“He did?”
“He blew up the ammunition on purpose and killed himself doing it.” The presence of the tinderbox could mean nothing else. Tom Garrard, in the wake of his battalion’s defeat, had somehow managed to reach the ammunition wagons and light a fire he had known would blow his own soul clear into eternity. “Oh, dear God,” Sharpe said, then fell silent as he remembered the years of friendship. “He was at Assaye with me,” he went on after a while, “and at Gawilghur too. He was from Ripon, a farmer’s boy, only his father was a tenant and the landlord threw him out when he was three days late with the rent after a bad harvest, so Tom saved his folks the need to feed another mouth by joining the 33rd. He used to send money home, God knows how on a soldier’s pay. In another two years, Pat, he’d have made colonel in the Portuguese, and then he planned to go home to Ripon and beat ten kinds of hell out of the landlord who drove him into the army in the first place. That’s what he told me last night.”
“Now you’ll have to do it for him,” Harper said.
“Aye. That bugger’ll get a thumping he never dreamed of,” Sharpe said. He tried to close the tinderbox, but the heat had distorted the metal. He took a last glance at the picture, then tossed the box back into the ashes. Then he and Harper climbed the ramparts where they had charged the small group of voltigeurs the night before and from where the full horror of the night could be seen. The San Isidro was a smoking, blackened wreck, littered with bodies and reeking of blood. Rifleman Thompson, the only greenjacket to die in the night, was being carried in a blanket toward a hastily dug grave beside the fort’s ruined church.
“Poor Thompson,” Harper said. “I gave him hell for waking me last night. Poor bugger was only going outside for a piss and tripped over me.”
“Lucky he did,” Sharpe said.
Harper walked to the tower door that still had the dents driven into it by the butt of his volley gun. The big Irishman fingered the marks ruefully. “Those bastards must have known we were trying to get refuge, sir,” he said.
“At least one of those bastards wanted us dead, Pat. And if I ever find out who, then God help him,” Sharpe said. He noticed that no one had thought to raise any flags on the battlements.
“Rifleman Cooper!” Sharpe called.
“Sir?”
“Flags!”
The first outsiders to arrive at San Isidro were a strong troop of King’s German Legion cavalry who scouted the valley before climbing to the fort. Their captain reported a score of dead at the foot of the slope, then saw the far greater number of bodies lying in the fort’s open area. “Mein Gott! What happened?”
“Ask Colonel the Lord Kiely,” Sharpe said, and jerked a thumb at Kiely, who was visible on the gatehouse turret. Other Real Compañía Irlandesa officers were supervising the squads collecting the Portuguese dead, while Father Sarsfield had taken charge of a dozen men and their wives who were caring for the Portuguese wounded, though without a surgeon there was little they could do except bandage, pray and fetch water. One by one the wounded died, some crying out in delirium, but most staying calm as the priest held their hands, asked their names and gave them the viaticum.
The next outsiders to arrive were a group of staff officers, mostly British, some Portuguese and one Spaniard, General Valverde. Hogan led the party, and for a solemn half-hour the Irish major walked about the horror with an appalled expression, but when he left the other staff officers to join Sharpe he was grinning with an inappropriate cheerfulness. “A tragedy, Richard!” Hogan said happily.
Sharpe was offended by his friend’s cheerfulness. “It was a bloody hard night, sir.”
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Hogan said, trying and failing to sound sympathetic. The major could not contain his happiness. “Though it’s a pity about Oliveira’s caçadores. He was a good man and it was a fine battalion.”
“I warned him.”
“I’m sure you did, Richard, I’m sure you did. But it’s always the same in war, isn’t it? The wrong people get the hind teat. If only the Real Compañía Irlandesa could have been decimated, Richard, that would have been a great convenience right now, a real convenience. Still and all, still and all, this will do. This will do very well.”
“Do for what?” Sharpe asked fiercely. “Do you know what happened here last night, sir? We were betrayed. Some bastard opened the gates to Loup.”
“Of course he did, Richard!” Hogan said soothingly. “Haven’t I been saying all along that they couldn’t be trusted? The Real Compañía Irlandesa aren’t here to help us, Richard, but to help the French.” He pointed to the dead. “You need further proof? But of course this is good news. Until this morning it was impossible to send the bastards packing because that would have offended London and the Spanish court. But now, don’t you see, we can thank the Spanish king for the valued assistance of his personal guard, we can claim that the Real Compañía Irlandesa was instrumental in seeing off a strong French raid over the frontier, and then, honors even, we can send the treacherous buggers to Cadiz and let them rot.” Hogan was positively exultant. “We are off the hook, Richard, the French malevolence is defeated, and all because of last night. The French made a mistake. They should have left you alone, but plainly Monsieur Loup couldn’t resist the bait. It’s all so clever, Richard, that I wish I’d thought of it myself, but I didn’t. But no matter; this’ll mean good-bye to our gallant allies and an end to all those rumors about Ireland.”
“My men didn’t spread those rumors,” Sharpe insisted.
“Your men?” Hogan mocked. “These aren’t your men, Richard. They’re Kiely’s, or more likely Bonaparte’s, but they’re not your men.”
“They’re good men, sir, and they fought well.”
Hogan shook his head at the anger in Sharpe’s voice, then steered his friend along the eastern battlements with a touch on the rifleman’s elbow. “Let me try and explain something to you, Richard,” Hogan said. “One third of this army is Irish. There’s not a battalion that doesn’t have its ranks full of my countrymen, and most of those Irishmen are not lovers of King George. Why should they be? But they’re here because there’s no work at home and because there’s no food at home and because the army, God bless it, has the sense to treat the Irish well. But just suppose, Richard, just suppose, that we can upset all those good men from County Cork and County Offaly, and all those brave souls from Inniskilling and Ballybofey, and suppose we can upset them so badly that they mutiny. How long will this army hold together? A week? Two days? One hour? The French, Richard, very nearly ripped this army into two parts and don’t think they won’t try again, because they will. Only the next rumor will be more subtle, and the only way I can stop that next rumor is by ridding the army of the Real Compañía Irlandesa, because even if you’re right and they didn’t spread the tales of rape and massacre, then someone close to them did. So tomorrow morning, Richard, you’re going to march these bastards down to headquarters where they will surrender those nice new muskets you somehow filched for them and draw rations for a long march. In effect, Richard, they are under arrest until we can find the transport to carry them to Cadiz and there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s all been ordered.” Hogan took a piece of paper from his pouch and gave it to the rifleman. “And it isn’t an order from me, Richard, but from the Peer.”
Sharpe unfolded the paper. He felt aggrieved at what he perceived to be an injustice. Men like Captain Donaju only wanted to fight the French, but instead they were to be shuffled aside. They were to be marched down to headquarters and disarmed like a battalion of turncoats. Sharpe felt a temptation to crumple Wellington’s written order into a ball, but sensibly resisted the impulse. “If you want to get rid of the troublemakers,” he said instead, “then start with Kiely and his bloody whore, start with the—”
“Don’t teach me my job,” Hogan interrupted tartly. “I can’t act against Kiely and his whore because they’re not in the British army. Valverde could get rid of them, but he won’t, so the eas
y thing to do, the politic thing, is to get rid of the whole damned pack of them. And tomorrow morning, Richard, you do just that.”
Sharpe took a deep breath to curb his anger. “Why tomorrow?” he asked when he trusted himself to speak again. “Why not now?”
“Because it will take you the rest of today to bury the dead.”
“And why order me to do it?” Sharpe asked sullenly. “Why not Runciman, or Kiely?”
“Because those two gentlemen,” Hogan answered, “will be going back with me to make their reports. There’s going to be a court of inquiry and I need to make damn sure that the court discovers exactly what I want it to discover.”
“Why the hell do we want a court of inquiry?” Sharpe asked sourly. “We know what happened. We got beat.”
Hogan sighed. “We need a court of inquiry, Richard, because a decent Portuguese battalion got torn to scraps, and the Portuguese government is not going to like that. Worse still, our enemies in the Spanish junta will love it. They’ll say the events of last night prove that foreign troops can’t be trusted under British command, and right now, Richard, what we want more than anything else is to have the Peer made the Generalisimo of Spain. We won’t win otherwise. So what we need to do now, just to make sure that bloody Valverde doesn’t have too much sunshine in which to make his hay, is hold a solemn court of inquiry and find a British officer on whom all the blame can be laid. We need, God bless the poor bastard, a scapegoat.”
Sharpe felt the long, slow dawning of disaster. The Portuguese and Spanish wanted a scapegoat, and Richard Sharpe would make a fine victim, a victim who would be trussed and basted by the reports Hogan would concoct this afternoon at headquarters. “I tried to tell Oliveira that Loup was going to attack,” Sharpe said, “but he wouldn’t believe me—”
“Richard! Richard!” Hogan interrupted in a long-suffering tone. “You’re not the scapegoat! Good God, man, you’re nothing but a captain, and only a captain on sufferance. Aren’t you a lieutenant on the list? You think we can go to the Portuguese government and say we allowed a greenjacket lieutenant to destroy a prime regiment of caçadores? Good Lord alive, man, if we’re going to make a sacrifice, then the very least we can do is find a big, plump beast with enough fat on its carcass to make the fire sizzle when we throw it on the flames.”
“Runciman,” Sharpe said.
Hogan smiled wolfishly. “Exactly. Our Wagon Master will be sacrificed to make the Portuguese happy and to persuade the Spanish that Wellington can be trusted not to massacre their precious soldiers. I can’t sacrifice Kiely, though I’d love to, because that will upset the Spaniards and I can’t sacrifice you because you’re too junior and, besides, I need you for the next time I’ve got a fool’s errand, but Colonel Claud Runciman was born for this moment, Richard. This is Claud’s proud and sole purpose in life: to sacrifice his honor, his rank and his reputation to keep Lisbon and Cadiz happy.” Hogan paused, thinking. “Maybe well even shoot him. Only pour encourager les autres.”
Sharpe guessed he was supposed to recognize the French phrase, but it meant nothing to him and he was too depressed to ask for a translation. He also felt desperately sorry for Runciman. “Whatever you do, sir,” Sharpe said, “don’t shoot him. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine.”
“If anyone’s,” Hogan said brusquely, “it was Oliveira’s responsibility. He was a good man, but he should have listened to you, but I dare not blame Oliveira. The Portuguese need him as a hero, just as the Spanish need Kiely. So we’ll pick on Runciman instead. It ain’t justice, Richard, but politics, and like all politics it ain’t pretty, but well done it can work wonders. I’ll leave you to bury the dead and tomorrow morning you report to headquarters with all your Irishmen disarmed. We’re looking for a place to billet them where they can’t get into trouble, and you, of course, can then go back to some proper soldiering.”
Sharpe again felt a pang at the injustice of the solution. “Suppose Runciman wants to call me as a witness?” he asked. “I won’t lie. I like the man.”
“You have perverse tastes. Runciman won’t call you, no one will call you. I’ll make sure of that. This court of inquiry isn’t supposed to establish the truth, Richard, but to ease Wellington and me off a painful hook that is presently inserted deep into our joint fundament.” Hogan grinned, then turned and walked away. “I’ll send you some picks and shovels to bury the dead,” he called in callous farewell.
“You couldn’t send us what we needed, could you?” Sharpe shouted after the major in bitterness. “But you can find bloody shovels fast enough.”
“I’m a miracle worker, that’s why! Come and have lunch with me tomorrow!”
The smell of the dead was already rank in the fort. Carrion birds wheeled overhead or perched on the crumbling ramparts. There were a few entrenching tools in the fort already and Sharpe ordered the Real Compañía Irlandesa to start digging a long trench for a grave. He made his own riflemen join the diggers. The greenjackets grumbled that such laboring was beneath their dignity as elite troops, but Sharpe insisted. “We do it because they’re doing it,” he told his unhappy men, jerking his thumb toward the Irish guardsmen. Sharpe even took a hand himself, stripping to the waist and wielding a pickax as though it was an instrument of vengeance. He slammed the point repeatedly into the hard, rocky soil, wrenched it loose and swung again until the sweat poured off him.
“Sharpe?” A sad Colonel Runciman, mounted on his big horse, peered down at the sweating, bare-backed rifleman. “Is that really you, Sharpe?”
Sharpe straightened and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Yes, General. It’s me.”
“You were flogged?” Runciman was staring aghast at the thick scars on Sharpe’s back.
“In India, General, for something I didn’t do.”
“You shouldn’t be digging now! It’s beneath an officer’s dignity to dig, Sharpe. You must learn to behave as an officer.”
Sharpe wiped the sweat off his face. “I like digging, General. It’s honest work. I always fancied that one day I might have a farm. Just a small one, but with nothing but honest work to do from sun-up to lights-out. Are you here to say good-bye?”
Runciman nodded. “You know there’s going to be a court of inquiry?”
“I heard, sir.”
“They need someone to blame, I suppose,” Runciman said. “General Valverde says someone should hang for this.” Runciman fidgeted with his reins, then turned in his saddle to stare at the Spanish general who was a hundred paces away and deep in conversation with Lord Kiely. Kiely seemed to be doing most of the talking, gesticulating wildly, but also pointing toward Sharpe every few seconds. “You don’t think they’ll hang me, do you, Sharpe?” Runciman asked. He seemed very close to tears.
“They won’t hang you, General,” Sharpe said.
“But it’ll mean disgrace all the same,” Runciman said, sounding brokenhearted.
“So fight back,” Sharpe said.
“How?”
“Tell them you ordered me to warn Oliveira. Which I did.”
Runciman frowned. “But I didn’t order you to do that, Sharpe.”
“So? They won’t know that, sir.”
“I can’t tell a lie!” Runciman said, shocked at the thought.
“It’s your honor that’s at stake, sir, and there’ll be enough bastards telling lies about you.”
“I won’t tell lies,” Runciman insisted.
“Then bend the truth, for God’s sake, sir. Tell them how you had to play tricks to get some decent muskets, and if it hadn’t been for those muskets then no one would have lived last night! Play the hero, sir, make the bastards wriggle!”
Runciman shook his head slowly. “I’m not a hero, Sharpe. I’d like to think there’s a valued contribution I can make to the army, as my dear father made to the church, but I’m not sure I’ve found my real calling yet. But I can’t pretend to be what I’m not.” He took off his cocked hat to wipe his brow. “I just came to say good-bye.”
&nb
sp; “Good luck, sir.”
Runciman smiled ruefully. “I never had that, Sharpe, never. Except in my parents. I was lucky in my dear parents and in being blessed with a healthy appetite. But otherwise…?” He shrugged as though the question was unanswerable, put his hat on again and then, with a forlorn wave, turned and rode to join Hogan. Two ox-drawn wagons had come to the fort with spades and picks, and as soon as the tools were unloaded Father Sarsfield commandeered the two vehicles so that the wounded could be carried to doctors and hospitals.
Hogan waved good-bye to Sharpe and led the wagons out of the fort. The surviving caçadores followed, marching beneath their flags. Lord Kiely said nothing to his men, but just rode southward. Juanita, who had not shown her face outside the gatehouse all morning, rode beside him with her dogs running behind. General Valverde touched his hat to greet Juanita, then pulled his reins sharply around and spurred his horse across the fire-blackened grass of the fort’s yard until he came to where Sharpe was digging. “Captain Sharpe?” he said.
“General?” Sharpe had to shade his eyes to look up at the tall, thin, yellow-uniformed man in his high saddle.
“What reason did General Loup have for his attack last night?”
“You must ask him, General,” Sharpe said.
Valverde smiled. “Maybe I shall. Now back to your digging, Captain. Or should it be Lieutenant?” Valverde waited for an answer, but when none came he turned his horse and rammed his spurs hard back.