Sharpe’s Eagle: The Talavera Campaign, July 1809

Sharpe looked at him, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Hogan shrugged. ‘I told you there was more. If a Spanish Regiment marches to Valdelacasa then Sir Arthur feels, for the sake of diplomacy, that a British one should go as well. Show the flag; that kind of thing.’ He glanced at the polished ranks and back to Sharpe. ‘Sir Henry Simmerson and his fine men are going with us.’

Sharpe groaned. ‘You mean we have to take orders from him?’

Hogan pursed his lips. ‘Not exactly. Strictly speaking you will take your orders from me.’ He had spoken primly, like a lawyer, and Sharpe glanced at him curiously. There could be only one reason why Wellesley had subordinated Sharpe and his Riflemen to Hogan, instead of to Simmerson, and that was because the General did not trust Sir Henry. Sharpe still wondered why he was needed; after all Hogan could expect the protection of two whole Battalions, at least fifteen hundred men. ‘Does the General expect there to be a fight?’

Hogan shrugged. ‘He doesn’t know. The Spanish say that the French have a whole Regiment of cavalry on the south bank, with horse artillery, who’ve been chasing Guerilleros up and down the river since spring. Who knows? He thinks they may try to stop us blowing the bridge.’

‘I still don’t understand why you need us.’

Hogan smiled. ‘Perhaps I don’t. But there won’t be any action for a month; the French will let us go deep into Spain before they fight, so Valdelacasa will at least be the chance of a scramble. And I want someone with me I can trust. Perhaps I just want you along as a favour?’

Sharpe smiled. Some favour, wet-nursing a Militia Colonel who thought he knew it all, but he hid his feelings. ‘For you, sir, it will be a pleasure.’

Hogan smiled back. ‘Who knows? It might be. She’s going along.’ Sharpe followed Hogan’s gaze out of the window and saw the black-dressed girl raise a hand to an officer of the South Essex. Sharpe had an impression of a blond man, immaculately uniformed, mounted on a horse that had probably cost more than the rider’s commission. The girl spurred her mare forward and, followed by the servant and his mule, joined the rear of the Battalion that was marching down the road that led to Castelo Branco. The square became empty again, the dust settling in the fierce heat, and Sharpe leaned back and began to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ Hogan asked.

Sharpe pointed with his cup of brandy at Harper’s tattered jacket and gaping trousers. ‘Sir Henry’s not exactly going to be fond of his new allies.’

The Sergeant’s face stayed gloomy. ‘God save Ireland.’

Hogan raised his cup. ‘Amen to that.’

CHAPTER TWO

The drumbeats were distant and muffled, sometimes blending with the other sounds of the city, but insistent and sinister and Sharpe was glad when the sound stopped. He was also glad they had reached Castelo Branco, twenty-four hours after the South Essex, after a tiresome journey that had consisted of forcing Hogan’s mules along a road cut with deep, jagged ruts showing where the field artillery had gone before them. Now the mules, laden with powder kegs, oilskin packets of match-fuse, picks, crowbars, spades, all the equipment Hogan needed for Valdelacasa, followed patiently behind the Riflemen and Hogan’s artificers as they pushed their way through the crowded streets towards the main square. As they spilled into the bright sunlight Sharpe’s suspicions about the drumbeats were confirmed.

Someone had been flogged. It was over now. The victim had gone and Sharpe, watching the hollow square formation of the South Essex, remembered his own flogging, years before, and the struggle to keep the agony shut up, not to show to the officers that the lash hurt. Sharpe would carry the scars of his flogging to his grave but he doubted whether Simmerson knew how savage was the punishment he had just meted to his Battalion.

Hogan reined in his horse in the shade of the Bishop’s palace. ‘This doesn’t seem to be the best moment to talk to the good Colonel.’ Soldiers were taking down four wooden triangles that were propped against the far wall of the square. Four men flogged. Dear God, thought Sharpe, four men. Hogan turned his horse so that his back was to the Battalion. ‘I must lock up the powder, Richard. Otherwise every bloody grain will be stolen. I’ll meet you back here.’

Sharpe nodded. ‘I need water anyway. Ten minutes?’

Sharpe’s men collapsed at the foot of the wall, their packs and rifles discarded, their mood soured by the reminder before them of a discipline the Rifle Regiments had virtually discarded. Sir Henry rode his horse delicately to the centre of the square and his voice carried clearly to Sharpe and his men.

‘I have flogged four men because four men deserted.’ Sharpe looked up, startled. Deserters already? He looked at the Battalion, their faces expressionless, and wondered how many others were tempted to escape from Simmerson’s ranks. The Colonel was half standing in his saddle. ‘Some of you know how those men planned their crime. Some of you helped them. But you preferred silence so I have flogged four men to remind you of your duty.’ His voice was curiously high pitched; it would have been funny if the man’s presence was not so big. He had been speaking in a controlled manner, almost conversationally, but suddenly Sir Henry turned left and right and waved an arm as if to point at every man in his command. ‘You will be the best!’ The loudness was so sudden that pigeons burst startled from the ledges of the convent. Sharpe waited for more, but there was none, and the Colonel turned his horse and rode away leaving the battle cry lingering behind like a menace.

Sharpe caught Harper’s eye and the Sergeant shrugged. There was nothing to be said, the faces of the South Essex proclaimed Simmerson’s failure; they simply did not know how to be the best. Sharpe watched as the companies marched from the plaza and saw only sullenness and resentment in their expressions. Sharpe believed in discipline. Desertion to the enemy deserved death, some offences deserved a flogging, and if a man was hung for blatant looting then it was his fault because the rules were simple. And for Sharpe, that was the key; keep the rules simple. He asked three things of his men. That they fought, as he did, with a ruthless professionalism. That they stole only from the enemy and the dead unless they were starving. And that they never got drunk without his permission. It was a simple code, understandable by men who had mostly joined the army because they had failed elsewhere, and it worked. It was backed by punishment and Sharpe knew, for all that his men liked him and followed him willingly, that they feared his anger when they broke his trust. Sharpe was a soldier.

He crossed the square towards an alleyway, looking for a water fountain, and noticed a Lieutenant of the South Essex’s Light Company riding his horse towards the same dark-shadowed gap between the buildings.

It was the man who had waved to the black-dressed girl and Sharpe felt a stab of irritation as he entered the alley first. It was an irrational jealousy. The Lieutenant’s uniform was elegantly tailored, the Light Infantry curved sabre was expensive, and the black horse he rode was probably worth a Lieutenant’s commission by itself. Sharpe resented the man’s wealth, his privilege, the easy superiority of a man born to the landed gentry, and it annoyed Sharpe because he knew that resentment was based on envy. He squeezed into the side of the alley to let the horseman pass, looked up and nodded affably, and had an impression of a thin, handsome face fringed with blond hair. He hoped the Lieutenant would ignore him; Sharpe was bad at small talk and he had no wish to make stilted conversation in a foetid alley when he would doubtless be introduced to the Battalion’s officers later in the day.

Sharpe was disappointed. The Lieutenant stopped and stared down at the Rifleman. ‘Don’t they teach you to salute in the Rifles?’ The Lieutenant’s voice was as smooth and rich as his uniform. Sharpe said nothing. His epaulette was missing, torn off in the winter’s fighting, and he realised that the blond Lieutenant had mistaken him for a private. It was hardly surprising. The alleyway was deeply shadowed, Sharpe’s profile, with slung rifle, all helped to explain the Lieutenant’s mistake. Sharpe glanced up to the thin, blue-eyed face and was about to explain when the Lieutenant flicked his whip so that it slapped Sharpe’s face.

‘Damn you, man, answer me!’

Sharpe felt the anger rise in him, but stayed still and waited for his moment. The Lieutenant drew the whip back.

‘What Battalion? What company?’

‘Second Battalion, Fourth Company.’ Sharpe spoke with deliberate insolence and remembered the days when he had no protection against officers like this. The Lieutenant smiled again, no more pleasantly.

‘You will call me “sir” you know. I shall make you. Who’s your officer?’

‘Lieutenant Sharpe.’

‘Ah!’ The Lieutenant kept his whip raised. ‘Lieutenant Sharpe who we’ve all been told about. Came up from the ranks, didn’t he?’

Sharpe nodded and the Lieutenant drew the whip back further.

‘Is that why you don’t say “sir”? Has Mr Sharpe strange ideas on discipline? Well, I will have to see Lieutenant Sharpe, won’t I, and arrange to have you punished for insolence.’ He brought the whip slashing down towards Sharpe’s head. There was no room for Sharpe to step back, but there was no need, instead he put both hands under the man’s stirrup and heaved upwards with all his strength. The whip stopped somewhere in mid stroke, the man started to cry out, and the next instant he was flat on his back on the far side of his horse where another horse had dunged earlier.

‘You’re going to have to wash your uniform, Lieutenant.’ Sharpe smiled.

The man’s horse had whinnied and gone forward a few paces and the furious Lieutenant struggled to his feet and put his hand to the hilt of his sabre.

‘Hello there!’ Hogan was peering into the alley. ‘I thought I’d lost you!’ The Engineer rode his horse up to the two men and stared cheerfully down on the Rifleman. ‘Mules all stabled, powders locked up.’ He turned to the strange Lieutenant and raised his hat. ‘Afternoon. Don’t think we’ve met. My name’s Hogan.’

The Lieutenant let go of his sword. ‘Gibbons, sir. Lieutenant Christian Gibbons.’

Hogan grinned. ‘I see you’ve already met Sharpe. Lieutenant Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles.’

Gibbons looked at Sharpe and his eyes widened as he noticed, for the first time, that the sword hanging by Sharpe’s side was not the usual sword-bayonet carried by Riflemen but was a full-length blade. He raised his eyes to look nervously at Sharpe’s. Hogan went cheerfully on. ‘You’ve heard of Sharpe, of course; everyone has. He’s the laddie who killed the Sultan Tippoo. Then, let me see, there was that ghastly affair at Assaye. No one knows how many Sharpe killed there. Do you know, Sharpe?’ Hogan ignored any possible answer and ground on remorselessly. ‘Terrible fellow, our Lieutenant Sharpe, equally fatal with a sword or gun.’

Gibbons could hardly mistake Hogan’s message. The Captain had seen the scuffle and was warning Gibbons about the likely consequence of a formal duel. The Lieutenant took the proffered escape. He bent down and picked up his Light Company shako then nodded to Sharpe.

‘My mistake, Sharpe.’

‘My pleasure, Lieutenant.’

Hogan watched Gibbons retrieve his horse and disappear from the alleyway. ‘You’re not very gracious at receiving an apology.’

‘It wasn’t very graciously given.’ Sharpe rubbed his cheek. ‘Anyway, the bastard hit me.’

Hogan laughed incredulously. ‘He what?’

‘Hit me, with his whip. Why do you think I dumped him in the manure?’

Hogan shook his head. ‘There’s nothing so satisfying as a friendly and professional relationship with your fellow officers, my dear Sharpe. I can see this job will be a pleasure. What did he want?’

‘Wanted me to salute him. Thought I was a private.’

Hogan laughed again. ‘God knows what Simmerson will think of you. Let’s go and find out.’

They were ushered into Simmerson’s room to find the Colonel of the South Essex sitting on his bed wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. A doctor knelt beside him who looked up nervously as the two officers came into the room; the movement prompted an impatient flap of Simmerson’s hand. ‘Come on, man, I haven’t all day!’

In his hand the doctor was holding what appeared to be a metal box with a trigger mounted on the top. He hovered it over Sir Henry’s arm and Sharpe saw he was trying to find a patch of skin that was not already scarred with strangely regular marks.