Smoke drifted off the hill. Guns cooled. Men passed round water bottles.
The French were back in the valley. “There is a road around the north of the ridge,” an aide reminded Marshal Masséna, who said nothing. He just stared at what was left of his attacks on the hill. Beaten, all of them. Beaten to nothing. Defeated. And the enemy, hidden once more behind the ridge’s crest, waited for him to try again.
“YOU REMEMBER MISS SAVAGE?” Vicente asked Sharpe. They were sitting at the end of the knoll, staring down at the beaten French.
“Kate? Of course I remember Kate,” Sharpe said. “I often wondered what happened to her.”
“She married me,” Vicente said, and looked absurdly pleased with himself.
“Good God,” Sharpe said, then decided that probably sounded like a rude response. “Well done!”
“I shaved off my mustache,” Vicente said, “as you suggested. And she said yes.”
“Never did understand mustaches,” Sharpe said, “must be like kissing a blacking brush.”
“And we have a child,” Vicente went on, “a girl.”
“Quick work, Jorge!”
“We are very happy,” Vicente said solemnly.
“Good for you,” Sharpe said, and meant it. Kate Savage had run away from her home in Oporto, and Sharpe, with Vicente’s help, had rescued her. That had been eighteen months before and Sharpe had often wondered what had happened to the English girl who had inherited her father’s vineyards and port lodge.
“Kate is still in Porto, of course,” Vicente said.
“With her mother?”
“She went back to England,” Vicente said, “just after I joined my new regiment in Coimbra.”
“Why there?”
“It is where I grew up,” Vicente said, “and my parents still live there. I went to the university of Coimbra, so really it is home. But from now on I shall live in Porto. When the war is over.”
“Be a lawyer again?”
“I hope so.” Vicente made the sign of the cross. “I know what you think of the law, Richard, but it is the one barrier between man and bestiality.”
“Didn’t do much to stop the French.”
“War is above the law, which is why it is so bad. War lets loose all the things which the law restrains.”
“Like me,” Sharpe said.
“You are not such a bad man,” Vicente said with a smile.
Sharpe looked down into the valley. The French had at last withdrawn to where they had been the previous evening, only now they were throwing up earthworks beyond the stream where infantry dug trenches and used the spoil to make bulwarks. “Those buggers think we’re coming down to finish them off,” he said.
“Will we?”
“Christ, no! We’ve got the high ground. No point in giving it up.”
“So what do we do?”
“Wait for orders, Jorge, wait for orders. And I reckon mine are coming now.” Sharpe nodded towards Major Forrest who was riding his horse along the spine of the spur.
Forrest stopped by the rocks and looked down at the French dead, then took off his hat and nodded to Sharpe. “The Colonel wants the company back,” he said, sounding tired.
“Major Forrest,” Sharpe said, “let me introduce you to Captain Vicente. I fought with him at Oporto.”
“Honored,” Forrest said, “honored.” His red sleeve was dark with blood from the musket ball that had struck him. He hesitated, trying to think of something complimentary to say to Vicente, but nothing occurred to him, so he looked back to Sharpe. “The Colonel wants the company now, Sharpe,” he said.
“On your feet, lads!” Sharpe stood himself and shook Vicente’s hand. “Keep a look out for us, Jorge,” he said, “we might need your help again. And give my regards to Kate.”
Sharpe walked the company back across ground scorched by musket and rifle fire. The ridge was quiet now, no guns firing, just the wind sighing on the grass. Forrest rode beside Sharpe, but said nothing until they reached the battalion’s lines. The South Essex were in ranks, but sitting and sprawling on the grass, and Forrest gestured to the left-hand end of the line as if to order the light company to take their place. “Lieutenant Slingsby will command them for the moment,” Forrest said.
“He’ll do what?” Sharpe asked, shocked.
“For the moment,” Forrest said placatingly, “because right now the Colonel wants you, Sharpe, and I daresay he isn’t pleased.”
That was an understatement. The Honorable William Lawford was in a temper, though, being a man of exquisite politeness, the anger only showed as a slight tightening of the lips and a distinctly unfriendly glance as Sharpe arrived at his tent. Lawford ducked out into the sunlight and nodded at Forrest. “You’ll stay, Major,” he said, and waited as Forrest dismounted and gave his reins to Lawford’s servant, who led the horse away. “Knowles!” Lawford summoned the Adjutant from the tent. Knowles gave Sharpe a sympathetic look, which only made Lawford angrier. “You had best stay, Knowles,” he said, “but keep other folk away. I don’t want what is said here bruited about the battalion.”
Knowles put on his hat and stood a few yards away. Forrest hovered to one side as Lawford looked at Sharpe. “Perhaps, Captain,” he spoke icily, “you can explain yourself?”
“Explain myself, sir?”
“Ensign Iliffe is dead.”
“I regret it, sir.”
“Good God! The boy is entrusted to my care! Now I have to write to his father and say the lad’s life was tossed away by an irresponsible officer who committed his company to an attack without any authorization from me!” Lawford paused, evidently too angry to frame his next words, then slapped his hand against his sword scabbard. “I command this battalion, Sharpe!” he said. “Perhaps you have never realized that? Do you think you can swan around as you like, killing men as you see fit, without reference to me?”
“I had orders, sir,” Sharpe said woodenly.
“Orders?” Lawford demanded. “I gave no order!”
“I was ordered by Colonel Rogers-Jones, sir.”
“Who the devil is Colonel Rogers-Jones?”
“I believe he commands a battalion of cazadores,” Forrest put in quietly.
“God damn it, Sharpe,” Lawford snapped, “Colonel Rogers bloody Jones does not command the South Essex!”
“I had orders from a colonel, sir,” Sharpe insisted, “and I obeyed.” He paused. “And I recalled your advice, sir.”
“My advice?” Lawford asked.
“Last night, sir, you told me you wanted your skirmishers to be audacious and aggressive. So we were.”
“I also want my officers to be gentlemen,” Lawford said, “to show courtesy.”
Sharpe sensed that they had reached the real point of this meeting. Lawford, it was true, had a genuine grievance that Sharpe had committed the light company to an attack without his permission, but no officer could truly object to a man fighting the enemy. The complaint had been merely a ranging shot for the assault that was about to come. Sharpe said nothing, but just stared fixedly at a spot between the Colonel’s eyes.
“Lieutenant Slingsby,” the Colonel said, “tells me that you insulted him. That you invited him to a duel. That you called him illegitimate. That you swore at him.”
Sharpe cast his mind back to the brief confrontation on the ridge’s forward slope just after he had pulled the company out of the French panic. “I doubt I called him illegitimate, sir,” he said. “I wouldn’t use that sort of word. I probably called him a bastard.”
Knowles stared westwards. Forrest looked down at the grass to hide a smile. Lawford looked astonished. “You called him what?”
“A bastard, sir.”
“That is entirely unacceptable between fellow officers,” Lawford said.
Sharpe said nothing. It was usually the best thing to do.
“Have you nothing to say?” Lawford demanded.
“I have never done a thing,” Sharpe was goaded into speaking “except
for the good of this battalion.”
That vehement statement rather took Lawford aback. He blinked. “No one is decrying your service, Sharpe,” he said stiffly. “I am, rather, attempting to inculcate the manners of an officer into your behavior. I will not tolerate crass rudeness to a fellow officer.”
“You’d tolerate losing half your light company, sir?” Sharpe asked.
“Half my light company?”
“My fellow officer,” Sharpe did not bother to hide his sarcasm, “had the light company in skirmish order underneath the French. When they broke, sir, which they did, he’d have lost them all. They’d have been swept away. Luckily for the battalion, sir, I was there and did what had to be done.”
“That is not what I observed,” Lawford said.
“It happened,” Sharpe said bluntly.
Forrest cleared his throat and stared pointedly at a blade of grass by his right toe. Lawford took the hint. “Major?”
“I rather think Lieutenant Slingsby had taken the light company a bit too far, sir,” Forrest observed mildly.
“Audacity and aggression,” Lawford said, “are not reprehensible in an officer. I applaud Lieutenant Slingsby for his enthusiasm, and that is no reason, Sharpe, for you to insult him.”
Time to bite his tongue again, Sharpe thought, so he kept quiet.
“And I will not abide dueling between my officers”—Lawford was back in stride—“and I will not abide gratuitous insults. Lieutenant Slingsby is an experienced and enthusiastic officer, an undoubted asset to the battalion, Sharpe, an asset. Is that understood, Sharpe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you will apologize to him.”
I bloody well will not, Sharpe thought, and kept staring at the spot between Lawford’s eyes.
“Did you hear me, Sharpe?”
“I did, sir.”
“So you will apologize?”
“No, sir.”
Lawford looked outraged, but for a few seconds was lost for words. “The consequences, Sharpe,” he finally managed to speak, “will be dire if you disobey me in this.”
Sharpe shifted his gaze so that he was looking at Lawford’s right eye. Looking straight at Lawford and making the Colonel feel uncomfortable. Sharpe saw weakness there, then decided that was wrong. Lawford was not a weak man, but he lacked ruthlessness. Most men did. Most men were reasonable, they sought accommodation and found mutual ground. They were happy enough to fire volleys, but shrank from getting in close with a bayonet. But now was the time for Lawford to wield the blade. He had expected Sharpe to apologize to Slingsby, and why not? It was a small enough gesture, it appeared to solve the problem, but Sharpe was refusing and Lawford did not know what to do about it. “I will not apologize,” Sharpe said very harshly, “sir.” And the last word had all the insolence that could be invested in a single syllable.
Lawford looked furious, but again said nothing for a few seconds. Then, abruptly, he nodded. “You were a quartermaster once, I believe?”
“I was, sir.”
“Mister Kiley is indisposed. For the moment, while I decide what to do with you, you will assume his duties.”
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe responded woodenly, betraying no reaction.
Lawford hesitated, as though there was something more to be said, then crammed on his cocked hat and turned away.
“Sir,” Sharpe said.
Lawford turned, said nothing.
“Mister Iliffe, sir,” Sharpe said. “He fought well today. If you’re writing to his family, sir, then you can tell them truthfully that he fought very well.”
“A pity, then, that he’s dead,” Lawford said bitterly and walked away, beckoning Knowles to accompany him.
Forrest sighed. “Why not just apologize, Richard?”
“Because he damned well nearly had my company killed.”
“I know that,” Forrest said, “and the Colonel knows it, and Mister Slingsby knows it and your company knows it. So eat humble pie, Sharpe, and go back to them.”
“He”—Sharpe pointed at the retreating figure of the Colonel—“wants rid of me. He wants his goddamned brother-in-law in charge of the skirmishers.”
“He doesn’t want rid of you, Sharpe,” Forrest said patiently. “Good God, he knows how good you are! But he has to bring on Slingsby. Family business, eh? His wife wants him to make Slingsby’s career, and what a wife wants, Sharpe, a wife gets.”
“He wants rid of me,” Sharpe insisted. “And if I apologize, Major, then sooner or later I’d still be out on my ear, so I might as well go now.”
“Don’t go far,” Forrest said with a smile.
“Why not?”
“Mister Slingsby drinks,” Forrest said quietly.
“He does?”
“Far too much,” Forrest said. “He’s holding it in check for now, hoping a new battalion will give him a new beginning, but I fear for him. I had a similar problem myself, Richard, though I’ll thank you not to tell anyone. I suspect our Mister Slingsby will revert to his old behavior in the end. Most men do.”
“You didn’t.”
“Not yet, Sharpe, not yet.” Forrest smiled. “But think on what I’ve said. Mutter an apology to the man, eh? And let it all blow over.”
When hell froze over, Sharpe thought. Because he would not apologize.
And Slingsby had the light company.
MAJOR FERREIRA HAD READ his brother’s letter shortly after the last French column had been defeated. “He wants an answer, senhor,” Miguel, Ferragus’s messenger, had said. “One word.”
Ferreira stared through the cannon smoke that hung in skeins over the hillside where so many French had died. This was a victory, he thought, but it would not be long before the French found the road looping about the ridge’s northern end. Or perhaps the victorious British and Portuguese would sweep down Bussaco’s long hillside and attack the French in the valley? Yet there was no sign of such an attack. No gallopers rode to give generals fresh instructions, and the longer Wellington waited the more time the French had to throw up earthworks beyond the stream. No, the Major thought, this battle was over and Lord Wellington probably intended to fall back towards Lisbon and offer another battle in the hills north of the city.
“One word,” Miguel had prompted the Major again.
Ferreira had nodded. “Sim,” he said, though he said it heavily. Yes, it meant, and once the fatal word was spoken he turned his horse and spurred northwards past the victorious Light Division, behind the windmill that was pocked with the marks left by musket balls and then down through the small trees growing on the northern end of the ridge. No one remarked his going. He was known to be an occasional explorer, one of the Portuguese officers who, like their British counterparts, rode out to scout the enemy’s position, and besides, there were Portuguese militia in the Caramula hills north of the ridge and it was not surprising that an officer rode to check on their position.
Yet Ferreira, even though his departure from the army had appeared quite innocent, rode with trepidation. His whole future, the future of his family, depended on the next few hours. The Major had inherited wealth, but he had never made any. His investments had failed, and it had only been his brother’s return that had restored his fortunes, and that fortune would be threatened if the French took over Portugal. What Major Ferreira must do now was change horses, leap from the patriotic saddle into a French one, yet do it in such a way that no one would ever know, and he would do it only to preserve his name, his fortune and his family’s future.
He rode for three hours and it was past midday when he turned eastwards, climbing to a prominent hill. He knew that the Portuguese militia guarding the road about the northern end of the ridge were well behind him, and as far as he knew there were no British or Portuguese cavalry patrols in these hills, but he still made the sign of the cross and composed a silent prayer that he would not be seen by anyone from his own side. And he did think of the British and Portuguese army as his side. He was a patriot, but what use wa
s a penniless patriot?
He stopped at the hilltop. Stopped there for a long time until he was certain that any French cavalry vedettes would have seen him, and then he rode slowly down the hill’s eastern face. He stopped halfway down. Now, anyone approaching him could see that he was not luring them to an ambush. There was no dead ground behind him, nowhere for a cavalry unit to hide. There was just Major Ferreira on a long, bare hillside.
And ten minutes after he stopped, a score of green-coated dragoons appeared a half-mile away. The horsemen spread into a line. Some had their carbines out of their holsters, but most had drawn swords and Ferreira dismounted to show them that he was not trying to escape. The officer in charge of the dragoons stared upwards, searching for danger, and finally he must have concluded that all was well for he rode forward with a half-dozen of his men. The horses’ hooves left puffs of dust on the dry hillside. Ferreira, as the dragoons came nearer, spread his arms to show he carried no weapons, then stood quite still as the horsemen surrounded him. A blade dipped near his throat, held by the officer, whose uniform had been faded by the sun. “I have a letter of introduction,” Ferreira said in French.
“To whom?” It was the officer who answered.
“To you,” Ferreira answered, “from Colonel Barreto.”
“And who in the name of holy Christ is Colonel Barreto?”
“An aide to Marshal Masséna.”
“Show me the letter.”
Ferreira brought the piece of paper from a pocket, unfolded it and handed it up to the French officer, who leaned from his saddle to take it. The letter, creased and dirty, explained to any French officer that the bearer could be trusted and should be given every help possible. Barreto had given Ferreira the letter when the Major had been negotiating the gift of the flour, but it came in more useful now. The dragoon officer read it swiftly, glanced once at Ferreira, then tossed the letter back. “So what do you want?”
“To see Colonel Barreto, of course,” Ferreira said.
It took an hour and a half to reach the village of Moura where Ney’s men, who had attacked towards the windmill above Sula, were resting. The surgeons were busy in the village and Ferreira had to steer his horse past a pile of severed arms and legs that lay just outside an open window. Next to the stream, where the flat stones provided a place for the village women to do their laundry, there was now a heap of corpses. Most had been stripped of their uniforms and their white skin was laced with blood. Ferreira averted his eyes as he followed the dragoons to a small hill just beyond the village where, in the shadow of Moura’s windmill, Marshal Masséna was eating a meal of bread, cheese and cold chicken. Ferreira dismounted and waited as the dragoon officer threaded his way through the aides, and, as he waited, the Major stared at the ridge and wondered that any general would think to throw his men up such a slope.