Bernard Cornwell - Sharpe’s Enemy - The Defence of Portugal, Christmas 1812

Sharpe nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

Dubreton smiled happily. ‘Strange she should be overwrought in rhyme, Major? Unless she’s a poet, of course, but can you think of a woman poet?’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘They cook, they make love, they play music, they can talk, but they are not poets. My wife, though, reads a lot of poetry.’ He shrugged. ‘Withering in my bloom, lost in solitary gloom? Will you remember the words?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Dubreton peeled off a newly donned glove and held out his hand. ‘It has been my privilege, Major.’

‘Mine too, sir. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

‘It would be a pleasure. Would you give my warmest regards to Sir Arthur Wellesley? Or Lord Wellington as we must now call him.’

Sharpe’s surprise showed on his face, to Dubreton’s delight. ‘You know him, sir?’

‘Of course. We were at the Royal Academy of Equitation together, at Angers. It’s strange, Major, how your greatest soldier was taught to fight in France.’ Dubreton was pleased with the remark.

Sharpe laughed, straightened to attention, and saluted the French Colonel. He liked this man. ‘I wish you a safe journey home, sir.’

‘And you, Major.’ Dubreton raised a hand to Harper. ‘Sergeant! Take care!’

The French went east, skirting the village, and Sharpe and Harper went west, dropping over the crest of the pass, trotting down the winding road towards Portugal. The air suddenly seemed clean here, the madness left behind, though Sharpe knew they would be going back. A Scottish Sergeant-Major, an old and wise soldier, had once talked to Sharpe through the dark night before battle. He had been embarrassed to tell Sharpe an idea, but he said it finally and Sharpe remembered it now. A soldier, the Scotsman had said, is a man who fights for people who cannot fight for themselves. Behind Sharpe, in the Gateway of God, were women who could not fight for themselves. Sharpe would go back.

‘So you didn’t see her?’

‘No, sir.’ Sharpe stood awkwardly. Sir Augustus Farthingdale had not seen fit to invite him to take a chair. Through the half open door of Farthingdale’s sitting room, part of his expensive lodgings in the best part of town, Sharpe could see a dinner party. Silverware caught the light, scraped on china, and two servants stood deferentially beside a heavy sideboard.

‘So you didn’t see her.’ Farthingdale grunted. He managed to convey that Sharpe had failed. Sir Augustus was not in uniform. He wore a dark red velvet jacket, its cuffs trimmed with lace, and his thin legs were tight cased in buckskin breeches above his tall polished boots. Above his waistcoat was draped a sash, washed blue silk, decorated with a heavy golden star. It was presumably some Portuguese order.

He sat down at a writing desk, lit by five candles in an elegant silver candelabra, and he toyed with a long handled paper knife. He had hair that could only be described as silver, silver cascading away from his high forehead to be gathered at the back by an old fashioned ribbon, black against the hair. His face was long and thin, with a touch of petulance about the mouth and a look of annoyance in his eyes. It was, Sharpe supposed, a good looking face, the face of a sophisticated middle-aged man who had money, intelligence, and a selfish desire to use both for his own pleasure. He turned towards the dining room. ‘Agostino!’

‘Sir?’ An unseen servant answered.

‘Shut the door!’

The wooden door was closed, cutting off the noise of men’s voices. Sir Augustus’ eyes, unfriendly, looked Sharpe up and down. The Rifleman had just arrived back in Frenada and had not waited to straighten his uniform or wash the travel stains from his hands or face. Farthingdale’s voice was precise and cold. ‘The Marquess of Wellington is deeply concerned, Major Sharpe. Deeply.’

Farthingdale managed to convey that he and Wellington were on close terms, that he was vouchsafing a state secret to Sharpe. The paper-knife tapped the polished desk-top. ‘My wife, Major, has the highest connections in the Portuguese court. You understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The Marquess of Wellington does not want our relationship with the Portuguese government jeopardized.’

‘No, sir.’ Sharpe resisted the impulse to tell Sir Augustus Farthingdale that he was a pompous idiot. It was interesting that Wellington had written, the letter doubtless posted north by one of the young cavalry officers who, by changing frequent horses, could cover sixty miles in a day. Wellington must be in Lisbon then, for the news could not have reached Cadiz in time for a reply to have been received. And Farthingdale was pompous because even Sharpe knew that Wellington’s concern would not be the Portuguese government. His concern would be the Spanish. The story of Adrados had spread like fire on a parched plain, feeding from the sensibilities of Spanish pride, and in the New Year the British army must march back into Spain. The army would buy its food from the Spanish; use Spanish labour to bake bread and drive mules, find forage and give shelter, and Pot-au-Feu and Hakeswill had jeopardized that co-operation. The poison of Adrados had to be lanced as one small step towards winning the war.

Yet Sharpe, who guessed he had known Wellington longer than Farthingdale, knew that there would be something else about Pot-au-Feu which would deeply disturb the General. Wellington believed that anarchy was always just a rabblerouser’s shout away from order, and order, he believed, was not just an essential but the supreme virtue. Pot-au-Feu had challenged that virtue, and Pot-au-Feu would have to be destroyed.

The paper-knife was put down on a pile of paper, perhaps Farthingdale’s next book of Practical Instructions to Young Officers, and one immaculate knee was crossed over the other. Sir Augustus straightened the tassel of a boot. ‘You say she has not been harmed?’ There was a hint of worry beneath the polished voice.

‘So Madame Dubreton assured us, sir.’

A clock in the hallway struck nine. Sharpe guessed that most of the furnishings of these lodgings had been transported north just for Sir Augustus’ visit. He and Lady Farthingdale had made their magnificent progress around the winter quarters of the Portuguese army and then stopped at Frenada on their way south so that Lady Farthingdale could visit the shrine of Adrados and pray for her mother who was dying. Farthingdale had preferred a day’s rough shooting, but two young Captains had eagerly offered to escort his wife to the hills. Sharpe wished that Sir Augustus would show him a picture of his wife, but the Colonel did not evidently think that desirable.

‘I have it in mind, Major, to lead the rescue of Lady Farthingdale?’ Sir Augustus inflected the statement as a question, almost a challenge, but Sharpe said nothing. The Colonel dabbed the corner of his mouth with a finger, then inspected the fingertip as if something might have adhered to it. ‘Tell me how possible a rescue is, Major?’

‘It could be done, sir.’

‘The Marquess of Wellington,’ again the annoying circumlocution of Wellington’s full title, ‘wishes it to be done.’

‘We’d need to know which of the buildings she’s in, sir. There’s a Castle, a Convent, and a whole village, sir.’

‘Do we know?’

‘No, sir.’ Sharpe did not want to speculate here. That could wait till he saw Nairn.

The eyes looked at Sharpe with hostility. Sir Augustus’ expression implied that Sharpe had failed utterly. He sighed. ‘So. I have lost my wife, five hundred guineas, at least I’m glad to see you still have my watch.’