The characters of Richard Sharpe, Sergeant Harper et al. belong, of course, to their creator, Bernard Cornwell, but hopefully he won't mind that I've borrowed his Rifleman and sent him off on dangerous mission.
SHARPE'S HAZARD
Richard Sharpe and the capture of BenaventoChapter 1
"If you've come to find out when that poor man will be fit to face French guns again, I can tell you that it'll be when I say he's fit and not before."
Major Richard Sharpe whipped round, startled. He had entered the makeshift sick room soundlessly, intending to make his way to where Robbins, the most recent recruit to the Rifles was lying white-faced and sweating on a blanket in the corner, until the peremptory female voice stopped him in his tracks.
He had been vaguely aware of the woman as he surveyed the inhabitants of the dimly lit room - the usual desperate assortment of wounded and dying, sprawled across flea-infested palliasses, tended more in hope than expectation by harassed army surgeons - and had taken her for the wife of one of the men, come to see if a new means of support would be required shortly for herself and the customary offspring.
But now the woman was standing in front of him, her narrowed blue eyes almost level with his own; the combination of hands on hips and cocked head giving her the air of an irate bantam.
Sharpe took an involuntary step back. "I was told I should speak to Doctor Burnett."
Even in his weakened state, Robbins managed a warning glance. The woman intercepted the look and turned to Sharpe with what might charitably have been termed a smile.
"That would be me," she said, raising a hand to stall any protest, had Sharpe been unwise enough to make one. "And yes, I do realise I'm not a man. Nor am I a 'proper' doctor. I am, however, the person you should speak to regarding the progress of your Mr. Robbins."
Robbins lifted a sympathetic eyebrow and shrugged. Both actions appeared to consume the last of his strength and he subsided onto the thin straw mattress with a groan.
Helen Burnett eyed Sharpe with suspicion, waiting to see which of the two stock reactions the tall Rifleman would favour.
Would it be the contemptuous sniff with neck craning over her shoulder in an attempt to locate her father for a man-to-man discussion? Or might he perhaps opt for the supercilious enquiry into her gender's suitability for exposure to copious amounts of blood and gore?
"My apologies, ma'am. I came to see how Robbins was getting along. It was some time before he could be removed from the field, and I understand he lost a good deal of blood."
The Doctor blinked in surprise. This mysterious Major had demonstrated an unexpected third way; civility, plain and simple. She twitched the scrap of blanket to cover Robbins feet, mentally allowing the tall, dark-haired Rifleman to rise in her estimation, at least for the time being.
"He is recovering, as you see. You may question him yourself, but don't be all day about it. This is an infirmary, not a tavern. If you should wish to toast your man's good fortune, I believe the scouts have discovered several barrels of brandy in the cellar."
Sharpe hunkered down beside Robbins, watching Doctor Burnett's retreating back, before turning his attention to the blood-soaked bandages that bound Robbins' left leg. "You'll be back on your feet in a day or two, then?"
"We've all to make a fast recovery, or we'll never hear the end of it." Robbins offered a weak smile.
Sharpe squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. "Good man."
Sergeant Patrick Harper was taking advantage of the afternoon sun, and the sturdy fortifications of the Castillo de Benavento by snoozing atop the fortress's outer defences, while Major Michael Hogan, Lord Wellington's Chief Engineer, leant against the stonework, rummaging in his coat pocket for an elusive tin of snuff.
Sharpe crossed the rough patch of grass between the castle keep and the curtain wall to join them.
"How is the young fella, then?" Harper enquired, opening one eye.
Sharpe shrugged. "Doctor Burnett says we can have him back the day after tomorrow..."
"...And not before!" Hogan finished for him.
"Oh. You've met her then?"
"No," Hogan gave a satisfied grunt as the snuffbox finally gave up its hiding place, "but the lady's reputation travels ahead of her."
"A regular martinet, so she is," Harper chimed in, struggling to sit up.
"A holy terror to the man who's sound in wind and limb, but when she's dug an ounce of lead out of your belly, I'm told she's the epitome of kindness," Hogan continued.
"You couldn't be in better hands if the Madonna herself was taking care of you." Harper smiled beatifically.
Sharpe eyed both men doubtfully, having some difficulty in associating the excavation of a bullet from a man's abdominal cavity with tenderness on the part of Doctor Burnett.
"As far as I'm concerned, Doctor Burnett is just another good reason for dodging a French bullet, apart from the usual one of wanting to stay alive," he responded sourly.
Harper flicked Sharpe a knowing glance. The Major had that look in his eye again; the belligerent outburst merely covering fire.
"I take it there is a proper doctor somewhere around?" Sharpe asked, looking toward Hogan.
"Now, now, Richard, don't be so disparaging of young Helen's efforts. Her father's taught her everything he knows." Hogan paused to give vent to a prodigious snuff-induced sneeze. "Doctor Baxter, George. You'd have seen him at the main gate earlier on. Little fellow."
Sharpe recalled an older man, moving among the wounded from the previous morning's skirmish, dispatching them either to the infirmary, the castle's great hall, or to 'God's waiting room', the undercroft, depending on the severity and likely outcome of their injuries. He nodded before asking casually, "Is there a Mr. Burnett?"
Harper affected an expression of supreme indifference to his commanding officer's gruff enquiry, and looked off toward the distant hills.
Hogan pondered the question while mopping at his nose and streaming eyes with a large blue handkerchief that bore the indelible marks of blasting powder. "Nobody knows, Richard. Nobody knows."
Having cleared his sinuses for the coming week, Hogan detached himself from the wall to peer up at the castle keep. "Now here's a puzzle for you, my lads. Why would the wily French leave a perfectly good castle like this one unattended, eh?"
"Perhaps Doctor Burnett ordered them to leave," Sharpe offered.
Ignoring the suggestion, Hogan paced the grass, warming to his theme. "After all, it commands a fine view of the river in both directions. It's built on the highest point for miles around. There's no chance of anyone sneaking up on us without our knowing, is there? And you couldn't find a better example of Moorish architecture if you'd chosen it from a pattern book. It's a mystery, that's what it is." After one further sneeze, the Engineer sauntered off to study the fortifications at closer quarters.
Harper eyed Sharpe slyly. "It'd take a brave man to make a play for that lady doctor."
Sharpe glared at him. "Well, don't look at me! I'm not looking to get my head bitten off again. I can get that from Wellington."
"Now you can tell me I'm wrong, sir," Harper began. He paused to allow Sharpe a derisive snort, before ploughing on doggedly. "Because I know you're as like as the next man to be smitten by some dainty piece wringing her hands by the roadside, but when all's said and done, you're the sort who enjoys a challenge, so you are." The Sergeant shrugged. "Personally, I like my women to have a little more meat on their bones, but there's no accounting for taste."
"Shut up, Harper!" Sharpe snapped. He straightened, tugging irritably at his jacket and stalked off after Major Hogan.
"You don't fancy yourself as Saint George this time, then?" Harper called after him.
Sharpe stopped, and then swung around to regard the grinning Irishman with a stony expression. "Doctor Burnett is not a damsel in distress." He turned away, adding under his breath "More like the bloody dragon."
Hogan, now taxing the load-bearing capabilities of a different section of the Castillo's ramparts, watched as Sharpe leant into the firestep to train his telescope on the surrounding forest, the winding river and finally the flattened grass on the hillside, bleached and burned after weeks of blazing sunshine.
"It's not a mystery at all," Sharpe declared finally, putting away the telescope and turning to Hogan.
"Ah, you've seen through my little attempt at deception, Richard. I just wanted to see whether you were paying attention back there. Go on, then. What's wrong with this place?"
Sharpe jerked a thumb toward the dense forest that crowded the riverbank. "It's all these bloody trees. They're blocking our view of the village and most of the river approach. If the French were to overrun the garrison, they'd be up this path and hammering at the gate before we knew it."
"And there you have it, Richard. No flies on you, eh?" Shading his eyes against the sun, Hogan leaned back to study the castle keep, which rose majestically behind them. "Will you look at the workmanship here? Eight hundred years old if it's a day, but you'd think it had been built last week."
Hogan dropped his hand and turned to survey the land below. "Of course, if it had been built last week, that damn great forest wouldn't be there. Your Moorish commanding officer would have insisted on an uninterrupted view from here to the Bay of Biscay."
"So why didn't Colonel Blake insist on it?" Sharpe asked dutifully.
While it was likely that Hogan's opinion of the Colonel's tactical capabilities mirrored his own, Sharpe knew that it was best to allow the Engineer to expound his theories.
"Because he's been sleeping on feather beds for too long, Richard, and it's addled his brain. Think yourself lucky you've been bedding down on straw all these years."
Sharpe regarded Hogan with a jaundiced eye. Straw had been an infrequent luxury throughout this campaign. More often than not, it had been the bare, hard ground for himself and his men.
Ignorant of the look, Hogan continued. "And also because he has men like you and me to do his thinking for him. Which is why I've suggested that a patrol should run down to the village, just to see what's what. Eight men. Two officers. That should do it, eh, Richard?"
Sharpe nodded, acknowledging the unspoken order.
"Brief, but bloody." That had been Colonel Blake's assessment of the previous day's encounter, although Sharpe could take issue with him over the former adjective. Likely the skirmish had seemed so to an officer on horseback, observing the action from a safe distance. To an infantryman, hacking and slashing his way through the heaving mass of bodies, blinded by smoke and deafened by musketry, it had been an unending hell on earth.
Blake had been right about it being bloody though, Sharpe thought. Massena's troops had fought like demons. Their Emperor's displeasure at being thwarted at Torre Vedras had no doubt filtered down through the ranks until it reached the infantry, where, having nowhere else to go, it had vented itself on Rifleman and Redcoat alike.
Determined to resist being driven back across the Spanish border into their homeland, the battered French troops had nevertheless engaged the triumphant English forces at every opportunity, struggling to secure every bridge, every town, every fortification.
Except for this one. Il Castillo de Benavento.
Colonel Blake had dispatched a scouting party to discover if the rumours of the French having abandoned the castle were true. Word had come back; it was so. At this, Blake had ridden, and the shattered remains of his troops had climbed wearily to the top of the hill. Blake, as Hogan had surmised, to seek out a feather bed for himself and the lissom twin sisters, recently acquired in Lisbon; the men to whatever comfort they could find among the assortment of storerooms in the vast courtyard.
Sharpe observed the fortress now, its daunting sandstone walls glowing pale gold in the early morning sun. He lowered his gaze and saw an unfamiliar figure approaching. He got to his feet as the man drew nearer and the knot of men behind him, which included Harper and Harris, did likewise.
The beige facings on the newcomer's jacket marked him as belonging to the Kent regiment, two dozen of whose members now occupied the floor of the great hall, awaiting the attention of the overworked surgeons.
"Major Hewlin. Third Regiment of Foot. I'm at your disposal, Major Sharpe."
Sharpe returned the slight bow offered by Hewlin. "I must thank you for your assistance yesterday, Major. Your men helped us out of a tight spot."
"All part of the service," Hewlin replied with a smile.
"Ah, you can always rely on the solid support of the Buffs, so you can."
Hewlin acknowledged Harper's compliment with another bow.
He possessed, Sharpe noticed, the easy, confident manner of the moneyed, although he had to admit that this self-assurance had served the Major well during the battle on the banks of the Esla when it seemed as if they might be overwhelmed by the ferocity of the French attack. Hewlin had fearlessly led by example and in doing so earned Sharpe's grudging respect.
"Hugh Lynn. You're Welsh, then? You don't sound Welsh," Sharpe said, regarding Hewlin with a frown.
Hewlin laughed indulgently, as if well used to this kind of misunderstanding. "Oh, no. Hewlin's my last name. First name's John."
Hewlin turned to gesture toward the castle's main gate, the massive double doors of some dark wood, studded with a complicated pattern of iron rivets. "With your permission, Major, best we make a start. I'm told it's going to be another hot one."
Sharpe nodded his assent and the patrol moved off.
Sharpe stood on a ridge, surveying the landscape, a not entirely necessary exercise, but one that allowed him and the rest of the men to stop and catch their breath. The rolling countryside, viewed from the castle, suggested an easy descent into the village, but the stony ground and tangle of vegetation had had them stumbling over jagged outcrops of rock and slipping on the parched grass.
One of the younger men was continuing to forge ahead determinedly. Sharpe observed his progress, recognising him as Simpson. He sighed. The boy really should learn to take a rest when it was offered. Other officers were known to drive their men into the ground without a second thought. Simpson suddenly yelped and sprawled headlong. Harper trotted after him, followed by Major Hewlin.
"Sure-footed as a mountain goat, eh, Simpson?" Harper shook his head, grinning as he hauled the boy to his feet. "Rabbit hole," he declared, looking toward Sharpe.
"Anything broken?" Sharpe enquired as he made his way across the uneven ground to join them. He halted and eyed the hapless Simpson with scant sympathy. Simpson balanced precariously on one leg, flexing the ankle and flushing with embarrassment. Hewlin bent to inspect the damage. "No, he'll live."
"All right, let's get a move on." Sharpe beckoned impatiently to the men.
"Just a minute! I think you dropped something, Major."
Sharpe automatically checked over his kit, but found nothing amiss. He turned around, puzzled, and then realised that Lieutenant Jackson, recently promoted and transferred to the Company, was addressing Hewlin.
Jackson darted forward and pounced on a small shiny object, half-hidden in the long grass. Sharpe watched as Jackson retrieved it, expecting him to return it to Hewlin immediately. But oddly, Jackson hesitated, turning the piece over in his palm, his eyes flickering across its gleaming surface.
Sharpe glanced toward Harper questioningly, but Jackson's hesitation was brief and had obviously passed unremarked by the others. When he returned his attention to Hewlin, the Major was thanking Jackson profusely and about to pocket the object, a tiny snuffbox.
"Pretty thing, that," Harper noted, appreciatively. "Family heirloom, is it?"
Hewlin looked down at the box in surprise, as if noticing the finely enamelled lid for the first time. "What? Oh, no. Spoils of war. You come across a nice little piece like this every now and then, don't you?"
Sharpe smiled at the sight of Harper's raised eyebrow. He and his Sergeant had tended to concentrate on replacing their wardrobe from among the French dead, rather than seeking out expensive knick-knacks. Sharpe looked down at his hardwearing cavalry trousers. They had seen better days certainly, but they were a good fit, despite having been made for another man. A member of Napoleon's Imperial Guard, no less, summarily despatched by Sergeant Harper at Santiago de Compostela.
Sharpe fell into step beside Hewlin as they continued their descent.
"So, where're you from?"
"Um... Truro, originally," Hewlin replied.
Harris, walking a short distance in front, overheard, and called over his shoulder. "I don't suppose you ran across... oh... what was his name? He was with the 32nd at Salamanca..." He looked around, seeking out fellow Rifleman, Dobbs.
"Pencarrow," Dobbs supplied obligingly. "Major Pencarrow."
"Yes, that's the man. Pencarrow. You didn't get the chance to chew the fat with a fellow Cornishman?"
Hewlin hesitated. "No, the name isn't familiar. But I think I'd have been a disappointment to him. My family moved away when I was quite young. I can barely remember the place."
"Where did you go?" Sharpe asked.
Hewlin frowned and looked away before answering. "Further... south."
Harper eyed Hewlin, surprised. "Shouldn't think you could go much further south in Cornwall without getting your feet wet."
"I meant further in the South... of England. My mother, God rest her, must have had gypsy blood. She moved us around quite a bit. As long as she was within sight of the sea, she was happy. We finally settled in Dover, hence the... er..." Hewlin trailed off, indicating the buff facings on his jacket.
Sharpe had allowed the conversation to continue without him, concentrating instead on the possibility of ambush as they neared the dense forest that covered the steep slope leading down to the river. He signalled to the men to proceed with caution.
Sharpe could feel rivulets of sweat trickling between his shoulder blades and cooling on his skin. A sixth sense told him that the chill he was experiencing could not be attributed solely to the lower temperature down here among the trees.
He glanced toward Harper who struggled gamely over the gnarled roots that lay in wait for the unwary, twisting across their path like so many ancient fingers grappling for purchase in the dusty earth. Sunlight bounced and sparkled on the river, visible in slivers through the trunks of pine trees, and he could hear the sound of water as it rushed gurgling over stones in the shallows.
Two days ago, these same quiet banks had been overrun with British and French infantry. Intelligence reports had suggested that Napoleon's troops were far away on the other side of the Esla, that they had no interest in the village or its castle, but as the men of the South Essex neared the bridge, the French had swarmed down the hillside on the opposite bank, intent on wiping out this division of Wellington's army.
Sharpe recalled the fight now as a confused barrage of images: dense gunsmoke hanging in the air, the hoarse shouts of the advancing troops, a French cavalry officer, wheeling his mount in the river. He remembered being grabbed by Harper and shoved face down in the water so that the sword intended to slice through his neck, whistled harmlessly past his ear. He had staggered to his feet, his uniform heavy and clinging, and reached up to drag the officer from his saddle, ripping and slashing with his sword until the river foamed with blood.
On this bright morning there were few reminders of the ferocious battle. The wooden bridge had borne the brunt of the attack; its splintered remains carried a hundred yards downstream. The dead and wounded from both sides had been recovered. Sharpe noticed a broken bayonet, wedged between two boulders on the riverbank, a pool of congealed blood on the ground beneath it.
Harper appeared beside him and touched his shoulder, gesturing toward the shadows in the pine forest. "I think we have company, sir."
Sharpe signalled to the men, who immediately paired off and fanned out to move stealthily through the trees. He noted that Hewlin had crossed to join Simpson, while Jackson was providing cover for Harris.
Sharpe was about to follow Harper, but something about Jackson's behaviour made him hesitate. Incredibly the man appeared to be stalking Hewlin. Sharpe blinked and looked away, rubbing his forehead. The humidity had left him light-headed. He must have imagined it.
Still puzzling, he followed Jackson's progress as they moved over the rough ground, but saw nothing further in the other man's movements that he could term strange. Jackson's attention seemed concentrated wholly on the danger ahead, sensed, but as yet unseen.
Sharpe ducked as a bullet whipped past his ear. Harris already had his rifle to his shoulder, tracking a flutter of blue cloth as the sniper scrambled away through the bushes. More shots rang out. The patrol returned fire.
Harper kept pace with Sharpe as they raced for the cover of a rocky outcrop. Slamming into it, keeping low, Sharpe asked "How many, Pat?" Harper shrugged. "Two, maybe three."
Sharpe risked a glance over the top of the rock. "What d'you reckon? Deserters?" Spotting movement among the trees, Harper brought up his rifle and fired. He nodded in satisfaction as his shot was rewarded with a yell and the sight of a French soldier crashing through the undergrowth. The man tumbled down the slope and came to rest in a shallow ditch.
Sharpe and Harper approached with caution, the Irishman leaning in to check for any sign of life. "I think this one was still taking whatever passes for the King's shilling in Boney's army." Harper nudged the soldier's uniform jacket with the toe of his boot, indicating the rows of gleaming brass buttons. "Spit and polish is the first thing to go when a man's out for himself."
Both men ducked as more gunfire was exchanged above their heads. Sharpe looked around to see Hewlin caught by a bullet, the force of the shot jerking him backward into a tree. The Major glanced at his right hand, now bright with blood and struggled to reload his rifle with his left. But Sharpe noticed that Hewlin was looking not in the direction of the enemy attack, but behind him, where Jackson and Harris had taken cover.
Simpson brought down a second sniper as the patrol closed in on the remaining attackers. When a third French soldier was lying dead in the undergrowth, Sharpe and the men regrouped.
Sharpe scanned the clearing. "Where's Jackson?"
"He was right behind me," Harris replied, looking around.
Harper nodded to where a figure lay crumpled at the base of a pine tree. Jackson was doubled over, hands pressed tight against his stomach. Sharpe knelt beside him, swiftly assessing the damage, then stood and walked away a few paces to consult with Harper.
The Irishman could tell from Sharpe's backward glance toward the castle that he was calculating the time and distance between Jackson and medical assistance.
"He won't make it, sir."
"We don't know that." Sharpe looked over at Jackson.
Major Hewlin was beside him now, leaning in, clasping the wounded man's shoulder, doubtless offering the usual platitudes, his own injury forgotten.
"Yes, we do."
"So, what now?"
Harper regarded Sharpe levelly. "We get him back, sir."