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

He sat by the window all morning, watching the wagons roll out of the courtyard. Wagon after wagon left, their oxen prodded by drivers with pointed staves. The axle squeals never stopped as the courtyard slowly emptied. The French retreat, that had begun in Valladolid, had started again and Sharpe knew that the British must be advancing still, and that the French were sending the treasure wagons back on the Great Road towards France. He wondered if Helene’s six wagons were among the ones that left. He wondered why Ducos had arranged for him to be accused of the Marqués’s death, and why Helene had lied about it.

The castle church had been used as an ammunition store. As the wagons made space in the big courtyard, squads of infantry began carrying shells and canister from the church towards the keep. Sharpe, with nothing else to do, watched.

After an hour the shells were no longer being carried into the keep, but instead were being piled in the courtyard. Pile after pile was made, starting by the keep door and working slowly down the courtyard towards him. He wondered if this was a punishment detail, forced to do one of the pointless chores that all armies gave their defaulters, but then, curiously, he saw French engineer officers running white fuses to each of the conical heaps, fuses that led back into the keep.

He realised suddenly that the French must be abandoning Burgos, that they were blowing the castle apart rather than delivering such a fortress intact to their enemies, yet it struck him as odd that they should go to the trouble of piling the shells in the courtyard instead of blowing them in one great mass in the magazine. Then, hearing footsteps on the stairs, he turned from the window and forgot the strange piles of ammunition.

He made sure the sword was within reach. He was half expecting Ducos to return and finish what he had begun, but it was a smiling French lancer who opened the door. On the man’s arm, incongruously, hung a basket covered with a linen cloth.

More such men came, men who arranged food and wine on the table in Sharpe’s room. None spoke English. They finished their job, left, then Sharpe heard her voice on the stairs. It was La Marquesa, looking as if she had bathed in dew and sipped ambrosia, her eyes bright, her smile welcoming, and her concern about his battered, blood-marked face oddly touching. With her was the tall, dark figure of General Verigny, while behind came another French officer, a plump Major called Montbrun who spoke fluent English and trusted that Major Sharpe was not in any great pain?

Sharpe assured him he was not. Major Montbrun nevertheless hoped that Major Sharpe would realise that his treatment at the hands of Sergeant Lavin had not been worthy of the great French army, and that Major Sharpe would forgive it, and offer Major Montbrun the pleasure of joining him in a small, light luncheon?

Major Sharpe would.

Major Montbrun knew that Major Sharpe had the honour of already knowing La Marquesa and the General. Montbrun explained that he was an aide to King Joseph himself, Napoleon’s brother who was the puppet King on the crumbling Spanish throne. Montbrun hoped that Major Sharpe would not take it amiss if he said that His Majesty King Joseph was flattered that so redoubtable an enemy as Major Sharpe should have been captured. Sharpe did not reply. La Marquesa smiled and brushed the crusted wound on Sharpe’s head with her fingertips. ‘Ducos is a pig.’

Montbrun frowned. ‘Major Ducos has explained what happened, my Lady. I’m sure we must believe him.’

‘What did he say?’ Sharpe asked.

Montbrun held a chair for La Marquesa, then for Sharpe, then sat himself. ‘Major Ducos explained that Sergeant Lavin lost his temper. Most sad, of course. You’ll forgive us serving ourselves, Major Sharpe? I thought we might be more intimate without orderlies.’

‘Of course. And how is Sergeant Lavin?’

Montbrun frowned, as though the subject was deeply distasteful. ‘He, of course, faces disciplinary charges. Can I suggest some of this cold soup? It’s most tasteful, I’m sure. May I have the honour of assisting you?’

He could. La Marquesa, dressed in lilac silk with a low, lace-frilled neckline, smiled at him. Sharpe agreed with Montbrun that the spring had been wet, and that this summer had more rain than most in Spain. He agreed that the soup, a gazpacho, was delicious. Montbrun wondered if there was too much garlic for his taste, but Sharpe assured him there could not be too much garlic in anything for his taste, and Montbrun agreed how wise that view was.

Verigny grinned. His moustache was stained with the soup. ‘I think you demi kill that mignon Lavin, yes?’ He looked at La Marquesa. ‘Mignon?’

‘Bugger, darling.’

‘Ah! You kill the bugger Lavin, yes?’

Sharpe smiled. ‘He tried to kill me.’

Verigny shrugged. ‘You should kill him. I hate buggers.’

Montbrun hastened, with a courtier’s smoothness, to recommend the red wine which, though Spanish, had a certain plangency, he thought, which Major Sharpe might find pleasing. Major Sharpe, who was thirsty, found it very pleasing. He drank.

La Marquesa toasted him with her glass. ‘You should have more champagne, Richard.’

‘I shall save it.’

‘Why? There’s plenty!’ There was, too. The bottles of wine and champagne stood in ranks at the end of the table. Montbrun poured a separate glass of champagne for Sharpe. ‘I hear it’s scarce in your country now, Major, because of the war.’

Sharpe, who had never drunk champagne in England, and only in Spain when he was with La Marquesa, agreed it was scarce.

‘Indeed,’ Montbrun poured himself a glass, ‘I was told by an Englishman we took prisoner that you’re paying twenty-three shillings a bottle now in London!

Twenty-three shillings! Why that’s nearly thirty francs a bottle!’

La Marquesa looked astonished and wondered how anyone could possibly live with prices like that, and asked why there were not riots in the street by a champagne-starved populace. What did the English drink instead?

‘Beer, my Lady.’

Montbrun helped Sharpe to some cold ham and cold chicken. He apologised for such simple fare. The ham had been baked in a glaze of honey and mustard.

La Marquesa wanted some English beer and seemed unhappy that there was none immediately available in Burgos castle. General Verigny promised to find some. He grunted as he drew the corks of two more bottles of the red wine. ‘We have to drink it. We cannot take it with this bloody army.’

Montbrun frowned.

Sharpe smiled. ‘Bloody army?’

Verigny tossed back a glass of wine and poured himself another. ‘It is not an army, Major, not a true army. We are a–’ he paused, frowned, ‘un bordel ambulant!’

‘I think you’ll find the terrine especially good, Major.’ Montbrun smiled. ‘You’ll allow me to cut you some bread?’

‘A what?’ Sharpe asked.

‘A walking brothel, Major.’ La Marquesa smiled brightly. ‘There do seem to be rather a lot of ladies with us. Especially since King Joseph joined us.’

‘Allow me, Major.’ Montbrun put some of the terrine onto Sharpe’s plate. ‘More wine? Champagne, perhaps?’

‘Wine.’

When the meal was over, and when the peel of oranges littered the table among grape-stalks and the rinds of cheeses, Major Montbrun brought the talk to Sharpe’s future. He took from the tail pocket of his gilt-encrusted jacket a folded sheet of paper.

‘We’re most pleased to offer you parole.’ Montbrun smiled and put the paper in front of Sharpe. ‘General Verigny will count it an honour, Major, if you will let him provide you with all your necessities. A horse, your expenses.’ Montbrun shrugged as though the generous offer was a mere nothing.

‘The General has done me enough honour already.’ Verigny, in addition to providing this room and Sharpe’s food, had given Sharpe a new razor, a change of shirt, new stockings, and even a fine new tinder box; all to replace the articles stolen from Sharpe since he fell into Ducos’s hands.

Sharpe opened the paper, not understanding the French words, but seeing his own name, misspelt, on the top line. He looked at Montbrun. ‘Is my name to be submitted for exchange?’

They must have expected the question. An officer was rarely kept as a prisoner of war if he was captured close to the battlelines. Montbrun frowned. ‘We fear not, Major.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘You have, M’sieu, a certain notoriety?’ Montbrun smiled. ‘It would be foolish of us to release so formidable a soldier to wreak further damage on our cause.’

It was a pretty enough compliment, but not the answer Sharpe wanted. If he was not to be exchanged, then he faced a journey to the frontier, where he would be released on his parole to make his unescorted way across France. Verigny, speaking eagerly, explained that it would be his pleasure to provide Sharpe with the means to stay only in the best hotels, that he would, indeed, furnish him with introductions and the Major would be welcome to linger on his journey north to savour the summer delights of France. ‘Take the entirely summer, Major. You can drink, there are women, there are more drink!’ He demonstrated by finishing his glass. Already, Sharpe noted, Verigny was slurring his words.

There was yet more. Once at Verdun, the great northern fortress where officer prisoners were kept, Montbrun explained that the General would ensure that Sharpe had money to take rooms in the town, servants, and membership of all the best clubs organised by the captured British officers. Even, he said, the Literary and Philosophical Association, which was neither literary nor philosophical, but provided the wealthiest British captives with the discreet pleasures a man needed.

Sharpe thanked him.

Montbrun reached into his pouch and produced a quill and ink bottle. He pushed them to Sharpe. ‘You will sign, Major?’