“Can’t,” Sharpe said brutally. “When Ferragus comes back, Jorge, he won’t be taking chances. He’ll open that trapdoor and have a score of men with muskets just waiting to kill us.”
“So what do we do?” Sarah, recovered slightly, asked in a small voice.
“We destroy that food up there,” Sharpe said, nodding in the dark towards the supplies in the warehouse above. “That’s what Wellington wants, isn’t it? That’s our duty. We can’t spend all our time swanning around universities, miss, we have work to do.”
But first, and he did not know how, he had to escape.
FERRAGUS, his brother and three of the men from the warehouse retired to a tavern. Two men could not come. One had been hit in the skull by one of the seven-barrel gun’s bullets and, though he lived, he was unable to speak, control his movements or make sense and so Ferragus ordered him taken to Saint Clara’s in hope that some of the nuns were still there. A second man, struck in the arm by the same volley, had gone to his home to let his woman splint his broken arm and bandage his wound. The wounding of the two men had angered Ferragus who stared morosely into his wine.
“I warned you,” Ferreira said, “they’re soldiers.”
“Dead soldiers,” Ferragus said. That was his only consolation. The four were trapped, and they would have to stay in the cellar until Ferragus fetched them out and he toyed with the idea of leaving them there. How long would it take them to die? Would they go mad in the stifling dark? Shoot each other? Become cannibals? Perhaps, weeks from now, he would open the trapdoor and one survivor would crawl blinking into the light and he would kick the bastard to death. No, he would rather kick all three men to death and teach Sarah Fry a different lesson. “We’ll get them out tonight,” he said.
“The British will be in the city tonight,” Ferreira pointed out, “and there are troops billeted in the street behind the warehouse. They hear shots? They may not go as easily as those this afternoon.” A Portuguese patrol had heard the shots in the warehouse and come to investigate, but Ferreira, who had not joined the fight, but had been standing by the door, had heard the boots on the cobbles and slipped outside to fend off the patrol, explaining that he had men inside killing goats.
“No one will hear shots from that cellar,” Ferragus said scornfully.
“You want to risk that?” Ferreira asked. “With that big gun? It sounds like a cannon!”
“Tomorrow morning, then,” Ferragus snarled.
“Tomorrow morning the British will still be here,” the Major pointed out patiently, “and in the afternoon you and I must ride north to meet the French.”
“You ride north to meet the French,” Ferragus said, “and Miguel can go with you.” He looked at the smaller man who shrugged acceptance.
“They are expecting to meet you,” Ferreira pointed out.
“So Miguel will say he’s me!” Ferragus snapped. “Will the damned French know the difference? And I stay here,” he insisted, “and play my games the moment the British are gone. When will the French arrive?”
“If they come tomorrow,” Ferreira guessed, “in the morning, perhaps? Say an hour or two after dawn?”
“That gives me time,” Ferragus said. He only wanted enough time to hear the three men begging for mercy that would not come to them. “I’ll meet you at the warehouse,” he told Ferreira. “Bring the Frenchmen to guard it, and I’ll be inside, waiting.” Ferragus knew he was allowing himself to be distracted. His priority was to keep the food safe and sell it to the French, and the trapped foursome did not matter, but they mattered now. They had defied him, beaten him for the moment, so now, more than ever, it was an affair of pride, and a man could not back down from an affront to his pride. To do so was to be less than a man.
Yet, Ferragus knew, there was no real problem left. Sharpe and his companions were doomed. He had piled more than half a ton of boxes and barrels on the trapdoor, there was no other way out of the cellar and it was just a matter of time. So Ferragus had won, and that was a consolation. He had won.
MOST OF THE RETREATING BRITISH and Portuguese army had used a road to the east of Coimbra and so crossed the Mondego at a ford, but enough had been ordered to use the main road to send a steady stream of troops, guns, caissons and wagons across the Santa Clara bridge which led from Coimbra to its small suburb on the Mondego’s southern bank where the new Convent of Saint Clara stood. The soldiers were joined by an apparently unending stream of civilians, handcarts, goats, dogs, cows, sheep and misery that shuffled over the bridge into the narrow streets around the convent and then went south towards Lisbon. Progress was painfully slow. A child was almost run over by a cannon and the driver only avoided her by slewing the gun into a wall where the offside wheel broke, and that took nearly an hour to repair. A handcart collapsed on the bridge, spilling books and clothes, and a woman screamed when Portuguese troops threw the broken cart and its contents into the river which was already thick with flotsam as the troops on the quays shoved shattered barrels and slashed sacks into the water. Boxes of biscuits were jettisoned and the biscuits, baked hard as rock, floated in their thousands downstream. Other troops had gathered timber and coal and were making a huge fire onto which they tossed salt meat. Still other troops, all Portuguese, had been ordered to break all the bakers’ ovens in town, while a company of the South Essex took sledgehammers and pickaxes to the tethered boats.
Lieutenant Colonel Lawford returned to the quays in the early afternoon. He had slept well and enjoyed a surprisingly good meal of chicken, salad and white wine while his red coat was being brushed and pressed. Then, mounted on Lightning, he rode down to the quayside where he discovered his battalion hot, sweating, disheveled, dirty and tired. “The problem,” Major Forrest told him, “is the salt meat. God knows, it won’t burn.”
“Didn’t Sharpe say something about turpentine?”
“Haven’t seen him,” Forrest said.
“I was hoping he was here,” Lawford said, looking around the smoke-wreathed quay that stank of spilled rum and scorched meat. “He rescued rather a pretty girl. An English girl, of all things. I was a little abrupt with her, I fear, and thought I should pay my respects.”
“He isn’t here,” Forrest said bluntly.
“He’ll turn up,” Lawford said, “he always does.”
Captain Slingsby marched across the quay, stamped to a halt and offered Lawford a cracking salute. “Man gone missing, Colonel.”
Lawford touched the heel of his riding crop to the forward tip of his cocked hat in acknowledgement of the salute. “How are things going, Cornelius? All well, I hope?”
“Boats destroyed, sir, every last one.”
“Splendid.”
“But Sergeant Harper’s missing, sir. Absent without permission.”
“I gave him permission, Cornelius.”
Slingsby bristled. “I wasn’t asked, sir.”
“An oversight, I’m sure,” Lawford said, “and I’m equally sure Sergeant Harper will be back soon. He’s with Mister Sharpe.”
“That’s another thing,” Slingsby said darkly.
“Yes?” Lawford ventured cautiously.
“Mister Sharpe had more words with me this morning.”
“You and Sharpe must patch things up,” Lawford said hastily.
“And he has no right, sir, no right whatsoever, to take Sergeant Harper away from his proper duties. It only encourages him.”
“Encourages him?” Lawford was slightly confused.
“To impertinence, sir. He is very Irish.”
Lawford stared at Slingsby, wondering if he detected the smell of rum on his brother-in-law’s breath. “I suppose he would be Irish,” the Colonel finally said, “coming, as he does, from Ireland. Just like Lightning!” He leaned forward and fondled the horse’s ears. “Not everything Irish is to be disparaged, Cornelius.”
“Sergeant Harper, sir, does not show sufficient respect for His Majesty’s commission,” Slingsby said.
“Sergeant Harper,?
?? Forrest put in, “helped capture the Eagle at Talavera, Captain. Before you joined us.”
“I don’t doubt he can fight, sir,” Slingsby said. “It’s in their blood, isn’t it? Like pugdogs, they are. Ignorant and brutal, sir. I had enough of them in the 55th to know.” He looked back to Lawford. “But I have to worry about the internal economy of the light company. It has to be straightened and smartened, sir. Doesn’t do to have men being impertinent.”
“What is it you want?” Lawford asked with a touch of asperity.
“Sergeant Harper returned to me, sir, where he belongs, and made to knuckle down to some proper soldiering.”
“It will be your duty to see that he does when he returns,” Lawford said grandly.
“Very good, sir,” Slingsby said, threw another salute, about-turned and marched back towards his company.
“He’s very enthusiastic,” Lawford said.
“I had never noticed,” Forrest said, “any lack of enthusiasm or, indeed, absence of efficiency in our light company.”
“Oh, they’re fine fellows!” Lawford said. “Fine fellows indeed, but the best hounds sometimes hunt better with a change of master. New ways, Forrest, dig out old habits. Don’t you agree? Perhaps you’ll take supper with me tonight?”
“That would be kind, sir.”
“And it’s an early start in the morning. Farewell to Coimbra, eh? And may the French have mercy on it.”
Twenty miles to the north the first French troops reached the main road. They had brushed aside the Portuguese militia who had blocked the track looping north around Bussaco’s ridge, and now their cavalry patrols galloped into undefended and deserted farmland. The army turned south. Coimbra was next, then Lisbon, and with that would come victory.
Because the Eagles were marching south.
Chapter 8
THE FIRST IDEA was to break through the trapdoor and then work on whatever had been piled above. “Go through the edge of the hatch,” Vicente suggested, “then perhaps we can break through the box above? Take everything out of the box? Then wriggle through?”
Sharpe could think of nothing else that might free them, so he and Harper set to work. They tried raising the trapdoor first, crouching beneath it and heaving up, but the wood did not move a fraction of an inch, and so they started to carve away at the timbers. Vicente, with his wounded shoulder, could not help, so he and Sarah sat in the cellar as far from the two decaying bodies as they could and listened as Sharpe and Harper attacked the trapdoor. Harper used his sword bayonet and, because that was a shorter blade than Sharpe’s sword, worked farther up the steps. Sharpe took off his jacket, stripped off his shirt and wrapped the linen round the blade so he could grip the edge without being cut. He told Harper what he was doing and suggested he might want to protect his own hands. “Pity, though,” Sharpe said, “this is a new shirt.”
“A present from a certain seamstress in Lisbon?” Harper asked.
“It was, yes.”
Harper chuckled, then stabbed the blade upwards. Sharpe did the same with his sword and they worked in silence mostly, gouging in the dark, splintering and levering out scraps of tough, ancient wood. Once in a while a blade would encounter a nail and they would swear.
“It’s a real language lesson,” Sarah said after a while.
“I’m sorry, miss,” Sharpe said.
“You sort of don’t notice when you’re in the army,” Harper explained.
“Do all soldiers swear?”
“All of them,” Sharpe said, “all of the time. Except for Daddy Hill.”
“General Hill, miss,” Harper explained, “who’s noted for his very clean mouth.”
“And Sergeant Read,” Sharpe added, “he never swears. He’s a Methodist, miss.”
“I’ve heard him swear,” Harper said, “when bloody Batten stole eight pages from his Bible to use as…” He stopped suddenly, deciding Sarah did not want to know what use Batten had made of the book of Deuteronomy, then gave a grunt as a great splinter cracked away. “Be through this in no bloody time,” he said cheerfully.
The timbers of the trapdoor were at least three inches thick, and reinforced by two sturdy beams on their underside. For the moment Sharpe and Harper were ignoring the beam on their side, reckoning it was best to break through the trapdoor before worrying how to remove the bigger piece of timber. The wood was hard, but they learned to weaken its grain by repeated stabbing, then they scraped and gouged and prised the loosened timber away. The broken wood came in thimblefuls, in dust, scrap by scrap, and the cramped area under the steps gave them little space. They had to rest just to stretch their muscles from time to time, and at other times it seemed that no amount of stabbing and scraping would loosen another piece, for the two weapons were ill suited to the work. The steel was too slender, so could not be used for brutal leverage for fear the blades would snap. Sharpe used his knife for a time, the sawdust sifting down into his eyes, then he rammed the sword up again, his linen-wrapped hand near the tip to brace the steel. And even when they broke through, he thought, they would only have a small hole. God knows how they were to enlarge it, but all battles had to be fought one step at a time. No point in worrying about the future if there was to be no future, so he and Harper worked patiently away. Sweat poured down Sharpe’s naked chest, flies crawled on him, the dust was thick in his mouth, and his ribs were hurting.
Time meant nothing in the dark. They could have worked an hour or ten hours, Sharpe did not know, though he sensed that night must have fallen outside in the world that now seemed so far away. He worked doggedly, trying not to think about the passing time, and slowly he chipped and gouged, rammed and scraped, until at last he thrust the sword hard up and the blow jarred down his arm because the tip had hit something more solid than wood. He did it again, then swore viciously. “Sorry, miss.”
“What is it?” Vicente asked. He had been asleep and sounded alarmed.
Sharpe did not answer. Instead he used his knife, gnawing at the small hole he had made in the upper part of the broken timber and, when he had widened the hole sufficiently, he probed with the knife blade to scratch at whatever lay immediately above the trapdoor and then swore again. “The bastards have put paving slabs up there,” he said. He had broken through, but only to meet immovable stone. “Bastards!”
“Mister Sharpe,” Sarah said, though tiredly, as if she knew she was fighting a losing battle.
“They probably are bastards, miss,” Harper said, then rammed his sword bayonet up into the splintered hole he had made and was rewarded with the same sound of steel against stone. He uttered his opinion, apologized to Sarah, then slumped down.
“They’ve done what?” Vicente asked.
“They’ve put stones on top,” Sharpe said, “and other stuff on top of the stones. The bastards aren’t as daft as they look.” He edged down the steps and sat with his back against the wall. He felt used up, exhausted and it hurt just to breathe.
“We can’t get through the trapdoor?” Vicente asked.
“Not a bloody chance,” Sharpe said.
“So?” Vicente asked tentatively.
“So we bloody think,” Sharpe said, but he could not think of anything else to do. Hell and damnation was all he could think. They were bloody well trapped.
“How do the rats get in?” Sarah asked after a while.
“Those little bastards can get through gaps as small as your little finger,” Harper said. “You can’t keep a good rat out, not if he wants to get in.”
“So where do they get in?” she persisted.
“Round the edge of the trapdoor,” Sharpe guessed, “where we can’t get out.”
They sat in gloomy silence. The flies settled back on the corpses. “If we fired our guns,” Vicente said, “someone might hear?”
“Not down here, they won’t,” Sharpe said, preferring to keep all his firepower for the moment when Ferragus came for them. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to think. The ceiling
? Bricks and stones. Hundreds of the buggers. He imagined himself breaking through, then he was suddenly in a field, bright with flowers, a bullet came past him, then another and he was struck on the leg and he woke suddenly, realizing that someone had tapped his right calf. “Was I asleep?” he asked.
“We all were,” Harper said. “God knows what time it is.”
“Jesus.” Sharpe stretched himself, feeling the pain in his arms and legs that had come from working inside the cramped stairway. “Jesus,” he said angrily. “We can’t afford to sleep. Not with those bastards coming for us.”
Harper did not answer. Sharpe could hear the Irishman moving, apparently stretching on the floor. He supposed the Irishman wanted to sleep again, and he did not approve, but he could not think of anything more useful Harper could do and so he said nothing.
“I can hear something,” Harper spoke after a while. His voice came from the center of the cellar, from the floor.
“Where?” Sharpe asked.
“Put your ear on the stone, sir.”
Sharpe stretched out and put his right ear against the floor. His hearing was not what it was. Too many years of muskets and rifles had dulled it, but he held his breath, listened hard, and heard the faintest hint of water running. “Water?”
“There’s a stream down there,” Harper said.
“Like the Fleet,” Sharpe said.
“The what?” Vicente asked.
“It’s a river in London,” Sharpe said, “and for a long way it flows underground. No one knows it’s there, but it is. They built the city on top of it.”
“They’ve done the same here,” Harper said.
Sharpe tapped the floor with the hilt of his sword, but was not rewarded with a hollow sound, yet he was fairly certain the noise of water was there, and Sarah, whose hearing had not been dulled by battle, was quite certain of it. “Right, Pat,” Sharpe said, his spirits restored and the pain in his ribs even seeming less biting. “We’ll lift a bloody stone.”