigars, which meant that the evening would soon be over, but he had enjoyed it. He was never comfortable at formal dinners; he had not been born to them, had been to few of them, but these men had made him feel at home and pretended not to notice when he waited for them to pick up their cutlery so that he would know which was the correct pair to use for each course. He had told once more the story of how he and Patrick Harper had hacked their way through the enemy line, of the death of Denny, and how they had been swept along with the fugitives before hacking their way clear with sword and axe.

  He sipped his wine, wriggled his toes in the new shoes, and reflected again on his fortune. He remembered his despondency before the battle, of feeling that the promises could not be kept, yet it had all happened. Perhaps he really was lucky, as his men said, but he wished he knew how to preserve that luck. He remembered Gibbons’ falling body, the bayonet deep in his back, and the sight of Harper back from his bird-watching just in time to stop the sabre stabbing down into Sharpe. The next day all traces of the crime had been burned away. The dead, Gibbons among them, had been stacked in naked piles, and the living had thrust wooden faggots deep into the corpses and set fire to them. There had been far too many for burial, and for two days the fires were fed with more wood and the stench hung over the town until the ashes were scattered across the Portina valley and the only signs of the battle were the discarded equipment no-one could be bothered to retrieve and the scorched grass where the flames had roasted the wounded.

  “Sharpe?”

  He started. Someone had spoken his name, and he had missed what was said. “Sir? I’m sorry.”

  Wellesley was smiling at him. “Captain Hogan was saying that you’ve been improving Anglo-Portuguese relations?”