Sharpe’s Eagle: The Talavera Campaign, July 1809. Bernard Cornwell

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СКАЧАТЬ envy of all the officers, Josefina the jewel in his crown, and Sharpe shivered on the bridge and wondered if she would ever go back to the flatlands of Essex and to a big house built on the profits of salted fish.

      Seven chimed and there was a stir of excitement as a group of horsemen appeared from the houses and spurred towards the waiting Battalion. The riders turned out to be British and the ranks relaxed again. Hogan and Sharpe walked back to their men paraded next to Lennox’s Light Company at the left of the Battalion and watched the newcomers ride to join Simmerson. All the riders but one were in uniform and the exception wore blue trousers under a grey cloak and on his head a plain bicorne hat. Ensign Denny, sixteen years old and full of barely suppressed excitement, was standing near the Riflemen and Sharpe asked him if he knew who the apparent civilian was.

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Sergeant Harper! Tell Mr Denny who the gentleman in the grey cloak is.’

      ‘That’s the General, Mr Denny. Sir Arthur Wellesley himself. Born in Ireland like all the best soldiers!’

      A ripple of laughter went through the ranks but they all straightened up and stared at the man who would lead them towards Madrid. They saw him take out a watch and look towards the town from where the Spanish should be coming but there was still no sign of the Regimienta even though the sun was well over the horizon and the dew fading fast from the grass. One of the staff officers with Wellesley broke away from the group and trotted his horse towards Hogan. Sharpe supposed he wanted to talk to the Engineer and he walked away, back to the bridge, to give Hogan some privacy.

      ‘Sharpe! Richard!’

      The voice was familiar, from the past. He turned to see the staff officer, a Lieutenant Colonel, waving to him but the face was hidden beneath the ornate cocked hat.

      ‘Richard! You’ve forgotten me!’

      Lawford! Sharpe’s face broke into a smile. ‘Sir! I didn’t even know you were here!’

      Lawford swung easily out of the saddle, took off his hat, and shook his head. ‘You look dreadful! You must really buy yourself a uniform one of these days.’ He smiled and shook Sharpe’s hand. ‘It’s good to see you, Richard.’

      ‘And to see you, sir. A Lieutenant Colonel? You’re doing well!’

      ‘It cost me three thousand, five hundred pounds, Richard, and well you know it. Thank God for money.’

      Lawford. Sharpe remembered when the Honourable William Lawford was a frightened Lieutenant and a Sergeant called Sharpe had guided him through the heat of India. Then Lawford had repaid the debt. In a prison cell in Seringapatam the aristocrat had taught the Sergeant to read and write, the exercise had stopped them both going mad in the dank hell of the Sultan Tippoo’s dungeons. Sharpe shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen you for …’

      ‘It’s been months. Far too long. How are you?’

      Sharpe grinned. ‘As you see me.’

      ‘Untidy?’ Lawford smiled. He was the same age as Sharpe but there the resemblance stopped. Lawford was a dandy, dressed always in the finest cloth and lace, and Sharpe had seen him pay a Regimental Tailor seven guineas to achieve a tighter fit on an already immaculately tailored jacket. He spread his hands expansively.

      ‘You can stop worrying, Richard, Lawford is here. The French will probably surrender when they hear. God! It’s taken me months to get this job! I was stuck in Dublin Castle, changing the bloody guard, and I’ve pulled a hundred strings to get on to Wellesley’s staff. And here I am! Arrived two weeks ago!’ The words tumbled out. Sharpe was delighted to see him. Lawford, like Gibbons, summed up all that he hated most about the army; how money and influence could buy promotion while others, like Sharpe, rotted in penury. Yet Sharpe liked Lawford, could feel no resentment, and he supposed that it was because the aristocrat, for all the assurance of his birth, responded to Sharpe in the same way. And Lawford, for all his finery and assumed languor, was a fighting soldier. Sharpe held up a hand to stop the flow of news.

      ‘What’s happening, sir? Where are the Spanish?’

      Lawford shook his head. ‘Still in bed. At least they were, but the bugles have sounded, the warriors have pulled on their trousers and we’re told they’re coming.’ He leaned closer to Sharpe and dropped his voice. ‘How do you get on with Simmerson?’

      ‘I don’t have to get on with him. I work for Hogan.’

      Lawford appeared not to hear the answer. ‘He’s an extraordinary man. Did you know he paid to raise this Regiment?’ Sharpe nodded. ‘Do you know what that cost him, Richard? Unimaginable!’

      ‘So he’s a rich man. But it doesn’t make him a soldier.’ Sharpe sounded sour.

      Lawford shrugged. ‘He wants to be. He wants to be the best. I sailed out on the same boat and all he did, every day, was sit there reading the Rules and Regulations for His Majesty’s Forces!’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps he’ll learn. I don’t envy you, though.’ He turned to look at Wellesley. ‘Well. I can’t stay all day. Listen. You must dine with me when you get back from this job. Will you do that?’

      ‘With pleasure.’

      ‘Good!’ Lawford swung up into the saddle. ‘You’ve got a scrap ahead of you. We sent the Light Dragoons down south and they tell us there’s a sizeable bunch of Frenchies down there with some horse artillery. They’ve been trying to flush the Guerilleros out of the hills but they’re moving back east now, like us, so good luck!’ He turned his horse away, then looked back. ‘And, Richard?’

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘Sir Arthur asked to be remembered.’

      ‘He did?’

      Lawford looked down on Sharpe. ‘You’re an idiot.’ He spoke cheerfully. ‘Shall I remember you to the General? It’s the done thing, you know.’ He grinned, raised his hat and turned away. Sharpe watched him go, the apprehension of the cold dawn suddenly dissipated by the rush of friendship. Hogan joined him.

      ‘Friends in high places?’

      ‘Old friend. We were in India.’

      Hogan said nothing. He was staring across the field, his jaw sagging in astonishment, and Sharpe followed his gaze. ‘My God.’

      The Regimienta had arrived. Two trumpeters in powdered wigs led the procession. They were mounted on glossy black horses, bedecked in uniforms that were a riot of gold and silver, their trumpets festooned with ribbons, tassels, and banners.

      ‘Hell’s teeth.’ The voice came from the ranks. ‘The Fairies are on our side.’

      The colours came next, two flags covered in armorial bearings, threaded with gold, tasselled, looped, crowned, curlicued, emblazoned, carried by horsemen whose mounts stepped delicately high as though the earth was scarcely fit to carry such splendid creations. The officers came next. They should have delighted the soul of Sir Henry Simmerson for everything that could be polished had been burnished to an eye-hurting intensity; whether of leather, or bronze, silver or gold. Epaulettes of twisted golden strands were encrusted with semi-precious stones; their coats were piped with silver threads, frogged and plumed, sashed and shining. It was a dazzling display.

      The men came next, a shambling mess, rattled СКАЧАТЬ