Chapter 2
"I don't believe you've been introduced to my nieces, have you, Major Sharpe?"
Sharpe looked between the beribboned and bejewelled twins who were seated on either side of Colonel Blake, and owned that he had not had that pleasure.
"This is Estella, and this is Josefina." Blake gestured to left and right, then checked, frowning in mock consternation. "Or is it the other way about? D'you know, I still can't tell them apart." He grinned and winked at Sharpe. "Not that it matters much."
Understanding little if any of the Colonel's remarks, the girls smiled in response to Sharpe's greeting, and fanned themselves prettily with impressive constructions of lace and ostrich plumes, while Blake deposited what he fondly imagined to be an avuncular kiss on their dutifully proffered cheeks.
Word had it that Colonel Blake was an avid collector of new faces, but that those deemed insufficiently entertaining were soon excluded from his 'inner circle'. Dining with Colonel Blake was definitely not at the top of Sharpe's list of favourite occupations, but he had hopes that a single, taciturn appearance at table would be enough to stave off further invitations.
"Truly a rose between two thorns," Captain Whiting, Blake's languid aide-de-camp observed sotto voce, as he passed behind Sharpe's chair to reach his own.
Whiting settled himself with much rearranging and smoothing of his perfectly pressed uniform, and then leant across to drag a bottle of wine within reach. He poured himself a generous measure and eyed Blake mischievously. "Nieces, eh, Colonel? I didn't know you had family connections in Lisbon."
Blake opened his mouth, desperately trying to remember the details of the story previously concocted. He and the girls had made a start on a cask of brandy earlier in the day, and while Estella and Josefina appeared to have an infinite capacity for strong drink, he was somewhat disturbed to find that matching them glass for glass had severely impaired his faculties.
"Ah, yes, yes indeed. An ancestor of mine once provided a very valuable service to Henry the Navigator." Blake sat back in his chair, astonished by his own power of invention.
"Looks like old Henry's returned the favour," Sharpe muttered to Hogan, seated beside him.
"Three hundred and fifty years after the event, but better late than never, I always say, "Hogan replied with a raised eyebrow.
Whiting slopped more wine into his glass, and then leant across Hogan to address Sharpe. "I say, old boy, give her one for me, will you?"
Sharpe stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"
Whiting nodded toward Blake's winsome companions. "The lovely Estella. Give her knee a little squeeze for me. Lord knows, if the poor girl must be pinched black and blue, let it at least be by someone who still has a pulse. I mean, what's the Colonel got going for him, apart from being a living tribute to the embalmer's art?"
Sharpe's guess was that the lady in question closed her eyes and thought, if not of Portugal, then of the Colonel's bank balance and family connections; the one undoubtedly over-inflated, the other shamelessly embroidered.
Doctor Baxter, whose modest presence among them had gone largely unnoticed, interrupted Whiting's lament with a fit of coughing. Colonel Blake peered across the table blearily. "That you makin' that racket, Baxter? Collision of wind and water, eh? Cough it up, old boy, might be a gold watch."
Baxter took a tentative sip of wine and replaced the glass on the table with rather more force than he had intended. Blake's attention was immediately on the wineglass. Light dawned.
"Ah, the wine, of course. Filthy stuff, isn't it? Can't think how any of us can bear to drink it." Blake sought to confirm his opinion by downing the contents of his own glass in one prodigious swallow. Grimacing, he drew a hand across his mouth. Wine dripped from his glass onto the tablecloth. "Trust the bloody French not to bring any decent grog with them. I'll wager Boney's keeping all the good stuff to himself. The beggar thinks he's going to have something to celebrate. Not if you have anything to do with it, eh, Major Sharpe?"
"What? Er… no, sir." Sharpe had been allowing Blake's ramblings to wash over him, but now he sat to attention. Blake fixed him with a bloodshot eye. "I hear the French gave you a bit of a fright the other day, what?"
Sharpe cleared his throat. "Our patrol came under attack from snipers before we able to reach the village, sir. Two of the men were wounded."
"Well, we can't have that, can we? Get the matter cleared up, Sharpe. My girls were looking forward to going out riding. They can't do that if some Frog sniper's going to take a pot shot at them, now can they?"
"No, sir." Sharpe stole a glance at Hogan, who obligingly took up the reins.
"I would suggest, Colonel, that we liase with the partisans in the area. They're familiar with the terrain and could help us find a safer way to stay in contact with the garrison. In the meantime, I think it best that the young ladies confine their… er… activities to the castle grounds."
"They both have excellent seats." Blake beamed fondly. "That was the first thing I noticed about them."
Surprised by Blake's strange observation, Sharpe looked over to find the Colonel crushing Estella and Josefina to him. Blake saw the look and slackened his hold, vaguely recalling having told the assembled company that his first sight of the girls had been of them in their christening gowns.
Abruptly, Blake turned his attention to the empty chair beside Doctor Baxter. "Your delightful daughter keeps her state, I see, George," he boomed, "but in best time we will require her welcome."
Baxter's head bobbed nervously in response. He reached for his wineglass, and then remembering his reason for leaving well alone, drew the hand back. "Ah, yes, um… Helen sends her apologies, Colonel, but the wounded in the infirmary command her attention."
"Command her attention!" Blake snorted in disbelief. "It does no good to indulge the men, you know. The only thing to do is patch up the ones who can be patched up, and bury the ones who can't. The idle beggars won't think any more of her for having sat up all night with them, mopping their fevered brow. Ain't that right, Major Sharpe?"
"On the contrary, Colonel Blake. I understand that the men are extremely grateful for her care, as am I," Sharpe replied.
He was also extremely grateful that Sergeant Harper wasn't here to witness his leaping to the doctor's defence. Hurriedly, Sharpe got to his feet and looked around the table. "If you'll excuse me, Colonel, I must call in to the infirmary myself. One of my men was wounded in the attack the other day. I'd like to check on his condition."
Blake waved his wineglass expansively. "By all means, Major. Run along."
Sharpe looked toward the ladies. "Goodnight, Miss Estella, Miss Josefina."
As he closed the door behind him, Sharpe caught sight of Captain Whiting sliding into the now vacant seat beside Estella and snaking a hand under the table in one swift movement.
Estella gave a squeak and vanished behind her fan.
Sharpe entered the infirmary and made his way toward the far wall to find that the space recently occupied by Jackson was now empty.
Doctor Burnett, folding blankets in a side room, observed Sharpe's arrival, and seeing his confusion at finding Jackson gone, went to meet him.
"Major Sharpe."
Sharpe turned. "Doctor Burnett."
In general, Helen Burnett affected not to remember the names of officers, believing them to receive sufficient, not to say unwarranted respect from their men without her bolstering their egos. But since their first encounter, and much to her annoyance, she had found herself soliciting opinion of this particular Rifleman. Major Richard Sharpe, it would seem, was 'a good enough officer, all things considered', or 'a proper bastard', depending on the speaker's rank and disposition.
Sharpe looked down at the patch of bare stone floor. Doctor Burnett followed his gaze. "I'm sorry, Major. Wounds to the stomach are almost always fatal. Infection spreads quickly and is almost impossible to control. But I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that."
"I didn't think he stood much of a chance to be honest, Doctor."
"But you brought him back, just the same."
Sharpe shrugged. What else could he have done? The woman's tone implied criticism, but he noticed that her expression softened for a moment.
"That bullet you dug out of Jackson," Sharpe began hesitantly, "I suppose it was French?"
The Doctor checked slightly. "While it's true I did remove a bullet from my patient's lower intestinal tract, I regret I did not seek to discover its nationality." Pointedly avoiding Sharpe's eye and continuing to fuss with the blanket, she glanced at him under her lashes, trying to gauge the effect of her icy response. The Rifleman's gaze remained fixed on the flagstones. Doctor Burnett eyed him narrowly. "You have reason to suppose that it wasn't?"
Sharpe looked at her for a moment, debating how to answer the question. His suspicions would be better kept to himself, for the time being. "Er… no. It was just a thought. We often use French ammunition when we find it on the bodies after a battle. Out English bullets are larger though, so Napoleon's men can't play the same game."
Doctor Burnett turned away to survey her remaining patients, seeming affronted by Sharpe's pragmatism. The sickly sweet smell of decay hung in the air, overlaying that of unwashed bodies and damp wool. A fire burned fiercely in the hall's imposing hearth, fanned by intermittent icy draughts.
"Why do men do this to each other?" the Doctor said. She paused and then turned to face Sharpe. "Why do you do it, Major Sharpe?"
Sharpe found himself pinioned by her pale-eyed stare, but returned the look evenly. "Because I'm paid to do it, ma'am."
Doctor Burnett sighed, disappointed by his response. "I thought you might say 'Because Napoleon had to be driven out of Portugal and must now be prevented from toppling the Spanish throne'."
"No doubt that would be Lord Wellington's view, ma'am. I've always found it best to leave military and political strategy to our commanding officers."
Doctor Burnett flushed, suspecting mockery, but Sharpe's expression was bland. "And yet you are an officer yourself."
"But one who's up from the ranks."
Doctor Burnett nodded; having already discovered that Sharpe's majority was hard won, and clung to just as fiercely.
"You don't trouble yourself with the ambitions of kings and emperors when you're face to face with a French dragoon," Sharpe continued, "and you're trying to rip the bugger's guts out before he can do the same for you. Begging your pardon, ma'am."
The Doctor's mouth twitched involuntarily. "Major Sharpe, I was an army wife for two years, and have assisted my father in his work for the past eight. Believe me, whatever delicate sensibilities I possessed fell by the wayside long ago."
"My apologies, ma'am."
Doctor Burnett eyed the Major wonderingly. Was he was sorry for her choice of occupation, or for the loss of her finer feelings?
With Jackson now beyond all help, except perhaps that of the Almighty, there seemed little reason to prolong the meeting, but inexplicably, Sharpe found himself casting about for some other topic of conversation.
"You were missed at dinner, Doctor Burnett."
The doctor greeted the remark with a raised eyebrow. "I'm sure the only thing Colonel Blake 'missed' was the opportunity to point out, yet again, that this," she turned to indicate the rows of wounded men laid out around them, "is an unsuitable job for a woman. But then again, I don't suppose his views differ greatly from those of any other man."
Sharpe smiled inwardly, recognising a challenge when he heard one. "Only a fool would try to prevent a woman from doing what she knows she must."
He thought of his beautiful Isabella, wanting a better life for herself than that of a Lisbon whore, clawing her way determinedly up the social ladder to become wife to a lord.
And then inevitably, he thought of Teresa.
Commandante Teresa. L'Aguja. The needle. Their 'marriage' an expedient falsehood; their relationship stretched taut by long separation, but never broken, while she had fought the guerrilla, the 'little war,' high in the mountains, on battlefields and in besieged cities, only to be murdered in cold blood by an Englishman. Obadiah Hakeswill had always sworn to kill Sharpe, until a chance meeting allowed him to inflict an even greater pain. Now Teresa's family was raising Sharpe's infant daughter in a remote village. He had seen Antonia twice; in the smoking ruins of Badajoz, and at the mountain retreat of Teresa's relatives; both occasions all too brief.
The Doctor had intended to chide Sharpe for his careful response, but seeing his expression cloud, she remained silent.
Sharpe came to abruptly and found her studying his expression with interest. He returned the look for a long moment, then dropped his gaze and left the room.
Doctor Burnett remained staring at the door long after it had closed behind him.
Sharpe paused on the steps outside the infirmary to loosen his collar. Medical opinion dictated that fires burned constantly in sickrooms to dispel fever and in consequence, Doctor Burnett's infirmary had been unbearably hot.
"Major Sharpe!"
Sharpe turned to see Major Hewlin emerging from the shadow of the gateway that divided the inner and outer wards of the Castillo.
"Could I beg a minute of your time, Major? I promised this to your man Harris. Would you mind passing it on to him?" Hewlin dug in a pocket and produced a small book, which he held out toward Sharpe.
"Certainly, Major." Sharpe said, taking it from him and tucking it inside his jacket.
"And would you also offer him my apologies, "Hewlin continued. "I should have returned it to him long ago, but you know how it is. We must obey our masters, and go where we are ordered. I once lent a book to a fellow and it was two years before I saw it again. Recognised my own handwriting on the flyleaf."
Sharpe nodded and continued on his way, dismissing the odd feeling that Hewlin had been lying in wait for him. He paused and turned back to see Hewlin standing where he had left him, looking up at the sky.
Sharpe hurried down the steps leading from the great hall and made his way through the castle grounds. Built seemingly in stages over a great many years, the courtyard consisted of a number of terraces and blind alleys on several levels, all of which appeared occupied on this balmy evening by Redcoats and Riflemen.
"And I had it on good authority from O'Dwyer. He swears it's true."
Sharpe looked over to see Sergeant Harper holding forth, in the company of the Chosen Men. They had tucked themselves away in a corner, their backs against the sun-warmed stone while they brewed a portion of their jealously guarded supply of tea over a campfire. Sharpe stepped over a prone Dobbs who was stretched out at the bottom of a shallow flight of steps.
"Bit crowded out here, isn't it? Has Colonel Blake changed his mind about having the men billeted inside?" Sharpe asked, taking a seat beside Harper.
Simpson opened his mouth and then closed it again at a warning glance from the big Irishman.
"Well, it's a fine night. Everyone wanted to make the most of the weather," Harper said cheerily.
Sharpe grunted. "If we get that thunderstorm Major Hewlin was promising, they'll be glad enough to get undercover." He looked up at the stars, innumerable pinpoints of light studding black velvet. Rain had been forecast practically every day for the past two weeks, but the sky remained obstinately cloudless.
"They'll stay out here, no matter what," the irrepressible Simpson burst forth.
Sharpe eyed the youngster, smiling. "Why's that then, Simpson?"
"Because of the ghosts, Major Sharpe. Mr. O'Dwyer's been telling everybody that the castle's haunted. Says you can't spit in that cellar without hitting a phantom something-or-other," Simpson insisted, gazing at Sharpe saucer-eyed.
"Ghosts?" Sharpe snorted. "There's no such thing. Tell him, Pat!" He looked toward Harper, expecting support, but the Sergeant just shrugged.
"You can never be too sure about these things, sir. My Uncle Fergus swore blind he saw the ghost of his great-granddaddy large as life in O'Neill's tavern in Kilrush, so he did."
"And you believed him?" Sharpe countered. "You've always told me your Uncle Fergus was 'a rare one for the drink'."
"So was the ghost by all accounts. They had to throw him out come closing time. Never even bought a round," Harper replied with a grin.
"It's a very old building. You're bound to come across some wretched spectre dragging his chains through the dungeons where he was tortured until he begged for mercy," a sepulchral voice intoned from the shadows.
Sharpe rolled his eyes and turned to where Dobbs was redistributing his bulk more comfortably on the step, the better to continue his tale. "The Quartermaster has it that the ghosts are all from the same family. They plotted revenge against each other until there wasn't a man left standing. Rotten to the core, the lot of 'em."
"Your Mr. O'Dwyer has a hell of a lot to say for himself." Sharpe looked around at faces that were shaded an eerie orange-red in the glow from the campfire. "We've been here three days, and all of a sudden he knows the family history chapter and verse? He's having you on."
Dobbs studiously ignored Sharpe's baleful expression and sat up, fixing his gaze on the rest of his listeners in turn. "Dona Elena was the worst. Very beautiful, she was, but evil. It was said she could put such a powerful spell on a man that he'd do anything she asked. Anything at all."
Simpson sighed and nodded sagely, as if recalling the outrageous demands of any number of sorceresses.
Dobbs leaned in. "Word is, she lured her own husband up to the highest tower, where he was flung to his death by her scheming lover, and now her restless spirit walks the walls, waiting to ensnare another victim in her deadly embrace," he intoned, demonstrating this last by lunging at Simpson who obligingly yelped in fright.
Sharpe caught Harper sneaking a glance toward the darkened battlements. He fixed him with a steely eye. "There'll be another restless spirit walking the walls if you don't nip this in the bud, Sergeant Harper."
The Sergeant sighed. It was hard work keeping the garrulous Dobbs quiet at the best of times, but with a captive audience, he was well nigh unstoppable.
"Dona Elena must have been something of a siren."
Sharpe looked around. Dobbs' tale of the castle's previous inhabitants had apparently caught the attention of Harris.
Simpson frowned. "What's a siren?"
"A mythical maiden who lured sailors to their deaths with her enchanting song," Harris explained.
"Oh. Bit like a mermaid, then." The men nodded in agreement at Harper's suggestion.
"I've been told that sailors often mistake narwhals for mermaids."
Harper eyed Hagman in surprise. The crack shot among the Chosen Men generally preferred to listen rather than speak. Sharpe frowned, dredging his memory. His time aboard the Pucelle had exposed him to a good deal of seafaring fact, and copious amounts of fiction. "Some sort of fish, isn't it?" he offered finally.
Harris beamed delightedly. "That's right, sir. Well, it's an arctic whale to be precise. The male of the species can be identified by its single spiral tusk, which can achieve five or six feet in length."
"And sailors mistake them for mermaids?" Dobbs enquired doubtfully.
"Depends how long they've been at sea, I suppose," Sharpe quipped.
Harper gazed heavenward, as if seriously considering his options. "Well, if I'd been cooped up on a ship, cheek by jowl with the likes of you for months on end, I'd be about ready to jump on a bloody great fish, so I would."
Harris grinned. "But what would you do if your fish had a bloody great tusk, Sergeant Harper?"
"Apologise, of course. Then run like the devil!"
Sharpe joined in the laughter, grateful that the talk had finally turned from tales of the supernatural to embrace the earthier concerns of the average soldier.