Бернард Корнуэлл - Sharpe's Havoc

The Portuguese were still asleep when the Frenchmen came. They arrived with bayonets and no mercy. The first two houses fell swiftly, their occupants killed scarcely before they were awake, but their screams alerted the rest of the ordenanqa who ran into the darkness to be met by the best-trained infantry in the French army. The bayonets did their work and the cries of the victims completed the victory because the survivors, confused and terrified by the terrible sounds in the dark night, fled. By a quarter past midnight Dulong was warming himself by the fire that had lit his way to victory.

Marshal Soult took the medal of the Legion d’Honneur from his own coat and pinned it to the turnback of Major Dulong’s frayed jacket. Then, with tears in his eyes, the Marshal kissed the Major on both cheeks. Because the miracle had happened and the first bridge belonged to the French.

Kate wrapped herself in a damp saddle blanket then stood beside her tired horse and watched dully as French infantry cut down pine trees, slashed off their branches, then carried the trimmed trunks to the bridge. More timber was fetched from the small cottages and the ridge beams were just long enough to span the bridge’s roadway, but it all took time, for the rough timbers had to be lashed together if the soldiers, horses and mules were to cross in safety. The soldiers who were not working huddled together against the rain and wind. It felt like winter suddenly. Musket shots sounded far away and Kate knew it was the country people come to shoot at the hated invaders.

A cantiniere, one of the tough women who sold the soldiers coffee, tea, needles, thread and dozens of other small comforts, took pity on Kate and brought her a tin mug of lukewarm coffee laced with brandy. „If they take much longer”-she nodded at the soldiers rebuilding the bridge’s roadway-”we’ll all be on our backs with an English dragoon on top. So at least we’ll get something out of this campaign!” She laughed and went back to her two mules which were laden with her wares. Kate sipped the coffee. She had never been so cold, wet or miserable. And she knew she only had herself to blame.

Williamson stared at the coffee and Kate, unsettled by his gaze, moved to the far side of her horse. She disliked Williamson, disliked the hungry look in his eyes and feared the threat in his naked desire of her.

Were all men animals? Christopher, for all his elegant civility by day, liked to inflict pain at night, but then Kate remembered the single soft kiss that Sharpe had given her and she felt the tears come to her eyes. And Lieutenant Vicente, she thought, was a gentle man. Christopher liked to say how there were two sides in the world, just as there were black pieces and white pieces on a chessboard, and Kate knew she had chosen the wrong side. Worse, she did not know how she was to find her way back to the right one.

Christopher strode back down the stalled column. „Is that coffee?” he asked cheerfully. „Good, I need something warming.” He took the mug from her, drained it, then tossed it away. „Another few minutes, my dear,” he said, „and we’ll be on our way. One more bridge after this, then we’ll be over the hills and far away in Spain. You’ll have a proper bed again, eh? And a bath. How are you feeling?”

„Cold.”

„Hard to believe it’s May, eh? Worse than England. Still, don’t they say rain’s good for the complexion? You’ll be prettier than ever, my dearest.” He paused as some muskets sounded from the west. The noise rattled loud for a few seconds, echoing back and forth between the defile’s steep sides, then faded. „Chasing off bandits,” Christopher said. „It’s too soon for the pursuit to catch us up.”

„I pray they do catch us,” Kate said.

„Don’t be ridiculous, my dear. Besides, we’ve got a brigade of good infantry and a pair of cavalry regiments as rearguard.”

„We?” Kate asked indignantly. „I’m English!”

Christopher gave her a long-suffering smile. „As am I, dearest, but what we want above all is peace. Peace! And perhaps this retreat will be just the thing to persuade the French to leave Portugal alone. That’s what I’m working on. Peace.”

There was a pistol bolstered in Christopher’s saddle just behind Kate and she was tempted to pull the weapon free, thrust it into his belly and pull the trigger, but she had never fired a gun, did not know if the long-barrelled pistol was loaded, and besides, what would happen to her if Christopher were not here? Williamson would maul her. she thnnaht and for some reason she remembered the letter she had succeeded in leaving for Lieutenant Sharpe, putting it on the House Beautiful’s mantel without Christopher seeing what she was doing. She thought now what a stupid letter it was. What was she trying to tell Sharpe? And why him? What did she expect him to do?

She stared up the far hill. There were men on the high crest line and Christopher turned to see what she was looking at. „More of the scum,” he said.

„Patriots,” Kate insisted.

„Peasants with rusted muskets,” Christopher said acidly, „who torture their prisoners and have no idea, none, what principles are at stake in this war. They are the forces of old Europe,” he insisted, „superstitious and ignorant. The enemies of progress.” He grimaced, then unbuckled one of his saddlebags to make sure that his black-fronted red uniform jacket was inside. If the French were forced to surrender then that coat was his passport. He would take to the hills and if any partisans accosted him he would persuade them he was an Englishman escaping from the French.

„We’re moving, sir,” Williamson said. „Bridge is up, sir.” He knuckled his forehead to Christopher, then turned his leering face on Kate. „Help you onto the horse, ma’am?”

„I can manage,” Kate said coldly, but she was forced to drop the damp blanket to climb into the saddle and she knew that both Christopher and Williamson were staring at her legs in their tight hussar breeches.

A cheer came from the bridge as the first cavalrymen led their horses over the precarious roadway. The sound prompted the infantry to stand, pick up their muskets and packs, and shuffle toward the makeshift crossing.

„One more bridge,” Christopher assured Kate, „and we’re safe.”

Just one more bridge. The Leaper.

And above them, high in the hills, Richard Sharpe was already marching toward it. Toward the last bridge in Portugal. The Saltador.

It had been at dawn that Sharpe and Hogan saw their fears were realized. Several hundred French infantry were across the Ponte Nova, the ordenanqa were nothing but bodies in a plundered village, and energetic work parties were remaking the roadway across the Cavado’s white water. The long and winding defile echoed with sporadic musket shots as Portuguese peasants, attracted to the beleaguered army like ravens to meat, took long-range shots. Sharpe saw a hundred voltigeurs in open order climb a hill to drive off one brave band that had dared to approach within two hundred paces of the stalled column. There was a flurry of shots, the French skirmishers scoured the hill and then trudged back to the crowded road. There was no sign of any British pursuit, but Hogan guessed that Wellesley’s army was still a half-day’s march behind the French. „He won’t have followed the French directly,” he explained, „he won’t have crossed the Serra de Santa Catalina like they did. He’ll have stayed on the roads, so he went to Braga first and now he’s marching eastward. As for us… „He stared down at the captured bridge. „We’d best shift ourselves to the Saltador,” he said grimly, „because it’s our last chance.”