Sharpe's Enemy

  Sharpe read the letter and understood Nairn's smile. The letter had been dictated by Wellington to his Military Secretary, and the General was making specific suggestions how Pot-au-Feu must be defeated. The third paragraph began; 'I would advert you to Major Sharpe, in need of employment, believing that, with two Companies of Riflemen, he might effect a rescue before the punitive Battalion arrives. To that end, and in the belief that this measure will be deemed appropriate, I have given orders that two Companies of the 60th be attached to Headquarters.' Sharpe looked up and Nairn smiled broadly. 'It was interesting to see, Major, whether we came to the same conclusions.'

  'We evidently did, sir.'

  'Console yourself with the thought that he did not think of using the Rocket troop. He has, however, asked the Partisans to help. A few irregular cavalry in the hills will make life easier.' Sharpe wondered if Teresa would receive that message. Might he see her at Christmas? The thought quickened him and pleased him. Nairn took the letter back and turned the page. His face was serious. 'The Partisans, though, are not to take the credit. Spain believes that British troops raped this village and defiled their church. There must be a new sermon preached in the churches, gentlemen, that British troops avenged that massacre, and that any person in Spain is safe under the protection of our flag.' He had evidently been paraphrasing the letter, for now he dropped it and smiled at Sharpe. 'You told these bastards they had till New Year's Day?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Then break your word, Major. Go and kill them at Christmas instead'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Nairn looked out of the window. The rain had stopped and a great rift was spreading through the clouds, bringing back the blue sky. The Scotsman smiled. 'Good hunting, gentlemen. Good hunting.'

  Chapter 7

  The Rifle Captain looked villainous. His left eye was gone, the socket covered by a black patch that was green at the edges. Most of his right ear was missing, and two of his front teeth were clumsy fakes. The wounds had all been taken on battlefields.

  He slammed to attention in front of Sharpe, saluted, and the military precision was diluted by the suspicion in his voice. 'Captain Frederickson, sir.' Frederickson looked lithe as a whip, as hard as the brass furniture on his mens' rifles.

  The second Captain, burlier and less confident, allowed a smile on his face as he saluted. 'Cross, sir. Captain Cross.' Captain Cross wanted Major Sharpe to like him, Frederickson could not give a damn.

  There had been elation in promotion, but now Sharpe was surprised by his nervousness. Just as Cross wanted Sharpe to like him, so Sharpe wanted to be liked by the men who had come under his command. He was being tempted to believe that if he was friendly and approachable, reasonable and kind, then men would follow him more willingly. But kindness was not the wellspring of loyalty and he knew the temptation had to be resisted. 'What are you smiling about, Captain?'

  'Sir?' Cross's eyes darted to Frederickson, but the one-eyed man stared flintily ahead. The smile went.

  These Captains, and their Companies, were the men whom Sharpe would lead into the Gateway of God, into a difficult night action, and that would be no place for a friendly, approachable, reasonable and kind man. They might like him eventually, but first they would have to dislike him because he imposed standards on them, because loyalty came from respect. 'What's your state?'

  Frederickson answered first, as Sharpe had thought he would. 'Seventy-nine men, sir. Four Sergeants and two Lieutenants.'

  'Ammunition?'

  'Eighty rounds, sir.' The answer was too pat, it was a lie. British gunpowder was the best in the world and most soldiers made a few pence on the side by selling cartridges to villagers. Yet Frederickson's answer also implied that the shortfall was none of Sharpe's business. He, Frederickson, would make sure his men went into battle with a full pouch. I Sharpe looked at Cross. 'Captain?'

  'Fifty-eight men, sir. Four Sergeants and one Lieutenant.'

  Sharpe looked at the Companies that paraded in Frenada's square. They were tired, dishevelled, waiting for dismissal. They had just marched from the Coa and were looking forward to warm billets, drink, and a meal. Haifa dozen horses, the property of officers, stood in front of the green jacketed ranks. Sharpe looked up at the sun. Three hours of daylight left. 'We're taking extra ammunition. It's signed for. I'll tell your Sergeants where to fetch it.'

  Cross nodded. 'Sir.'

  'And we're going ten miles tonight. All officers' horses are to stay here.' He turned away, turned back by an exclamation of surprise from Captain Cross.

  'Captain?'

  'Nothing, sir.'

  Frederickson was smiling, just smiling.

  They bivouacked that night, as cold as flogged skin in winter, making shelters from branches and cooking ration beef in the small camp kettles. No Riflemen ever carried the huge Flanders Cauldrons that were the army issue and had to be carried on a mule because of their weight. It took a whole tree-trunk to warm a Flanders Cauldron and so the Light troops of Wellington's army simply took the small cooking pots from the enemies they killed, as they took their comfortable packs, and Sharpe looked at the thirty small fires with satisfaction. His own Company was with him, a shrunken Company because the summer of 1812 had whittled his numbers down. Lieutenant Price, three Sergeants, and just twenty eight men were the South Essex's skirmishers, and only nine of the men, plus Harper, were Riflemen from Sharpe's old Company of the 95th that he had brought out of the retreat to Corunna four years before. Price shared a fire with Sharpe, looked at his Major and shivered. 'We can't go in with you, sir?'

  'You're wearing a red coat, Harry.'

  Price swore. 'We'll be all right, sir.'

  'No you won't.' Sharpe raked a chestnut out of the fire with his knife. 'There'll be enough to do on Christmas Day, Harry. Trust me.’

  Price's voice was resentful. 'Yes, sir.' Then, unable to stay gloomy for long, he grinned and jerked his head at the camp-fires. 'You've cheered them up, sir. Don't know what's hit them.'

  Sharpe laughed. Two of the Lieutenants had been hobbling after a ten mile march, not used to being out of their saddles. The Riflemen were resigned. Sharpe was just another bastard who had denied them a warm bed, the chance of a warm girl, and forced them to sleep on a December night in an open field. Price swore as a chestnut burned his fingers. 'They're definitely intrigued, sir.'

  'Intrigued?'

  'Our lads have talked with them. Told them a thing or two.' He grinned as, at last, the skin came off the chestnut. 'Told them how long people usually live when they fight for Major Sharpe.'

  'Christ, Harry! Don't lay it on too thick!'

  Price munched happily. 'They're tough lads, sir. They'll be all right.'

  They were tough, too. The 60th, the Royal American Rifles, a Regiment that had been raised in the Thirteen Colonies before the rebellion. They had been trained as sharp-shooters, stalkers, killers of the deep forest, but since the loss of America the Regiment's ranks had been filled by British and by exiled Germans. At least half these men were German and Sharpe had discovered that Frederickson was the son of an English mother and German father and spoke both languages fluently. Sergeant Harper had discovered the ironic nickname that Frederickson's Company had given to their Captain; Captain William Frederickson, as hard an officer as any in the army, had inevitably become Sweet William.

  Sweet William crossed to Sharpe's fire. 'Speak to you, sir?'

  'Go ahead.'

  Frederickson squatted down, his one eye baleful. 'Is there a password tonight, sir?'

  'Password?'

  Frederickson shrugged. 'I wanted to take a patrol out, sir.' He did not want to ask permission. It offended Captains of the 60th to ask permission. The Regiment did not fight in Battalions like other Regiments, but was split up into Companies that were attached to the army's Divisions to strengthen the skirmish line. Companies of the 60th were the army's orphans, tough and independent, proud of their solitary status.

  Sharpe grinned. There was no need t
o patrol this country; safe, friendly Portugal. 'You want to take a patrol out, Captain.'

  'Yes, sir. Some of my men could do with some night training.'

  'How long?'

  The thin, eye-patched face looked at the flames, then back to Sharpe. 'Three hours, sir.'

  Time enough to go back to the village they had passed in the dusk and get into the big farm on the hill behind the church. Sharpe had heard the sounds too, and the sounds had made him just as hungry as Frederickson. So he wanted a password to get back past the picquet line? 'Pork chop, Captain.'

  'Sir?'

  'That's the password. And my price.'

  The faintest grin. 'Your men say you don't approve of stealing, sir.'

  'I never liked the sight of the provosts hanging men for looting.' Sharpe felt in his pouch, threw Frederickson a coin. 'Leave that on the doorstep.'

  Frederickson nodded. 'I will, sir.' He stood up.

  'And Captain?'

  'Sir?'

  'I like the middle chops. The ones with the kidney.'

  The grin showed in the darkness. 'Yes, sir.'

  They ate the pork the next day at dusk, hidden in a grove of oak trees, a long day's march behind them. Tonight there would be no rest, only a difficult night march across the river and up into the hills. Sharpe paraded them formally, stripped them of packs, canteens, pouches, haversacks, greatcoats and shakoes, and he watched as the Sergeants searched each man and his equipment for drink. This was one night and a day when no man could risk being drunk, and the Riflemen watched sullenly as their liquor was poured onto the ground. Then Sharpe held up a cluster of canteens. 'Brandy.' They cheered up a little. 'We'll dole it out tomorrow to see us through the cold. Once the job's done you can drink yourselves stupid.'

  They climbed that night through a dark landscape of broken rocks and dismal shadows, the howl of wolves in their ears. The wolves rarely attacked men, though Sharpe had seen one leap on a tethered horse, bite a mouthful from its rump and scare off into the darkness pursued by a futile volley of musket shots. Higher and higher they climbed, going eastward, and a fitful moon deceived Sharpe about the landmarks he had memorized on his first visit to the Convent. He was going to the north of the Gateway of God and, past midnight, he turned the soldiers southwards and the going was easier because the climbing was done. He feared the dawn. They must be in hiding before Pot-au-Feu's men in the watchtower could search the upland scenery for intruders.

  He took them too close, unaware until a sentry across the Valley dropped a whole dry thorn bush onto a fire and the flames startled upwards, sheeting the watchtower stones with light, and Sharpe hissed for silence. God! They were close. He circled back and, just before dawn, he found a deep gully.

  The gully, though too close to the Convent for comfort, was otherwise perfect. A Major, two Captains, four Lieutenants, eleven Sergeants, and one hundred and sixty-five rank and file were hidden by its deep banks. They must spend the whole day in concealment.

  It was a strange way to spend Christmas Eve. In Britain they would be preparing food for the day's feast. Geese would be hanging plucked on the farmhouse walls next to hams rich from the smokehouse. Plum puddings would be trussed next to the hearths on which brawn would be boiling while, in the houses of the rich, the servants would be taking the pigs' heads from the pickle barrels and stuffing them with force-meat. Christmas pies were being made, veal and beef, while the Christmas fruit breads rose in the brick ovens, their smell rivalling the rich aroma of the new-brewed beer. Firelight would glint on bottles of home made wine, and on the great bowl that waited for the spices and hot wine of the wassail cup. Christmas was a time when a man should be in a warm house, steamy from cooking, and thinking of little else but the mid-winter feast.

  Sharpe wondered if these men would resent losing their Christmas to the war, yet as its Eve passed slow and cold, he detected a pride in them that they had been chosen for their task. They had conceived a bitter hatred for the deserters and Sharpe suspected that hatred was caused partly by envy. Most soldiers thought at one time or another of desertion, but few did it, and all soldiers dreamed of a perfect paradise where there was no discipline, much wine and plentiful women. Pot-au-Feu and Hakeswill had come close to realizing that dream and Sharpe's men would punish them for daring to do what they had only dreamed of doing.

  Frederickson thought Sharpe was being fanciful. He sat on the gully's side, next to Sharpe and Harper, and nodded at his men. 'It's because they're romantics, sir.'

  'Romantics?' The word sounded surprising coming from Sweet William.

  'Look at the bastards. Half of them would murder for ten shillings, less. They're drunkards, they'd steal their mother's wedding ring for a pint of rum. Jesus! They're bastards!' He smiled fondly at them, then lifted a frayed corner of the eyepatch and poked with a finger at the wound. It seemed to be an habitual, unthinking gesture. He wiped the finger on his jacket. 'God knows they're not saints, but they're upset about the women in the Convent. They like the idea of rescuing women.' Frederickspn smiled his crooked smile. 'Everyone hates the bloody army till someone needs rescuing, then we're all bloody heroes and white knights.' He laughed.

  Most of the men had slept fitfully through the morning while Price's redcoats provided sentries. Now those men were huddled in sleep while Captain Cross's picquets lined the gully's rim, their heads barely visible above the skyline. Sharpe had seen figures on the watchtower turret and, just after mid-day, three men on horseback had appeared to the east. Sharpe assumed they were a patrol, but the men had disappeared into a hollow and not reappeared for an hour. He guessed they had taken bottles with them, drunk, then gone back to the valley with some fiction of an uneventful patrol.

  The cold was Sharpe's biggest worry. It had been colder during the night, but the men had been moving, while now they were immobile, unable to light any fires, and frozen by a wind that blew the length of their hiding place and brought with it an intermittent drizzle. After the patrol had gone Sharpe had started a childish game of tag, its bounds restricted by an imaginary contour halfway up the gully, its most important rule silence. It forced warmth into men and officers, and the game had run for more than two hours. Whenever an officer was in the game it became more boisterous. The tag was passed by forcing another player to the ground and Sharpe had twice been tackled with bone-crunching glee, both times repaying the tag on the same man. Now, as the light was beginning to fade, the men were sitting with their weapons, intent on the preparations for the night.

  Patrick Harper had Sharpe's sword. It was a blade that Harper himself had bought, repaired, and given to Sharpe when it was feared Sharpe was dying in the army hospital at Salamanca. It was a Heavy Cavalry sword, huge and straight bladed, clumsy because of its weight, but a killer wielded with strength. The man who had shot him, the Frenchman Leroux who had brought Sharpe so close to death, had died beneath this sword. Harper sharpened the blade with long strokes of his hand-stone. He had worked the point to needle sharpness and now he held the handle out to Sharpe. 'There, sir. Like new.'

  Next to Harper was his seven-barrelled gun, much admired by Frederickson. It was the only loaded weapon that would go with the first party into the Convent. The men of that party had been hand picked, the cream of the three Companies, and they would attack only with swords, knives, and bayonets. Sharpe would lead that party. Harper beside him, and the signal for the other Riflemen to come forward was a blast from the Irish Sergeant's gun. Harper picked the gun up, scratched at the touch-hole with wire, blew on it, then grinned happily. 'Mutton pie, sir.'

  'Mutton pie?'

  'That's what we'd be eating at home, so we would. Mutton pie, potatoes, and more mutton pie. Ma always makes mutton pie at Christmas.'

  'Goose.' Frederickson said. 'And once we had a roast swan. French wine.' He smiled as he rammed a bullet into his pistol. 'Mincemeat pies. Now that's something to fill a belly. Good minced beef.'

  'We used to get minced tripe.' Sharpe said. Frederickson looked dis
believing, but Harper grinned at the eye-patched Captain. 'If you ask him nicely, sir, he'll tell you all about life in the Foundling Home.' Frederickson looked at Sharpe. 'Truly?’

  ’Yes. Five years. I went when I was four.’

  ’And you got tripe for Christmas?’

  ’If we were lucky. Minced tripe and hard-boiled eggs, and it was called Mincemeat. We used to enjoy Christmas. There was no work that day.’

  ‘What was the work?'

  Harper grinned, for he had heard the stories before. Sharpe put his head back on his pack and stared at the low, dark clouds. 'We used to pick old ships' cables apart, the ones that were coated with tar. You'd get a length of eight-inch cable, stiff as frozen leather, and if you were under six you had to pick apart a seven foot length every day.' He grinned. 'They sold the stuff to caulkers and upholsterers. Wasn't as bad as the bone room.’

  ’The what?'

  'Bone room. Some children used to pound bones into powder and it was made into some kind of paste. Half the bloody ivory you buy is bone paste. That's why we liked Christmas. No work.'

  Frederickson seemed fascinated. 'So what happened at Christmas, sir?'

  Sharpe thought back. He had forgotten much of it. Once he had run away from the Home and managed to stay away, he had tried to force the memories out of his mind. Now they were so remote that it seemed as if they belonged to some other man, far less fortunate. 'There was a church service in the morning, I remember that. We used to get a long sermon telling us how bloody lucky we were. Then there was the meal. Tripe.' He grinned.

  'And plum pudding, sir. You told me you got plum pudding once.' Harper was loading the huge gun.

  'Once. Yes. It was a gift from someone or other. In the afternoon the quality would come and visit. Little boys and girls brought by their mothers to see how the orphans lived. God! We hated them! Mind you, it was the one bloody day of the winter when they heated the place. Couldn't have the children of the rich catching a cold when they visited the poor.' He held the sword up, stared at the blade reflectively. 'Long time ago, Captain, long time ago.'