Sharpe's Havoc (17 page)

“If you say so,” Kate said, smiling at her husband.

“That was rather good, Sharpe, don’t you think? Pipes of port? Piping days of peace? A
piping pun, I’d say.” Christopher waited for Sharpe’s comment and, when none came, he
scowled. “You’ll stay here, Lieutenant.”

“Why’s that, sir?” Sharpe asked.

The question surprised Christopher. He had been expecting a more surly response and was
not ready for a mildly voiced query. He frowned, thinking how to phrase his answer. “I am
expecting developments, Sharpe,” he said after a few heartbeats.

“Developments, sir?”

“It is by no means certain,” Christopher went on, “that the war will be prolonged. We
could, indeed, be on the very cusp of peace.”

“That’s good, sir,” Sharpe said in an even voice, “and that’s why we’re to stay here?”

“You’re to stay here, Sharpe.” There was asperity in Christopher’s voice now as he
realized Sharpe’s neutral tone had been impudence. “And that applies to you too,
Lieutenant.” He spoke to Vicente who had come into the room with a small bow to Kate. “Things
are poised,” the Colonel went on, “precariously. If the French find British troops wandering
around north of the Douro they’ll think we are breaking our word.”

“My troops are not British,” Vicente observed quietly.

“The principle is the same!” Christopher snapped. “We do not rock the boat. We do not
jeopardize weeks of negotiation. If the thing can be resolved without more bloodshed then
we must do all that we can to ensure that it is so resolved, and your contribution to that
process is to stay here. And who the devil are those rogues down in the village?”

“Rogues?” Sharpe asked.

“A score of men, armed to the teeth, staring at me as I rode through. So who the devil are
they?”

“Partisans,” Sharpe said, “otherwise known as our allies.”

Christopher did not like that jibe. “Idiots, more like,” he snarled, “ready to upset the
apple cart.”

“And they’re led by a man you know,” Sharpe went on, “Manuel Lopes.”

“Lopes? Lopes?” Christopher frowned, trying to remember. “Oh yes! The fellow who ran a
flogging school for the few sons of the gentry in Braganga. Blustery sort of fellow, eh?
Well, I’ll have a word with him in the morning. Tell him not to upset matters, and the same
goes for you two. And that”-he looked from Sharpe to Vicente-”is an order.”

Sharpe did not argue. “Did you bring an answer from Captain Hogan?” he asked instead.

“I didn’t see Hogan. Left your letter at Cradock’s headquarters.”

“And General Wellesley’s not here?” Sharpe asked.

“He is not,” Christopher said, “but General Cradock is, and he commands, and he concurs
with my decision that you stay here.” The Colonel saw the frown on Sharpe’s face and opened a
pouch at his belt from which he took a piece of paper that he handed to Sharpe. “There,
Lieutenant,” he said silkily, “in case you’re worried.”

Sharpe unfolded the paper, which proved to be an order signed by General Cradock and
addressed to Lieutenant Sharpe that placed him under Colonel Christopher’s command.
Christopher had gulled the order from Cradock who had believed the Colonel’s assurance that
he needed protection, though in truth it simply amused Christopher to have Sharpe put under
his command. The order ended with the words “pro tern,” which puzzled Sharpe. “Pro tem, sir?”
he asked.

“You never learned Latin, Sharpe?”

“No, sir.”

“Good God, where did you go to school? It means for the time being. Until, indeed, I am
through with you, but you do agree, Lieutenant, that you are now strictly under my
orders?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Keep the paper, Sharpe,” Christopher said irritably when Sharpe tried to hand back
General Cradock’s order, “it’s addressed to you, for God’s sake, and looking at it once in a
while might remind you of your duty. Which is to obey my orders and stay here. If there is a
truce then it won’t hurt our bargaining position to say we have troops established well
north of the Douro, so you dig your heels in here and you stay very quiet. Now, if you’ll
pardon me, gentlemen, I’d like some time with my wife.”

Vicente bowed again and left, but Sharpe did not move. “You’ll be staying here with us,
sir?”

“No.” Christopher seemed uncomfortable with the question, but forced a smile. “You and I,
my darling”-he turned to Kate-”will be going back to House Beautiful.”

“You’re going to Oporto!” Sharpe was astonished.

“I told you, Sharpe, things are changing. There are more things in heaven and earth,
Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ So good night to you, Lieutenant.”

Sharpe went out onto the driveway where Vicente was standing by the low wall that
overlooked the valley. The Portuguese lieutenant was gazing at the half-dark sky which was
punctured by the first stars. He offered Sharpe a rough cigar and then his own to light it
from. “I talked to Luis,” Vicente said.

“And?” Sharpe rarely indulged and almost choked on the harsh smoke.

“Christopher has been back north of the Douro for five days. He’s been in Porto talking to
the French.”

“But he did go south?”

Vicente nodded. “They went to Coimbra, met General Cradock, then came back. Captain
Argenton returned to Porto with him.”

“So what the hell is going on?”

Vicente blew smoke at the moon. “Maybe they do make peace. Luis does not know what they
talked about.”

So maybe it was peace. There had been just such a treaty after the battles at Rolica and
Vimeiro and the defeated French had been taken home on British ships. So was a new treaty
being made? Sharpe was at least reassured that Christopher had seen Cradock, and now Sharpe
had definitive orders that took away much of the uncertainty.

The Colonel left shortly after dawn. At sunrise there had been a stuttering crackle of
musketry somewhere to the north and Christopher had joined Sharpe on the driveway and stared
into the valley’s mist. Sharpe could see nothing with his telescope, but Christopher was
impressed by the glass. “Who is AW?” he asked Sharpe, reading the inscription.

“Just someone I knew, sir.”

“Not Arthur Wellesley?” Christopher sounded amused.

“Just someone I knew,” Sharpe repeated stubbornly.

“Fellow must have liked you,” Christopher said, “because it’s a damned generous gift.
Mind if I take it to the rooftop? I might see more from there and my own telescope’s an evil
little thing.”

Sharpe did not like relinquishing the glass, but Christopher gave him no chance to refuse,
and just walked away. He evidently saw nothing to worry him for he ordered the gig
harnessed and told Luis to collect the remaining cavalry horses that Sharpe had captured
at Barca d’Avintas. “You can’t be bothered with horses, Sharpe,” he said, “so I’ll take them
off your hands. Tell me, what do your fellows do during the day?”

“There isn’t much to do,” Sharpe said. “We’re training Vicente’s men.”

“Need it, do they?”

“They could be quicker with their muskets, sir.”

Christopher had brought a cup of coffee out of the house and now blew on it to cool the
liquid. “If there’s peace,” he said, “then they can go back to being cobblers or whatever it
is they do when they ain’t shambling about the place in ill-fitting uniforms.” He sipped his
coffee. “Speaking of which, Sharpe, it’s time you got yourself a new one.”

“I’ll talk to my tailor,” Sharpe said and then, before Christopher could react to his
insolence, asked a serious question. “You think there will be peace, sir?”

“Quite a few of the Frogs think Bonaparte’s bitten off more than he can chew,” Christopher
said airily, “and Spain, certainly, is probably indigestible.”

“Portugal isn’t?”

“Portugal’s a mess,” Christopher said dismissively, “but France can’t hold Portugal if
she can’t hold Spain.” He turned to watch Luis leading the gig from the stable. “I think
there’s the real prospect of radical change in the air,” he said. “And you, Sharpe, won’t
jeopardize it. Lie low here for a week or so and I’ll send word when you can take your fellows
south. With a little luck you’ll be home by June.”

“You mean back with the army?”

“I mean home in England, of course,” Christopher said, “proper ale, Sharpe, thatched roofs,
cricket on the Artillery Ground, church bells, fat sheep, plump parsons, pliant women, good
beef, England. Something to look forward to, eh, Sharpe?”

“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said and wondered why he mistrusted Christopher most when the Colonel
was trying to be pleasant.

“There’s no point in you trying to leave anyway,” Christopher said, “the French have burned
every boat on the Douro, so keep your lads out of trouble and I’ll see you in a week or
two”-Christopher threw away the rest of his coffee and held his hand out to Sharpe-”and if not
me, I shall send a message. I left your telescope on the hall table, by the way. You’ve got a
key to the house, haven’t you? Keep your fellows out of it, there’s a good chap. Good day to
you, Sharpe.”

“And to you, sir,” Sharpe said, and after he had shaken the Colonel’s hand he wiped his own
on his French breeches. Luis locked the house, Kate smiled shyly at Sharpe and the Colonel took
the gig’s reins. Luis collected the dragoons’ horses then followed the gig down the drive
toward Vila Real de Zedes.

Harper strolled over to Sharpe. “We’re to stay here while they make peace?” The Irishman had
evidently been eavesdropping.

“That’s what the man said.”

“And is that what you think?”

Sharpe stared into the east, toward Spain. The sky there was white, not with cloud, but
heat, and there was a thumping in that eastern distance, an irregular heartbeat, so far off
as to be barely heard. It was cannon fire, proof that the French and the Portuguese were still
fighting over the bridge at Amarante. “It doesn’t smell like peace to me, Pat.”

“The folk here hate the French, sir. So do the Dons.”

“Which doesn’t mean the politicians won’t make peace,” Sharpe said.

“Those slimy bastards will do anything that makes them rich,” Harper agreed.

“But Captain Hogan never smelt peace in the wind.”

“And there ain’t much passes him by, sir.”

“But we’ve got orders,” Sharpe said, “directly from General Cradock.”

Harper grimaced. “You’re a great man for obeying orders, sir, so you are.”

“And the General wants us to stay here. God knows why. There’s something funny in the
wind, Pat. Maybe it is peace. God knows what you and I will do then.” He shrugged, then went to
the house to fetch his telescope and it was not there. The hall table held nothing except a
silver letter holder.

Christopher had stolen the glass. The bastard, Sharpe thought, the utter goddamn bloody
misbegotten bastard. Because the telescope was gone.

“I never liked the name,” Colonel Christopher said. “It isn’t even a beautiful house!”

“My father chose it,” Kate said, “it’s from The Pilgrim’s Progress.” “A tedious read, my
God, how tedious!” They were back in Oporto where Colonel Christopher had opened the
neglected cellars of the House Beautiful to discover dusty bottles of aging port and
more of vinho verde, a white wine that was almost golden in color. He drank some now as he
strolled about the garden. The flowers were coming into bloom, the lawn was newly scythed
and the only thing that spoiled the day was the smell of burned houses. It was almost a month
since the fall of the city and smoke still drifted from some of the ruins in the lower town
where the stench was much worse because of the bodies among the ashes. There were tales of
drowned bodies turning up on every tide.

Colonel Christopher sat under a cypress tree and watched Kate. She was beautiful, he
thought, so very beautiful, and that morning he had summoned a French tailor, Marshal
Soult’s personal tailor, and to Kate’s embarrassment he had made the man measure her for a
French hussar uniform. “Why would I want to wear such a thing?” Kate had asked, and
Christopher had not told her that he had seen a Frenchwoman dressed in just such a uniform,
the breeches skintight and the short jacket cut high to reveal a perfect bum, and Kate’s legs
were longer and better shaped, and Christopher, who was feeling rich because of the funds
released to him by General Cradock, funds Christopher claimed were necessary to encourage
Argenton’s mutineers, had paid the tailor an outrageous fee to have the uniform stitched
quickly.

“Why wear that uniform?” he responded to her question. “Because you will find it easier
to ride a horse wearing breeches, because the uniform becomes you, because it reassures
our French friends that you are not an enemy, and best of all, my dear one, because it would
please me.” And that last reason, of course, had been the one that convinced her. “You really
like the name House Beautiful?” he asked her.

“I’m used to it.”

“Not attached to it? It’s not a matter of faith with you?”

“Faith?” Kate, in a white linen dress, frowned. “I consider myself a Christian.”

“A Protestant Christian,” her husband amended her, “as am I. But does not the name of the
house somewhat flaunt itself in a Romish society?”

“I doubt,” Kate said with an unexpected tartness, “that anyone here has read
Bunyan.”

“Some will have,” Christopher said, “and they will know they are being insulted.” He
smiled at her. “I am a diplomat, remember. It is my job to make the crooked straight and the
rough places plain.”

“Is that what you’re doing here?” Kate asked, gesturing to indicate the city beneath
them where the French ruled over plundered houses and embittered people.

“Oh, Kate,” Christopher said sadly. “This is progress!”

“Progress?”

Christopher got to his feet and paced up and down the lawn, becoming animated as he
explained to her that the world was changing fast about them. “ ‘There are more things in
heaven and earth,’ “ he told her,

“ ‘than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ “ and Kate, who had been told this more than once
in her short marriage, suppressed her irritation and listened as her husband described
how the ancient superstitions were being discredited. “Kings have been dethroned, Kate,
whole countries now manage without them. That would once have been considered unthinkable!
It would have been a defiance of God’s plan for the world, but we’re seeing a new
revelation. It is a new ordering of the world. What do simple folk see here? War! Just war,
but war between who? France and Britain? France and Portugal? No! It is between the old way
of doing things and the new way. Superstitions are being challenged. I’m not defending
Bonaparte. Good God, no! He’s a braggart, an adventurer, but he’s also an instrument.
He’s burning out what is bad in the old regimes and leaving a space into which new ideas will
come. Reason! That’s what animates the new regimes, Kate, reason!”