Sharpe’s Escape: The Bussaco Campaign, 1810

Ferragus had kicked him, and now he ordered his two men to pull Sharpe up. ‘You can’t fight,’ he told Sharpe, ‘you’re feeble,’ and he began punching, using short, hard blows that looked to have little force in them, but they felt to Sharpe as if he was being kicked by a horse. The blows started at his belly, worked up his chest, then one slammed into his cheek and blood started inside Sharpe’s mouth. He tried to free himself from the two men’s grip, but they held him too tight and he was dazed, confused, half conscious. A fist caught him in the throat and now he could hardly breathe, gagging for air, and Ferragus laughed. ‘My brother said I shouldn’t kill you, but why not? Who’ll miss you?’ He spat into Sharpe’s face. ‘Let him go,’ he said to the two men in Portuguese, then changed to English. ‘Let’s see if this Englishman can fight.’

The two men stepped away from Sharpe who spat blood, blinked, and staggered two paces backwards. His sword was out of reach, and even if he could have fetched it he doubted he would have the strength to use it. Ferragus smiled at his weakness, stepped towards him and Sharpe staggered again, this time half falling sideways, and he put his hand down to steady himself and there was a stone there, a big stone, the size of a ration biscuit, and he picked it up just as Ferragus threw a right fist intended to knock Sharpe down for ever. Sharpe, still half aware, reacted instinctively, blocking the fist with the stone, and Ferragus’s knuckles cracked on the rock and the big man flinched and stepped back, astonished by the sudden pain. Sharpe tried to step towards him and use the stone again, but a left jab banged into his chest and threw him back down onto the path.

‘Now you’re a dead man,’ Ferragus said. He was massaging his broken knuckles, and was in such pain from them that he wanted to kick Sharpe to death. He began by aiming a massive boot at Sharpe’s groin but the blow landed short, on the thigh, because Sharpe had managed to twist feebly to one side, and Ferragus kicked his leg away, drew his boot back again and suddenly there was a light on the path behind him and a voice calling.

‘What’s going on!’ the voice shouted. ‘Hold still! Whoever you are, hold still!’ The boots of two or three men sounded on the path. The approaching men must have heard the fight, but they could surely see nothing in the thickening mist and Ferragus did not wait for them. He shouted at his two men and they ran past Sharpe, down through the trees, and Sharpe curled up on the ground, trying to squeeze the pain from his ribs and belly. There were thick gobs of blood in his mouth and his nose was bleeding. The light came nearer, a lantern held by a redcoat. ‘Sir?’ one of the three men asked. He was a sergeant and had the dark-blue facings of the provosts, the army’s policemen.

‘I’m all right,’ Sharpe grunted.

‘What happened?’

‘Thieves,’ Sharpe said. ‘God knows who they were. Just thieves. Jesus. Help me up.’

Two of them lifted him while the Sergeant retrieved his sword and shako. ‘How many were there?’ the Sergeant asked.

‘Three. Bastards ran away.’

‘You want to see a surgeon, sir?’ The Sergeant flinched as he saw Sharpe’s face in the lantern light. ‘I think you should.’

‘Christ, no.’ He sheathed the sword, put his shako on his bruised skull and leaned against the shrine. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said.

‘We can take you to the monastery, sir.’

‘No. I’ll make my way up to the ridge.’ He thanked the three men, wished them a peaceful night, waited until he had recovered some strength, and then limped back uphill, through the wall and down the ridge to find his company.

Colonel Lawford had pitched a tent close to the new road that had been hacked along the ridge top. The tent flaps were open, revealing a candlelit table on which silver and crystal gleamed, and the Colonel heard a sentry challenge Sharpe, heard Sharpe’s muffled response and shouted through the open flaps, ‘Sharpe! Is that you?’

Sharpe thought briefly about pretending not to have heard, but he was plainly within earshot so he turned towards the tent. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Come and have some brandy.’ Lawford was entertaining Majors Forrest and Leroy, and with them was Lieutenant Slingsby. All had on greatcoats for, after the last few days of brutal heat, the night was suddenly winter cold.

Forrest made space on a bench made out of wooden ammunition crates, then stared up at Sharpe. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Took a tumble, sir,’ Sharpe said. His voice was thick, and he leaned to one side and spat out a glutinous gobbet of blood. ‘Took a tumble.’

‘A tumble?’ Lawford was gazing at Sharpe with an expression of horror. ‘Your nose is bleeding.’

‘Mostly stopped, sir,’ Sharpe said, sniffing blood. He remembered the handkerchief that had been used as a white flag at the telegraph station and fished it out. It seemed a pity to stain the fine linen with blood, but he put it over his nose, flinching at the pain. Then he noticed his right hand was cut, presumably by the makeshift clay dagger.

‘A tumble?’ Major Leroy echoed the Colonel’s question.

‘Treacherous path down there, sir.’

‘You’ve got a black eye too,’ Lawford said.

‘If you’re not up to scratch,’ Slingsby said, ‘then I’ll happily command the company tomorrow, Sharpe.’ Slingsby was high-coloured and sweating, as if he had drunk too much. He looked to Colonel Lawford and, because he was nervous, gave a snort of laughter. ‘Be honoured to command, sir,’ he added quickly.

Sharpe gave the Lieutenant a look that would have killed. ‘I was hurt worse than this,’ he said icily, ‘when Sergeant Harper and I took that damned Eagle on your badge.’

Slingsby stiffened, appalled at Sharpe’s tone, and the other officers looked embarrassed.

‘Have some brandy, Sharpe,’ Lawford said emolliently, pouring it from a decanter and pushing the glass across the trestle table. ‘How was Major Hogan?’

Sharpe was hurting. His ribs were like strips of fire and it took him a moment to comprehend the question and find an answer. ‘He’s confident, sir.’

‘I should hope so,’ Lawford said. ‘Aren’t we all? Did you see the Peer?’

‘The Peer?’ Slingsby asked. He stumbled slightly on the word, then tossed down the rest of his brandy and helped himself to more.

‘Lord Wellington,’ Lawford explained. ‘So did you see him, Sharpe?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I hope you remembered me to him?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Sharpe told the required lie and forced himself to add another. ‘And he asked me to present his regards.’

‘Very civil of him,’ Lawford said, plainly pleased. ‘And does he think the French will come up and dance tomorrow?’

‘He didn’t say, sir.’

‘Perhaps this fog will deter them,’ Major Leroy said, peering out of the tent where the haze was perceptibly thickening.

‘Or it will encourage them,’ Forrest said. ‘Our gunners can’t aim into fog.’

Leroy was watching Sharpe. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

‘No, sir,’ Sharpe lied. His ribs hurt, his skull was throbbing and one of his upper teeth was loose. His belly was a mass of pain, his thigh hurt and he was angry. ‘Major Hogan,’ he forced himself to change the subject, ‘thinks the French will attack.’

‘Then we’d best keep a keen eye in the morning,’ Lawford said, hinting that the evening was over. The officers took the hint, standing and thanking the Colonel, who held out a hand to Sharpe. ‘Stay a moment, if you will, Sharpe.’

Slingsby, who looked the worse for drink, drained his glass, banged it down and clicked his heels. ‘Thank you, William,’ he said to Lawford, presuming on their relationship to use the Colonel’s Christian name.

‘Good night, Cornelius,’ Lawford said, and waited until the three officers had gone from the tent and were lost in the mist. ‘He drank rather a lot. Still, I suppose on the eve of a man’s first battle a little fortification isn’t out of order. Sit, Sharpe, sit. Drink some brandy.’ He took a glass himself. ‘Was it really a tumble? You look as if you’ve been in the wars.’

‘Dark in the trees, sir,’ Sharpe said woodenly, ‘and I missed my footing on some steps.’

‘You must take more care, Sharpe,’ Lawford said, leaning forward to light a cigar from one of the candles. ‘It’s gone damned cold, hasn’t it?’ He waited for a response, but Sharpe said nothing and the Colonel sighed. ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ he went on between puffs, ‘about your new fellows. Young Iliffe shaping up well, is he?’

‘He’s an ensign, sir. If he survives a year he might have a chance of growing up.’

‘We were all ensigns once,’ Lawford said, ‘and mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow, eh?’

‘He’s still a bloody small acorn,’ Sharpe said.

‘But his father’s a friend of mine, Sharpe. He farms a few acres near Benfleet and he wanted me to look after his son.’

‘I’ll look after him,’ Sharpe said.

‘I’m sure you will,’ Lawford said, ‘and what about Cornelius?’

‘Cornelius?’ Sharpe asked, wanting time to think. He swilled his bloody mouth out with brandy, spat it onto the ground, then drank some and fancied it took away some of the hurt.

‘How’s Cornelius doing?’ Lawford asked pleasantly. ‘Being useful, is he?’

‘He has to learn our ways,’ Sharpe said warily.

‘Of course he must, of course. But I particularly wanted him to be with you.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘Why?’ The Colonel seemed taken aback by the direct question, but then waved the cigar as if to say the answer was obvious. ‘I think he’s a capital fellow, and I’ll be honest with you, Sharpe, I’m not sure young Knowles possesses the right verve for skirmishing.’

‘He’s a good officer,’ Sharpe said indignantly, and then wished he had not spoken so forcibly for the pain in his ribs seemed to stab right to his heart.

‘Oh, none finer!’ Lawford agreed hastily. ‘And an admirable character, but you skirmishers aren’t dull fellows, are you? You’re the whippers-in! I need my light company to be audacious! Aggressive! Astute!’ Each quality was accompanied by a thump that rattled the glass and silverware on the table, but the Colonel paused after the third, evidently realizing that astuteness lacked the force of audacity and aggression. He thought for a few seconds, trying to find a more impressive word, then carried on without thinking of it. ‘I believe Cornelius has those qualities and I look to you, Sharpe, to bring him on.’ Lawford paused again, as if expecting Sharpe to respond, but when the rifleman said nothing the Colonel looked acutely embarrassed. ‘The nub of the matter is, Sharpe, that Cornelius seems to think you don’t like him.’

‘Most people think that, sir,’ Sharpe said woodenly.

‘Do they?’ Lawford looked surprised. ‘I suppose they might. Not everyone knows you as well as I do.’ He paused to draw on his cigar. ‘Do you ever miss India, Sharpe?’

‘India,’ Sharpe responded cautiously. He and Lawford had served there together when Lawford had been a lieutenant and Sharpe a private. ‘I liked it well enough.’

‘There are regiments in India that could use an experienced officer,’ Lawford said casually and Sharpe felt a stab of betrayal because the words suggested the Colonel did want to be rid of him. He said nothing, and Lawford seemed unaware of having given any offence. ‘So I can reassure Cornelius that all is well?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe said, then stood. ‘I must go and inspect the picquets, sir.’

‘Of course you must,’ Lawford said, not hiding his frustration with the conversation. ‘We should talk more often, Sharpe.’

Sharpe took his battered shako and walked out into the fog-shrouded night. He picked his way through the thick darkness, going across the ridge’s wide crest and then some short way down the eastern slope until he could just see the mist-blurred string of enemy fires in the valley’s deep darkness. Let them come, he thought, let them come. If he could not murder Ferragus then he would take out his anger on the French. He heard footsteps behind him, but did not turn round. ‘Evening, Pat,’ he said.

‘What happened to you?’ Harper must have seen Sharpe inside the Colonel’s tent and had followed him down the slope.

‘That bloody Ferragus and two of his coves.’

‘Tried to kill you?’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘Bloody nearly succeeded. Would have done, except three provosts came along.’

‘Provosts! Never thought they’d be useful. And how is Mister Ferragus?’

‘I hurt him, but not enough. He beat me, Pat. Beat me bloody.’

Harper thought about that. ‘And what did you tell the Colonel?’

‘That I had a tumble.’

‘So that’s what I’ll tell the lads when they notice you’re better-looking than usual. And tomorrow I’ll keep an eye open for Mister Ferragus. You think he’ll be back for more?’

‘No, he’s buggered off.’

‘We’ll find him, sir, we’ll find him.’

‘But not tomorrow, Pat. We’re going to be busy tomorrow. Major Hogan reckons the Frogs are coming up this hill.’

Which was a comforting thought to end the day, and the two sat, listening to the singing from the dark encampments behind. A dog began barking somewhere in the British lines and immediately dozens of others echoed the sound, prompting angry shouts as the beasts were told to be quiet, and slowly peace descended again, all but for one dog that would not stop. On and on it went, barking frantically, until there was the sudden harsh crack of a musket or pistol.

‘That’s the way to do it,’ Harper said.

Sharpe said nothing. He just gazed down the hill to where the French fires were a dull, hazed glow in the mist. ‘But what will we do about Mister Ferragus?’ Harper asked. ‘He can’t be allowed to get away with assaulting a rifleman.’

‘If we lose tomorrow,’ Sharpe said, ‘we’ll have to retreat through Coimbra. That’s where he lives.’

‘So we’ll find him there,’ Harper said grimly, ‘and give him what he deserves. But what if we win tomorrow?’

‘God only knows,’ Sharpe said, and nodded down the hill to the misted firelight. There were thousands of fires. ‘Follow those bastards back to Spain, I suppose,’ he went on, ‘and fight them there.’ And go on fighting them, he thought, month after month, year after year, until the very crack of doom. But it would begin tomorrow, with sixty thousand Frenchmen who wanted to take a hill. Tomorrow.

Marshal Ney, second in command of l’Armée de Portugal, reckoned the whole of the enemy army was on the ridge. There were no fires in the high darkness to betray their presence, but Ney could smell them. A soldier’s instinct. The bastards were laying a trap, hoping the French would stroll up the hill to be slaughtered, and Ney reckoned they should be obliged. Send the Eagles up the hill and beat the bastards into mincemeat, but Ney was not the man to make that decision and so he summoned an aide, Captain D’Esmenard, and told him to find Marshal Masséna. ‘Tell his highness,’ Ney said, ‘that the enemy’s waiting to be killed. Tell him to get back here fast. Tell him there’s a battle to be fought.’

Captain D’Esmenard had a journey of more than twenty miles and he had to be escorted by two hundred dragoons who clattered into the small town of Tondela long after nightfall. A tricolour flew above the porch of the house where Masséna lodged. Six sentries stood outside, their muskets tipped by bayonets that reflected the firelight of the brazier that offered a small warmth in the sudden cold.

D’Esmenard climbed the stairs and hammered on the Marshal’s door. There was silence.

D’Esmenard knocked again. This time there was a woman’s giggle followed by the distinct sound of a hand slapping flesh, then the woman laughed. ‘Who is it?’ the Marshal called.

‘A message from Marshal Ney, your highness.’ Marshal André Masséna was Duke of Rivoli and Prince of Essling.

‘From Ney?’

‘The enemy has definitely stopped, sir. They’re on the ridge.’

The girl squealed.

‘The enemy has what?’

‘Stopped, sir,’ D’Esmenard shouted through the door. ‘The Marshal believes you should come back.’ Masséna had been in the valley beneath the ridge for a few moments in the afternoon, given his opinion that the enemy would not stand and fight, and ridden back to Tondela. The girl said something and there was the sound of another slap followed by more giggling.

‘Marshal Ney believes they are offering battle, sir,’ D’Esmenard said.

‘Who are you?’ the Marshal asked.

‘Captain D’Esmenard, sir.’

‘One of Ney’s boys, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have you eaten, D’Esmenard?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Go downstairs, Captain, tell my cook to give you supper. I shall join you.’

‘Yes, sir.’ D’Esmenard paused. He heard a grunt, a sigh, then the sound of bedsprings rhythmically squeaking.

‘Are you still there, Captain?’ the Prince of Essling shouted.

D’Esmenard crept downstairs, timing his steps on the creaking stair treads to the regular bounce of the bedsprings. He ate cold chicken. And waited.

Pedro and Luis Ferreira had always been close. Luis, the oldest, the rebel, the huge, uncontrollable boy, had been the brighter of the two, and if he had not been exiled from his family, if he had not been sent to the nuns who beat and mocked him, if he had not run away from Coimbra to see the world, he might have secured an education and become a scholar, though in truth that would have been an unlikely fate for Luis. He was too big, too belligerent, too careless of his own and other men’s feelings, and so he had become Ferragus. He had sailed the world, killed men in Africa, Europe and America, had seen the sharks eat the dying slaves thrown overboard off the Brazilian coast, and then he had come home to his younger brother and the two of them, so different and yet so close, had embraced. They were brothers. Ferragus had come home rich enough to set himself up in business, rich enough to own a score of properties about the city, but Pedro insisted that he have a room in his house to use when he wished. ‘My house is your house,’ he had promised Ferragus, and though Major Ferreira’s wife might wish otherwise she dared not protest.

Ferragus rarely used the room in his brother’s house, but on the day when the two armies faced each other at Bussaco, after his brother had promised to lure Captain Sharpe to a beating among the trees, Ferragus had promised Pedro that he would return to Coimbra and there guard the Ferreira household until the pattern of the French campaign was clear. Folk were supposed to be fleeing the city, going to Lisbon, but if the French were stopped then no such flight would be necessary, and whether they were stopped or not, there was unrest in the streets because people were unhappy with the orders to abandon their homes. Ferreira’s house, grand and rich, bought with the legacy of his father’s wealth, would be a likely place for thieves to plunder, though none would dare touch it if Ferragus and his men were there and so, after his failure to kill the impudent rifleman, the big man rode to keep his promise.

The journey from the ridge of Bussaco to the city of Coimbra was less than twenty miles, but the mist and the darkness slowed Ferragus and his men, so it was just before dawn that they rode past the imposing university buildings and down the hill to his brother’s house. There was a squeal from the hinges of the gates to the stable yard where Ferragus dismounted, abandoned his horse and pushed into the kitchen to thrust his injured hand into a vat of cool water. Sweet Jesus, he thought, but the damned rifleman had to die. Had to die. Ferragus brooded on the unfairness of life as he used a cloth to wipe the wounds on his jawbone and cheeks. He winced at the pain, though it was not as bad as the throbbing in his groin that persisted from their confrontation at the shrine. Next time, Ferragus promised himself, next time he would face Mister Sharpe with nothing but fists and he would kill the Englishman as he had killed so many other men, by pulverizing him into a bloody, whimpering mess. Sharpe had to die, Ferragus had sworn it, and if he did not keep the oath then his men would think he was weakening.

He was being weakened anyway. The war had seen to that. Many of his victims had fled Coimbra and its surrounding farmlands, gone to take shelter in Lisbon. That temporary setback would pass, and, anyway, Ferragus hardly needed to go on extorting money. He was rich, but he liked to keep cash flowing for he did not trust the banks. He liked land, and the vast profits of his slaving years had been invested in vineyards, farms, houses and shops. He owned every brothel in Coimbra and scarcely a student at the university did not live in a house owned by Ferragus. He was rich, rich beyond his childhood dreams, but he could never be rich enough. He loved money. He yearned for it, loved it, caressed it, dreamed of it.

He rinsed his jaw again and saw how the water dripped pink from the cloth. Capitâo Sharpe. He said the name aloud, feeling the pain in his mouth. He looked at his hand that was hurting. He reckoned he had cracked some knuckle bones, but he could still move his fingers so the damage could not be that bad. He dipped the knuckles in the water, then turned suddenly as the kitchen door opened and his brother’s governess, Miss Fry, dressed in a nightdress and a heavy woollen gown, came into the kitchen. She was carrying a candle and gave a small start of surprise when she saw her employer’s brother. ‘I am sorry, senhor,’ she said, and made to leave.

‘Come in,’ Ferragus growled.

Sarah would rather have gone back to her room, but she had heard the horses clattering in the stable yard and, hoping it might be Major Ferreira with news of the French advance, she had come to the kitchen. ‘You’re hurt,’ she said.

‘I fell from my horse,’ Ferragus said. ‘Why are you up?’

‘To make tea,’ Sarah said. ‘I make it every morning. And I wondered, senhor,’ she took a kettle off the shelf, ‘whether you have news of the French.’

‘The French are pigs,’ Ferragus said, ‘which is all you need to know, so make your tea and make some for me too.’

Sarah put down the candle, opened the stove and fed kindling onto the embers. When the kindling was blazing she put more wood onto the fire. By the time the fire was properly burning there were other servants busy around the house, opening shutters and sweeping the corridors, but none came into the kitchen where Sarah hesitated before filling the kettle. The water in the big vat was bloodstained. ‘I’ll draw some from the well,’ she said.

Ferragus watched her through the open door. Miss Sarah Fry was a symbol of his brother’s aspirations. To Major Ferreira and his wife an English governess was as prized a possession as fine porcelain or crystal chandeliers or gilt furniture. Sarah proclaimed their good taste, but Ferragus regarded her as a priggish waste of his brother’s money. A typical, snobbish Englishwoman, he reckoned, and what would she turn Tomas and Maria into? Little stuck-up copies of herself? Tomas did not need manners or to know English; he needed to know how to defend himself. And Maria? Her mother could teach her manners, and so long as she was pretty, what else mattered? That was Ferragus’s view, anyway, but he had also noticed, ever since Miss Fry had come to his brother’s house, that she was pretty, more than just pretty, beautiful. Fair-skinned, fair-haired, blue-eyed, tall, elegant. ‘How old are you?’ he asked as she came back to the kitchen.

‘Is it any business of yours, senhor?’ Sarah asked briskly.

Ferragus smiled. ‘My brother sent me here to protect you all. I like to know what I’m protecting.’

‘I’m twenty-two, senhor.’ Sarah set the kettle on the stove, then stood the big brown English teapot close by so that the china would warm. She took down the tin caddy, then had nothing to do because the pot was still cold and the kettle would take long minutes to boil on the newly awakened fire so, abhorring idleness, she began polishing some spoons.

‘Are Tomas and Maria learning properly?’ Ferragus addressed her back.

‘When they apply themselves,’ Sarah said briskly.

‘Tomas tells me you hit him.’