Sharpes command, p.10
Sharpe's Command, page 10
‘What?’ Teresa asked.
Sharpe gave the glass to Hagman. ‘Look at those infantrymen on the fort, Dan. Tell me what’s on their shakoes.’
Hagman gazed through the glass. ‘No idea, Mister Sharpe.’
‘Not the same as the fellows we shot.’
‘Nothing like,’ Hagman agreed, ‘those are much more fancy.’
Sharpe took the glass back and stared again. So far he had discovered troops from the 6th and 39th of the French line; these men’s shakoes did not have the same diamond-shaped brass badge, but instead had a much larger and more flamboyant brass plate. They were much too far away to read the number on the plaque or even to recognise its shape, but the very fact that they wore a different badge suggested they were from yet another battalion. ‘There could be three battalions of bloody French infantry here,’ Sharpe muttered.
‘And there are some of them on the old bridge too,’ Teresa murmured in his ear and Sharpe edged the telescope left and saw a score of men working on the bridge’s northern end. They were sawing timbers with long, two-handled saws and the sawn pieces were being carried to the edge of the gaping hole in the bridge’s southern arch.
‘What the buggers are doing,’ Henderson said, ‘is building a wooden arch to replace the old one.’
‘That’ll take weeks,’ Sharpe said.
‘Not so long, sir,’ Henderson said. ‘Once they’ve got the timbers cut it’ll go up smartly enough, then they’ll lay masonry round the wooden arch. A good engineer could have that bridge repaired in a fortnight.’
Sharpe gazed at the shattered bridge’s nearer end and saw no men on the closer roadway nor on the bank, which suggested all the repairs were being managed from the northern bank. ‘Reckon we can get down to the bridge without being seen?’ he asked.
‘We can,’ Hagman said confidently.
‘You stay here,’ Sharpe told Teresa, knowing he was wasting his breath, then followed Hagman, who had dropped beneath the skyline and was heading north.
‘What are you doing?’ Teresa asked Sharpe.
‘Slowing the buggers down.’
Hagman led them on a long circuit that kept them out of sight of any Frenchman watching from the bridge or from the high battlements of Fort Ragusa. They came to the high road leading from the old bridge and followed it, staying in the low scrubby trees at the highway’s edge, until they reached the old bridge itself.
On this northern bank there were no enemy troops at the base of the bridge nor any on the short stub of broken roadway. Sharpe said a prayer of thanks for the enemy’s carelessness and lay at the road’s edge and gazed across the gap. He could see three officers standing among the men heaving on the huge saws. The men doing the work had discarded their jackets and either worked bare-chested or in shirt sleeves, but the officers had uniforms that looked black. Sharpe stared through the glass and saw that the jackets were a very dark blue with black facings and turnbacks. ‘Black and blue uniforms,’ he said.
‘It’s the dark blue of their artillery, Mister Sharpe,’ Hagman said.
‘The black facings mean they’re engineers,’ Sharpe said. For reasons he did not understand, French engineers were always uniformed as artillerymen. ‘And I want those three dead.’ He handed the telescope to Teresa. ‘You watch them and we shoot them. Dan? Take the officer on the right. Joe? The bugger on the left. The centre one is mine.’
‘Easy shot, Mister Sharpe,’ Hagman said encouragingly, ‘two hundred and fifty paces?’
Kill the engineer officers, Sharpe reckoned, and he would certainly delay and maybe even end any effort to repair the bridge. He wriggled up onto the roadway and aimed the rifle across the broken span. Two hundred and fifty yards was nothing for a Baker rifle, and his target was easily recognisable because of the gold braid on his uniform. Hagman was to his right, Henderson to his left, and they were well within sight of the far Frenchmen, who seemed oblivious to their presence. ‘Dozy bastards,’ Sharpe muttered. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Me too, Mister Sharpe,’ Hagman said.
‘And me,’ Henderson offered.
‘On my order,’ Sharpe said, ‘count of three. Fire on one.’
He hesitated, reflecting on General Hill’s orders that the French were to be undisturbed, that the presence of riflemen in the hills about the river would betray an ambition to attack the pontoon bridge. But, damn it, the French already knew that Sharpe and his men were there, and the whole point of the expedition was to destroy the bridge. But wrecking the pontoon bridge would be useless if the French managed to repair this old bridge. So damn Hill’s orders.
‘Three,’ he said.
Three dogheads were dragged back, three good flints were poised above the frizzens which, when struck, would flash open and let the sparks ignite the powder in the rifles’ pans.
He had the backsight folded flat and lined the lower notch with the stub of foresight at the barrel’s muzzle. He lined them against the far glint of gold braid, then raised the muzzle a fraction so he was aiming just above the distant officer’s cocked hat.
‘Two.’
The barrel wavered slightly. The air, heated by the sun, shimmered above the broken roadway. No wind. He dropped the muzzle to make sure he was still centred on the engineer, saw that he was, and edged it upwards a tiny amount, then resisted an urge to make sure his flint was well-seated in the doghead.
‘One!’
He pulled the trigger. The flint slammed downwards and a cascade of sparks flowed from the opening frizzen. A flash in the pan as the powder caught and the slight pause as the fire in the pan found the touch-hole and ignited the charge. Then came the bang of the rifle and the brass butt slammed into his shoulder and a burst of smoke made a cloud in front of the muzzle.
‘Two down,’ Teresa said.
‘Reload,’ Sharpe said, though the order was unnecessary because both Hagman and Henderson were already biting the bullets from new cartridges.
‘Which two?’ Sharpe asked, standing and taking a cartridge from his pouch.
‘The centre one is alive,’ Teresa said.
Sharpe swore while Hagman chuckled. ‘It was a difficult shot, Mister Sharpe.’
‘Like hell it was.’ Sharpe rammed the new bullet down the barrel. Hagman had already crossed to the far side of the road where he was kneeling. ‘I’ve got him, Mister Sharpe,’ he said, raising the rifle to his shoulder. ‘Silly bugger is just standing there with his mouth open.’
‘Down his gullet, Dan!’ Henderson called.
Hagman fired. The shot echoed back from the hills on the river’s far side. ‘Three down,’ Teresa said happily.
‘Bloody idiot,’ Hagman said derisively, ‘he just stood there and waited to be killed.’
‘We’d best get back to the boat,’ Sharpe said. He reckoned the garrison of Fort Ragusa must send out a patrol to investigate the shots. ‘And well done, lads. Sorry I missed.’
‘I reckon your rifle’s tired, Mister Sharpe,’ Hagman said.
‘Tired?’
‘After a while the barrels get warped,’ Hagman explained. ‘I reckon you’ve had that one a while?’
‘Seven years,’ Sharpe said.
‘A Shorncliffe rifle?’ Hagman asked, meaning the barracks where the light infantry had trained.
‘That’s where I got it,’ Sharpe confirmed.
‘They were never the best rifles,’ Hagman said, ‘and you tap-load a lot. I’m of a mind that tap-loading tires the barrel, so time to get another rifle, Mister Sharpe.’
‘I like this one.’
‘It’s served you well, that’s a fact.’ Hagman reloaded his rifle and slung it on his shoulder. There was a spatter of musket fire from the working party on the other end of the bridge, but all the shots went high or else flitted through the trees at the sides of the road. ‘You’ve seen all you wanted?’ the old poacher asked.
‘Enough, Dan,’ Sharpe said. He supposed General Hill might approve of him creating a disturbance on the northern bank to persuade the French that any expedition to destroy the pontoon bridge might come from the north, from Cuidad Rodrigo, and the death of three engineers would surely lodge that idea in their heads. Though three deaths, however valuable the dead men had been to the French, was nothing compared to the carnage that Sharpe’s riflemen and Teresa’s partisans had already wreaked on the southern bank. By now, he reflected ruefully, he had well and truly disobeyed Hill’s instructions not to poke the wasps’ nest, and Colonel Aubert, the commander of the garrison, must surely be sending for reinforcements. And a strengthened French garrison could well be enough to stop Hill’s assault. Those gloomy thoughts accompanied him to the boat that Joe Henderson manhandled into the river then clawed them across to the southern bank.
‘So what now?’ Teresa asked as they splashed onto dry ground.
‘We go to find General Hill.’
‘All of us?’
‘Pat Harper will keep the men here,’ Sharpe said, ‘and I’ll tell him to stay out of trouble.’
‘My men too?’
‘It would help if most of them stayed here. Maybe bring a couple with us to Truxillo? Though I doubt there’s any need. There’ll be no French on the road.’
Sharpe was confident of that. If Marshal Soult, south of the Tagus, sent troops to join Marmont in the north then they would encounter Hill’s force somewhere close to Truxillo, which suggested to Sharpe that he and Teresa could ride to that city safely enough. ‘There might be no French,’ Teresa pointed out, ‘but El Cobarde is probably on that road.’
Sharpe had forgotten El Héroe. ‘He’ll do nothing,’ he said curtly.
‘You hope.’
‘The only things he does well are to lie, cheat and run away.’
Patrick Harper reported that all had been quiet at the village since Sharpe left. ‘We saw a fellow watching us from the hill,’ he pointed westwards, ‘but he didn’t stay long. I’m thinking it was just a shepherd.’
‘Wrong direction for a Crapaud.’
‘No sign of them, sir. I think they’ve learned their lesson.’
‘And what lesson is that, Patrick?’ Teresa asked.
‘Don’t try and bugger the Rifles,’ Harper said proudly.
‘Let’s hope no one tries that with you over the next few days,’ Sharpe said, ‘I’m riding to meet General Hill, but I’ll be back as soon as I can. Four days? Five? I’ll take Lieutenant Love so you’ll be in command here.’
‘God save Ireland!’ Harper said wonderingly. ‘A boy from Donegal in command! Want me to capture the forts, sir?’
‘I want you to stay quiet. Keep your picquets awake, but don’t poke the wasps’ nest. Just wait for my return.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of poking the wasps! But I’ll put a picquet in El Héroe’s house. From the top floor you can see everything.’
‘And it gives you a chance to search the house thoroughly?’
‘The thought never occurred to me, sir,’ Harper grinned, ‘but it’s a grand idea.’
Sharpe reluctantly agreed. ‘I mean it, Pat, no fight.’
‘Me, sir? Fight? God save Ireland, I joined the army for food, not for fighting.’
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘Take your time, sir, enjoy Miss Teresa.’
Teresa left almost all her men in the village to reinforce Harper’s riflemen while she took three as her escort on the Truxillo road. Sharpe and Love were given docile horses to ride. He worried for his men’s safety as he clattered southwards, but no musket or rifle shots sounded behind him. ‘There’s no need for you to come,’ he told Teresa.
‘And who’ll keep you safe if I don’t?’
It seemed strange to Sharpe to be riding openly so far behind the French lines. Except for General Hill’s force, which he assumed was marching towards Truxillo, the countryside was ruled by the French for at least a hundred miles in every direction, yet he saw no sign of the enemy. They passed through small villages and towns and there was not a blue uniform to be seen. The villagers told of forage parties who came to plunder houses and barns, and those parties, they said, were escorted by hundreds of horsemen to protect the foragers from partisans. ‘Does that mean El Héroe is actually fighting?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Not him,’ Teresa said scathingly. ‘The partisans here are led by El Sacerdote.’
‘The priest?’
‘He was a priest till the French sacked his church and raped half his parishioners.’ She thought for a heartbeat. ‘I suppose he still is a priest because he says Mass for his men, and gives his French prisoners the last rites before he cuts their throats.’ She smiled. ‘I like him.’
It was evening before Truxillo showed on the southern horizon. The town was built on a hill and loomed above the flat plain. There was an ancient wall circling the buildings which were dominated by a castle. As they drew closer and as the shadows lengthened across the flat land Sharpe saw red coats on the city wall, and still more guarding the town’s northern gate. ‘The French left weeks ago,’ Teresa said nonchalantly, ‘chased out by El Sacerdote’s men.’
A Lieutenant, wearing a red coat with yellow facings, held up a hand as they approached, ‘Quién eres?’ His men levelled muskets. They saw a ragged group, mostly wearing the red scarves which many partisans had adopted as a uniform, and Sharpe, in his dark green, looked no smarter than his companions. He was unshaven, his hair was long, and his green jacket was stained.
‘I’m here to see General Hill. I assume he’s here?’ Sharpe spurred his horse forward.
‘And you are?’ the Lieutenant asked.
‘Major Sharpe, 95th. General Hill is expecting us.’
The Lieutenant looked disbelieving, but then caught Sharpe’s gaze and straightened. ‘Of course, sir. The General’s in the Castillo.’ He pointed eastwards. ‘Just follow the street inside the wall, sir, you can’t miss the place.’
They followed the street until they reached another guardpost at the castle’s entrance. ‘It was built by the Moors,’ Teresa said, ‘and we chased them out too.’
The castle’s courtyard was crowded with troops, their muskets stacked about a battery of cannon. Sharpe saw more Scots wearing the yellow facings of the 92nd and others wearing red coats with black facings. ‘The dirty half hundred,’ he told Teresa.
‘The what?’
‘The 50th,’ Sharpe explained, ‘hard buggers from Kent.’ There were men wearing buff facings, the 71st, another Scottish regiment. ‘I almost feel sorry for the Crapauds,’ Sharpe said.
‘Sorry!’ Teresa sounded offended.
‘Two Scottish battalions? They’re savage fighters.’
‘Good! And there are more riflemen,’ she pointed across the courtyard where men in green jackets were making a fire. Sharpe spurred towards them and recognised several. ‘Sergeant Gerrard!’
‘Oh God in his shoddy heaven,’ the Sergeant turned in surprise, ‘we’re all in the shit now.’
‘How are you, Tom?’
‘I was happy till a minute ago, but if you’re here? Things must be desperate.’
‘How many are you?’
‘Mustering eighty.’
‘Who commands?’
‘Captain Theobald.’
‘A good man,’ Sharpe said approvingly.
‘Aye, he is that. I’m guessing he’s dining with Daddy.’
‘Where do I find the General?’
‘Through that door,’ Gerrard pointed, ‘and upstairs.’
‘Your men can stable our horses?’
Gerrard looked dubiously at Sharpe’s companions. ‘We can, but I doubt Daddy wants you all at dinner.’
‘Just me and my wife,’ Sharpe said, swinging out of the saddle.
The Sergeant turned his gaze to Teresa and grinned. ‘They always said you were lucky, Mister Sharpe.’
‘I am, Tom, I am.’ He walked through the riflemen, greeting those he knew, then took Teresa’s arm and, beckoning Lieutenant Love to join him, led her through the great door to find a stairway. ‘He’s no fool, General Hill.’
‘No?’
‘He brought more riflemen. Which means we’ll win.’
‘You doubted that?’
Sharpe did not answer, just took the stairs to find two redcoats of the 50th guarding a doorway. ‘I’m looking for Major Hogan,’ Sharpe said.
‘He’s with the General, sir,’ one of the redcoats answered.
‘In there?’ Sharpe did not wait for an answer, but just opened the door.
At least a dozen men were in the room, clustered about a table on which maps were spread among the remnants of dinner. They all turned to stare as Sharpe led Teresa and Love inside. Then General Hill took a tentative step towards Sharpe. ‘Good God!’ he said.
‘Richard!’ That was Major Hogan, sounding equally astonished.
‘You’re not dead!’ Hill added.
‘Seems not, sir.’
‘Well, come in, come in!’ Hill gestured.
‘I believe you know Lieutenant Love, sir,’ Sharpe said, then more awkwardly, ‘and allow me to present my wife.’ Hill and the other officers stared at Teresa, who wore tight cavalry overalls tucked into tall riding boots. Her short jacket was a discarded rifleman’s green coat, belted at her slim waist from which hung a sabre, a long knife, and a pistol.
‘La Aguja,’ Hogan said in a loud whisper to Hill.
‘Our pleasure, ma’am,’ Hill said gallantly, offering Teresa a bow. ‘We heard you were dead also. I am overjoyed that information was wrong.’
‘I am overjoyed too,’ Teresa said drily, then smiled at Hogan. ‘Major,’ she acknowledged him.
‘We heard you were overpowered by the French at Miravete,’ Hogan explained.
‘We killed the French at Miravete,’ Teresa said vengefully.
‘All of them?’ Hogan asked.
‘At least a company,’ Sharpe said, ‘but there’s more of the buggers.’ Hogan cleared his throat meaningfully and Sharpe remembered he was not supposed to offend Hill with any swear words. ‘A lot more,’ he added vaguely.
