Sharpe’s Enemy: The Defence of Portugal, Christmas 1812. Bernard Cornwell

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СКАЧАТЬ to use both for his own pleasure. He turned towards the dining room. ‘Agostino!’

      ‘Sir?’ An unseen servant answered.

      ‘Shut the door!’

      The wooden door was closed, cutting off the noise of men’s voices. Sir Augustus’ eyes, unfriendly, looked Sharpe up and down. The Rifleman had just arrived back in Frenada and had not waited to straighten his uniform or wash the travel stains from his hands or face. Farthingdale’s voice was precise and cold. ‘The Marquess of Wellington is deeply concerned, Major Sharpe. Deeply.’

      Farthingdale managed to convey that he and Wellington were on close terms, that he was vouchsafing a state secret to Sharpe. The paper-knife tapped the polished desk-top. ‘My wife, Major, has the highest connections in the Portuguese court. You understand?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘The Marquess of Wellington does not want our relationship with the Portuguese government jeopardized.’

      ‘No, sir.’ Sharpe resisted the impulse to tell Sir Augustus Farthingdale that he was a pompous idiot. It was interesting that Wellington had written, the letter doubtless posted north by one of the young cavalry officers who, by changing frequent horses, could cover sixty miles in a day. Wellington must be in Lisbon then, for the news could not have reached Cadiz in time for a reply to have been received. And Farthingdale was pompous because even Sharpe knew that Wellington’s concern would not be the Portuguese government. His concern would be the Spanish. The story of Adrados had spread like fire on a parched plain, feeding from the sensibilities of Spanish pride, and in the New Year the British army must march back into Spain. The army would buy its food from the Spanish; use Spanish labour to bake bread and drive mules, find forage and give shelter, and Pot-au-Feu and Hakeswill had jeopardized that co-operation. The poison of Adrados had to be lanced as one small step towards winning the war.

      Yet Sharpe, who guessed he had known Wellington longer than Farthingdale, knew that there would be something else about Pot-au-Feu which would deeply disturb the General. Wellington believed that anarchy was always just a rabblerouser’s shout away from order, and order, he believed, was not just an essential but the supreme virtue. Pot-au-Feu had challenged that virtue, and Pot-au-Feu would have to be destroyed.

      The paper-knife was put down on a pile of paper, perhaps Farthingdale’s next book of Practical Instructions to Young Officers, and one immaculate knee was crossed over the other. Sir Augustus straightened the tassel of a boot. ‘You say she has not been harmed?’ There was a hint of worry beneath the polished voice.

      ‘So Madame Dubreton assured us, sir.’

      A clock in the hallway struck nine. Sharpe guessed that most of the furnishings of these lodgings had been transported north just for Sir Augustus’ visit. He and Lady Farthingdale had made their magnificent progress around the winter quarters of the Portuguese army and then stopped at Frenada on their way south so that Lady Farthingdale could visit the shrine of Adrados and pray for her mother who was dying. Farthingdale had preferred a day’s rough shooting, but two young Captains had eagerly offered to escort his wife to the hills. Sharpe wished that Sir Augustus would show him a picture of his wife, but the Colonel did not evidently think that desirable.

      ‘I have it in mind, Major, to lead the rescue of Lady Farthingdale?’ Sir Augustus inflected the statement as a question, almost a challenge, but Sharpe said nothing. The Colonel dabbed the corner of his mouth with a finger, then inspected the fingertip as if something might have adhered to it. ‘Tell me how possible a rescue is, Major?’

      ‘It could be done, sir.’

      ‘The Marquess of Wellington,’ again the annoying circumlocution of Wellington’s full title, ‘wishes it to be done.’

      ‘We’d need to know which of the buildings she’s in, sir. There’s a Castle, a Convent, and a whole village, sir.’

      ‘Do we know?’

      ‘No, sir.’ Sharpe did not want to speculate here. That could wait till he saw Nairn.

      The eyes looked at Sharpe with hostility. Sir Augustus’ expression implied that Sharpe had failed utterly. He sighed. ‘So. I have lost my wife, five hundred guineas, at least I’m glad to see you still have my watch.’

      ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’ Sharpe unclipped the chain reluctantly. He had never owned a watch, indeed he had often been scathing about them, saying that any officer who needed a machine for telling the time of day did not deserve to wear a uniform, but now he felt that the possession of this timepiece, albeit borrowed, lent him a certain air of success and property; something proper to a Major. ‘Here, sir.’ He handed it to Sir Augustus who opened the lid, checked that both hands and the glass were still there, and who then slid open a drawer of the desk and put the watch away. Then the long slim fingers wiped delicately against each other. ‘Thank you, Major. I am sorry this has been so fruitless an experience. Doubtless we will meet at Major General Nairn’s headquarters meeting in the morning.’ He stood up, his movements precise as a cat. ‘Good night, Major.’

      ‘Sir.’

      Orders for Sharpe to attend the headquarters the following morning waited at his lodgings. Orders and a bottle of brandy, donated by Nairn, with a scrawled letter saying that if Sharpe had got back on time then he would need the contents of this bottle. Sir Augustus had not even offered him a glass of water, let alone a glass of wine, and Sharpe shared the bottle with Lieutenant Harry Price and let vent to his feelings about velvet-clad civilians who thought they were Colonels. Price smiled happily. ‘That’s my ambition, sir. A velvet coat, a young wife full of juice, and all the heroes like you saluting me.’

      ‘May it happen for you, Harry.’

      ‘May all the dreams come true, sir.’ Price had been sewing a patch onto his red jacket. Like most of the South Essex he wore a red coat; only Sharpe and his few Riflemen who had survived the Retreat to Corunna and then been formed into the South Essex’s Light Company kept their prided Green coats. Green coats! Of course! Green bloody coats!

      ‘What is it, sir?’ Price was holding the bottle upside down, hoping for a miracle.

      ‘Nothing, Harry, nothing. Just an idea.’

      ‘Then God help someone, sir.’

      Sharpe held the idea, and with it a second thought, and took them both to the headquarters in the morning. It had clouded in the night, light cold rain falling for most of the morning, and the table in the hallway outside the room where Nairn waited was heaped with coats, cloaks, scabbards and damp hats. Sharpe added his own to the pile, propped the rifle against the wall where an orderly promised to keep watch over it.

      Nairn, Farthingdale, Sharpe and one unknown Lieutenant Colonel made up the meeting. Nairn, for once, had eschewed his dressing gown and wore the dark green facings and gold lace of one of the Highland Regiments. Sir Augustus was resplendent in the red, black and gold of the Princess Royal’s Dragoons, his cavalry spurs tearing at the carpet. The Lieutenant Colonel was a Fusilier, his red coat faced in white, and he nodded warmly at Sharpe. Nairn made the introductions. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Kinney. Major Sharpe.’

      ‘Your servant, Sharpe, and it’s an honour.’ Kinney was big, broad faced, with a ready smile. Nairn looked at him and smiled.

      ‘Kinney’s a Welshman, Sharpe, so don’t trust him further than you can throw a cat.’

      Kinney laughed. ‘He’s СКАЧАТЬ