Sharpe 3-Book Collection 4: Sharpe’s Escape, Sharpe’s Fury, Sharpe’s Battle. Bernard Cornwell

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      ‘I did, sir.’

      ‘So you will apologize?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      Lawford looked outraged, but for a few seconds was lost for words. ‘The consequences, Sharpe,’ he finally managed to speak, ‘will be dire if you disobey me in this.’

      Sharpe shifted his gaze so that he was looking at Lawford’s right eye. Looking straight at Lawford and making the Colonel feel uncomfortable. Sharpe saw weakness there, then decided that was wrong. Lawford was not a weak man, but he lacked ruthlessness. Most men did. Most men were reasonable, they sought accommodation and found mutual ground. They were happy enough to fire volleys, but shrank from getting in close with a bayonet. But now was the time for Lawford to wield the blade. He had expected Sharpe to apologize to Slingsby, and why not? It was a small enough gesture, it appeared to solve the problem, but Sharpe was refusing and Lawford did not know what to do about it. ‘I will not apologize,’ Sharpe said very harshly, ‘sir.’ And the last word had all the insolence that could be invested in a single syllable.

      Lawford looked furious, but again said nothing for a few seconds. Then, abruptly, he nodded. ‘You were a quartermaster once, I believe?’

      ‘I was, sir.’

      ‘Mister Kiley is indisposed. For the moment, while I decide what to do with you, you will assume his duties.’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe responded woodenly, betraying no reaction.

      Lawford hesitated, as though there was something more to be said, then crammed on his cocked hat and turned away.

      ‘Sir,’ Sharpe said.

      Lawford turned, said nothing.

      ‘Mister Iliffe, sir,’ Sharpe said. ‘He fought well today. If you’re writing to his family, sir, then you can tell them truthfully that he fought very well.’

      ‘A pity, then, that he’s dead,’ Lawford said bitterly and walked away, beckoning Knowles to accompany him.

      Forrest sighed. ‘Why not just apologize, Richard?’

      ‘Because he damned well nearly had my company killed.’

      ‘I know that,’ Forrest said, ‘and the Colonel knows it, and Mister Slingsby knows it and your company knows it. So eat humble pie, Sharpe, and go back to them.’

      ‘He’ Sharpe pointed at the retreating figure of the Colonel ‘wants rid of me. He wants his goddamned brother-in-law in charge of the skirmishers.’

      ‘He doesn’t want rid of you, Sharpe,’ Forrest said patiently. ‘Good God, he knows how good you are! But he has to bring on Slingsby. Family business, eh? His wife wants him to make Slingsby’s career, and what a wife wants, Sharpe, a wife gets.’

      ‘He wants rid of me,’ Sharpe insisted. ‘And if I apologize, Major, then sooner or later I’d still be out on my ear, so I might as well go now.’

      ‘Don’t go far,’ Forrest said with a smile.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Mister Slingsby drinks,’ Forrest said quietly.

      ‘He does?’

      ‘Far too much,’ Forrest said. ‘He’s holding it in check for now, hoping a new battalion will give him a new beginning, but I fear for him. I had a similar problem myself, Richard, though I’ll thank you not to tell anyone. I suspect our Mister Slingsby will revert to his old behaviour in the end. Most men do.’

      ‘You didn’t.’

      ‘Not yet, Sharpe, not yet.’ Forrest smiled. ‘But think on what I’ve said. Mutter an apology to the man, eh? And let it all blow over.’

      When hell froze over, Sharpe thought. Because he would not apologize.

      And Slingsby had the light company.

      Major Ferreira had read his brother’s letter shortly after the last French column had been defeated. ‘He wants an answer, senhor,’ Miguel, Ferragus’s messenger, had said. ‘One word.’

      Ferreira stared through the cannon smoke that hung in skeins over the hillside where so many French had died. This was a victory, he thought, but it would not be long before the French found the road looping about the ridge’s northern end. Or perhaps the victorious British and Portuguese would sweep down Bussaco’s long hillside and attack the French in the valley? Yet there was no sign of such an attack. No gallopers rode to give generals fresh instructions, and the longer Wellington waited the more time the French had to throw up earthworks beyond the stream. No, the Major thought, this battle was over and Lord Wellington probably intended to fall back towards Lisbon and offer another battle in the hills north of the city.

      ‘One word,’ Miguel had prompted the Major again.

      Ferreira had nodded. ‘Sim,’ he said, though he said it heavily. Yes, it meant, and once the fatal word was spoken he turned his horse and spurred northwards past the victorious Light Division, behind the windmill that was pocked with the marks left by musket balls and then down through the small trees growing on the northern end of the ridge. No one remarked his going. He was known to be an occasional explorer, one of the Portuguese officers who, like their British counterparts, rode out to scout the enemy’s position, and besides, there were Portuguese militia in the Caramula hills north of the ridge and it was not surprising that an officer rode to check on their position.

      Yet Ferreira, even though his departure from the army had appeared quite innocent, rode with trepidation. His whole future, the future of his family, depended on the next few hours. The Major had inherited wealth, but he had never made any. His investments had failed, and it had only been his brother’s return that had restored his fortunes, and that fortune would be threatened if the French took over Portugal. What Major Ferreira must do now was change horses, leap from the patriotic saddle into a French one, yet do it in such a way that no one would ever know, and he would do it only to preserve his name, his fortune and his family’s future.

      He rode for three hours and it was past midday when he turned eastwards, climbing to a prominent hill. He knew that the Portuguese militia guarding the road about the northern end of the ridge were well behind him, and as far as he knew there were no British or Portuguese cavalry patrols in these hills, but he still made the sign of the cross and composed a silent prayer that he would not be seen by anyone from his own side. And he did think of the British and Portuguese army as his side. He was a patriot, but what use was a penniless patriot?

      He stopped at the hilltop. Stopped there for a long time until he was certain that any French cavalry vedettes would have seen him, and then he rode slowly down the hill’s eastern face. He stopped halfway down. Now, anyone approaching him could see that he was not luring them to an ambush. There was no dead ground behind him, nowhere for a cavalry unit to hide. There was just Major Ferreira on a long, bare hillside.

      And ten minutes after he stopped, a score of green-coated dragoons appeared a half-mile away. The horsemen spread into a line. Some had their carbines out of their holsters, but most had drawn swords and Ferreira dismounted to show them that he was not trying to escape. The officer in charge of the dragoons stared upwards, searching for danger, and finally he must have concluded that all was well for he rode forward with a half-dozen СКАЧАТЬ