'Do you know, Captain Sharpe, the damage it does our cause if our soldiers thieve or rape?' His voice was scathingly quiet.
'Yes, sir.'
'I hope you do, Captain Sharpe, I hope you do.' He sat down again. 'Our enemies are encouraged to steal because that is the only way they can be fed. The result is that they are hated wherever they march. I spend money – my God, how much money – on providing rations and transport and buying food from the populace so that our soldiers have no need to steal. We do this so they will be welcomed by the local people and helped by them. Do you understand?'
Sharpe wished the lecture would end. 'Yes, sir.'
There was suddenly a strange noise overhead, a shuffling and rattling, and Wellington's eyes shot to the ceiling as if he could read what the noise might mean. It occurred to Sharpe that the telegraph was working, the inflated bladders running up and down the ropes, bringing a coded message from the troops facing the French. The General listened for a few seconds, then dropped his face to Sharpe again. 'Your gazette has not yet been ratified.'
There were few things the General could have said more calculated to worry Sharpe. Officially he was still a Lieutenant, only a Lieutenant, and his Captaincy had been awarded by a gazette from Wellington a year ago. If the Horse Guards in Whitehall did not approve, and he knew they usually rejected such irregular promotions, then he was soon to be a Lieutenant again. He said nothing as Wellington watched him. If this were a warning shot, then he would take it in silence.
The General sighed, picked up a piece of paper, put it down again. 'The soldier has been punished?'
'Yes, sir.' He thought of Batten, winded, on the ground.
'Then do not, pray, let it happen again. Not even, Captain Sharpe, to wild chickens.'
My God, thought Sharpe, he knows everything that happens in this army. There was silence. Was that the end of it? No court-martial? No apology? He coughed and Wellington looked up.
'Yes?'
'I was expecting more, sir. Court-martials and drumheads."
Sharpe heard Lawford stir in embarrassment but the General did not seem worried. He stood up and used one of his few, thin smiles.
'I would quite happily, Captain Sharpe, string up you and that damned Sergeant. But I suspect we need you. What do you think of our chances this summer?'
Again there was silence. The change of tack had taken them all by surprise. Lawford cleared his throat. 'There's clearly some concern, my lord, about the intentions of the enemy and our response.'
Another wintry smile. 'The enemy intend to push us into the sea, and soon. How do we respond?' Wellington, it occurred to Sharpe, was using up time. He was waiting for something or someone.
Lawford was feeling uncomfortable. The question was one he would rather hear answered by the General. 'Bring them to battle, sir?'
'Thirty thousand troops, plus twenty-five thousand untried Portuguese, against three hundred and fifty thousand men?'
Wellington let the figures hang in the air like the dust that shifted silently in the slanting sunlight over his desk. Overhead the feet of the men operating the telegraph still shuffled. The figures, Sharpe knew, were unfair. Massena needed thousands of those men to contain the Guerrilleros, the Partisans, but even so the disparity in numbers was appalling. Wellington sniffed. There was a knock on the door.
'Come in.'
'Sir.'
The Major who had shown them into the room handed a slip of paper to the General, who read it, closed his eyes momentarily, and sighed.
'The rest of the message is still coming?'
'Yes, sir. But the gist is there.'
The Major left and Wellington leaned back in his chair. The news had been bad, Sharpe could tell, but not, perhaps, unexpected. He remembered that Wellington had once said that running a campaign was like driving a team of horses with a rope harness. The ropes kept breaking and all a General could do was tie a knot and keep going. A rope was unravelling, here and now, an important one, and Sharpe watched the fingers drum on the edge of the table. The eyes came up to Sharpe again, flicked to Lawford.
'Colonel?'
'Sir?'
'I am borrowing Captain Sharpe from you, and his Company. I doubt whether I need them for more than one month.'
'Yes, my lord.' Lawford looked at Sharpe and shrugged.
Wellington stood again. He seemed to be relieved, as if a decision had been made. 'The war is not lost, gentlemen, though I know my confidence is not universally shared.' He sounded bitter, angry with the defeatists whose letters home were quoted in the newspapers. 'We may bring the French to battle, and if we do we will win.' Sharpe never doubted it. Of all Britain's generals this was the only one who knew how to beat the French. 'If we win we will only delay their advance.' He opened a map, stared at it blankly, and let it snap shut again into a roll. 'No, gentlemen, our survival depends on something else. Something that you, Captain Sharpe, must bring me. Must, do you hear? Must.'
Sharpe had never heard the General so insistent. 'Yes, sir.'
Lawford coughed. 'And if he fails, my lord?'
The wintry smile again. 'He had better not.' He looked at Sharpe. 'You are not the only card in my hand, Mr Sharpe, but you are… important. There are things happening, gentlemen, that this army does not know about. If it did it would be generally more optimistic.' He sat down again, leaving them mystified. Sharpe suspected the mystification was on purpose. He was spreading some counter-rumours to the defeatists, and that, too, was part of a general's job. He looked up again. 'You are now under my orders, Captain Sharpe. Your men must be ready to march this night. They must not be encumbered with wives or unnecessary baggage, and they must have full ammunition.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And you will be back here in one hour. You have two tasks to perform.'
Sharpe wondered if he was to be told what they were. 'Sir?'
'First, Mr Sharpe, you will receive your orders. Not from me but from an old companion of yours.' Wellington saw Sharpe's quizzical look. 'Major Hogan.'
Sharpe's face betrayed his pleasure. Hogan, the engineer, the quiet Irishman who was a friend, whose sense Sharpe had leaned on in the difficult days leading to Talavera. Wellington saw the pleasure and tried to puncture it. 'But before that, Mr Sharpe, you will apologize to Lieutenant Ayres.' He watched for Sharpe's reaction.
'But of course, sir. I had always planned to.' Sharpe looked shocked at the thought that he might ever have contemplated another course of action and, through his innocently wide eyes, wondered if he saw a flicker of amusement behind the General's cold, blue gaze.
Wellington looked away, to Lawford, and with his usual disarming speed suddenly became affable. 'You're well, Colonel?'
'Thank you, sir. Yes.' Lawford beamed with pleasure. He had served on Wellington's staff, knew the General well.
'Join me for dinner tonight. The usual time.' The General looked at Forrest. 'And you, Major?'
'My pleasure, sir.'
'Good.' The eyes flicked at Sharpe. 'Captain Sharpe will be too busy, I fear.' He nodded a dismissal. 'Good day, gentlemen.'
Outside the headquarters the bugles sounded the evening and the sun sank in magnificent crimson. Inside the quiet room the General paused a moment before plunging back into the paperwork that must be done before the dinner of roast mutton. Hogan, he thought, was right. If a miracle were needed to save the campaign, and it was, then the rogue he had just seen was the best man for the job. More than a rogue: a fighter, and a man who looked on failure as unthinkable. But a rogue, thought Wellington, a damned rogue all the same.
Chapter 3
Sharpe had spent the hour between leaving and returning to Wellington's headquarters conjuring all kinds of quixotic answers to the mystery of what he was supposed to bring back to the General. Perhaps, he had thought as he stirred the Company into activity, it would be a new French secret weapon, something like the British Colonel Congreve's rocket system, of which there were so many tales but so little evidence.
Or, more fanciful still, perhaps the British had secretly offered refuge to Napoleon's divorced Josephine, who might have smuggled herself to Spain to become a pawn in the high politics of the war. He was still wondering as he was shown into a large room of the headquarters, to find a reception committee, formal and strained, flanking a wretchedly embarrassed Lieutenant Ayres.
The unctuous young Major smiled at Sharpe as though he were a valued and expected guest. 'Ah, Captain Sharpe. You know the Provost Marshal, you've met Lieutenant Ayres, and this is Colonel Williams. Gentlemen?' The Major made a delicate gesture as if inviting them all to sit down and take a glass of sherry. It seemed that Colonel Williams, plump and red-veined, was deputed to do the talking.
'Disgraceful, Sharpe. Disgraceful!'
Sharpe stared a fraction of an inch over Williams's head and stopped himself from blinking. It was a useful way of discomfiting people, and, sure enough, Williams wavered from the apparent gaze and made a helpless gesture towards Lieutenant Ayres.
'You imperilled his authority, overstepped your own. A disgrace!'
'Yes, sir. I apologize!'
'What?' Williams seemed surprised at Sharpe's sudden apology. Lieutenant Ayres was squirming with uneasiness, while the Provost Marshal seemed impatient to get the charade done. Williams cleared his throat, seemed to want his pound of flesh. 'You apologize?'
'Yes, sir. Unreservedly, sir. Terrible disgrace, sir. I utterly apologize, sir, regret my part very much, sir, as I'm sure Lieutenant Ayres does his.'
Ayres, startled by a sudden smile from Sharpe, nodded hastily and agreed. 'I do, sir. I do.'
Williams whirled on his unfortunate Lieutenant. 'What do you have to regret, Ayres? You mean there's more to this than I thought?'
The Provost Marshal sighed and scraped a boot on the floor. 'I think the purpose of this meeting is over, gentlemen, and I have work to do.' He looked at Sharpe. 'Thank you, Captain, for your apology. We'll leave you.'
As they left, Sharpe could hear Colonel Williams interrogating Ayres as to why he should have any regrets, and Sharpe let a grin show on his face which widened into a broad smile as the door opened once more and Michael Hogan came into the room. The small Irishman shut the door carefully and smiled at Sharpe.
'As graceful an apology as I expected from you. How are you?'
They shook hands, pleasure on both their faces. The war, it turned out, was treating Hogan well. An engineer, he had been transferred to Wellington's staff, and promoted. He spoke Portuguese and Spanish, and added to those skills was a common sense that was rare. Sharpe raised his eyebrows at Hogan's elegant, new uniform.
'So what do you do here?'
'A bit of this and the other.' Hogan beamed at him, paused, then sneezed violently. 'Christ and St Patrick! Bloody Irish Blackguard!'
Sharpe looked puzzled and Hogan held out his snuff-box. 'Can't get Scotch Rappee here, only Irish Blackguard. It's like sniffing grapeshot straight up the nostrils.'
'Give it up.'
Hogan laughed. 'I've tried; I can't.' His eyes watered as another sneeze gathered force. 'God in heaven!'
'So what do you do?'
Hogan wiped a tear from his cheek. 'Not so very much, Richard. I sort of find things out, about the enemy, you understand. And draw maps. Things like that. We call it "intelligence", but it's a fancy word for knowing a bit about the other fellow. And 1 have some duties in Lisbon.' He waved a deprecating hand. 'I get by.'
Lisbon, where Josefina was. The thought struck Hogan as it came to Sharpe, and the small Irishman smiled and answered the unspoken question. 'Aye, she's well.'
Josefina, whom Sharpe had loved so briefly, for whom he had killed, and who had left him for a cavalry officer. He still thought of her, remembered the few nights, but this was no time or place for that kind of memory. He pushed the thought of her away, the jealousy he had for Captain Claud Hardy, and changed the subject.
'So what is this thing that I must bring back for the General?'
Hogan leaned back. 'Nemos belli, pecuniam infinitam.'
'You know I don't speak Spanish.'
Hogan gave a gentle smile. 'Latin, Richard, Latin. Your education was sadly overlooked. Cicero said it: "The sinews of war are unlimited money."'
'Money?'
'Gold, to be precise. Bucketfuls of gold. A King's bloody ransom, my dear Richard, and we want it. No, more than we want it, we need it. Without it -' He did not finish the sentence, but just shrugged instead.
'You're joking, surely!'
Hogan carefully lit another candle – the light beyond the windows was fading fast – and spoke quietly. 'I wish I was. We've run out of money. You wouldn't believe it, but there it is. Eighty-five million pounds is the war budget this year - can you imagine it? – and we've run out.'
'Run out?'
Hogan gave another shrug. 'A new government in London, bloody English, demanding accounts. We're paying all Portugal's expenses, arming half the Spanish nation, and now we need it.' He stressed the 'we'. 'It's what, I think, you would call a local embarrassment. We need some money fast, in a matter of days. We could force it out of London in a couple of months, but that will be too long. We need it now.'
'And if not?'
'If not, Richard, the French will be in Lisbon and not all the money in the world will make any difference.' He smiled. 'So you go and get the money.'
'I go and get the money.' Sharpe grinned at the Irishman. 'How? Steal it?'
'Shall we say "borrow"?' Hogan's voice was serious. Sharpe said nothing and the Irishman sighed, leaned back. 'There is a problem, Richard, which is that the gold belongs to the Spanish government, in a manner of speaking.'
'What manner?'
Hogan shrugged. 'Who knows where the government is? Is it in Madrid, with the French? Or in Cadiz?'
'And where's the gold? Paris?'
Hogan gave a tired smile. 'Not quite that far. Two days' march.' His voice became formal, reciting instructions. 'You leave tonight, march to Almeida. The crossing of the Coa is guarded by the Sixtieth; they're expecting you. In Almeida you meet Major Kearsey. From then on you are under his orders. We expect you to take no longer than one week, and should you need help, which pray God you do not, here is all you're going to get.'
He pushed a piece of paper over the table. Sharpe unfolded it. Captain Sharpe is directed by my orders and all Officers of the Allied Armies are requested and instructed to offer Captain Sharpe any assistance he may require. The signature was a simple Wellington.
'There's no mention of gold?' Sharpe had expected elucidation at this meeting. He seemed to find only more mysteries.
'We didn't think it wise to tell too many people about a great pile of gold that's looking for an owner. It sort of encourages greed, if you follow me.'
A moth flew crazy circles round the candle flames. Sharpe heard dogs barking in the town, the tramping of horses in the stables behind the headquarters.
'So how much gold?'
'Kearsey will tell you. It can be carried.'
'Christ Almighty! Can't you tell me anything?'
Hogan smiled. 'Not much. I'll tell you this much, though.' He leaned back, locked his fingers behind his head. 'The war's going bad, Richard. It's not our fault. We need men, guns, horses, powder, everything. The enemy gets stronger. But there's only one thing can save us now, and that's this money.'
'Why?'
'I can't tell you.' Hogan sighed, pained by hiding something from a trusted friend. 'We have something that is secret, Richard, and it must stay that way.' He waved down an interruption. 'It's the biggest damned secret I've ever seen, and we don't want anyone to know – anyone. You'll know in the end, I promise you; everyone will. But for the moment, get the gold; pay for the secret.'
They had marched at midnight. Hogan had waved them farewell, and now with the dawn bleaching the sky the Light Company was climbing the gorge of the river Coa towards the fortress town of Almeida. A shadowy picquet had waved them across the narrow, high bridge that
spanned the river, and it had seemed to Sharpe, in that moment, that he was marching into the unknown. The road from the river zigzagged up the side of the gorge. Jagged rocks loomed over the path; the creeping dawn showed a savage landscape half hidden by mist from the water. The men were silent, saving their breath for the steep road.
Almeida, a mile or so ahead, was like an island in French territory. It was a Portuguese fortress town, manned by the Portuguese army under British leaders, but the countryside around was in French hands. Soon, Sharpe knew, the French would have to take Almeida by siege, batter their way through its famous walls, storm the breach, drown the island in blood so they could march safely towards Lisbon. The sentries on the bridge had stamped their feet and waved at the dark hills. 'No patrols yesterday. You should be all right.'
The Light Company were not worried by the French. If Richard Sharpe wanted to lead them to Paris they would go, blindly confident that he would see them through, and they had grinned when he had told them they were to march behind the enemy patrols, across the Coa, across the river Agueda – for Hogan had known that much – and then back again. But something in Sharpe's voice had been wrong; no one had said anything, but the knowledge was there that the Captain was worried. Harper had picked it up. He had marched alongside Sharpe as the road dropped towards the Coa, its surface still sticky from the rain.
'What's the problem, sir?'
'There isn't one.' Sharpe's tone had shut off the conversation, but he was remembering Hogan's final words. Sharpe had been pushing and probing, trying for information that Hogan was not giving. 'Why us? It sounds like a job for cavalry.'
Hogan nodded. 'The cavalry tried, and failed. Kearsey says the country's not good for horses.'
'But the French cavalry use it?'
Another tired nod. 'Kearsey says you'll be all right.' There was something constrained about Hogan's voice.
'You're worried about it."