Sharpe's Fury Part 15

"Fifteen hundred," Father Montseny said, as if he was thinking about it.

"For which sum, Father, your princ.i.p.als must give us all the letters and an undertaking to publish no more."

"I think that will be acceptable," Father Montseny said. He gave a small smile, as if satisfied with the outcome of the negotiations, then leaned back. "I could offer you some advice that would save you the money, if you wish?"

"I should be most grateful," Pumphrey said with exaggerated politeness.

"Any day now your army will sail, yes? You will land your troops somewhere to the south and come north to face Marshal Victor. You think he doesn't know? What do you think will happen?"

"We'll win," Sharpe growled.

The priest ignored him. "Lapena will have, what? Eight thousand men? Nine? And your General Graham will take three or four thousand? So Lapena will have command, and he's an old woman. Marshal Victor will have just as many, probably more, and Lapena will take fright. He'll panic, and Marshal Victor will crush him. Then you will have very few soldiers left to protect the city, and the French will storm the walls. It will take many deaths, but by summer Cadiz will be French. The letters won't matter then, will they?"

"In that case," Lord Pumphrey said, "why not just give them to us?"

"Fifteen hundred guineas, my lord. I am instructed to tell you that you must bring the money yourself. You may have two companions, no more, and a note will be sent to the emba.s.sy telling you where the exchange will be made. You may expect the note after today's oraciones. oraciones." Montseny drained his gla.s.s, stood, and dropped a dollar on the table. "There, I have discharged my function," he said, nodded abruptly, and left.

Sharpe spun the dollar coin on the table. "At least he paid for his wine."

"We can expect a note after the evening prayers," Lord Pumphrey said, frowning. "Does that mean he wants the money tonight?"

"Of course. You can trust the b.u.g.g.e.r on that," Sharpe said, "but on nothing else."

"Nothing else?"

"I saw him at the newspaper. He's up to his b.l.o.o.d.y eyes in it. He's not going to give you the letters. He'll take the money and run."

Pumphrey stirred his coffee. "I think you're wrong. The letters are a depreciating a.s.set."

"Whatever the h.e.l.l that means."

"It means, Sharpe, that he's right. Lapena will have command of the army. You know what the Spanish call Lapena? Dona Manolito. Dona Manolito. The lady Manolito. He's a nervous old woman and Victor will thrash him." The lady Manolito. He's a nervous old woman and Victor will thrash him."

"Sir Thomas is good," Sharpe said loyally.

"Perhaps. But Dona Manolito will command the army, not Sir Thomas, and if Marshal Victor beats Dona Manolito then Cadiz will fall, and when Cadiz falls the politicians in London will fall over one another in their race to the negotiating chamber. The war costs money, Sharpe, and half of Parliament already believe it cannot be won. If Spain falls, what hope is there?"

"Lord Wellington."

"Who clings to a corner of Portugal while Bonaparte bestrides Europe. If the last sc.r.a.p of Spain falls, then Britain will make peace. If, no, when Victor defeats Dona Manolito the Spaniards won't wait for Cadiz to fall. They'll negotiate. They would rather surrender Cadiz than see the city sacked. And when they surrender, the letters won't be worth a tin penny. That is what I mean by describing them as a depreciating a.s.set. The admiral, if it is the admiral, would rather have the money now than a few worthless love letters in a month's time. So, yes, they're negotiating in good faith." Lord Pumphrey added a few small coins to the priest's dollar and stood. "We must get to the emba.s.sy, Richard."

"He's lying," Sharpe warned.

Lord Pumphrey sighed. "In diplomacy, Sharpe, we a.s.sume that everyone lies all the time. That way we make progress. Our enemies expect Cadiz to be French within a few weeks so they want their money now because after those few weeks there will be no money. They make hay while the sun shines, it is as simple as that."

It was raining harder now and the wind was gusting strong. The signs over the shops were swinging wildly and a crash of thunder rumbled over the mainland, sounding uncannily like heavy artillery shots traveling overhead. Sharpe let Pumphrey guide him through the maze of narrow alleys to the emba.s.sy. They went through the arch that was guarded by a squad of bored Spanish soldiers and hurried across the courtyard, only to be checked by a voice from high above. "Pumps!" the voice called. "Up here!"

Sharpe, like Lord Pumphrey, looked up to see the amba.s.sador leaning out of a window of the emba.s.sy's watchtower, a modest five-story structure at the edge of the stable yard. "Up here," Henry Wellesley called again, "and you, Mister Sharpe! Come on!" He sounded excited.

Sharpe emerged onto the roofed platform to see that Brigadier Moon was lord of the tower. He had a chair and a footstool, and beside the chair was a telescope, while on a small table was a bottle of rum and beneath it a chamber pot. This tower had been equipped with windows to protect the upper platform from the weather, and it was plain that Moon had adopted the aerie. He had got to his feet now and, resting on his crutches, was looking eastward with the amba.s.sador. "The ships!" Henry Wellesley greeted Sharpe and Lord Pumphrey.

A whole host of small ships was scurrying through white-capped waves into the vast harbor of the Bay of Cadiz. They were odd-looking craft to Sharpe's eyes. They were single-masted and had one gigantic sail each. The sails were wedge-shaped, sharp at the front and ma.s.sive at the stern. "Feluccas," the amba.s.sador said, "not a word to attempt when drunk."

"Felucky to get here before the storm broke," the brigadier commented, earning a smile from Henry Wellesley.

The French mortars were trying to sink the feluccas but having no success. The sound of the guns was muted by the rain and wind. Sharpe could see the blossom of smoke from inside Fort Matagorda and Fort San Jose each time a mortar fired, but he could not see where the sh.e.l.ls plummeted for the water was already too turbulent. The feluccas thrashed onward, heading for the southern end of the bay where the rest of the shipping was safely out of mortar range. They were pursued by dark squalls and seething rain as the storm spread southward. A lightning bolt cracked far away on the northern coast. "So the Spaniards kept their word!" Henry Wellesley said exultantly. "Those ships have come here all the way from the Balearics! A couple of days to provision them, then the army can embark." He was a man who looked as though his troubles were coming to an end. If the combined British and Spanish army could destroy the French siege works and drive Victor's forces away from Cadiz, then his political enemies would be neutered. The Cortes and the Spanish capital might even move back to a recaptured Seville and there would be the rare taste of victory in the air. "The plan," Henry Wellesley said to Sharpe, "is for Lapena and Sir Thomas to rendezvous with troops from Gibraltar, then march north, take Victor in the rear, hammer him, and drive his troops out of Andalusia."

"It's supposed to be a secret," the brigadier grumbled.

"Some secret," Lord Pumphrey said sourly. "A priest just told me all about it."

The amba.s.sador looked alarmed. "A priest?"

"Who seemed quite certain that Marshal Victor is entirely apprised of our plans to a.s.sault his lines."

"Of course he's b.l.o.o.d.y apprised of them," the brigadier said. "Victor might have started his career as a trumpeter, but the man can count ships, can't he? Why else is the fleet gathering?" He turned back to watch the feluccas that were now out of range of the mortars that had fallen silent.

"I think, Your Excellency, that we should confer," Lord Pumphrey said. "I have a proposal for you."

The amba.s.sador glanced at the brigadier who was studiously watching the ships. "A useful proposal?"

"Most encouraging, Your Excellency."

"Of course," Henry Wellesley said and headed for the stairs.

"Come, Sharpe," Lord Pumphrey said imperiously, but as Sharpe followed His Lordship the brigadier snapped his fingers.

"Stay here, Sharpe," Moon ordered.

"I'll follow you," Sharpe told Pumphrey. "Sir?" he asked the brigadier when Wellesley and Pumphrey were gone.

"What the devil are you doing here?"

"I'm helping the amba.s.sador, sir."

"Helping the amba.s.sador, sir," Moon mimicked Sharpe. "Is that why you stayed? You were supposed to ship back to Lisbon."

"Weren't you supposed to as well, sir?" Sharpe asked.

"Broken bones heal better on land," the brigadier said. "That's what the doctor told me. Stands to reason when you think about it. All that lurching about on ship? Doesn't help a bone knit, does it?" He grunted as he lowered himself into his chair. "I like it up here. You see things." He tapped the telescope.

"Women, sir?" Sharpe asked. He could think of no other reason why a man with a broken leg would struggle to the top of a watchtower, and the tower did give Moon views of dozens of windows.

"Mind your tongue, Sharpe," Moon said, "and tell me why you're still here."

"Because the amba.s.sador asked me to stay, sir, to help him."

"Did you learn your impudence in the ranks, Sharpe? Or were you born with it?"

"Being a sergeant helped, sir."

"Being a sergeant?"

"You have to deal with officers, sir. Day in, day out."

"And you have no high opinion of officers?"

Sharpe did not answer. Instead he gazed at the feluccas that were rounding into the wind and dropping anchors. The bay was a turmoil of whitecaps and small angry waves. "If you'll excuse me, sir?"

"Is it anything to do with that woman?" Moon demanded.

"What woman, sir?" Sharpe turned back from the stairs.

"I can read a newspaper, Sharpe," Moon said. "What are you and that b.l.o.o.d.y little molly cooking up?"

"Molly, sir?"

"Pumphrey, you idiot. Or hadn't you noticed?" The question was a sneer.

"I'd noticed, sir."

"Because if you're too fond of him," the brigadier said nastily, "you've got a rival." Moon was delighted by the indignation on Sharpe's face. "I keep my eyes open, Sharpe. I'm a soldier. Best to keep your eyes open. You know who visits the molly's house?" he gestured through the window. The emba.s.sy was composed of a series of houses, gathered around two courtyards and a garden, and the brigadier pointed to a house in the smaller yard. "The amba.s.sador, Sharpe, that's who! Sneaks into the molly's house. What do you think of that, then?"

"I think Lord Pumphrey is an adviser to the amba.s.sador, sir."

"Advice that must be given at night?"

"I wouldn't know, sir," Sharpe said, "and if you'll excuse me?"

"Excused," Moon sneered, and Sharpe clattered down the tower stairs, going to the amba.s.sador's study where he found Henry Wellesley staring into the garden where the rain crashed down. Lord Pumphrey was by the fire, warming his behind. "Captain Sharpe is of the opinion that Father Montseny was lying," Pumphrey told Wellesley as Sharpe entered.

"Are you, Sharpe?" Wellesley asked without turning.

"Don't trust him, sir."

"A man of the cloth?"

"We don't even know he's a real priest," Sharpe said, "and I saw him at the newspaper."

"Whatever he is," Lord Pumphrey said tartly, "we have to deal with him."

"Eighteen hundred guineas," the amba.s.sador said, sitting at his desk, "good G.o.d." He was so appalled that he did not see the look Sharpe shot at Lord Pumphrey.

Pumphrey, his peculation inadvertently revealed by the amba.s.sador, looked innocent. "I would suggest, Your Excellency, that the Spaniards saw the ships arriving before we did. They conclude that our expedition will sail in the next day or two. That means battle within a fortnight and they are entirely confident of victory. And if the forces defending Cadiz are destroyed, then the letters become irrelevant. They would like to profit from them before that happens and thus the acceptance of my offer."

"Eighteen hundred guineas, though," Henry Wellesley said.

"Not your guineas," Pumphrey said.

"Good G.o.d, Pumps, the letters are mine!"

"Our opponents, Your Excellency, by publishing one letter, have made the correspondence into instruments of diplomacy. We are therefore justified in using His Majesty's funds to render them ineffectual." Lord Pumphrey made a pretty gesture with his right hand. "I shall lose the money, sir, in the accounts. Not difficult."

"Not difficult!" Henry Wellesley retorted.

"Subventions to the guerrilleros," Lord Pumphrey said smoothly, "purchase of information from agents, bribes to the deputies of the Cortes. We expend hundreds, thousands of guineas on such recipients and the Treasury has never glimpsed a receipt yet. It's not difficult at all, Your Excellency."

"Montseny will take the money," Sharpe said stubbornly, "and keep the letters."

Both men ignored him. "He insists you make the exchange personally?" the amba.s.sador asked Lord Pumphrey.

"I suspect it is his way of a.s.suring me that violence is not contemplated," Lord Pumphrey said. "No one would dare murder one of His Majesty's diplomats. It would cause too much of a ruction."

"They killed Plummer," Sharpe said.

"Plummer was not a diplomat," Lord Pumphrey said sharply.

The amba.s.sador looked at Sharpe. "Can you steal the letters, Sharpe?"

"No, sir. I can probably destroy them, sir, but they're too well guarded to steal."

"Destroy them," the amba.s.sador said. "I a.s.sume that means violence?"

"Yes, sir."

"I do not, I cannot, countenance acts that might aggravate our relationship with the Spanish," Henry Wellesley said. He rubbed his face with both hands. "Will they keep their word, Pumps? No more letters published?"

"I imagine the admiral is content with the damage done by the first, my lord, and is eager for gold. I think he will keep his word." Pumphrey frowned as Sharpe made a noise of disgust.

"Then so be it," Henry Wellesley said. "Buy them back, buy them back, and I apologize for causing this trouble."

"The trouble, Your Excellency," Lord Pumphrey said, "will soon be done." He looked down at the amba.s.sador's chess game. "We have come, I think," he said, "to the end of the matter. Captain Sharpe? I a.s.sume you will accompany me?"

"I'll be there," Sharpe said grimly.

"Then let us gather gold," Lord Pumphrey said lightly, "and be done with it."

THE NOTE came well after dark. Sharpe was waiting with his men in an empty stall of the emba.s.sy stables. His five men were all in cheap civilian clothes and looked subtly different. Hagman, who was thin anyway, looked like a beggar. Perkins resembled an unappealing street rat, one of the London boys who swept horse s.h.i.t out of the way of pedestrians in hope of a coin. Slattery appeared menacing, a footpad who could turn violent at the slightest show of resistance. Harris looked like a man down on his luck, perhaps a drunken schoolmaster turned onto the streets, while Harper was like a countryman come to town, big and placid and out of place in his shabby broadcloth coat. "Sergeant Harper comes with me," Sharpe told them, "and the rest of you wait here. Don't get drunk! I might need you later tonight." He suspected this night's adventure would go sour. Lord Pumphrey might be optimistic about the outcome, but Sharpe wanted to be ready for the worst, and the riflemen were his reinforcements. came well after dark. Sharpe was waiting with his men in an empty stall of the emba.s.sy stables. His five men were all in cheap civilian clothes and looked subtly different. Hagman, who was thin anyway, looked like a beggar. Perkins resembled an unappealing street rat, one of the London boys who swept horse s.h.i.t out of the way of pedestrians in hope of a coin. Slattery appeared menacing, a footpad who could turn violent at the slightest show of resistance. Harris looked like a man down on his luck, perhaps a drunken schoolmaster turned onto the streets, while Harper was like a countryman come to town, big and placid and out of place in his shabby broadcloth coat. "Sergeant Harper comes with me," Sharpe told them, "and the rest of you wait here. Don't get drunk! I might need you later tonight." He suspected this night's adventure would go sour. Lord Pumphrey might be optimistic about the outcome, but Sharpe wanted to be ready for the worst, and the riflemen were his reinforcements.

"If we're not to get drunk, sir," Harris asked, "why the brandy?"

Sharpe had brought four bottles of brandy from the amba.s.sador's own supply and now he uncorked the bottles and poured their contents into a stable bucket. Then he added a jug full of lamp oil. "Mix all that up," he told Harris, "then put it back in the bottles."

"You're setting a fire, sir?"