Sharpe's Eagle (20 page)

"Yes."

"What about?"

"My first battle." He did not say any more but in his dream he had been unable to load the
Brown Bess, the bayonet would not fit the muzzle, and the French kept coming and laughing at the
frightened boy on the wet plains of Flanders. Boxtel, it had been called, and he rarely thought
of the messy fight in the damp field. He looked at the girl. "What about you?" He patted the bed.
"Why are you up?"

She shrugged. "I couldn't sleep." She had put on some kind of dark robe, and only her face and
the hand holding the glass were visible in the unlit room.

"Why couldn't you sleep?"

"I was thinking. About what you said. "

"It may not happen."

She smiled at him. "No."

Somewhere in the town a dog barked but there were no other sounds. Sharpe thought of the
prisoners and won-dered if they were spending their last night awake and listening to the same
dog. He thought back to the evening after he had come back from the guardroom and the long
conversation with Josefina. She wanted to reach Madrid, was desperate to reach Madrid, and Sharpe
had told her he thought it unlikely that the allies would get as far as Spain's capital. Sharpe
thought that Josefina had little idea why she wanted to reach Madrid; it was the dream city for
her, the pot of gold at the end of a fading rainbow, and he was jealous of her desire to get
there. "Why not go back to Lisbon?"

"My husband's family won't welcome me, not now."

"Ah, Edward."

"Duarte." Her correction was automatic.

"Then go home." They had had this conversation before. He tried to force her to reject every
option but staying near him, as though he thought he could afford to keep her.

"Home? You don't understand. They will force me to wait for him just like his parents do. In a
convent or in a dark room, it doesn't matter." Her voice was edged with despair. She had been
brought up in Oporto, the daughter of a merchant who was rich enough to mix with the important
English families in the town who dominated the Port trade. She had learned English as a child
because that language was the tongue of the wealthy and powerful in her home town. Then she had
married Duarte, ten years her senior, and Keeper of the King's Falcons in Lisbon. It was a
courtier's job, far from any falcons, and she had loved the glitter of the palace, the balls, the
fashionable life. Then, two years before, when the Royal Family had fled to Brazil, Duarte had
taken a mistress instead of his wife, and she had been left in the big house with his parents and
sisters. "They wanted me to go into a convent. Can you believe that? That I should wait for him
in a convent, a dutiful wife, while he fathers bastards on that woman?"

Sharpe rolled off the bed and walked to the window. He leaned on the black ironwork, oblivious
of his nakedness, and stared towards the east as if, in the night sky, he might see the
reflection of the French fires. They were there, a long day's march away, but there was nothing
to be seen except the moonlight on the countryside and the falling roofs of the town. Josefina
came and stood beside him and ran her fingers down the scars on his back. "What happens
tomorrow?"

Sharpe turned and looked down on her. "They get shot."

"It's quick?"

"Yes." There was no point in telling her of the times when the bullets missed and the officers
had to walk up and blow the heads apart with a pistol. He put an arm round her and drew her to
him, smelling her hair. She rested her head on his chest, her fingers still exploring the scars.
"I'm fright-ened." Her voice was very small.

"Of them?"

"Yes."

Gibbons and Berry had been in the guardroom when the deserters had been brought in. Sir Henry
was there, rubbing his hands, and in his delight at the capture of the fugitives had effusively
thanked Sharpe, all enmity sud-denly put aside. The court-martial was a formality, a matter of
moments, and then the paper had gone to be signed by the General and the fate of the four men
sealed. Sharpe, for a few moments, had been left in the room with the two Lieutenants, but
nothing had been said to him. They had talked quietly, occasionally laughing, looking at him as
if to provoke his anger, but it was the wrong time and place. It would come. He tilted her face
towards him. "Would you need me if they were not here?"

She nodded. "You still don't understand. I'm a married woman and I've run away. Oh, I know
he's done worse, but that does not count against him. The day I left Duarte's parents I became
alone. Do you see? I can't go back there, my parents will not forgive me. I thought in Madrid. ,
She tailed away.

"And Christian Gibbons said he would look after you in Madrid?"

She nodded again. "Other girls went, you know that. There are so many officers. But now." She
stopped again. He knew what she was thinking.

"Now you're worried. No Madrid and you're with someone who has no money and you're thinking of
all those nights in the fields or flea-ridden cottages?"

She smiled up at him and Sharpe felt the pang of her beauty. "One day, Richard, you'll be a
Colonel with a big horse, and lots of money, and you'll be horrible to all the Captains and
Lieutenants."

He laughed. "But not quickly enough for you?" He had spoken the truth, he knew, but it did not
help her. There were other girls, girls of good family like Josefina, who had risked everything
to run to the soldiers. But they had been unmarried and had found refuge in a fast wedding, and
their families had been forced to make the best of it. But Josefina? Sharpe knew she would find a
man richer than he, a cavalry officer with money to spare and an eye for a woman, and her
affection for Sharpe would be over-ridden by the need for comfort and security. He pulled her
very tight to his chest, feeling the night air chill on his skin. "I'll look after
you."

"Promise?" Her voice was muffled.

"I promise."

"Then I won't be frightened." She pulled slightly away. "You're cold?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Come on." She led him back into the dark room. He knew that she was his for a short time, and
only a short time, and he was saddened by it. Outside the dog barked on at the empty
sky.

The Battalion paraded in companies forming three sides of a hollow square. The fourth side,
instead of the accustomed flogging triangle, was made up of two leaning poplar trees that grew
beside a shallow pool. The fringes of the pond had been trampled by cavalry, and the mud had
dried ochre lumps streaked with green scum. Between the trees lay the Battalion's bass drum, and
on its grey stretched skin there rested an open Bible and prayer book. There was no wind to stir
the pages, just the sun continuing its relentless assault on the plain and on the men who sweated
at attention in full uniform.

Sharpe stood before the Light Company at the left of the line and stared over the heads of the
Grenadier Company opposite at the castle of Oropesa. It dominated the plain for miles, its
curtain walls rising like stone slabs above the roofs of the town and Sharpe wondered idly what
it must have been like to ride in full knightly armour in the days when the castle was a real
obstacle. Today's modern siege artillery would punch through the seeming-ly solid walls and bring
the stones tumbling into the steep streets in devastating avalanches. Sweat stung his eyes,
dripped onto his green jacket, trickled down his spine. He felt curiously light-hearted, not at
all a fit state to watch deserters blown into eternity, and as he stared at the castle he thought
of Josefina and somehow, in the morning light, the bargain did not seem such a bad one. She was
his for as long as she needed him but, in return, she offered him her happiness and vivacity. And
when the arrangement ends? A good soldier, he knew, always planned for the battle after the one
ahead, but he could make no plans for the moment when Josefina would take herself away.

He looked at Gibbons, who paraded on his horse with the Light Company. Simmerson was mounted
in the centre of the square next to General `Daddy' Hill who, with his staff, had come to fulfill
his duty of watching execution done. Gibbons sat, stony faced, and stared straight ahead. As soon
as this parade was done Sharpe knew he would return to the safety of his uncle's side, and the
Lieutenant had spoken no word to Sharpe, just ridden his horse over to the company, turned it,
and sat still. There was no need for words. Sharpe could feel the hatred almost radiating from
the man, the determination for revenge, for Sharpe had not only gained the promotion Gibbons
wanted but worse than that the Rifleman had the girl too. Sharpe knew the matter was
unresolved.

Fourteen men, all guilty of minor crimes, marched into the square and were stood facing the
trees. Their punish-ment was to act as the firing squad, and as the men stood there, their
muskets grounded, they stared with fascina-tion at the two newly dug graves and the crude wooden
coffins that waited for Ibbotson and Moss. The other two prisoners had died in the night. Sharpe
half wondered whether Parton, the Battalion's doctor, had helped them on their way rather than
force the Battalion to watch two desperately sick men lashed to the trees and shot to pieces.
Sharpe had seen many executions. As a child he had watched a public hanging and listened to the
excitement of the crowd as the victims jerked and twitched on the gallows. He had seen men blown
from the muzzles of decorated brass cannon, their bodies shredded into the Indian landscape, he
had watched comrades tortured by the Tippoo's women, fed to wild beasts, he had hung men by a
casual roadside himself, yet most often he had seen men shot in the full panoply of ritual
execution. He had never enjoyed the spectacle; he supposed no sensible man did, but he knew it
was necessary. Somehow this execution was subtly different. It was not that Moss and Ibbotson did
not deserve to die, they had deserted, planned to join the enemy, and there could be no end for
them other than the firing squad. Yet coming on top of the fight at the bridge, coming on top of
Simmerson's floggings, his repeated condemnation of his men for losing the colour, the execution
was seen by the Battalion as summing up Simmerson's contempt and hatred for them. Sharpe had
rarely felt such sullen resentment from any troops.

In the distance, threading its way through the crowds of British and Spanish spectators, the
Provost-Marshal's party appeared, prisoners and guard. Forrest walked his horse forward of
Simmerson.

"Talion! Fix Bayonets!"

Blades scraped out of scabbards and steel rippled round the ranks of the companies. The men
must die with due ceremony. Sharpe watched Gibbons bend down to talk to the sixteen-year-old
Ensign Denny.

"Your first execution, Mr Denny?"

The youngster nodded. He was pale and apprehensive, like the younger soldiers in the ranks.
Gibbons chuckled. "Best target practice the men can have!"

"Quiet!" Sharpe glared at his officers. Gibbons smiled secretly.

"Talion!" Forrest's horse edged sideways. The Major calmed it. "Shoulder arms!"

The lines of men became tipped with bayonets. There was silence. The prisoners wore trousers
and shirts, no jackets, and Sharpe supposed them to be half full of rough brandy or rum. A
Chaplain walked with them, the mumble of his words just carrying to Sharpe, but the prisoners
seemed to take no notice of him as they were marched to the trees. The drama moved inexorably
forward. Moss and Ibbotson were tied to the trunks, blindfolded, and Forrest stood the firing
squad to attention. Ibbotson, the son of the vicarage, was nearest to Sharpe, and he could see
the man's lips moving frenetically. Was he praying? Sharpe could not hear the words.

Forrest gave no commands. The firing party had been rehearsed to obey signals rather than
orders, and they presented and aimed to jerks of the Major's sword. Suddenly Ibbotson's voice
came clear and loud, the educated tones filled with desperation, and Sharpe recog-nised the
words. "We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. , Forrest dropped the sword, the
muskets banged, the bodies jerked maniacally, and a flock of birds burst screeching from the
branches. Two Lieutenants ran forward with drawn pistols, but the musket balls had done their
work and the bodies hung with crushed and bloodied chests in front of the lingering white musket
smoke.

A murmur, barely audible, went through the ranks of the Battalion. Sharpe turned on his
men.

"Quiet!"

The Light Company stood silent. The smoke from the firing party smelt pungent in the air. The
murmur became louder. Officers and Sergeants screamed orders, but the men of the South Essex had
found their protest and the humming became more insistent. Sharpe kept his own company quiet by
sheer force, by standing glaring at them with drawn sword, but he could do nothing about the
contempt that they showed on their faces. It was not aimed at him, it was for Simmerson, and the
Colonel twitched his reins in the center of the square and bellowed for silence. The noise
increased. Sergeants ran into the ranks and struck at men they suspected of making any sound,
officers screamed at companies, adding to the din, and from beyond the Battalion came the jeers
of the British soldiers from other units who had drifted out of the town to watch the
execution.

Gradually the moaning and humming died away, as slowly as the executioners' smoke thinned into
the air, and the Battalion stood silent and motionless. 'Daddy` Hill had not moved or spoken but
now he motioned to his aides-de-camp and the small group trotted delicately away, past the firing
squad who now lifted the bodies into the coffins, and off towards Oropesa. Hill's face was
expressionless. Sharpe had never met 'Daddy` Hill but he knew, as did the rest of the army, that
the General had a reputation as a kind and considerate officer and Sharpe wondered what he
thought of Simmerson and his methods. Rowland Hill commanded six Battalions but Sharpe was
certain none would offer him as many problems as the South Essex.