Harper nodded. 'True, but there's a lot of maybes and ifs there, sir. He grinned. 'You're fond of them, aren't you? You fancy trying them out, yes? He laughed. 'Toys for Christmas.
A figure in blue uniform, leading a second horse, was riding towards them from the firing point. Harper pulled his battered shako low over his eyes and nodded towards the galloping man. 'I think he's worried he's murdered us, sir.
Clods of earth flew up behind the galloping horses. Sharpe shook his head. 'That's not Gilliland. He could see a cavalryman's pelisse across the blue uniform shoulders.
The cavalryman skirted a burning rocket wreck, urged his horse on, waved as he came close. His shout was urgent. 'Major Sharpe?
'Yes.
'Lieutenant Rogers, sir. Headquarters. Major General Nairn's compliments, sir, and would you report at once.
Sharpe took the reins of the spare horse from Rogers, looped them over the horse's head. 'What's it about?
'About, sir? Haven't you heard? Rogers was impatient, his horse fretful. Sharpe put his left foot in the stirrup, reached for the saddle, and Harper helped by heaving him upwards. Rogers waited as the Sergeant retrieved Sharpe's shako. 'There's been a massacre, sir, at some place called Adrados.
'Massacre?
'God knows, sir. All hell's loose. Ready?
'Lead on.
Sergeant Patrick Harper watched Sharpe lurch as his horse took off after the Lieutenant. So the rumour was true and Harper smiled in satisfaction. Not a satisfaction because he had been proved right, but because Sharpe had been summoned and where Sharpe went, Harper followed. So what if Sharpe was a Major now, supposedly detached from the South Essex? He would still take Harper, as he always took Harper, and the giant Irishman wanted to help take revenge on the men who had offended his decency and his religion. He began walking back towards the Company, whistling as he went, the prospect of a fight pleasant in his soul.
CHAPTER 3
'Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. Major General Nairn, still in a dressing gown, still with a cold, stared out of the window. He turned as Lieutenant Rogers, having announced Sharpe, left the room. The eyes, under the straggling eyebrows, looked at Sharpe. 'Damn.
'Sir.
'Cold as a parson's bloody heart.
'Sir?
'This room, Sharpe. It was an office, one table smothered in maps which, in turn, were littered with empty cups and plates, snuff boxes, two half eaten pieces of cold toast, a single spur and a marble bust of Napoleon on which someone, presumably Nairn, had inked embellishments which made the Emperor of the French look like a simpering weakling. The Major General crossed to the table and lowered himself into a leather chair. 'So what have you heard about this bloody massacre, Major? Cheer an old man up and tell me you've heard nothing.
'I'm afraid I have, sir.
'Well what, man?
Sharpe told him what had been preached in the church that morning and Nairn listened with fingers steepled in front of his closed eyes. When Sharpe finished Nairn groaned. 'God in his heaven, Major, it couldn't be bloody worse, could it? Nairn swivelled in the chair and stared across the roofs of the town. 'We're unpopular enough as it is with the Spanish. They don't forget the seventeenth century, blast their eyes, and the fact that we're fighting for their bloody country doesn't make us any better. Now the priests are preaching that the heathen British are raping anything that's Catholic with a skirt on. God! If the Portuguese are believing it, what the hell are they believing over the border? They'll be petitioning the Pope to declare war on us next. He turned back to the desk, leaned back and closed his eyes. 'We need the co-operation of the Spanish people and we are hardly likely to get it if they believe this story. Come! This last word was to a clerk who had knocked timidly on the door. He handed Nairn a sheet of paper which the Scotsman looked through, grunting approval. 'I need a dozen, Simmons.’Yes, sir.
When the clerk had gone Nairn smiled slyly at Sharpe. 'Be sure your sins will find you out, eh? I burn a letter from that great and good man, the bloody Chaplain General, and today I have to write to every Bishop and Archbishop inside spitting distance. He mimicked a cringing voice. 'The story is not true, your Grace, the men were not from our army, your Holiness, but nevertheless we will apprehend the bastards and turn them inside out. Slowly.’
’Not true, sir?
Nairn flashed a look of annoyance at Sharpe. 'Of course it's not bloody true! He leaned forward and picked up the bust of Napoleon, staring it between its cold eyes. 'You'd like to believe it, wouldn't you? Splash it all over your bloody
Sharpe waited. He was alone with Nairn, but he had seen much coming and going as he entered the Headquarters. The rumour, whatever its truth, had stirred Frenada into activity. Sharpe was part of it, or else Nairn would not have sent for him, but the Rifleman was content to wait until he was told. The moment had evidently come, for Nairn waved Sharpe into a chair by the small fireplace and took the chair opposite. 'I have a problem, Major Sharpe. In brief it is this. I have a nasty mess on my doorstep, a mess I must clear up, but I don't have the troops to do it. He held up a hand tostop an interruption. 'Oh yes, I know. I have a whole bloody army, but that's under Beresford's control. Beresford was in nominal command of the Army while Wellington politicked in the south. 'Beresford's up north, with his Portuguese, and I don't have time to write a ‘please, sir’ note to him. If I ask for help from one of the Divisions then every General inside ten miles is going to want a finger in this pie. I'm in charge of this Headquarters. My job is to pass the papers and make sure the cooks don't piss in the soup. However, I do have you, and I do have the so-called garrison battalion of Frenada, and if you're willing then we might put the lid on this peculiarly nasty pot of snakes.
'Willing, sir?
'You will be a volunteer, Sharpe. That's an order. He grinned. 'Tell me what you know of Pot-au-Feu. Marshal Pot-au-Feu.
Sharpe shook his head. 'Nothing.
'An army of deserters?
That did ring faint bells. Sharpe remembered a night on the retreat from Burgos, a night when the wind flung rain at the roofless barn where four hundred wet, miserable and hungry soldiers had sheltered. There had been talk there of a haven for soldiers, an army of deserters who were defying the French and the English, but Sharpe had dismissed the stories. They were like other rumours that went through the army. He frowned. 'Is that true?
Nairn nodded. 'Yes. He told the story that he had gleaned that morning from Hogan's papers, from the priest of Adrados, and from a Partisan who had brought the priest to Frenada. It was a story so incredible that Sharpe, at times, stopped Nairn simply to ask for confirmation. Some of the wildest rumours, it seemed, turned out to be fact.
For a year now, perhaps a few months longer, there had been an organized band of deserters, calling themselves an army, living in the mountains of southern Galicia. Their leader was a Frenchman whose real name was unknown, an ex-Sergeant who now styled himself as Marshal Pot-au-Feu. Nairn grinned. 'Stockpot, I suppose that translates. There's a story that he was once a cook. Under Pot-au-Feu the ‘army’ had prospered. They lived in territory that was unimportant to the French Marshals or to Wellington, they subsisted by terrorizing the countryside, taking what they wanted, and their numbers grew as deserters from every army in the Peninsula heard of their existence. French, British, Portuguese and Spanish, all were in Pot-au-Feu's ranks.
