Chapter 4
The room behind this particular door was small, square and low ceilinged, its design and location suggesting afterthought rather than an integral part of the mansion itself. The room was furnished in a similarly abstracted fashion; wooden benches, draped in threadbare tapestries ran along three walls beneath large windows, while a plain deal table that could never hope to gain admittance to the grand salons on the lower floors, took up what little space remained.
Sharpe's swift glance took in the expanse of glass that offered views of an orange grove, and the steeply sloping roof that would discourage eavesdroppers, his soldier's instinct marking it immediately as the ideal location for some clandestine meeting.
"For God's sake, sit down, Sharpe! It's bad enough being cooped up in a room the size of a blasted tea caddy without having you looming over us."
Startled, Sharpe registered Wellington's voice, Major Nairn's presence and the leather seat of the chair that Hogan swiftly drew out for him, in an instant. There was always a first time for everything and the opportunity to be seated in His Grace's company was one to be taken immediately, no matter that the invitation lacked finesse.
Sharpe clutched at the chair's curved arms in an effort to keep from slouching. The slippery upholstery had apparently offered its services to countless larger and heavier rear ends than his, possibly since the time of the Crusades, and the resulting depression in the seat threatened to swallow him up.
While he wasn't altogether surprised to find himself face to face with Lord Wellington, Sharpe was puzzled by the secretive arrangements required to effect the meeting. Previous audiences with the General had taken place in tents, or on dusty plains overlooking the field of battle. Why suddenly in an attic room in some mansion, a day's journey from the battalion's current location?
As if divining Sharpe's unspoken question, Lord Wellington pushed aside a document weighed down by official seals, and offered his apologies to the engraved silver surface of an inkstand that stood before him on the desk.
"However, Nairn, here, has convinced me of the necessity of such subterfuge if we are to discover the cause of our current… difficulties."
At this, Nairn's mouth, habitually set in a thin line, tightened further.
Wellington looked up suddenly and fixed Sharpe with a piercing stare.
"Why were we successful at Torre Vedras, Major Sharpe?"
"The design of your fortifications confounded General Masséna, sir."
"You've no need to flatter me, Sharpe. The work was planned by our engineers and carried out by sappers assisted by the local population. My part in it was to watch them do it."
"Yes, sir." Sharpe sighed resignedly, before continuing in the dispassionate tone reserved for the recitation of official reports, knowing that Wellington would have wrong footed him whichever approach he had chosen. "Masséna was unprepared for the extent and complexity of the fortifications and was unable to mount a sustained attack, being forced to retreat when his supplies of food and ammunition were exhausted."
"Quite so." Wellington nodded, seeming satisfied with Sharpe's concise assessment. "Masséna was, as you say, unprepared. His intelligence gatherers failed to discover one scrap of information regarding our strategy. The Portuguese involved were sworn to secrecy, and the loyalty of our own men went without question. Tight as a drum." The General paused, obviously discomfited. "Alas, that is no longer the case."
"Leaking like a bloody sieve." Nairn contributed his own dour simile. Wellington winced.
"It would seem that our strategy for driving the French back toward their own border has been based on inaccurate intelligence reports," the General went on. "I believe we have been deliberately misled."
Sharpe glanced at Hogan wondering if the Engineer had already known of this. He had, after all, questioned the wisdom of Colonel Blake's decision to occupy the Castillo de Benavento, despite its obvious shortcomings. Still puzzling, he returned his attention to Wellington.
"Several detachments have been ambushed where no French troops were expected," Wellington continued. "Others have arrived in a town or village, ready to engage the enemy, only to discover that Napoleon's men had either moved on weeks before, or were never there in the first place."
"Is that what happened at Benavento, sir?" Sharpe asked. In common with other officers, he had been briefed to expect a skirmish on the banks of the Esla, with few casualties, but not the arrival of the hundreds of Voltigeurs who had come thundering over the ridge to turn the encounter into a near rout.
Wellington grimaced and nodded. "I regret you were the victims of disinformation."
"Now that Masséna's been sent home in disgrace, a man named Renouf is the Emperor's new favourite. Unfortunately, he seems to know a great deal more about our movements than we do his," Nairn said.
Wellington looked toward Hogan. "It will be Major Hogan's unpleasant duty to cross examine those exploring officers under his command and attempt to determine the source of these false reports."
Hogan shifted in his seat, obviously troubled by the notion. "Those men were hand picked. I'd hate to think that any one of them had betrayed us to the French."
Sharpe eyed Hogan with sympathy. He had become accustomed to the Engineer's irrepressibly jaunty nature, which previously had allowed him to accept even the direst circumstance with equanimity. But now Hogan had sobered as never before.
Wellington regarded Sharpe narrowly. "As for you, Major Sharpe, I shall need you to be my eyes and ears within the Castillo." He hesitated, as if debating the matter with himself. "This is in the nature of a request, rather than an order, you understand."
Nairn raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but said nothing.
"How do you know you can trust me?" Sharpe asked stiffly, adding rather belatedly, "sir."
Nairn uttered a barking laugh that set the glass rattling in the window frames. Wellington shot him a look.
"It's a fair question, Nairn." The General eyed Sharpe quizzically. This particular Rifleman was a walking contradiction. Any other officer, his allegiance called into question, would have fought the suggestion, citing rank and privilege as stays against disloyalty. But Sharpe, born in the gutter and assumed prey to bribery and corruption, was bristling at quite the opposite.
"Your methods have been what one might term unorthodox, Major Sharpe, and certain of your… exploits should have exacted stern punishment, but I have never doubted your loyalty to your men. Or to me."
Sharpe fought the urge to smile at Wellington's allusion to the events at Assaye. Neither man discussed the incident freely.
"We all know that you cannot be bought, Richard." Hogan smiled encouragingly.
"More to the point, it's thought that you run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. In a manner of speaking," Nairn put in.
Sharpe regarded him coldly. "I've always found that the hare makes for better company. To my mind, the hounds spend too much time drinking and gambling away their inheritance. I know where I'd rather be. Sir."
Hogan's relief at Sharpe having kept his temper was almost palpable.
"Be that as it may, Sharpe, I shall require you to keep a foot in both camps. The man we seek may be hare or hound."
Sharpe held Nairn's gaze as Wellington spoke, and then turned to meet the Generals' grave expression.
"Very good, my Lord."
"You possess a degree of native cunning, I think." Wellington's tone managed to suggest admiration for such an attribute, while not actually wishing to own it himself.
Sharpe frowned, but finally decided to regard this pronouncement as a compliment. "Thank you, sir." If it was native cunning that had kept him alive through twenty years of soldiering, over half his adult life, in fact, then it was something to be treasured.
"You'll need to keep your wits about you, Richard," Hogan said, eyeing him keenly.
"I'll do my best."
Wellington acknowledged Sharpe's response with a curt nod, and then began to shuffle some papers on the table, a signal that their business was concluded.
Sharpe and Hogan stood. Nairn got to his feet and walked with them to the door.
Major Hogan passed through first, and moved off along the narrow corridor. Sharpe made to follow him, but Nairn grabbed his arm, looking past him toward Hogan's retreating back. Sharpe resisted the temptation to shake himself free as they watched the Engineer disappear around the bend in the stairs.
"Spying's a dirty game, Sharpe," Nairn began in a gravelly undertone, "and spycatching's an even dirtier one. You must be prepared to turn over some pretty unsavoury stones while you're searching for this turncoat. Try not to be too disillusioned if you happen across a familiar face."
Sharpe noted Nairn's bleak expression. "Did you have someone particular in mind, sir?"
Nairn greeted the question with another mirthless laugh. "If we knew the answer to that one, Sharpe, we wouldn't need you."
Nairn had released his grip. Sharpe made a show of straightening his sleeve, and then stalked off, fuming. It was typical of Nairn to persuade him on some foolhardy and dangerous mission, as if he were the only one capable of carrying it out successfully, only to remind him that the decision was born of necessity, rather than confidence in his abilities.
"Sharpe?"
Sharpe stopped at the sound of Nairn's voice, and then turned to regard him balefully.
"Yes, sir?"
"Watch your back, lad."
"Yes, sir."
Nairn watched Sharpe out of sight and then returned to the attic room.
Hogan seemed to have regained a measure of his good humour, Sharpe noted as he descended the staircase, since the Engineer's eye held it's customary glimmer of amusement at life's absurdities. No sooner had he reached the bottom step, than the liveried servant glided noiselessly from an alcove, startling them both.
The return journey through the lower floors was as swift and silent as before. Sharpe stared fixedly at the back of their guide's head with its powdered queue, drawn back neatly into the neck and held with a black velvet bow.
"It's not proper soldiering, is it though, Richard?"
Sharpe glanced at Hogan, certain that he had not voiced the thought.
"You didn't need to say anything, lad. I can see it in your face. You've been dragged halfway across Spain, on the hottest day of the year, for ten minutes in his Lordship's presence so that he can order you to smoke out a traitor."
"He called it a request," Sharpe replied, knowing that request or order, it made no difference. He had been given a task and he would see it through.
"We'll likely be kicking our heels in the Castillo for the time being. The General won't risk any more troop movements until he has information he can trust. But he hates this inactivity as much as you do."
Having delivered his charges safely back to the portico, the silent servant executed a stiff bow. Hogan nodded his thanks, and the man was gone in a rustling of charcoal silk. Whistling tunelessly, Hogan dug around in various pockets in search of his snuffbox, but instead discovered a gold coin.
"Heads or tails, Richard?"
Sharpe glanced at the coin, which Hogan now balanced on thumb and forefinger. "Which one of us will tackle the redoubtable Senora Felecia?" Hogan asked, grinning as Sharpe paled visibly. "I only meant," he continued with an innocent air, "that we have still to recover our uniforms from that most excellent woman."
"Heads," Sharpe growled.
Hogan flipped the coin. Sharpe watched the gold piece as it spun high in the air. Hogan captured it neatly on the back of his left hand, swiftly covering it with his right. He lifted his fingers away to peer at the result, and then regarded Sharpe gravely.
"Oh, dear."
Lord Wellington was paging through a sheaf of documents when Nairn rejoined him.
"So much for hiding a leaf in a forest."
Nairn took the paper that was thrust at him along with the General's terse comment. He scanned it briefly, and then let it drop onto the table. "I thought he was 'our best man'."
"So did I," Wellington muttered. "I very much doubt that 'native cunning' will be enough to protect Sharpe against this particular enemy." He looked toward Nairn who now stood by the window.
"Oh, I wouldn't underestimate him, your Grace," Nairn replied, his attention fixed on the distant hills. "I've no doubt Sharpe can escape a knife between the ribs in a dark corner as easily as he avoids a French bayonet. He bears a charméd life."
"I hope to God you're right, Nairn. This would be a fine way to repay the man."
Nairn stared at Wellington in surprise. "You've more than repaid the debt, my Lord. You owe him nothing further." He returned to his study of the view beyond the villa's orangery, leaving Wellington to ponder his situation.
"Sledgehammer to crack a nut, Major Sharpe!"
Sharpe stared resolutely at a spot on the wall behind Colonel Blake's head. He had been trying unsuccessfully to convince the Colonel that a second mission to Benavento was not just desirable but essential. Unfortunately, his 'feeling' that there might be something amiss down in the valley was deemed insufficient reason.
Colonel Blake had held forth at great length about his practice of basing tactical decisions entirely on facts and figures, throwing in some complicated calculations of the type favoured by Major Crauford for good measure. Sharpe's expression solidified. Certain officers found 'Black Bob' and his methods insufferable, and Crauford for his part, had viewed the Rifles' groundbreaking practices with equal contempt.
Sharpe glanced toward Major Hewlin who was leaning back in his chair with the air of a man biding his time. As if on cue, the Major leant forward and smiled at Blake and Sharpe in turn. "If I may, Colonel, Major…" Hewlin paused. Blake nodded for him to continue. "Given the… um… exceptional circumstances in which we find ourselves regarding the… er…" Hewlin coughed delicately and shot a meaningful glance toward the Colonel, which seemed somehow to exclude Sharpe. "His Grace has of course apprised you of the situation, sir?"
Colonel Blake, though he had not the slightest idea what Hewlin was talking about, nodded vigorously and shuffled the papers on his desk to cover his confusion. "Why yes, of course, indeed, I take your point, Major Hewlin. You must do as you think fit. Take whatever steps you think necessary."
"Thank you, Colonel Blake." Hewlin rose, bowed and exited in one seamless movement, offering Sharpe the merest hint of a smile as he passed, and since the matter seemed to have been decided, Sharpe rose to follow him.
"A very fine man, that Major Hewlin."
Sharpe turned to find the Colonel gazing at the now closed door as if an afterimage of the exemplary Major still shimmered there.
"Yes, sir."
As far as Sharpe could see, Hewlin had offered even less in the way of evidence that the garrison was in danger of attack than he had, and yet somehow, the Major's masterly execution of nods and winks had achieved in ten seconds what Sharpe had failed to do in ten minutes.
"Has his finger on the pulse, eh, Sharpe? Knows what's what. You'd do well to follow his example," Blake continued.
Sharpe swallowed mutinously and bit his tongue. Hard.