FOUR
"Harper!" Sharpe roared, crouching by his pack in disgust.
"Yes sir!" Harper replied, hurrying over from the other side of the road. He and the Chosen Men had been relieving themselves away from the makeshift camp.
"What the bloody hell's gone on here?" Sharpe demanded. Harper looked around. Packs and belongings had been rifled through and dumped in disarray. "I were gone less than five minutes, Pat, and look at it!" he snapped.
"Jesus, sir, I have no idea," he said, confused. "Is anything missing, sir?" he asked, wondering over Sharpe's sudden anger. He had woken up to hot, fresh tea and had seemed much more cheerful.
"Personal stuff. Letters," he admitted icily, and Harper let his mouth round into a silent 'o' before nodding to himself. Letters from Miss Marjorie, he realised.
"Anything else, sir?" he asked. Sharpe thought about it.
"No. Me flask and telescope are still there," he said, then looked at Harper directly. "Get the men back, and them South Essex. Get every pack turned out."
"Surely you don't think –"
"I want to see what else is missing, Pat. Something's not right here," he breathed, crouching down again to do up his pack securely. Harper nodded and turned away.
"Richard?" Hardwick asked, appearing from the side, carrying his open bag. He stopped and looked around, taking in the sight of the other packs emptied out. "Oh, I say," he said quietly to himself.
"Anything missing, James?" he asked.
"Not that I can see. Strange, eh?" he said to himself.
"Not really," Sharpe realised suddenly, then stood abruptly and ran through the bushes to the horses. "Bloody hell!" he spat, and Hardwick followed quickly.
"What?" he demanded, alert. Sharpe waved a hand at the tied horse.
"Caron and that girl – they've gone," he snarled.
"What? Well, there we go – perhaps they're in it together," he shrugged, and Sharpe turned on him.
"They've gone to Venganza with my letters and your horse," he pointed out. Hardwick looked at the single remaining horse.
"Good Lord! What complete – what's the word, Richard?" he asked angrily.
"Bastards?" Sharpe replied, as Harper caught them up.
"Oh, well, I wouldn't use that kind of –" Hardwick began.
"The South Essex lads, sir," Harper interrupted breathlessly, and Sharpe looked at him.
"Well? Gone too, are they?" he demanded.
"Pity they're not, sir. They're all dead, sir, every man jack of them," he said, shaking his head.
"What? How?" Hardwick demanded.
"Throats slit sir, clean as a surgeon's blade," he said.
"Well damn it all! If that's not sheer impudence!" he shouted, enraged. "To kill ten good fighting men to cover your escape! That's just – just – sheer bloody wickedness!" he shouted. He stopped short, surprised. "Oh my," he said hastily, then swallowed and looked at Sharpe. "I do apologise, Richard. Such language," he said fearfully, shaking his head and walking away. Harper watched him go. He turned to Sharpe.
"What now sir?" he asked eagerly. Sharpe looked at him.
"We get to Venganza. We find the pair of 'em," he breathed, and Harper nodded, grinning maliciously. "Then we get 'em to tell us everything they know about that damned book."
"Oh. But that Mr Caron sir, he looked a frightful tight-lipped sort, sir," he said doubtfully.
"Oh aye," he snapped scornfully, "one swift boot to the nadgers and he'll be giving me that girl's home address."
Harper grinned and turned away to round up the Chosen Men.
The nine men and one horse arrived at the gates of Venganza the next evening. That was as much success as they would have.
"Lieutenant Colonel Hardwick!" shouted a thin, nasal rasp of a commanding tone. The men stopped just shy of the gates and looked up. A small, rotund man was watching from the ramparts of the high stone wall, sliding a telescope shut. "We were told you were coming!" he added. They took in his red coat, shiny epaulettes and cocked hat. Sharpe sighed and Hardwick looked at him.
"Well. Seems your reign and mine have come to an end, old man," he said cheerfully, then removed his own hat and looked up. "Yes, sir!" he called up. "May we trouble you for entrance?"
"Of course!" the man called. He disappeared as shouts were heard from inside the tall wooden gates. After a few minutes the gates creaked and were reluctantly coaxed open from inside. Sharpe and Hardwick looked at each other, then began to walk inside.
They found themselves in a large courtyard, surrounded by redcoats with loaded muskets at the ready. There seemed to be hundreds of them. Sharpe and Harper took careful note of the buttons on the jackets.
"The 42nd!" Harper whispered, surprised. Sharpe straightened unconsciously as the small man reappeared, marching over to Hardwick and stopping. He saluted abruptly, ignoring everyone else.
"Lieutenant Colonel Hardwick," he said, a small smile on his round face. "The General was good enough to send word of your arrival," he added. Hardwick nodded.
"I must beg your forgiveness sir, for I was not informed you were here," he said graciously. The man waved a hand.
"Oh tosh, don't think about it. We are the 42nd Regiment sir, Colonel Edward Adams commanding," he said. Hardwick saluted neatly.
"Sir," he said.
"No need, sir, no need," he said.
"This is M-"
"Yes, yes, you can bring your partisans inside if you so wish," he said dismissively, turning to go.
"Major Sharpe, sir, of the South Essex," Sharpe said loudly. The Colonel stopped short.
"South Essex, you say? Well what's that get-up, man?" he demanded rudely, staring at him. "Someone steal your uniform?"
Sharpe bristled and opened his mouth, but Hardwick stepped into their line of sight and smiled.
"Formerly of the 95th Rifles, sir," he said helpfully. "Green Jackets, and all that?" he prompted.
"Oh, oh yes, I see," Adams said, looking round Sharpe to the Chosen Men. "And who are they? Drummers? Bit dirty," he tutted.
"The Chosen Men, sir," Sharpe said angrily.
"Chosen? For what?" he demanded, looking at Sharpe as though he'd just that moment scraped him from the underside of his boot.
"Riflemen, sir," Sharpe said hotly. Adams tutted again, looking skyward.
"Another useless dalliance by his lordship, no doubt," he sighed, turning and walking off.
Sharpe opened his mouth but Harper gripped his elbow suddenly. He ran a slow tongue over his upper lip, controlling the desire to snatch his rifle from his shoulder and demonstrate just how useless it wasn't. He huffed and Harper let go of his arm, stepping back again. Hardwick looked back at Sharpe apologetically, then at the Colonel.
"Sir?" he asked, catching up with him. Sharpe and Hardwick walked toward the stone steps, following the Colonel. He turned and looked at Hardwick. "Why are you here, sir? We've been on the road a few days, I'm afraid I'm somewhat out of the loop," he said helplessly.
"Ah. Well, you see -." The Colonel stopped when he realised Sharpe could hear as well. He pulled on Hardwick's arm to walk with him, but Sharpe kept pace on the outside of Hardwick. "Do you hunt, Hardwick?" he asked loudly, stopping. Hardwick looked at him.
"Oh, well, yes sir, as a matter of fact I do, sir," he said, confused.
"Hounds? Which group?" he asked, looking at Sharpe surreptitiously. Hardwick thought for a second.
"The green swatch," he added, confused. Adams grinned.
"Ah, very good. Just so." He paused and looked at Sharpe. "And you? Hunt, do you?" he asked. Sharpe looked at him.
"Just the French, sir," he bit out, highly annoyed. Adams looked vindicated.
"Ah. Just as well. Would probably get mistaken for a hound," he said pointedly. Sharpe took a step across them but Hardwick grabbed him.
"Richard," he said warningly. "I'm sure he's referring to the green," he said helpfully. Sharpe let his weight backwards, then stepped back again. Slowly.
"I'm sure, sir," he breathed, slapping Adams with a look whose heat would have shamed any Spanish summer day. Adams swallowed hastily and then flapped his hands at him.
"Anyway, get your men seen to, Mister…?"
"Major. Major Sharpe. Sir," he said stonily. Adams shrugged.
"Whatever. Off you go, there's a good chap," he said carelessly. Hardwick just looked at Adams, the disgust plainly evident on his face. Sharpe's lips thinned and his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He turned on his heel and marched off, to rejoin the Green Jackets milling around the courtyard.
"I say, bit rough, what?" Hardwick said gingerly.
"Oh tosh. He's just a grunt under that pathetic excuse for a uniform. Shouldn't be allowed," he said, shivering suddenly, "just shouldn't be allowed. Men like him should be put to work digging, not wearing an officer's sword."
"So, what are you doing here, sir?" Hardwick asked, hoping to change the subject. Adams smiled suddenly, as if everything else were forgotten.
"Oh, that's right, you haven't heard," he said cheerfully. "We're waiting for the French to storm us, Colonel. They should be here in… oh, day after tomorrow, I think," he said.
"Storm? Here?" Hardwick asked, shocked. Adams looked at him.
"Is that a problem, Colonel?" he asked.
"Well, it is a bit of bad luck, really. We were hoping to collect something and then be on our way. We must return it to the General, you see," he said apologetically. Adams nodded.
"Ah. Well perhaps you'll have time to fetch it and be off before the French arrive, eh?" he asked, patting him on the back. "Perhaps you could send that rabble back with it, and stay here for the fun? It's going to be a splendid how-do-you-do, Colonel, a splendid how-do-you-do," he said, grinning. "They've got cannon, you see. They're going to try and breach the wall and then storm through it, probably with one of their own Forlorn Hopes, or whatever the French call it. All we have to do is stop them. It's going to be a glorious fight, I can tell you," he said.
Hardwick looked at him. He's completely mad, he realised. "Oh well, sounds jolly exciting," he said out loud. Adams clapped him on the back and turned him toward the steps.
"I knew you'd fit right in," he said proudly.
"And that's the size of it, Richard," Hardwick said quietly. They were standing by the stone steps to the courtyard, Hardwick enjoying a rather expensive looking cigar. Sharpe was leaning against the wall, his rifle stood next to him. His hands leaned on the barrel eye, leaning it from side to side slowly as he thought about the day's events.
"Bugger him," he said vindictively. "He's not getting in me way, Colonel or no," he added. "I've orders from Wellington himself, and that little prick's not going to stop me."
"I daresay he'll try, Richard. He doesn't seem to like you," he said apologetically.
"That's alright, I can't stand him neither," he replied. There was a long pause. "So you and the Chosen Men are to join in this redoubt."
"Sorry, old chap, had no say. He's my commanding officer, you know," he said miserably. "You know, I think now would be a good time for me to retire to England," he said thoughtfully, then puffed on the cigar slowly. "I could just do with six months of rolling green hills and nothing but hunting and shooting for sport."
Sharpe looked at him. "Well go on then. You've a choice, James, I haven't. Get yourself back to England and marry that bird yer dad picked out for you," he said dismissively. James grinned.
"I will not. I'll go back to England and find a girl who likes hunting and shooting, same as me," he smiled. Sharpe snorted in amusement. "She'll ride in the woods with me, and read with me, and help me fix rabbit snares. She'll be handsome and capable, you'll see," he grinned. Sharpe's smile faded.
"I knew a girl like that once," he admitted quietly. Hardwick let his smile drop too. He thought about it.
"The girl in that despatch?" he asked gingerly.
"Aye."
"I see. Those letters that went missing from your pack… From her, were they?" he asked.
"Aye."
"I see. Well then old boy, I should say I'm quite hoping I never have to read such a report about any girl I like the look of. And then I'll say goodnight, and tell you that Colonel Adams has asked me to tell you to see him in the morning," he said, yawning. Sharpe looked at him. "It really is too bad, dear boy, I'm dreadfully sorry for you." He patted Sharpe's shoulder once. Sharpe nodded to him and he turned and walked away.
Sharpe looked out through the pitch, wondering if he'd bother sleeping. If he did it would just be fitful, short napping again. He toyed with the idea of standing there all night, enjoying the peaceful courtyard, with no noise or disturbance. He might have been there a long time, thinking these thoughts; he had no way of knowing. He sighed, realised he really should get some rest, and lifted his hand to rub his eye.
Something moved in the far corner of the courtyard and he froze, staring. He tried to make it out. It moved again and he used the movement to make out the form as it slid across the far wall and toward the steps. It slid ever closer to him, and he rested the rifle to lean against the wall silently, crouching further into the shadows thrown by the steps.
The figure swept over and put a foot on the steps. Sharpe waited until they were near the top, and he heard the door swing open. He leapt out and round, taking the steps two at a time. He flung himself through the door still on its back-swing, and grabbed at the figure.
He wrenched them back and against the inside wall, snatching the hood away.
"Well, well, well," he breathed into the face of Miss Schofield. "Are you going to tell me who you really are now? And why you took me letters?" he demanded. She struggled fiercely, but he slammed her shoulder back against the wall. She gasped, shocked, and froze for a long moment. She swallowed slowly, recovering her composure.
She looked at him from a mere four inches, studying his emerald eyes coldly. "Oh believe me Major, I yearned to tell you who I really was – that first night in the army camp. But I couldn't give the entire game away, now could I?"
"What game?" he demanded roughly. She smiled, despite the definite malice in his scowl.
"That's for me to know and you to find out. My name might clear it up," she snapped. "Charlotte. Charlotte Berry," she hissed. He just stared at her.
"Is that supposed to mean summat to me?" he demanded angrily.
"You arrogant bastard!" she screamed into his face. He lifted his other hand and kept her shoulders pinned to the wall. "You killed my brother! Lieutenant Berry, of the South Essex! I've waited this long to find you, you murdering gutter-snipe, and now I'll get my revenge!"
"Maybe I'll just kill you here and now and be done with it," Sharpe seethed. She laughed in his face.
"You can't. You're such a good man, Richard Sharpe, or so they all say!"
He pushed on her shoulders roughly and she bumped against the wall. "What do you want?" he snapped.
"I want what you want, Major – the book," she admitted.
"And you think pilfering some useless letters from me bag's going to make me give it to you?" he demanded. "I don't even know where it is!"
"No, you won't give it to me for the letters. But maybe for this," she said, lifting a hand slowly. In it was a pale pink scarf, exactly as one he remembered so well. He grabbed it and stepped back, watching her cautiously. He ran his thumb over the silk, knowing whose it was by the slight smell of lavender that drifted up to shock him.
"A scarf?" he demanded, covering his fear. "Just a scarf? Yer off yer head," he snapped dismissively. She sneered.
"Oh no, Major, I don't mean to torture you with a scarf," she grinned, and he swallowed. "The owner of that scarf is very much alive, Major. She hasn't mentioned you, but then, it's not easy with one just like it tied over her mouth," she grinned. He moved and in one sudden, fluid movement had caught her by the throat.
"Where is she?" he breathed. Her fingers dug at the wall desperately, her eyes staring at him in surprise.
"Where I can – keep an eye on her," she rasped. "If anything happens to me, she dies," she managed, and he let his fingers ease just a tad. She breathed more easily. "If you don't give me that book, she dies," she added.
He eyed her dangerously. "If you so much as touch –"
"Do we have a deal?" she snapped. "Or shall I have her finger cut off to convince you? It'd be damned hard to write such spirited letters with only four digits," she hissed.
"I'll get you the book. You'll let her go, safe and sound. Or I'll find you and you can burn in hell with yer brother," he snarled. She felt his fingers tightening slowly. She clawed at them, smiling despite the difficulty.
"Deal." She yanked on his fingers suddenly. She coupled the movement with her knee, driving it into his groin with as much angry strength as she could muster. He let go abruptly, staggering back and into the wall behind him, bending double and coughing horribly. He slid to his side, his left shoulder against the wall for support, but could already see her bouncing away down the corridor.
He let himself get his breath back, cursing her, her family, and anyone vaguely related to her. It was a long few minutes before he could put his hand on the wall and straighten slowly. He moved to walk and winced, cursing her again before limping out of the corridor, back to the door.
He pushed it open roughly and made his way down the stone steps awkwardly. "Harper!" he bellowed, then winced and coughed again. "Harper!" he shouted, wiping his mouth.
He heard running and there was the Irishman, stopping at the bottom of the steps, his volley gun at the ready. Sharpe reached the bottom and shifted his weight onto one leg, not looking at him as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
"Jesus sir, what happened to you? You look white as a sheet!" Harper cried. Sharpe swallowed, checked his breathing, and looked at him.
"Tell me where we can find that Caron," he said, putting a hand out and pushing him round to walk. Harper nodded.
"Oh, right sir. Harris spotted him not too long ago sir – he's really not very smart for a spy," he said conversationally. Sharpe snorted in disgust.
"He's not a spy," he tutted. "But I'll bet he knows where that damned book is."
"And why would he know that, sir?" he asked.
"Cos that bitch who's pretending to be Marjorie Schofield wants it." He stopped and looked at Harper. "She's Berry's sister," he said heavily.
"God save Ireland!" Harper hissed. "Berry? He had a sister, sir?" he asked, shocked.
"Aye. And twice as conniving as that rat-bastard piece of shit were, an' all," he spat. "She's got Mar. She'll trade her for the book."
Harper grinned abruptly. "Well, at least she's alive, sir," he cried, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Fer now. We have to get that book."
"Jesus sir, but you're not going to hand it over, are you?" he asked quietly, as Sharpe turned and they walked on.
"Absolutely, Pat. But she's not going to get far with it. She's going to get it just as the Frogs attack. And then there's no way she can leave, is there?" he asked pointedly. "And then we have time to catch her with it."
Harper nodded thoughtfully. "Although, you'd think that if she laid all these plans, she'd have laid a way out of a French siege, so she would," he offered. Sharpe stopped and looked at him.
"Shut it, Pat. I were just starting to get hopeful," he grumbled.
"Sorry sir. How's this for cheerful news, sir," he said eagerly, catching him up as he walked away again. "Harris has found a book of Milton, and Robinson's found the rum stash of the entire village!"
"Both wasted on me, Pat," he said, shaking his head. "Come on, we've got work to do," he said, and Harper grinned.