Sharpe's Sword Part 10

"Is there a panic?"

"G.o.d, yes. Your piece of paper started it."

Sharpe hated riding. He liked to be in control of his destiny, but horses seemed not to share that wish. He gingerly urged it forward, hoping it would keep pace with Hogan's walking animal and, somehow, he managed to stay abreast. "The list?"

"Didn't it look familiar?"

"Familiar?" Sharpe frowned. He could only remember a list of Spanish names with sums of money beside them. "No."

Hogan glanced behind to make sure his servant was out of earshot. "It was in my handwriting, Richard."

"Yours? Good G.o.d!" Sharpe's hands fumbled with the rein while his right boot had come out of the stirrup. He never understood how other people made riding look easy. "How in h.e.l.l's name did Leroux get a list in your handwriting?"

"Now there's a question to cheer up a dull morning. How in h.e.l.l's name did he? Horse dealers!" He said the last words scornfully, as if Sharpe had been at fault.

The Rifleman had managed to get his foot back into the stirrup. "So what was it?"

"We have informants, yes? Hundreds of them. Almost every priest, doctor, mayor, shoemaker, blacksmith and anyone else you care to mention sends us snippets of news about the French. Marmont can't break wind without ten messages telling us. Some of them, Richard, are very good messages indeed, and some of them cost us money." Hogan paused as they pa.s.sed a battery of artillery. He returned a Lieutenant's salute, then looked back at Sharpe. "Most of them do it out of patriotism, but a few need money to keep their loyalty intact. That list, Richard, was my list of payments for the month of April." Hogan looked and sounded sour. "It means, Richard, that someone in our headquarters is working for the French, for Leroux. G.o.d knows who! We've got cooks, washerwomen, grooms, clerks, servants, sentries, anyone! G.o.d! I thought I'd just misplaced that list, but no."

"So?"

"So? So Leroux has worked his way through that list. He's killed most of them in ways that are pretty horrid, and that's bad enough, but the really bad news is yet to come. One man on that list, a priest, just happened to know something that I'd rather he hadn't known. And now, I think, Leroux knows it."

Sharpe said nothing. His horse was ambling happily enough, going westward on the track that led behind the ridge. He would let Hogan tell his unhappy tale at his own pace.

The Irish Major wiped sweat from his face. "Leroux, Richard, is d.a.m.ned close to hurting us really badly. We can afford to lose a few priests and mayors, but that's not what Leroux wants. We can afford to lose Colquhoun Grant, but that isn't what Leroux came here to do either. There's one person, Richard, we can't afford to lose. That's the person Leroux came to get."

Sharpe frowned. "Wellington?"

"Him too, maybe, but no. Not Wellington." Hogan slapped irritably at a fly. "This is the bit I shouldn't tell you, Richard, but I'll tell you a little of it, just enough so you know how important it is for you to stop that b.a.s.t.a.r.d getting out of the forts." He paused again, collecting his thoughts. "I told you we have informants throughout Spain. They're useful, G.o.d knows they're useful, but we have informants of much more value than that. We have men and women in Italy, in Germany, in France, in Paris itself! People who hate Bonaparte and want to help us, and they do. A regiment of Lancers leaves Milan and we know it within two weeks, and we know where they're going and how good their horses are, and even the name of their Colonel's mistress. If Bonaparte bawls out a General, we know about it, if he asks for a map of Patagonia we hear about it. Sometimes I think we know more about Bonaparte's empire than he does, and all, Richard, because of one person who just happens to live in Salamanca. And that person, Richard, is the person Leroux has come to find. And once he's found them, he'll torture them, he'll find out all the names of the correspondents throughout Europe, and suddenly we'll be blind."

Sharpe knew better than to ask who the person was. He waited.

Hogan smiled wryly. "You want to know who it is? Well, I won't tell you. I know, Wellington knows, and a few Spaniards know because they're responsible for pa.s.sing the messages to Salamanca."

"The priest knew?"

"Aye. The priest on my list knew, and now, G.o.d rest his soul, he's dead. Most of the messengers don't know the real name, they just know the codename. El Mirador."

"El Mirador." Sharpe repeated the words.

"Right. El Mirador, the best d.a.m.ned spy in Britain's service, and our job is to stop Leroux finding El Mirador. And the easiest way to do that, Richard, is for you to stop Leroux. He'll try and escape, I know that, and I can guess when he'll do it."

"When?"

"During our attack on the forts. He can't do it at any other time. We've got those forts surrounded, but in the turmoil of a fight, Richard, he'll have his plans ready. Stop him!"

That's all? Stop him? Capture him?"

"That's all, but don't underestimate him. Capture him and give him to me and I promise you Colonel Leroux will not see daylight again till this war's over. We'll lock him up so tight he'll wish he hadn't been born."

Sharpe thought about it. It would not be so difficult. The Sixth Division had sealed off the forts, and even in an attack the cordon of men would still ring the wasteland. All that would be left was for Sharpe, or one of his Company, to recognise Leroux among the prisoners. He grinned at Hogan, wanting to cheer him up. "Consider it done."

"If you're doing it, Richard, I will." It was a nice compliment.

They had ridden close to the hill on which the spectators had gathered and Sharpe looked to his right to see a grinning figure coming towards them on a fiery, well-ridden horse. Even one-handed Lord Spears was a finer horseman than Sharpe could hope to be. His Lordship was in high spirits.

"Michael Hogan! By the Good Lord! You're looking dull as a parson, sir! Where are your Irish spirits? Your carefree, devil-may-care att.i.tude to life's daily toil?"

Hogan looked with some fondness at the cavalryman. "Jack! How's the arm?"

"Totally mended, sir. As good as the day it was born. I'm keeping it in a sling so you won't send me back to work. Richard Sharpe! I watched your Company at work. They were hungry!"

"They're good."

"And you're both invited to a pique-nique. Now." He grinned at them.

"A what?" Hogan frowned.

"A pique-nique. It's a French word, but I suppose we'll all be using it soon. For you peasants who don't speak French it means a simple, light repast taken in the open air. We've got chicken, ham, spiced sausages, some delicious cake, and best of all some wine. We, of course, are myself and La Marquesa de Casares el Grande y Melida Sadaba. You're both specifically invited."

Hogan smiled. It seemed that Sharpe accepting the responsibility for Leroux had lifted a weight from his shoulders. "La Marquesa! It's time I rubbed shoulders with the aristocracy!"

"What about me?" Spears looked aggrieved. "Am I not n.o.ble enough for you? Good Lord! When my ancestors ate the forbidden fruit in Eden they insisted on having it served on a silver platter. You're coming?" This last he addressed to Sharpe.

Sharpe shrugged. Hogan was insisting on going, so Sharpe was forced to follow, and though part of him yearned to see La Marquesa again, another, greater part of him was scared of the encounter. He hated being tempted by things he could not have, and he could feel his mood becoming surly as he climbed the hill behind Hogan and Spears.

La Marquesa watched them come. She raised a languid hand in greeting. "Captain Sharpe! You've at last accepted one of my invitations!"

"I'm with Major Hogan, Ma'am." The instant he said it, he regretted it. He had been trying to say that he had not come willingly, that he was not her slave, but his words made it sound as though he had need to be forced into her company. She smiled.

"I owe Major Hogan my thanks." She turned her lavish beauty onto the Irishman. "We've met, Major."

"Indeed we have, Ma'am. At Ciudad Rodrigo, I remember."

"So do I, you were most charming."

"The Irish usually are, Ma'am."

"Such a pity the English haven't learned from their neighbours." She looked at Sharpe who sat, miserable, on his uncomfortable horse. She smiled again at Hogan. "You're well?"

"Indeed, Ma'am, and thank you, Ma'am. Yourself? Your husband?"

"My husband, ah!" She fanned her face. "Poor Luis is in South America, suppressing one of our Colonial rebellions. It seems so silly. You're here to liberate our country while Luis is busy doing the opposite somewhere else." She laughed, then looked again at Sharpe. "My husband, Captain Sharpe, is a soldier, like you."

"Indeed, Ma'am?"

"Well not quite like you. He's much older, much fatter, and he dresses much better. He's also a General, so perhaps he's not quite like you." She patted the leather seat of the barouche between herself and her perspiring chaperone. "I have some wine, Captain, won't you join me?"