Sharpe's Eagle (7 page)

Finally, two days late, the Spanish Regiment arrived and the South Essex mustered at five in
the morning to begin their march south to Valdelacasa. There was a chill in the air which the
rising sun would disperse, but as five thirty, the hour set for departure, came and went there
was still no sign of the Santa Maria and the men stamped their feet and rubbed their hands to
ward off the cold. The hour of six chimed from the bells in the town. The children who were
waiting with their mothers to see the Battalion depart grew bored and ran through the ranks
despite all the shouting that began with Simmerson and worked its way down to the Sergeants and
Corporals. The Battalion was paraded beside the Roman bridge that spanned the river, and Sharpe
followed a grumbling Captain Hogan onto the ancient arches and stared into the water that tumbled
round the vast granite boulders which had been left in the river-bed in some long-ago upheaval of
the earth. Hogan was impatient. "Damn them! Why can't we just march and let the beggars catch us
up?" He knew well why it was impossible. The answer was called diplomacy, and part of the price
of cooperation with the touchy Spanish forces was that the native Regiment must march first.
Sharpe said nothing. He stared into the water at the long weeds which waved sinuously in the
current. He shivered in the dawn breeze. He shared Hogan's impatience, and it was alloyed with
frustrations that stirred inside him like the slow-moving river weed. He looked up at the
Cathedral, touched by the rising sun, and tried to pin down his apprehensions about the operation
at Valdelacasa. It sounded simple. A day's march to the bridge, a day for Hogan to destroy the
already crumbling arches, and a day's march back to Plasencia, where Wellesley was gather-ing his
forces for the next stage of the advance into Spain. But there was something, some instinct as
difficult to pin down as the grey shadows that receded in the dawn, that told him it would not be
that easy. It was not the Spanish that worried him. Like Hogan he knew that their presence was a
political imperative and a military farce. If they proved as useless as their reputation
suggested, that should not matter; the South Essex was strong enough to cope with whatever was
needed. And that was the problem. Simmerson had never met the enemy, and Sharpe had little faith
in the Colonel's ability to do the right thing. If there really were French on the south bank of
the Tagus, and if the South Essex had to repel an attack on the bridge while Hogan laid his
charges, then Sharpe would have preferred an old soldier to be making the decisions and not this
Colonel of Militia whose head was stuffed with theories on battles and tactics learned on the
safe fields of Essex.

But it was not just Simmerson. He looked at the road leading to the town where an indistinct
group of women stood, the wives of the Battalion, and wondered whether the girl, Josefina
Lacosta, was there. He had at least learned her name and seen her, a dozen times, mounted on the
delicate black mare with a crowd of Simmerson's Lieutenants laughing and joking with her. He had
listened to the rumours about her; that she was the widow of a rich Portuguese officer, that she
had run away from the Portuguese officer, no-one seemed sure, but what was certain was that she
had met Gibbons at a ball in Lisbon's American Hotel and, within hours, had decided to go to the
war with him. It was said that they planned to marry once the army reached Madrid and that
Gibbons had promised her a house and a life of dancing and gaiety. Whatever the truth of Josefina
there was no denying her presence, entrancing the whole Battalion, flirting even with Sir Henry
who responded with a heavy gallantry and told the officers that young men would be young men.
"Christian needs his exercise, what?" Simmerson would repeat the joke and laugh each time. The
Colonel's indulgence reached to letting his nephew break his standing order and take a suite of
rooms in the town, where he lived with the girl and entertained friends in the long, warm
evenings. Gibbons was the 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 sup-pressed
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 onto 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 to Hogan."

Lawford appeared not to hear the answer. "He's an extraordinary man. Did you know he paid to
raise the 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 sizable bunch of Frenchies down there with some
horse artillery. They've been trying to flush the partisans 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 apprehen-sion 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 onto the field by energetic but erratic drummers.
Sharpe was appalled. All he had heard of the Spanish army seemed to be true in the Regimienta;
their weapons looked dull and uncared for, there was no spirit in their bearing, and Madrid
seemed suddenly a long way off if this was the quality of the allies who would help clear the
road. There was a renewed energy from the Spanish drummers as the two trumpeters challenged the
sky with a resounding fanfare. Then silence.

"Now what?" Hogan muttered.

Speeches. Wellesley, wise in the ways of diplomacy, escaped as the Spanish Colonel came
forward to harangue the South Essex. There was no official translator but Hogan, who spoke
passable Spanish, told Sharpe the Colonel was offering the British a chance, a small chance, to
share in the glorious triumph of the Spanish warriors over their enemy. The glorious Spanish
warriors, prompted by their non-commissioned officers, cheered the speech while the South Essex,
prompted by Simmerson, did the same. Salutes were exchanged, arms presented, there were more
fanfares, more drums, all climaxing in the appearance of a priest who, riding a small grey
donkey, blessed the Santa Maria with the help of small, white-surpliced boys. Pointedly the pagan
British were not included in the pleas to the Almighty.

Hogan took out his snuff box. "Do you think they'll fight?"

"God knows." The year before, Sharpe knew, a Spanish army had forced the surrender of twenty
thousand Frenchmen, so there was no doubting that the Spaniards could fight if their leadership
and organisation were equal to their ambitions. But, to Sharpe, the evidence of the Regimienta
suggested that their immediate allies had neither the organisation nor the leaders to do anything
except, perhaps, make bombastic speeches.

At half past ten, five hours late, the Battalion finally shrugged on its packs and followed
the Santa Maria across the old bridge. Sharpe and Hogan travelled ahead of the South Essex and
immediately behind a far from warlike Spanish rearguard. A bunch of mules was being coaxed along,
loaded high with luxuries to keep the Spanish officers comfortable in the field, while, in the
middle of the beasts, rode the priest who continually turned and smiled nervously with blackened
teeth at the heathens on his tail. Strangest of all were three white-dressed young women who rode
thoroughbred horses and carried fringed parasols. They giggled constantly, turned and peeped at
the Riflemen, and looked incongruously like three brides on horseback. What a way, Sharpe
thought, to go to war.

By midday the column had covered a mere five miles and had come to a complete stop. Trumpets
sounded at the head of the Regimienta, officers galloped in urgent clouds of dust up and down the
ranks, and the soldiers simply dropped their weapons and packs and sat down in the road. Anyone
with any kind of rank started to argue, the priest, stuck among the mules, screamed hysterically
at a mounted officer, while the three women wilted visibly and fanned themselves with their
white-gloved hands. Christian Gibbons walked his horse to the head of the British column and sat
staring at the three women. Sharpe looked up at him.