Bernard Cornwell - Sharpe’s Devil - Napoleon and South America, 1820–1821

This novel is a work of fiction. The incidents and some of the characters portrayed in it, while based on real historical events and figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 1992

Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 1992

Bernard Cornwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007235179

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2010 ISBN: 9780007334544

Version: 2017-05-06

Sharpe’s Devil is for Toby and Isabel Eady

‘Sharpe and his creator are national treasures’

Sunday Telegraph

Table of Contents

Title Page SHARPE’S DEVIL Richard Sharpe and the Emperor, 1820-21 BERNARD CORNWELL

Copyright Copyright This novel is a work of fiction. The incidents and some of the characters portrayed in it, while based on real historical events and figures, are the work of the author’s imagination. Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 1992 Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 1992 Bernard Cornwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication Source ISBN: 9780007235179 Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2010 ISBN: 9780007334544 Version: 2017-05-06

Dedication Sharpe’s Devil is for Toby and Isabel Eady

Epigraph ‘Sharpe and his creator are national treasures’ Sunday Telegraph

Map

Prologue

Part One: Bautista

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Part Two: Cochrane

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Part Three: Vivar

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Historical Note

Sharpe’s Story

Keep Reading

About the Author

The SHARPE Series (in chronological order)

The SHARPE Series (in order of publication)

Also by Bernard Cornwell

About the Publisher

There were sixteen men and only twelve mules. None of the men was willing to abandon the journey, so tempers were edgy and not made any better by the day’s oppressive and steamy heat. The sixteen men were waiting by the shore, where the black basalt cliffs edged the small port and where there was no wind to relieve the humidity. Somewhere in the hills there sounded a grumble of thunder.

All but one of the sixteen men were uniformed. They stood sweltering and impatient in the shade of heavily branched evergreen trees while the twelve mules, attended by black slaves, drooped beside a briar hedge that was brilliant with small white roses. The sun, climbing towards noon, shimmered in an atmosphere that smelt of roses, pomegranates, seaweed, myrtle and sewage.

Two warships, their square-cut sails turned dirty grey by the long usage of wind and rain, patrolled far offshore. Closer, in the anchorage itself, a large Spanish frigate lay to twin anchors. It was not a good anchorage, for the ocean’s swells were scarcely vitiated by the embracing shore, nor was the water at the quayside deep enough to allow a great ship to moor alongside, and so the sixteen men had come ashore in the Spanish frigate’s longboats. Now they waited in the oppressive windless heat. In one of the houses just beyond the rose-bright hedge a baby cried.

‘More mules are being fetched. If you gentlemen will do us the honour of patience? And accept our sincerest apologies.’ The speaker, a very young red-coated British Lieutenant whose face was running with sweat, displayed too much contrition. ‘We didn’t expect sixteen gentlemen, you understand, only fourteen, though of course there would still have been insufficient transport, but I have spoken with the adjutant, and he assures me that extra mules are being saddled, and we do apologize for the confusion.’ The Lieutenant had spoken in a rush of words, but now abruptly stopped as it dawned on him that most of the sixteen travellers would not have understood a word he had spoken. The Lieutenant blushed, then turned to a tall, scarred and dark-haired man who wore a faded uniform jacket of the British 95th Rifles. ‘Can you translate for me, sir?’

‘More mules are coming,’ the Rifleman said in laconic, but fluent Spanish. It had been nearly six years since the Rifleman had last used the language regularly, yet thirty-eight days on a Spanish ship had made him fluent again. He turned again to the Lieutenant. ‘Why can’t we walk to the house?’

‘It’s all of five miles, sir, uphill, and very steep.’ The Lieutenant pointed to the hillside above the trees where a narrow road could just be seen zig-zagging perilously up the flax-covered slope. ‘You really are best advised to wait for the mules, sir.’

The tall Rifle officer made a grunting noise, which the young Lieutenant took for acceptance of his wise advice. ‘Sir?’ The Lieutenant, emboldened by the grunting noise, took a step closer to the Rifleman.

‘What?’

‘I just wondered.’ The Lieutenant, overwhelmed by the Rifleman’s scowl, stepped back. ‘Nothing, sir. It doesn’t signify.’

‘For God’s sake, boy, speak up! I won’t bite you.’

‘It was my father, sir. He often spoke of you and I wondered if you might recall him? He was at Salamanca, sir. Hardacre? Captain Roland Hardacre?’