Sharpe's Battle

  Masséna, his enemy, was capable of any foolishness.

  "He won't," Ducos said with the certainty of a man who had the power to dictate strategy to marshals of France. "And the reason he will not is here,"

  Ducos said, and he tapped the map as he spoke. "Look," he said, and Loup bent obediently over the map. The fortress of Almeida was depicted like a star to imitate its jagged, star-shaped fortifications. Around it were the hatch marks of hills, but behind it, between Almeida and the rest of Portugal, ran a deep river. The Coa. "It runs in a gorge, Brigadier," Ducos said, "and is crossed by a single bridge at Gastello Bom."

  "I know it well."

  "So if we defeat General Wellington on this side of the river," Ducos said,

  "then the fugitives of his army will be forced to retreat across a single bridge scarce three metres wide. That is why we shall leave the garrison in

  Almeida, because its presence will force Lord Wellington to fight on this bank of the Coa and when he does fight we shall destroy him. And once the British are gone, Brigadier, we shall employ your tactics of horror to end all resistance in Portugal and Spain."

  Loup straightened up. He was impressed by Ducos's analysis, but also dubious of it. He needed a few seconds to phrase his objection and made the time by lighting a long, dark cigar. He blew smoke out, then decided there was no politic way to voice his doubt, so he just stated it baldly. "I've not fought the British in battle, Major, but I hear they're stubborn bastards in defence." Loup tapped the map. "I know that country well. It's full of hill ranges and river valleys. Give Wellington a hill and you could die of old age before you could shift the bugger loose. That's what I hear, anyway." Loup finished with a shrug, as if to deprecate his own opinion.

  Ducos smiled. "Supposing, Brigadier, that Wellington's army is rotted from the inside?"

  Loup considered the question, then nodded. "He'll break," he confirmed simply.

  "Good! Because that is precisely why I wanted you to meet the Dona Juanita,"

  Ducos said, and the lady smiled at the dragoon. "The Dona Juanita will be crossing the lines," Ducos continued, "and living among our enemies. From time to time, Brigadier, she will come to you for certain supplies that I shall provide. I want you to make the provision of those supplies to Dona Juanita your most important duty."

  "Supplies?" Loup asked. "You mean guns? Ammunition?"

  Dona Juanita answered for Ducos. "Nothing, Brigadier, that cannot be carried in the panniers of a packhorse."

  Loup looked at Ducos. "You think it's easy to ride from one army to another?

  Hell, Ducos, the British have a cavalry screen and there are partisans and our own picquets and God knows how many other British sentries. It isn't like riding in the Bois de Boulogne."

  Ducos looked unconcerned. "The Dona Juanita will make her own arrangements and

  I have faith in those. What you must do, Brigadier, is acquaint the lady with your lair. She must know where to find you, and how. You can arrange that?"

  Loup nodded, then looked at the woman. "You can ride with me tomorrow?"

  "All day, Brigadier."

  "Then we ride tomorrow," Loup said, "and maybe the next day too?"

  "Maybe, General, maybe," the woman answered.

  Ducos again interrupted their flirtation. It was late, his supper was waiting and he still had several hours of paperwork to be completed. "Your men," he said to Loup, "are now the army's picquet line. So I want you to be alert for the arrival of a new unit in the British army."

  Loup, suspecting he was being taught how to suck eggs, frowned. "We're always alert to such things, Major. We're soldiers, remember?"

  "Especially alert, Brigadier." Ducos was unruffled by Loup's scorn. "A Spanish unit, the Real Companïa Irlandesa, is expected to join the British soon and I want to know when they arrive and where they are positioned. It is important,

  Brigadier."

  Loup glanced at Juanita, suspecting that the Real Companïa Irlandesa was somehow connected with her mission, but her face gave nothing away. Never mind, Loup thought, the woman would tell him everything before the next two nights were done. He looked back to Ducos. "If a dog farts in the British lines, Major, you'll know about it."

  "Good!" Ducos said, ending the conversation. "I won't keep you, Brigadier. I'm sure you have plans for the evening."

  Loup, thus dismissed, picked up his helmet with its plume of wet grey hair.

  "Dona," he said as he reached the staircase door, "isn't that the title of a married woman?"

  "My husband, General, is buried in South America." Juanita shrugged. "The yellow fever, alas."

  "And my wife, madame," Loup said, "is buried in her kitchen in Besançon.

  Alas." He held a hand towards the door, offering to escort her down the winding stairs, but Ducos held the Spanish woman back.

  "You're ready to go?" Ducos asked Juanita when Loup was gone out of earshot.

  "So soon?" Juanita answered.

  Ducos shrugged. "I suspect the Real Companïa Irlandesa will have reached the

  British lines by now. Certainly by the month's end."

  Juanita nodded. "I'm ready." She paused. "And the British, Ducos, will surely suspect the Real Companïa Irlandesa's motives?"

  "Of course they will. They would be fools not to. And I want them to be suspicious. Our task, madame, is to unsettle our enemy, so let them be wary of the Real Companïa Irlandesa and perhaps they will overlook the real threat?"

  Ducos took off his spectacles and polished their lenses on the skirts of his plain jacket. "And Lord Kiely? You're sure of his affections?"

  "He is a drunken fool, Major," Juanita answered. "He will do whatever I tell him."

  "Don't make him jealous," Ducos warned.

  Juanita smiled. "You may lecture me on many things, Ducos, but when it comes to men and their moods, believe me, I know all there is to know. Do not worry about my Lord Kiely. He will be kept very sweet and very obedient. Is that all?"

  Ducos looped his spectacles back into place. "That is all. May I wish you a good night's rest, madame?"

  "I'm sure it will be a splendid night, Ducos." The Dona Juanita smiled and walked from the room. Ducos listened as her spurs jangled down the steps, then heard her laugh as she encountered Loup who had been waiting at the foot of the steps. Ducos closed the door on the sound of their laughter and walked slowly back to the window. In the night the rain beat on, but in Ducos's busy mind there was nothing but the vision of glory. This did not just depend on

  Juanita and Loup doing their duty, but rather on the clever scheme of a man whom even Ducos acknowledged as his equal, a man whose passion to defeat the

  British equalled Ducos's passion to see France triumphant, and a man who was already behind the British lines where he would sow the mischief that would first rot the British army, then lead it into a trap beside a narrow ravine.

  Ducos's thin body seemed to quiver as the vision unfolded in his imagination.

  He saw an insolent British army eroded from within, then trapped and beaten.

  He saw France triumphant. He saw a river gorge crammed to its rocky brim with bloody carcasses. He saw his Emperor ruling over all Europe and then, who could tell, over the whole known world. Alexander had done it, why not

  Bonaparte?

  And it would begin, with a little cunning from Ducos and his most secret agent, on the banks of the Coa near the fortress of Almeida.

  "This is a chance, Sharpe, upon my soul it is a chance. A veritable chance.

  Not many chances come in a man's life and a man must seize them. My father taught me that. He was a bishop, you see, and a fellow doesn't rise from being curate to bishop without seizing his chances. You comprehend me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Colonel Claud Runciman's massive buttocks were well set on the inn bench while before him, on a plain wooden table, were the remnants of a huge meal. There were chicken bones, the straggling stalks of a bunch of grapes, orange peel, rabbit vertebrae,
a piece of unidentifiable gristle and a collapsed wineskin.

  The copious food had forced Colonel Runciman to unbutton his coat, waistcoat and shirt in order to loosen the strings of his corset and the subsequent distending of his belly had stretched a watch chain hung thick with seals tight across a strip of pale, drum-taut flesh. The Colonel belched prodigiously. "There's a hunchbacked girl somewhere about who serves the food,

  Sharpe," Runciman said. "If you see the lass, tell her I'll take some pie.

  With some cheese, perhaps. But not if it's goat's cheese. Can't abide goat's cheese; it gives me spleen, d'you see?" Runciman's red coat had the yellow facings and silver lace of the 37th, a good line regiment from Hampshire that had not seen the Colonel's ample shadow in many a year. Recently Runciman had been the Wagon Master General in charge of the drivers and teams of the Royal

  Wagon Train and their auxiliary Portuguese muleteers, but now he had been appointed liaison officer to the Real Companïa Irlandesa.

  "It's an honour, of course," he told Sharpe, "but neither unexpected nor undeserved. I told Wellington when he made me Wagon Master General that I'd do the job as a favour to him, but that I expected a reward for it. A fellow doesn't want to spend his life thumping sense into thick-witted wagon drivers, good God, no. There's the hunchback, Sharpe! There she is! Stop her, Sharpe, there's a kind fellow! Tell her I want pie and a proper cheese!"

  The pie and cheese were arranged and another wineskin was fetched, along with a bowl of cherries, to satisfy the last possible vestiges of Runciman's appetite. A group of cavalry officers sitting at a table on the far side of the yard were making wagers on how much food Runciman could consume, but

  Runciman was oblivious of their mockery. "It's a chance," he said again when he was well tucked into his pie. "I can't tell what's in it for you, of course, because a chap like you probably doesn't expect too much out of life anyway, but I reckon I've got a chance at a Golden Fleece." He peered up at

  Sharpe. "You do know what real means, don't you?"

  "Royal, sir."

  "So you're not completely uneducated then, eh? Royal indeed, Sharpe. The royal guard! These Irish fellows are royal! Not a pack of common carriers and mule- drivers. They've got royal connections, Sharpe, and that means royal rewards!

  I've half an idea that the Spanish court might even give a pension with the

  Order of the Golden Fleece. The thing comes with a nice star and a golden collar, but a pension would be very acceptable. A reward for a job well done, don't you see? And that's just from the Spanish! The good Lord alone knows what London might cough up. A knighthood? The Prince Regent will want to know we've done a good job, Sharpe, he'll take an interest, don't you see? He'll be expecting us to treat these fellows proper, as befits a royal guard. Order of the Bath at the very least, I should think. Maybe even a viscountcy? And why not? There's only one problem." Colonel Runciman belched again, then raised a buttock for a few seconds. "My God, but that's better," he said. "Let the effusions out, that's what my doctor says. There's no future in keeping noxious effusions in the body, he tells me, in case the body rots from within.

  Now, Sharpe, the fly in our unguent is the fact these royal guards are all

  Irish. Have you ever commanded the Irish?"

  "A few, sir."

  "Well, I've commanded dozens of the rogues. Ever since they amalgamated the

  Train with the Irish Corps of Wagoners, and there ain't much about the Irish that I don't know. Ever served in Ireland, Sharpe?"

  "No, sir."

  "I was there once. Garrison duty at Dublin Castle. Six months of misery,

  Sharpe, without a single properly cooked meal. God knows, Sharpe, I strive to be a good Christian and to love my fellow man, but the Irish do sometimes make it difficult. Not that some of them ain't the nicest fellows you could ever meet, but they can be obtuse! Dear me, Sharpe, I sometimes wondered if they were gulling me. Pretending not to understand the simplest orders. Do you find that? And there's something else, Sharpe. We'll have to be politic, you and I.

  The Irish"-and here Runciman leaned awkwardly forward as though confiding something important to Sharpe-"are very largely Romish, Sharpe. Papists! We shall have to watch our theological discourse if we're not to unsettle their tempers! You and I might know that the Pope is the reincarnation of the

  Scarlet Whore of Babylon, but it won't help our cause if we say it out loud.

  Know what I mean?"

  "You mean there'll be no Golden Fleece, sir?"

  "Good fellow, knew you'd comprehend. Exactly. We have to be diplomatic,

  Sharpe. We have to be understanding. We have to treat these fellows as if they were Englishmen." Runciman thought about that statement, then frowned. "Or almost English, anyway. You came up from the ranks, ain't that right? So these things might not be obvious to you, but if you just remember to keep silent about the Pope you can't go far wrong. And tell your chaps the same," he added hastily.

  "A fair number of my fellows are Catholics themselves, sir," Sharpe said. "And

  Irish."

  "They would be, they would be. A third of this army is Irish! If there was ever a mutiny, Sharpe... " Colonel Runciman shuddered at the prospect of the papist redcoats running wild. "Well, it doesn't bear thinking about, does it?" he went on. "So ignore their infamous heresies, Sharpe, just ignore them.

  Ignorance is the only possible cause for papism, my dear father always said, and a burning at the stake the only known cure. He was a bishop, so he understood these matters. Oh, and one other thing, Sharpe, I'd be obliged if you didn't call me Colonel Runciman. They haven't replaced me yet, so I'm still the Wagon Master General, so it ought to be General Runciman."

  "Of course, General," Sharpe said, hiding a smile. After nineteen years in the army he knew Colonel Runciman's type. The man had purchased his promotions all the way to lieutenant colonel and there got stuck because promotion above that rank depended entirely on seniority and merit, but if Runciman wanted to be called General then Sharpe would play along for a while. He also sensed that

  Runciman was hardly likely to prove a difficult man so there was small point in antagonizing him.

  "Good fellow! Ah! You see that scrawny chap who's just going?" Runciman pointed to a man leaving the inn through its arched entrance. "I swear he's left half a skin of wine on his table. See it? Go and snaffle it, Sharpe, there's a stout fellow, before that hunchbacked girl gets her paws on it. I'd go myself, but the damn gout is pinching me something hard today. Off you go, man, I'm thirsty!"

  Sharpe was saved the indignity of scavenging the tables like a beggar by the arrival of Major Michael Hogan who waved Sharpe back towards the wreckage of

  Runciman's luncheon. "Good afternoon to you, Colonel," Hogan said, "and it's a grand day too, is it not?" Hogan, Sharpe noticed, was deliberately exaggerating his Irish accent.

  "Hot," Runciman said, dabbing with his napkin at the perspiration that dripped down his plump cheeks and then, suddenly conscious of his naked belly, he vainly tried to tug the edges of his corset together. "Damnably hot," he said.

  "It's the sun, Colonel," Hogan said very earnestly. "I've noticed that the sun seems to heat up the day. Have you noticed that?"

  "Well, of course it's the sun!" Runciman said, confused.

  "So I'm right! Isn't that amazing? But what about winter, Colonel?"

  Runciman threw an anguished glance towards the abandoned wineskin. He was about to order Sharpe to fetch it when the serving girl whisked it away.

  "Damn," Runciman said sadly.

  "You spoke, Colonel?" Hogan asked, helping himself to a handful of Runciman's cherries.

  "Nothing, Hogan, nothing but a twinge of gout. I need some more Husson's

  Water, but the stuff is damned hard to find. Maybe you could put a request to the Horse Guards in London? They must realize we need medication here? And one other thing, Hogan?"

  "Speak, Colonel. I am ever yours to command."

  Runciman colou
red. He knew he was being mocked but, though he outranked the

  Irishman, he was nervous of Hogan's intimacy with Wellington. "I am still, as you know, Wagon Master General," Runciman said heavily.

  "So you are, Colonel, so you are. And a damned fine one too, I might say. The

  Peer was only saying to me the other day. Hogan, says he, have you ever seen wagons so finely mastered in all your born days?"

  "Wellington said that?" Runciman asked in astonishment.

  "He did, Colonel, he did."

  "Well, I'm not really surprised," Runciman said. "My dear mother always said I had a talent for organization, Hogan. But the thing is, Major," Runciman went on, "that until a replacement is found then I am still the Wagon Master