He pushed open the door. He had half expected someone to be waiting with a gun but instead he found himself looking at a room of unimaginable squalor. The four men were on the floor, two of them lying, the others sitting by the dead embers of a fire. Light filtered thickly through holes that had once been windows and through the broken roof and upper floors. The men were dressed in rags.
Sharpe crossed to the two sick men. He crouched and looked at their faces; they were white and shivering, the pulse beat almost gone. He turned to the others.
“Who are you?”
“Corporal Moss, sir.” The man had a fortnight’s growth of beard and his cheeks were sunken. They had obviously not been eating. “This is Private Ibbotson.” He pointed to his companion. “And those are Privates Campbell and Trapper, sir.” Moss was being punctilious and polite, as though it could save him from his fate. Dust lay heavy in the air; the room was filled with the stench of illness and ordure.
“Why are you in Oropesa?”
“Came to rejoin the Regiment, sir,” Moss said, but it was said too quickly. There was silence. Ibbotson sat by the dead fire and stared at the ground between his knees. He was the only one with a weapon, a bayonet held in his left hand, and Sharpe guessed that he did not approve of what was happening.
“Where are your weapons?”
“Lost ‘em, sir. And the uniforms.” Moss was eager to please.
“You mean you sold them.”
Moss shrugged. “Yes, sir.”
“And you drank away the money?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a sudden noise in the next room, and Sharpe whirled to face the doorway. There was nothing there. Moss shook his head. “Rats, sir. Bloody armies of them.”
Sharpe looked back to the deserters. Ibbotson was now staring at him, the frightening stare of a crazed fanatic. For a moment Sharpe wondered if he was planning to use the bayonet.
“What are you doing here, Ibbotson? You don’t want to rejoin the Regiment.”
The man said nothing. Instead he lifted his right arm that had been hidden behind his body. There was no hand, just a stump wrapped in blood-soaked rags.
“Ibbs got in a fight, sir,” Moss said. “Lost ‘is ’and. He’s no use to anyone no more, sir. ”E’s right-handed, you see,“ he added lamely.
“You mean he’s no use to the French.”
There was silence. The dust hung thick in the air. “That’s right.” Ibbotson had spoken. He had an educated voice. Moss tried to quieten him but Ibbotson ignored the Corporal. “We would have been with the French a week ago but these fools decided to drink.”
Sharpe stared at him. It was strange to hear a cultured voice coming from the rags, stubble and blood-soaked bandages. The man was ill, he probably had gangrene, but it hardly mattered now. By admitting they were running towards the enemy Ibbotson had condemned all four. If they had been caught trying to get to a neutral country they might have been sent, as Sharpe might be, to the garrison in the West Indies, where the fever would kill them anyway, but there was only one punishment for men who deserted to the enemy. Corporal Moss knew it. He looked up at Sharpe and pleaded. “Honest, sir, we didn’t know what we was doing. We waited ‘ere, sir… „
“Shut your teeth, Moss!” Ibbotson glared at him then turned to Sharpe; his hand moved the bayonet higher but it was only to emphasise his remarks. “We’re going to lose this war. Any fool can see that! There are more French armies than Britain could raise in a hundred years. Look at you!” His voice was filled with scorn. “You might beat one General, then another, but they’ll keep coming! And they’ll win! And do you know why? Because they have an idea. It’s called freedom, and justice, and equality!” He stopped abruptly, his eyes blazing.
“What are you, Ibbotson?” Sharpe asked.
“A man.”
Sharpe smiled at the dramatic challenge in the answer. The argument wasn’t new, Rifleman Tongue could be relied on to trot it out most nights, but Sharpe was curious why an educated man like Ibbotson should be in the ranks of the army and preaching the French shibboleths of freedom.
“You’re educated Ibbotson. Where are you from?”
Ibbotson did not answer. He stared at Sharpe, clutching his bayonet. There was silence. Behind him Sharpe heard Harper and Peters shuffle their feet on the hard earth floor. Moss cleared his throat and beckoned at Ibbotson. “E’s a vicar’s son, sir.” He said it as if it explained everything.
Sharpe looked at Ibbotson. The son of a vicarage? Perhaps the father had died or the family was too large, and penury could lie at the end of both those roads. But what fate had driven Ibbotson to join the army? To pit his puny strength against the drunks and hardened criminals who were the usual scrapings gathered by the recruiting parties? Ibbotson stared back at him and then, to Sharpe’s disgust, began to cry. He let go of the bayonet and buried his face in the crook of his left elbow, and Sharpe wondered if he were suddenly thinking of a vicarage garden beside a church and a long-lost mother baking bread in the ripeness of an English summer. He turned to Harper.
“They’re under arrest, Sergeant. You’ll have to carry those two.”
He stepped outside the hovel into the foetid alleyway. “Kirby?”
“Sir?”
“You can go.” The man ran off. Sharpe did not want him to face the four deserters whose arrest he had caused. “You others. Inside.”
He stared up between the narrowing walls at the patch of sky. Swallows flashed across the opening, the colours were deepening into night, and tomorrow there would be executions. But first there was Josefina. Harper came to the door. “We’re ready, sir.”
“Then let’s go.”
CHAPTER 13
Sharpe woke with a start, sat up, instinctively reached for a weapon and then, realising where he was, sank back on the pillow. He was covered with sweat though the night was cool and a small breeze stirred the edges of the curtains either side of the open window, through which he could see a full moon. Josefina sat beside the bed, watching him, a glass of wine in her hand. “You were dreaming.”
“Yes.”
“What about?”
“My first battle.” He did not say any more but in his dream he had been unable to load the Brown Bess, the bayonet would not fit the muzzle, and the French kept coming and laughing at the frightened boy on the wet plains of Flanders. Boxtel, it had been called, and he rarely thought of the messy fight in the damp field. He looked at the girl. “What about you?” He patted the bed. “Why are you up?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.” She had put on some kind of dark robe, and only her face and the hand holding the glass were visible in the unlit room.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“I was thinking. About what you said. ”
“It may not happen.”
She smiled at him. “No.”
Somewhere in the town a dog barked but there were no other sounds. Sharpe thought of the prisoners and wondered if they were spending their last night awake and listening to the same dog. He thought back to the evening after he had come back from the guardroom and the long conversation with Josefina. She wanted to reach Madrid, was desperate to reach Madrid, and Sharpe had told her he thought it unlikely that the allies would get as far as Spain’s capital. Sharpe thought that Josefina had little idea why she wanted to reach Madrid; it was the dream city for her, the pot of gold at the end of a fading rainbow, and he was jealous of her desire to get there. “Why not go back to Lisbon?”
“My husband’s family won’t welcome me, not now.”
“Ah, Edward.”
“Duarte.” Her correction was automatic.
“Then go home.” They had had this conversation before. He tried to force her to reject every option but staying near him, as though he thought he could afford to keep her.
“Home? You don’t understand. They will force me to wait for him just like his parents do. In a convent or in a dark room, it doesn’t matter.” Her voice was edged with despair. She had been brought up in Oporto, the daughter of a merchant who was rich enough to mix with the important English families in the town who dominated the Port trade. She had learned English as a child because that language was the tongue of the wealthy and powerful in her home town. Then she had married Duarte, ten years her senior, and Keeper of the King’s Falcons in Lisbon. It was a courtier’s job, far from any falcons, and she had loved the glitter of the palace, the balls, the fashionable life. Then, two years before, when the Royal Family had fled to Brazil, Duarte had taken a mistress instead of his wife, and she had been left in the big house with his parents and sisters. “They wanted me to go into a convent. Can you believe that? That I should wait for him in a convent, a dutiful wife, while he fathers bastards on that woman?”