The British army saw the smoke rising from the city. They were far away. A few British cavalrymen, their horses smeared with mud. rode into the city and confirmed that the French were gone. They stayed long enough to water their horses and buy wine from an inn, then, the city abandoned by their enemy, its castle ruined, and nothing else in Burgos to hold their interest, they rode away. The war had come, taken its toll, and passed on.
CHAPTER 18
The British army left the pyre of smoke over Burgos far behind them. They marched in four great columns. At times two columns would come close, joining for a river crossing before they split again and took their separate paths in the hills. Always the order was speed. Speed to get ahead of the enemy, speed to cut the Road, speed to turn the French right flank, speed to meet the French before the enemy armies joined to outnumber Wellington’s men.
And fighting against speed were the wagon wheels that broke, the horses that went lame, the sick who fell out on the road, the gun-axles that broke, the rain that made the tracks slippery, the flooding of a stream making a ford become a rapid. Yet still they went on, hauling at guns, at wagons, beating the mules on, the infantry driving their weary legs to climb one more hill, cross one more valley and ever into the teeth of wind and rain in the worst summer of memory. They had left their winter quarters with the promise of a fine, though late, summer, but now that they had reached the northern hills the weather had broken into a miserable, cold enemy.
Yet old soldiers had never seen an army march as well. The men marched as though the winds brought the smell of victory and they pushed through difficulties that, in normal times, would have turned men back or caused hours of delay. If a ford was high the cavalry drove their horses in to make a breakwater and passed the infantry down the sheltered side, urging them on, telling them the frogs were waiting for the slaughter, telling them there was one more march and then the victory.
They had been scenting that victory for days. Many had expected to fight at Burgos, but the plume of smoke which marked the French retreat had driven the army on another stage. It was rumoured the French would guard the crossings of the Ebro, the last great river line before the Pyrenees, but the French were nowhere to be seen when, on a cold, chill day, the columns crossed the river unopposed and heard, at last, the orders given for the swing south and east, the swoop down to the enemy.
The columns closed up. A Spanish column stayed to the north, fending off any approach by the French troops on the Biscay shore, but the other columns merged about a single road so they could concentrate swiftly for battle. The infantry, as ever, had the worst of it. The road had to be left for the baggage, the guns, the cavalry, and so the infantry marched on the hills either side, the slopes thick with men and mules, the air noisy with their marching songs.
That they had the energy to sing was astonishing, that they sang so well was more so, that they wanted a fight was obvious. Rumours had gone through the army that the enemy guarded a convoy of gold, that each man would be rich if he did his duty, and perhaps that rumour, more than pride, drove them on. They joked that the froggies were on the run now, that Johnny-Frenchman would not stand till he was past Paris, that this army would march on and on and on till every man jack in it had a Parisian girl on his elbow and a bag of gold in his hand, and the General, who would sometimes just sit on his horse and watch them pass, would feel his soul full of pride and love for these ranks that he led, that marched in such spirits to a battle that would leave some of them broken like bloody rag dolls on a Spanish field.
Three nights after the Burgos explosion, Major Michael Hogan sat in the uncomfortable stable that was his billet. He was lucky, he knew, to have even this place to sleep. A lantern hung over his head, its light showing the map that was spread on a makeshift table made from an overturned byre.
A man sat opposite him. The man was a Jew named Rodrigues. He was a corn dealer who travelled with the army, unpopular with the quartermasters who dealt with him, suspected by them, because of his rapacity, to be sympathetic with the French. Why not, they said? Everyone knew the Spanish church hated the Jews. Surely, they reasoned, Rodrigues would have a better life if the French ruled in Spain?
Hogan knew better. Rodrigues drove a harsh bargain, but so did every other corn factor who travelled with the army, Jewish or not. Yet this corn merchant, this despised man, had a genius of a memory and ears that seemed to hear the quietest whispers from far away. He talked now of one such whisper, and Hogan listened.
‘A man broke into a convent.’ Rodrigues smiled slyly. ‘That must have surprised the sisters.’
‘What kind of a man?’
‘Some say English, some say American! Others say French. He was rescued from the Partisans by the French.’
‘And you say?’
Rodrigues smiled. He was a thin man who wore his hair, summer and winter, beneath a fur hat. ‘I say he was your man. He took the woman.’ He held up a hand to stop Hogan interrupting. ‘But the news is not good, Major.’
‘Go on.’
‘He went to Burgos with the woman, but he was killed there.’
‘Killed?’
Rodrigues saw the look on Hogan’s face and suspected, rightly, that the un-named Englishman had been a friend of the Major’s. ‘There are a dozen stories; I tell you what I think.’ The corn merchant fidgeted with the coiled whip he always carried. It was not much of a weapon, but enough to deter the children who tried to steal from his carts. ‘They say he was in the castle and that he killed a man. Then they say that he was treated with respect.’ Rodrigues shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What I do know is that he was still in the castle when it blew up. He died with the others.’
‘They found his body?’
‘Who can tell? It was difficult to tell what was a body in that place.’
Hogan said nothing for a while. He was wondering if it was true, but he had learned to trust Rodrigues and so he feared that it must be so. He had heard that the explosion in the castle had been an accident that had taken the lives of scores of Frenchmen, but was it possible, he found himself wondering, that Sharpe had engineered it? He could believe that. ‘And the woman?’
‘La Pula Dorada?’ Rodrigues smiled. ‘She went with the French army. Escorted by lancers.’
Hogan thought of Wellington’s fear that Sharpe would break into the convent. It appeared he had done just that. ‘What do people say about the convent?’
The Jew laughed. ‘They say it must be the French. After all the man rescued a Frenchwoman and went off with French cavalry.’
So it was over, Hogan thought, all over. Sharpe had failed. But it had been a better death than hanging, he reflected.
‘So what happens now, Major?’
‘Now? We march. Either the French try to stop us or they don’t.’
‘They will.’
Hogan nodded. ‘In which case there’ll be a battle.’
‘Which you’ll win.’ Rodrigues smiled. ‘And if you do, Major, what then?’
‘We’ll pursue them to the frontier.’
‘And then?’
Hogan smiled. Rodrigues never asked for payment for information, at least not payment in gold. The Irishman tapped his map. ‘A new supply port. There.’
Rodrigues smiled. The information was worth a small fortune. He would have men at that port, and warehouses ready, before his competitors even knew that the British supplies no longer were being dragged up the long roads from Lisbon. ‘Thank you, Major.’ He stood.
Hogan saw Rodrigues to the door, safely past the sentries, and he leaned on the doorpost and watched the rain seethe in the light of the campfires. Sharpe dead? He had thought that before and been wrong. He stared into the eastern darkness, thinking of ghosts, knowing Sharpe to be dead, yet not believing it.
And in the morning, when the rain still fell and the wind felt more like winter in Ireland than summer in Spain, the army marched on. They marched willingly, going towards the battle that would end the march, marching towa
rds the city of golden spires; Vitoria.
‘You eat!’
Sharpe nodded. The girl spooned soup into his mouth; a thick, warm, tasty soup. ‘What is it?’
‘Horse. Now sit up! The doctor’s coming.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘You’re not. You’re lucky to be alive. Eat!’
His uniform hung against the wall, the uniform that had saved his life. Dozens of lone Frenchmen had been beaten to death in Burgos after the explosion, but Sharpe, just as the knife was about to cut his uniform away, had been recognised as an English officer. The men had not been certain. They had argued, some saying that the man’s overalls and boots were French, but other men were sure that the dark green jacket was British. The buttons, with their black crowns, decided the day. No Frenchman had crowns on his buttons, and so they had let Sharpe live.
The girl laughed at him. ‘Eat.’
‘I’m trying!’ Both hands were bandaged. He was bruised all over. His head was bandaged. ‘What day is it?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘What date?’
‘How do I know? Eat.’
This, he knew, was the house of the carpenter who had hit him so effectively with the mallet. The man was eager to make amends, had given Sharpe this room, had even sharpened the sword on a stone and propped it beside Sharpe’s bed. The girl was a housemaid, black-haired and plump, with a bright smile and a teasing manner. One of her eyes was blind, a white blankness where there should have been a pupil. ‘Eat!’
The doctor came, a gloomy man in a long, stained black coat. He bled Sharpe’s thigh. He had raised his eyebrows on his first visit, scarcely believing the scars on Sharpe’s body. Beyond the doctor, through the window, Sharpe could see the smoke still hazing the grey clouds above the castle. Rain was soft on the window. It seemed to have been raining ever since he had woken in this room. The doctor wiped the small cut and pulled the sheet down. ‘Another two days, Major Vaughn.’
‘I want to go now.’
The man shook his head. ‘You’re weak, Major. You lost much blood. The bruises.’ He shrugged. ‘Two days of Pedro’s food and you’ll be better.’
‘I need a horse.’
‘The French took them all.’ The doctor threw the cupful of blood into the fireplace and wiped the bowl on the skirts of his coat. ‘There may be a mule for sale tomorrow at the market.’
‘There must be a horse! They’re feeding me horsemeat soup!’
‘That horse died in the explosion.’ The doctor spat on his lancet and wiped it on his cuff. ‘I will come tomorrow if God wills it.’ He turned to go, but Sharpe called him back.
‘Señor?’
Sharpe grimaced as he tried to sit up on the bolster. ‘Did you ask about the Inquisitor, Doctor?’
‘I did, señor.’
‘So?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘His house is at Vitoria. There was a time when the family had land throughout Spain, but now?’ He shrugged and hefted his small bag. ‘Vitoria. That is all our priest knew. You will forgive me, Major?’
When he was alone Sharpe sat on the edge of the bed. He felt dizzy. He wondered how hard the blow on his head had been. It throbbed still and the lump was like a hen’s egg. He swore quietly. The rain fell.
He pulled on the linen shirt that he had worn ever since Helene had given it to him at Salamanca. There was fresh blood on the collar.
He put on the French overalls that he had taken from her brother. The rip in the bib had been made by Sharpe’s sword. The tear had been mended, but he could still see how he had twisted the great blade when Leroux fell.
His head hurt as he leaned down and tugged on the big French cavalry boots. He felt better with the boots on. He stood and stamped his feet into comfort. His legs were stiff. There was a vast black bruise on his left thigh.
The jacket felt good. He buttoned it from the crotch to his chin, forcing his bandaged hands to do the fiddly work. The fingers of his left hand were not wrapped and with them he picked up the sword. It jangled as he buckled the snake clasp. He had no shako. He had nothing now but the clothes he wore and the sword that hung at his side. He had no cloak, no razor, no tinder box, no telescope. He had a secret that could win the war for France that he must take to Wellington.
‘What are you doing?’ Consuela, the maid, stood in the doorway.
‘I’m going.’
‘You can’t! You’re weak as a kitten! Go on! To bed.‘
He shook his head stubbornly. ‘I’m going.’
They tried to stop him, a gaggle of women at the foot of the stairs shouting at him and fluttering like the nuns in the convent. He thanked them, pushed gently past them, and went into the yard of the house. The yard was filled with wood shavings. The rain was cold on his face.
‘You mustn’t go!’
‘I have to go.’
He had no horse so he would walk. It was hard at first, his bruised muscles refusing to make the stride easy. He crossed the great plaza, still smeared with the marks of the exploding French shells, past the cathedral that had been saved from the flames, and the townspeople watched him silently. He looked an odd figure, a soldier with a slashed head, black eyes, walking stiffly like a man going to his death. He had not been shaved this day and he thought for a moment of stopping at one of the barbers who waited for trade by their chairs in the street, then remembered he had no money.
He crossed the Arlanzon, seeing the water pitted by the rain, and already the water was cold where it had soaked through his uniform.
‘Señor! Señor!’
He turned. Consuela, the half-blind maid, was running after him. He stopped.
She pushed a package wrapped in oil-paper into his hands. ‘If you must go, Major, take this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Cold chicken. Cheese.’ She smiled. ‘Go with God.’
He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Consuela.’ He walked eastwards on the Great Road, following the French army that had long gone, walking to a war.
He stopped that afternoon in an orchard. He ate half of the chicken, and wrapped the rest of the food in the paper. Then, every muscle aching, he went to the stream that ran through the thick orchard grass. He knelt at its edge.
He used the fingers of his left hand to undo the bandage on his right. It came stickily away, the last tug hurting like fire and ripping the crust from the wound. He hissed with the sudden pain and thrust his hand into the water.
He flexed his fingers. He watched the blood dilute and go, wispy red, downstream. He spread his fingers wide, let the water flow into the cut, then took off the bandage that covered the wound made by the knife. The cut was on the ball of his left hand. It too bled into the water. He left his hands in the stream till they were numb.
He unwrapped the bandage from his head and dipped his skull into the water, holding his breath to let the stream flow about his hair. He drank. He took his head out, flicked the wet hair back with a jerk, and saw the horsemen.
He stayed still. He was on all fours. The horsemen were on the Great Road. hunched beneath their cloaks against the rain. They were Partisans and they rode to battle. Sharpe could see corks stuck in their musket muzzles, see the rags wrapped about the locks, see the sabres protruding from the wet cloaks.
He could have called out, he could have shouted for help and asked for a horse, but he did not. The men were fifty yards away, visible through the twisting trunks of the stunted apple trees, and Sharpe had seen their leader. He had seen the black beard that grew up to the high cheekbones, the small eyes, the broad blade of the poleaxe on the man’s shoulder. It was El Matarife. Sharpe stayed rock still as they passed, then settled back on his haunches.
El Matarife was following the French, hoping to be present when the armies met, and El Matarife was now between Sharpe and his goal.
He stayed by the stream and the rain fell on him as he thought what to do. He could only press on, he decided, and when he had waited long enough for the Partisans to be
well out of sight, he stood, groaned with pain, and went back to the muddy road.
He walked. He seemed alone on the road. The fields either side still showed the damage caused by the trampling French army. Sharpe walked on the crushed crops because they gave firmer footing than the slick, muddy road.
He went through small villages, always checking first that no horsemen lingered at a wine house. By dusk he was in a wide land, no houses or horsemen in sight, with the road stretching damp before him towards the darkening east. The rain blocked his view of the hills that he knew should be on the horizon.
He was looking for shelter, hoping for a farm or, at the least, a bush to keep the worst of the rain from him. There was nothing. He walked on, trying to force his pace to the fast Rifleman’s march, persuading himself that by ignoring the pain it would go away. His feet squelched in his boots and rain trickled into his eyes.
He heard a horse and turned to see a single horseman a hundred yards behind him. He cursed himself for not looking before, though there would have been nowhere to hide in this bare land even with ten minutes more warning. It was possible, he knew, that the man was simply a farmer on his way home, but the horse was bigger and stronger than a farmer’s mount. Sharpe suspected it was one of El Matarife’s men, left behind for some reason on the road.
Sharpe gripped his sword-handle. His right hand was still stiff because of the gouging of the brass telescope tube. He saw the horseman spur into a trot, then the man waved, and suddenly Sharpe was laughing and stumbling back down the road. ‘Angel! Angel!’
The boy was laughing. He jumped from Carbine’s back and put his arms round Sharpe. ‘Major!’ He was slapping Sharpe’s back. ‘You’re here!’
‘Where did you come from?’
‘Your face!’ Angel took off his cloak and insisted on putting it round Sharpe’s shoulders.