Sharpe's Battle Part 1

Bernard Cornwell.

Sharpe's Battle.

Richard Sharpe and the Battle of Fuentes de Onoro, May 1811

Sharpe's Battle is for Sean Bean

PART ONE.

CHAPTER 1.

Sharpe swore. Then, in desperation, he turned the map upside down. "Might as well not have a b.l.o.o.d.y map," he said, "for all the b.l.o.o.d.y use it is."

"We could light a fire with it," Sergeant Harper suggested. "Good kindling's hard to come by in these hills."

"It's no b.l.o.o.d.y use for anything else," Sharpe said. The hand-drawn map showed a scatter of villages, a few spidery lines for roads, streams or rivers, and some vague hatchings denoting hills, whereas all Sharpe could see was mountains. No roads or villages, just grey, bleak, rock-littered mountains with peaks shrouded by mists, and valleys cut by streams turned white and full by the spring rains. Sharpe had led his company into the high ground on the border between Spain and Portugal and there become lost. His company, forty soldiers carrying packs, haversacks, cartridge cases and weapons, seemed not to care. They were just grateful for the rest and so sat or lay beside the gra.s.sy track. Some lit pipes, others slept, while Captain Richard Sharpe turned the map right side up and then, in anger, crumpled it into a ball.

"We're b.l.o.o.d.y lost," he said and then, in fairness, corrected himself. "I'm b.l.o.o.d.y lost."

"My grand-da got lost once," Harper said helpfully. "He'd bought a bullock from a fellow in Cloghanelly Parish and decided to take a short cut home across the Derryveagh Mountains. Then the fog rolled in and grand-da couldn't tell his left from his right. Lost like a wee lamb he was, and then the bullock deserted the ranks and bolted into the fog and jumped clear over a cliff into the Barra Valley. Grand-da said you could hear the poor wee beast bellowing all the way down, then there was a thump just like you'd dropped a bagpipe off a church tower, only louder, he said, because he reckoned they must have heard that thump all the way to Ballybofey. We used to laugh about it later, but not at the time. G.o.d, no, it was a tragedy at the time. We couldn't afford to lose a good bullock."

"Jesus b.l.o.o.d.y wept!" Sharpe interrupted. "I can afford to lose a b.l.o.o.d.y sergeant who's got nothing better to do than blather on about a b.l.o.o.d.y bullock!"

"It was a valuable beast!" Harper protested. "Besides, we're lost. We've got nothing better to do than pa.s.s the time, sir."

Lieutenant Price had been at the rear of the column, but now joined his commanding officer at the front. "Are we lost, sir?"

"No, Harry, I came here for the h.e.l.l of it. Wherever the h.e.l.l this is." Sharpe stared glumly about the damp, bleak valley. He was proud of his sense of direction and his skills at crossing strange country, but now he was comprehensively, utterly lost and the clouds were thick enough to disguise the sun so that he could not even tell which direction was north. "We need a compa.s.s," he said.

"Or a map?" Lieutenant Price suggested happily.

"We've got a b.l.o.o.d.y map. Here." Sharpe thrust the balled-up map into the

Lieutenant's hands. "Major Hogan drew it for me and I can't make head nor tail out of it."

"I was never any good with maps," Price confessed. "I once got lost marching some recruits from Chelmsford to the barracks, and that's a straight road. I had a map that time, too. I think I must have a talent for getting lost."

"My grand-da was like that," Harper said proudly. "He could get lost between one side of a gate and the other. I was telling the Captain here about the time he took a bullock up Slieve Snaght. It was dirty weather, see, and he was taking the short cut-'

"Shut up," Sharpe said nastily.

"We went wrong at that ruined village," Price said, frowning over the creased map. "I think we should have stayed on the other side of the stream, sir."

Price showed Sharpe the map. "If that is the village. Hard to tell really. But

I'm sure we shouldn't have crossed the stream, sir."

Sharpe half suspected the Lieutenant was right, but he did not want to admit it. They had crossed the stream two hours before, so G.o.d only knew where they were now. Sharpe did not even know if they were in Portugal or Spain, though both the scenery and the weather looked more like Scotland. Sharpe was supposedly on his way to Vilar Formoso where his company, the Light Company of the South Ess.e.x Regiment, would be attached to the Town Major as a guard unit, a prospect that depressed Sharpe. Town garrison duty was little better than being a provost and provosts were the lowest form of army life, but the South

Ess.e.x was short of men and so the regiment had been taken out of the battle line and set to administrative duties. Most of the regiment were escorting bullock carts loaded with supplies that had been barged up the Tagus from

Lisbon, or else were guarding French prisoners on their way to the ships that would carry them to Britain, but the Light Company was lost, and all because

Sharpe had heard a distant cannonade resembling far-away thunder and he had marched towards the sound, only to discover that his ears had played tricks.

The noise of the skirmish, if indeed it was a skirmish and not genuine thunder, had faded away and now Sharpe was lost. "Are you sure that's the ruined village?" he asked Price, pointing to the crosshatched spot on the map that Price had indicated.

"I wouldn't like to swear to it, sir, not being able to read maps. It could be any of those scratchings, sir, or maybe none."

"Then why the h.e.l.l are you showing it to me?"

"In a hope for inspiration, sir," Price said in a wounded voice. "I was trying to help, sir. Trying to raise our hopes." He looked down at the map again.

"Maybe it isn't a very good map?" he suggested.

"It would make good kindling," Harper repeated.

"One thing's certain," Sharpe said as he took the map back from Price, "we haven't crossed the watershed which means these streams must be flowing west."

He paused. "Or they're probably flowing west. Unless the world's b.l.o.o.d.y upside down which it probably b.l.o.o.d.y is, but on the chance that it b.l.o.o.d.y isn't we'll follow the b.l.o.o.d.y streams. Here"-he tossed the map to Harper-"kindling."

"That's what my grand-da did," Harper said, tucking the crumpled map inside his faded and torn green jacket. "He followed the water-"

"Shut up," Sharpe said, but not angrily this time. Rather he spoke quietly, and at the same time gestured with his left hand to make his companions crouch. "b.l.o.o.d.y c.r.a.paud," he said softly, "or something. Never seen a uniform like it."

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," Price said, and dropped down to the path.

Because a horseman had appeared just two hundred yards away. The man had not seen the British infantrymen, nor did he appear to be on the lookout for enemies. Instead his horse just ambled out of a side valley until the reins checked it, then the rider swung himself wearily out of the saddle and looped the reins over an arm while he unb.u.t.toned his baggy trousers and urinated beside the path. Smoke from his pipe drifted in the damp air.

Harper's rifle clicked as he pulled the c.o.c.k fully back. Sharpe's men, even those who had been asleep, were all alert now and lying motionless in the gra.s.s, keeping so low that even if the horseman had turned he would probably not have noticed the infantry. Sharpe's company was a veteran unit of skirmishers, hardened by two years of fighting in Portugal and Spain and as well trained as any soldiers in Europe. "Recognize the uniform?" Sharpe asked

Price softly.

"Never seen it before, sir."

"Pat?" Sharpe asked Harper.

"Looks like a b.l.o.o.d.y Russian," Harper said. Harper had never seen a Russian soldier, but had a perverse idea that such creatures wore grey and this mysterious horseman was all in grey. He had a short grey dragoon jacket, grey trousers and a grey horsehair plume on his steel-grey helmet. Or maybe, Sharpe thought, it was merely a cloth cover designed to stop the helmet's metal from reflecting the light.

"Spaniard?" Sharpe wondered aloud.

"The dons are always gaudy, sir," Harper said. "The dons never did like dying in drab clothes."

"Maybe he's a partisan," Sharpe suggested.

"He's got c.r.a.paud weapons," Price said, "and trousers." The p.i.s.sing horseman was indeed armed just like a French dragoon. He wore a straight sword, had a short-barrelled carbine sheathed in his saddle holster and had a brace of pistols stuck in his belt. He also wore the distinctively baggy saroual trousers that the French dragoons liked, but Sharpe had never seen a French dragoon wearing grey ones, and certainly never a grey jacket. Enemy dragoons always wore green coats. Not dark hunting green like the coats of Britain's riflemen, but a lighter and brighter green.

"Maybe the b.u.g.g.e.rs are running out of green dye?" Harper suggested, then fell silent as the horseman b.u.t.toned his floppy trousers and hauled himself up onto his saddle. The man looked carefully about the valley, saw nothing to alarm him and so spurred his horse back into the hidden side valley. "He was scouting," Harper said softly. "He was sent to see if anyone was here."