Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe’s Honour, Sharpe’s Regiment, Sharpe’s Siege

The bearded man paused. From somewhere in the town came the smell of a kitchen fire. The street was slick and thick with mud from the night’s rain. El Matarife licked his lips. ‘Nothing happens to her. She goes back to the convent.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

El Matarife’s horse pranced in the mud. The bearded man quietened the beast. ‘She goes back, Englishman, to where she belongs. Our quarrel is not with her, but with a man who dared to frighten nuns.’ Slowly, his eyes not leaving Sharpe, he reached down to his saddle. Sharpe knew what was coming and he did not move.

El Matarife produced a looped chain. He held onto one end of it and tossed the rest towards Sharpe. The chain lay in the mud. The Partisan took from his belt a long knife and that too he threw towards the inn door. ‘Do you dare, Englishman? Or do you only have courage against nuns?’

Sharpe stepped forward. He had small choice. He remembered the speed of this man, he remembered how he had speared the eyes from the French prisoner, but Sharpe knew he must accept the challenge. He stooped, picked up the last link of the chain, and a musket sounded to his left.

The musket’s report was curiously flat in the chill morning. El Matarife stared up the street, then suddenly threw down the chain and shouted at his men. He rowelled his spurs back and Sharpe was forgotten in the sudden panic.

Hooves galloped. A trumpet was splitting the valley with sudden urgency, and Sharpe heard a whoop of glee from the upstairs room of the inn, a shriek of pure joy from La Marquesa, and then more muskets hammered and he smelt the acrid powder smoke as he ducked into the inn and knelt with his rifle ready.

Lancers swept into the street. French lancers. Some had pennants on their blades that were already stained with blood. A riderless horse galloped with them.

The Partisans were running. They were not ready for the charge, not formed up to meet the shock of the heavy horses. They could only turn and run, but the street was crowded and they could not move as the lancers tore into them.

Sharpe watched the French riders grimace as they leaned into their long spears, as they ripped the enemy from their horses, as they rode over the dying to strip the long blades free in gouts of blood and screams.

The blades came up again, aimed for new targets, and the trumpet drove a second squadron into the street, horses’ teeth bared, hooves slinging the mud high to stain the uniforms of the riders, and Sharpe watched two cornered Partisans raise their muskets, but Frenchmen rode at them, lunged, and a lance pinned one man to the wall of a house with such force that the lancer left the weapon there with the spitted man wriggling and screaming and dying. The lancer drew his sabre to pursue the second man who had leaped from his horse and now fell as the sabre was back-sliced into his face.

Some Partisans had escaped as far as the marketplace, but now Sharpe heard another trumpet from the plaza’s far side, and more lancers came from the north to drive the fleeing Partisans into a melee of turning horses, shouts and fear. The townsfolk were running for shelter, the children, brought to watch the Partisans, screamed as the lancers rode knee to knee into the panicked mass.

Pistols banged, muskets coughed smoke, and another squadron cantered at the trumpet’s command to take their long blades into the dull press of cloaked Partisans. The lance blades, razor sharp, dipped at the officer’s order, the horses were urged on, and the level blades were driven into the enemy. The green and pink uniforms were darkened by blood. One lancer came running from the melee, his square-topped hat in one hand, his other hand pressed to a running wound in his scalp. Another of the bright uniforms was in the mud, but for every Frenchman down there were a dozen Partisans, and still more lancers thundered towards the marketplace, and still the trumpet urged them on, and still the long blades were rammed home to scrape on ribs and tear the guts from the panicked horsemen.

Sharpe thought he could hear El Matarife shouting, he thought he saw the poleaxe raised once in the churning mass of men and screaming horses, and then he saw a fence fall at the far side of the marketplace and, as if a whirling flood had been released by a broken dam, the Partisans fled over the broken wattle of the downed fence, leaving the square to the triumphant, blood-stained cavalry. The marketplace stank of blood. The wounded pulled themselves through the mud, crying out for Jesus, screaming as the lancers rode at them and, with surgical precision, pushed down with the stained blades. The French laughed as they inflicted pain on their elusive guerrilla enemies. One wounded man was pierced again and again, and still no lancer tried to kill him. A woman, crouching over a still body, screamed at the French troops until a cavalryman kicked her with his heavy boot and she fell onto her dying man.

The trumpets took three squadrons in pursuit, two stayed to deal with the wounded and prisoners. Sharpe had gone to the back door of the inn, thinking to go up into the trees behind the stable yard, but the small yard was full of Frenchmen who were leading the captured horses from their stalls. One saw him, shouted, but Sharpe barred the door and turned back.

La Marquesa was at the ladder’s foot. She stared at the sword in his hand. ‘You won’t get away, Richard.’

Sharpe sheathed the sword. There were hands hammering on the barred door, shaking it. ‘My name’s Vaughn.’

She smiled. ‘What?’

‘Vaughn!’

‘And you slept in the stable, Richard!’

He saw the intensity in her eyes, the warning there, and he nodded wearily. He slung the rifle on his shoulder, and then a tall man ducked into the front door of the inn, Helene screamed with delight, and ran to his arms. Sharpe, a prisoner of the French, could only watch.

General Raoul Verigny was six feet and two inches tall. There could not have been an ounce of fat on his body. His uniform was tailored tight as a drumskin.

He had a thin, dark face with a small, neatly upturned moustache. He smiled often.

He had shouted at the men at the back door to stop their noise, bowed to Sharpe, and accepted the gesture of surrender. He had spoken with La Marquesa for two minutes, bowed to Sharpe again, and returned the sword. ‘Your bravery, Major, makes it imperative to return the sword. You have my most wonderful thank you.’ He bowed a third time. ‘The rifle, Major, I have it my duty to take.’ He pronounced it ‘Riffle’. He gave it to an aide-de-camp who gave it to a Lieutenant who gave it to a Sergeant.

Now, an hour later, Sharpe was an honoured guest at breakfast. About them the town burned. The inn was spared, so long as it provided shelter.

General Verigny was solicitous of Sharpe. ‘You must be dishevelled, Major Vaughn.’

‘Dishevelled, sir?’

‘To fail in this hope.’ He smiled, touching the points of his moustache.

‘Indeed, sir.’

La Marquesa had told Verigny that Sharpe had been sent by the British to take her from the convent to Wellington’s army where she would have been questioned. Verigny poured Sharpe some coffee. ‘Instead we take Helene home, and you prisoner.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘But it is not to worry to you.’ Verigny offered Sharpe a leg of chicken, pressing him to accept. ‘You will be changed, yes?’

‘Exchanged?’

‘Exchanged! I do not practise my English so much. Helene speaks it so well, but she does not speak it at me. She should do so, yes?’ He laughed, and turned to La Marquesa, pouring her wine. He was, Sharpe judged, a man of his own age, darkly handsome. Sharpe was jealous. The General turned back to Sharpe. ‘You speak French, Major?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You should! It is the very beautifullest tongue in the world.’

The table was crowded with French officers who grinned with the happiness of men who had won a great victory. It was rare for French cavalry to surprise the Partisans, and this morning they had reaped a grim harvest of their enemies. The silver-cloaked man was a prisoner, doubtless screaming beneath a blade as his captors sought answers to their questions, but El Matarife had escaped into the eastern mountains. Verigny did not mind. ‘He is ended, yes? His men broken! Besides, I come for Helene, not him, and you have released her for me.’ He smiled and toasted Sharpe.

The assembled officers looked curiously at the Englishman. Few had seen a captured British officer before, and none had seen one of the feared Riflemen as a prisoner. If they caught his eye, they smiled. They offered him the best food on the table, one poured him wine, another brandy, and they urged him to drink with them.

Verigny sat close to La Marquesa. She fed him scraps with her fork. They touched each other, laughed privately, and seemed to fill the room with their gaiety. At one point there was a roar of laughter and the General smiled at Sharpe. ‘I tell her she should be marrying me. She says she might become a nun instead, yes?’ Sharpe smiled politely. Verigny asked whether Sharpe thought La Marquesa would make a good nun, and Sharpe said that the nunnery would be a fortunate place.

Verigny laughed. ‘But what waste, Major, yes?’ He gestured at her. ‘I ride here to rescue her. I insist they make me come here, I demand it! You think she deserves marriage to me as a return, yes?’

Sharpe smiled, but inside he felt sick. He had been a prisoner before, back in the Indian wars, and then too he had been captured by lancers. He would remember to his last day the face of the Indian leaning towards him, teeth gritted as he drove the blade into Sharpe’s waist to pin him to the tree. Now he had been captured again, and he could see small hope of freedom.

He listened to the loud laughter of the officers, saw their eyes fastened on La Marquesa, watched her coquettish gestures as she played to her audience. She pouted at him once, raising more laughter, and he hid his despair beneath a wan smile.

General Verigny had said that Sharpe could be exchanged, but Sharpe knew it would not happen. Even if the British had a captive French Major to exchange, they would not recognise the name Vaughn on the French proposal. Every few weeks the two sides exchanged lists of prisoners, but Wellington’s headquarters would query Major Vaughn. The French would presume that the British did not want ‘Vaughn’ back and he would be sent to the fortress town of Verdun where officer prisoners were kept.

Nor could Sharpe reveal his real name. To do that would be to prompt a dozen questions, each nastier than the last. He must stay Vaughn, and as Vaughn he would go to Verdun, and as Vaughn he would sit out the war, rotting behind Verdun’s walls, wondering what kind of bleak future peace would bring.

Or he could escape, yet not till Verigny had safely escorted him from these mountains with their vengeful Partisans. Even as he thought it, Verigny turned and smiled at him. ‘Helene she tells me you break into the convent, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are brave man, Major Vaughn!’ Verigny lifted a glass to him. ‘I owe you my thank you.’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘You can let me go, sir.’

Verigny laughed, then translated the exchange into French to provoke more friendly laughter from his officers. He shook his head. ‘I cannot let you go, Major Vaughn, but you do not cause yourself to worry, no? You will be changed at Burgos.’

Sharpe smiled. ‘I hope so, sir.’