Sharpe's Havoc

  “A good idea,” Argenton said. He watched approvingly as his escort set picquets, then smiled his thanks as a very sullen-looking Luis brought him and Christopher glasses of vinho verde, the golden white wine of the Douro valley. Argenton sipped the wine cautiously and was surprised that it was so good. He was a slight man with a frank, open face and red hair that was damp with sweat and marked where his helmet had been. He smiled easily, a reflection of his trusting nature. Christopher rather despised the Frenchman, but knew he would be useful.

  Argenton drained the wine. “Did you hear about the drownings in Oporto?” he asked.

  “My servant says you broke the bridge.”

  “They would say that,” Argenton said regretfully. “The bridge collapsed under the weight of the refugees. It was an accident. A sad accident, but if the people had stayed in their homes and given our men a decent welcome then there wouldn’t have been any panic at the bridge. They’d all be alive now. As it is, we’re being blamed, but it had nothing to do with us. The bridge wasn’t strong enough and who built the bridge? The Portuguese.”

  “A sad accident, as you say,” Christopher said, “but all the same I must congratulate you on your swift capture of Oporto. It was a notable feat of arms.”

  “It would have been still more notable,” Argenton observed, “if the opposition had been better soldiers.”

  “I trust your losses were not extravagant?”

  “A handful,” Argenton said dismissively, “but half of our regiment was sent eastward and they lost a good few men in an ambush by the river. An ambush”-he looked accusingly at Christopher-”in which some British riflemen took part. I didn’t think there were any British troops in Oporto?”

  “There shouldn’t have been,” Christopher said, “I ordered them south of the river.”

  “Then they disobeyed you,” Argenton said.

  “Did any of the riflemen die?” Christopher asked, mildly hoping that Argenton would have news of Sharpe’s death.

  “I wasn’t there. I’m posted to Oporto where I find billets, look for rations and do the errands of war.”

  “Which I am sure you discharge admirably,” Christopher said smoothly, then led his guest into the farmhouse where Argenton admired the tiles about the dining room hearth and the simple iron chandelier that hung above the table. The meal itself was commonplace enough: chicken, beans, bread, cheese and a good country red wine, but Captain Argenton was complimentary. “We’ve been on short rations,” he explained, “but that should change now. We’ve found plenty of food in Oporto and a warehouse stuffed to the rafters with good British powder and shot.”

  “You were short of those too?” Christopher asked.

  “We have plenty,” Argenton said, “but the British powder is better than our own. We have no source of saltpeter except what we scrape from cesspit walls.”

  Christopher grimaced at the thought. The best saltpeter, an essential dement of gunpowder, came from India and he had never considered that there might be a shortage in France. “I assume,” he said, “that the powder was a British gift to the Portuguese.”

  “Who have now given it to us,” Argenton said, “much to Marshal Soult’s delight.”

  “Then it is time, perhaps,” Christopher suggested, “that we made the Marshal unhappy.”

  “Indeed,” Argenton said, “indeed,” and then fell silent because they had reached the purpose of their meeting.

  It was a strange purpose, but an exciting one. The two men were plotting mutiny. Or rebellion. Or a coup against Marshal Soult’s army. But however it was described it was a ploy that might end the war.

  There was, Argenton now explained, a great deal of dissatisfaction in Marshal Soult’s army. Christopher had heard all this before from his guest, but he did not interrupt as Argenton rehearsed the arguments that would justify his disloyalty. He described how some officers, all devout Catholics, were mortally offended by their army’s behavior in Spain and Portugal. Churches had been desecrated, nuns raped. “Even the holy sacraments have been defiled,” Argenton said in a horrified tone.

  “I can hardly believe it,” Christopher said.

  Other officers, a few, were simply opposed to Bonaparte. Argenton was a Catholic monarchist, but he was willing to make common cause with those men who still held Jacobin sympathies and believed that Bonaparte had betrayed the revolution. “They cannot be trusted, of course,” Argenton said, “not in the long run, but they will join us in resisting Bonaparte’s tyranny.”

  “I pray they do,” Christopher said. The British government had long known that there was a shadowy league of French officers who opposed Bonaparte. They called themselves the Philadelphes and London had once sent agents in search of their elusive brotherhood, but had finally concluded that their numbers were too few, their ideals too vague and their supporters too ideologically divided for the Philadelphes ever to succeed.

  Yet here, in remote northern Portugal, the various opponents of Bonaparte had found a common cause. Christopher had first got wind of that cause when he talked with a French officer who had been taken prisoner on Portugal’s northern border and who had been living in Braga where, having given his parole, his only restriction was to remain within the barracks for his own protection. Christopher had drunk with the unhappy officer and heard a tale of French unrest that sprang from one man’s absurd ambition.

  Nicolas Jean de Dieu Soult, Duke of Dalmatia, Marshal of France and commander of the army that was now invading Portugal, had seen other men who served the Emperor become princes, even kings, and he reckoned his own dukedom was a poor reward for a career that outshone almost all the Emperor’s other marshals. Soult had been a soldier for twenty-four years, a general for fifteen and a marshal for five. At Austerlitz, the greatest of all the Emperor’s victories so far, Marshal Soult had covered himself with glory, far outfighting Marshal Bernadotte who, nevertheless, was now Prince of Ponte Corvo. Jerome Bonaparte, the Emperor’s youngest brother, was an idle, extravagant wastrel, yet he was King of Westphalia while Marshal Murat, a hot-headed braggart, was King of Naples. Louis Napoleon, another of the Emperor’s brothers, was King of Holland, and all those men were nonentities while Soult, who knew his own high worth, was a mere duke and it was not enough.

  But now the ancient throne of Portugal was empty. The royal family, fearing the French invasion, had fled to Brazil and Soult wanted to occupy the vacant chair. Colonel Christopher, at first, had not believed the tale, but the prisoner had sworn its truth and Christopher had talked with some of the other few prisoners who had been captured in skirmishes on the northern frontier and all claimed to have heard much the same story. It was no secret, they said, that Soult had royal pretensions, but the paroled officers also told Christopher that the Marshal’s ambitions had soured many of his own officers, who disliked the idea that they should fight and suffer so far from home only to put Nicolas Soult on an empty chair. There was talk of mutiny and Christopher had been wondering how he could discover whether that mutinous talk was serious when Captain Argenton approached him.

  Argenton, with great daring, had been traveling in northern Portugal, dressed in civilian clothes and claiming to be a wine merchant from Upper Canada. If he had been caught he would have been shot as a spy, for Argenton was not exploring the land ahead of the French armies, but rather trying to discover pliable Portuguese aristocrats who would encourage Soult in his ambitions, for if the Marshal was to declare himself King of Portugal or, more modestly, King of Northern Lusitania, then he first needed to be persuaded that there were men of influence in Portugal who would support that usurpation of the vacant throne. Argenton had been talking with such men and Christopher, to his surprise, discovered there were plenty of aristocrats, churchmen and scholars in northern Portugal who hated their own monarchy and believed that a foreign king from an enlightened France would be of benefit to their country. So letters were being collected that would encourage Soult to declare himself king.

  And when that hap
pened, Argenton had promised Christopher, the army would mutiny. The war had to be stopped, Argenton said, or else, like a great fire, it would consume all Europe. It was a madness, he said, a madness of the Emperor who seemed intent on conquering the whole world. “He believes he is Alexander the Great,” the Frenchman said gloomily, “and if he doesn’t stop then there will be nothing left of France. Who are we to fight? Everyone? Austria? Prussia? Britain? Spain? Portugal? Russia?”

  “Never Russia,” Christopher said, “even Bonaparte is not that mad.”

  “He is mad,” Argenton insisted, “and we must rid France of him.” And the start of the process, he believed, would be the mutiny that would surely erupt when Soult declared himself a king.

  “Your army is unhappy,” Christopher allowed, “but will they follow you into mutiny?”

  “I would not lead it,” Argenton said, “but there are men who will. And those men want to take the army back to France and that, I assure you, is what most of the soldiers want. They will follow.”

  “Who are these leaders?” Christopher asked swiftly.

  Argenton hesitated. Any mutiny was a dangerous business and if the identities of the leaders became known then there could be an orgy of firing squads.

  Christopher saw his hesitation. “If we are to persuade the British authorities that your plans are worth supporting,” he said, “then we must give them names. We must. And you must trust us, my friend.” Christopher placed a hand over his heart. “I swear to you upon my honor that I shall never betray those names. Never!”

  Argenton, reassured, listed the men who would lead the revolt against Soult. There was Colonel Lafitte, the commanding officer of his own regiment, and the Colonel’s brother, and they were supported by Colonel Donadieu of the 47th Regiment of the Line. “They are respected,” Argenton said earnestly, “and the men will follow them.” He gave more names that Christopher jotted down in his notebook, but he observed that none of the mutineers was above the rank of colonel.

  “An impressive list,” Christopher lied, then he smiled. “Now give me another name. Tell me who in your army would be your most dangerous opponent.”

  “Our most dangerous opponent?” Argenton was puzzled by the question.

  “Other than Marshal Soult, of course,” Christopher went on. “I want to know who we should watch. Who, perhaps, we might want to, how can I put it? Render safe?”

  “Ah.” Argenton understood now and he thought for a short while. “Probably Brigadier Vuillard,” he said.

  “I’ve not heard of him.”

  “A Bonapartiste through and through,” Argenton said disapprovingly.

  “Spell his name for me, will you?” Christopher asked, then wrote it down: Brigadier Henri Vuillard. “I assume he knows nothing of your scheme?” he continued.

  “Of course not!” Argenton said. “But it is a scheme, Colonel, that cannot work without British support. General Cradock is sympathetic, is he not?”

  “Cradock is sympathetic,” Christopher said confidently. He had reported his earlier conversations to the British General who had seen in the proposed mutiny an alternative to fighting the French and so had encouraged Christopher to pursue the matter. “But alas,” Christopher went on, “it’s rumored he will soon be replaced.”

  “And the new man?” Argenton inquired.

  “Wellesley,” Christopher said flatly. “Sir Arthur Wellesley.”

  “Is he a good general?”

  Christopher shrugged. “He’s well connected. Younger son of an earl. Eton, of course. He wasn’t thought clever enough for anything except the army, but most people think he did well near Lisbon last year.”

  “Against Laborde and Junot!” Argenton said scathingly.

  “And he had some successes in India before that,” Christopher added in warning.

  “Oh, in India!” Argenton said, smiling. “Reputations made in India rarely stand up to a volley in Europe. But will this Wellesley want to fight Soult?”

  Christopher thought about that question. “I think,” he said eventually, “that he would prefer not to lose. I think,” he went on, “that if he knows the strength of your sentiments, then he will cooperate.” Christopher was not nearly as certain as he sounded; indeed he had heard that General Wellesley was a cold man who might not look kindly on an escapade that depended for its success on so many assumptions, but Christopher had other fish to fry in this unholy tangle. He doubted whether the mutiny could ever succeed and did not much care what Cradock or Wellesley thought of it, but knew his knowledge of it could be used to great advantage and, for the moment anyway, it was important that Argenton saw Christopher as an ally. “Tell me,” he said to the Frenchman, “exactly what you want of us.”

  “Britain’s influence,” Argenton said. “We want Britain to persuade the Portuguese leaders to accept Soult as their king.”

  “I thought you’d found plenty of support already,” Christopher said.

  “I’ve found support,” Argenton confirmed, “but most won’t declare themselves for fear of the mob’s vengeance. But if Britain encourages them they’ll find their courage. They don’t even have to make their support public, merely write letters to Soult. And then there are the intellectuals”-Argenton’s sneer as he said the last word would have soured milk-”most of whom will back anyone other than their own government, but again they need encouragement before they’ll find the bravery to express support for Marshal Soult.”

  “I’m sure we would be happy to provide encouragement,” Christopher said. He was not sure at all.

  “And we need an assurance,” Argenton said firmly, “that if we lead a rebellion the British will not take advantage of the situation by attacking us. I shall want your General’s word on that.”

  Christopher nodded. “And I think he will give it,” he said, “but before he commits himself to any such promise he will want to judge for himself the likelihood of your success and that, my friend, means he will want to hear from you directly.” Christopher unstoppered a decanter of wine, then paused before pouring. “And I think you need to hear his personal assurances. I think you must travel south to see him.”

  Argenton looked rather surprised by this suggestion, but he thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “You can give me a pass that will see me safe through the British lines?”

  “I will do better, my friend. I shall come with you so long as you provide me with a pass for the French lines.”

  “Then we shall go!” Argenton said happily. “My Colonel will give me permission, once he understands what we are doing. But when? Soon, I think, don’t you? Tomorrow?”

  “The day after tomorrow,” Christopher said firmly. “I have an engagement tomorrow that I cannot avoid, but if you join me in Vila Real ie Zedes tomorrow afternoon then we can travel the next day. Will that suit?”

  Argenton nodded. “You must tell me how to reach Vila Real de Zedes.”

  “I shall give you directions,” Christopher said, then raised his glass, “and I shall drink to the success of our endeavors.”

  “Amen to that,” Argenton said, and raised his glass to the toast.

  And Colonel Christopher smiled, because he was rewriting the rules.

  Chapter 3

  Sharpe ran across the paddock where the dead horses lay with flies crawling in their nostrils and across their eyeballs. He tripped on a metal picketing pin and, as he stumbled forward, a carbine bullet fluttered past him, the sound suggesting it was almost spent, but even a spent bullet in the wrong place could kill a man. His riflemen were shooting from the field’s far side, the smoke of their Baker rifles thickening along the wall. Sharpe dropped beside Hagman. “What’s happening, Dan?”

  “Dragoons are back, sir,” Hagman said laconically, “and there’s some infantry there too.”

  “You sure?”

  “Shot one blue bastard,” Hagman said, “and two greens so far.”

  Sharpe wiped sweat from his face, then crawled a few paces along the wall to a
place where the powder smoke was not so thick. The dragoons had dismounted and were shooting from the edge of a wood some hundred paces away. Too long a range for their carbines, Sharpe thought, but then he saw some blue uniforms where the road ran through the trees and he reckoned the infantry was forming for an attack. There was an odd clicking noise coming from somewhere nearby and he could not place it, but it seemed to offer no threat so he ignored it. “Pendleton!”

  “Sir?”

  “Find Lieutenant Vicente. He’s in the village. Tell him to get his men out on the northern path now.” Sharpe pointed to the track through the vineyards, the same track by which they had entered Barca d’Avintas and where the dead dragoons of the first fight still lay. “And, Pendleton, tell him to hurry. But be polite, though.”

  Pendleton, a pickpocket and purse snatcher from Bristol, was the youngest of Sharpe’s men and now looked puzzled. “Polite, sir?”

  “Call him sir, damn you, and salute him, but hurry!”

  Goddamn it, Sharpe thought, but there would be no escape across the Douro today, no slow shuttling back and forth with the small boat, and no marching back to Captain Hogan and the army. Instead they would have to get the hell out northwards and get out fast. “Sergeant!” He looked left and right for Patrick Harper through the misty patches of rifle smoke along the wall. “Harper!”

  “I’m with you, sir.” Harper came running from behind. “I was dealing with those two Frogs in the church.”

  “The moment the Portuguese are into the vineyard we get out of here. Are any of our men left in the village?”

  “Harris is there, sir, and Pendleton, of course.”

  “Send someone to make sure the two of them get out.” Sharpe leveled his rifle across the wall and sent a bullet spinning toward the infantry who were forming up on the road among the trees. “And, Pat, what did you do with those two Frogs?”

  “They’d robbed the poor box,” Harper said, “so I sent them to hell.” He patted his sheathed sword bayonet.