Sharpe’s Honour: The Vitoria Campaign, February to June 1813

‘Yes, sir. And your defending officer.’

‘My what?’ Sharpe growled it, making Trumper-Jones step backwards towards the door which had been closed by the guard.

‘I’m your defence, sir.’

Sharpe sat down. He stared at the frightened young man who looked as if he was scarce out of school. He beckoned at the vacant chair. ‘Sit down, Trumper-Jones, for God’s sake. Defend me from what?’ He knew, but he wanted to hear it again.

Trumper-Jones came nervously forward. He put his hat on the table beside his papers and pushed a lock of light brown hair from his forehead. He cleared his throat. ‘You’re charged with the murder of the Spanish General Casares, the Marqués de …’

‘I know who the hell he is.’ Sharpe watched as Trumper-Jones fidgeted with his papers. ‘Is there a cup of tea in this damned place?’

The question only made Trumper-Jones more nervous. ‘There’s not much time, sir.’

‘Time?’

‘The General Court-Martial is convened for half past noon, sir. Today,’ he added lamely.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Sharpe shouted the words. Trumper-Jones said nothing. He was nervous of the scarred Rifleman who now leaned his elbows on the table. ‘Are you a lawyer, Trumper-Jones?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’ve done this before?’

‘No, sir.’ He smiled weakly. ‘I’ve only been out here a month.’

‘Where’s Major Hogan?’

‘Don’t know, sir.’

‘So how do you plan to prove my innocence, Trumper-Jones?’

The young man pushed the lick of hair away from his forehead. He had a voice like d’Alembord’s, but without the easy confidence. He smiled nervously. ‘I fear it looks bleak, sir.’

‘Tell me.’

Trumper-Jones seemed happier now that he could read from his papers. ‘It seems, sir, that you are acquainted with the Marquesa de Casares el Grande …’

‘True.’

‘And that you threatened her, sir.’ Trumper-Jones said it timidly.

‘I did what?’

Trumper-Jones nearly jumped out of his chair. ‘You threatened her …’ He blushed. ‘Well, you threatened her, sir.’

‘I did no such goddamn thing!’

Trumper-Jones swallowed, cleared his throat, and gestured with a piece of paper. ‘There is a letter, sir, from her Ladyship to her husband, and it says …’

Sharpe leaned back. ‘Spare me, Lieutenant. I know the Marquesa. Let’s accept they have a letter. Go on.’ So she had provoked the duel. D’Alembord had hinted at it, Sharpe had refused to believe it, but he supposed it made sense. Yet he found it hard to accept that a woman who had loved him could so easily betray him.

Trumper-Jones pushed the hair back again. ‘The letter provoked a duel, sir, that you were prevented from finishing?’

‘True.’ It all sounded so hopeless.

‘And because you were prevented from fighting, sir, the prosecution is alleging that you went to the General’s quarters last night and murdered him.’

‘Not true.’

‘They have a witness, sir.’

‘Really?’ Sharpe said the word scornfully. ‘Who?’

The papers rustled. ‘A Captain Morillos, sir, of the Princessa Regiment. He commanded the guard on General Casares’s house last night and he saw a British Rifle officer leave the house at three in the morning. The officer, he says, wore a straight sword.’

That was a nice touch, Sharpe thought. Rifle officers were issued with curved cavalry sabres, and only Sharpe wore a straight sword. He shook his head. ‘And why didn’t Captain Morillos stop this man?’

‘He was ordered only to stop people from going into the house, sir, not from leaving it.’

‘Go on.’

Trumper-Jones shrugged. ‘That’s it, sir. I thought, sir …’ He stopped, nervous again.

‘Well?’

‘I thought, sir, that if we presented your record to the court, sir, that they must be lenient. The Eagle, sir, the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz …’ His voice tailed away.

Sharpe smiled. ‘You want me to plead guilty and trust that they won’t shoot a hero, is that it?’