alter course for the mouth of the Tagus and for Lisbon. On shore a one-legged admiral watched her recede and tasted the bile in his throat. All Cadiz was praising the British now, the British who had taken an eagle and humiliated the French. No hope now of a new Regency in Spain, or of a sensible peace with the emperor, because the war fever had come to Cadiz and its hero was Sir Thomas Graham. The admiral turned away and stumped toward his home.
Sharpe watched the shore fade. He stood beside Harper. “I’m sorry, Pat.”
“I know you are, sir.”
“He was a friend.”
“And that he was,” Harper said. Rifleman Slattery had died. Sharpe had not seen it happen, but while he and Galiana had run into the disintegrating column to find Vandal, a last errant musket shot had pierced Slattery’s throat and he had bled to death on Caterina’s skirts.
“It wasn’t our fight,” Sharpe said. “You were right.”
“It was a rare fight, though,” Harper said, “and you got your man.”
Colonel Vandal had complained to Sir Thomas Graham. He protested that Captain Sharpe had wounded him after his surrender, that Captain Sharpe had insulted him and assaulted him, and that Captain Sharpe had stolen his saber. Lord William Russell had told Sharpe of the complaint and shaken his head. “I have to tell you it’s serious, Sharpe. You can’t upset a colonel, even a French one! Think what they’ll do to our officers if they learn what we do to theirs?”
“I didn’t do it,” Sharpe had lied stubbornly.
“Of course you didn’t, my dear fellow, but Vandal’s made his complaint and I fear Sir Thomas insists there must be a court of inquiry.”
But the inquiry had never taken place. Brigadier Sir Barnaby Moon had written his own report of the incident, saying that he had been within twenty paces of the colonel’s capture, that he had seen every action taken by Captain Richard Sharpe, and that Sharpe had behaved as a gentleman and an officer. Sir Thomas, on receiving Moon’s report, had apologized to Sharpe in person. “We had to take the complaint seriously, Sharpe,” Sir Thomas said, “but if that wretched Frenchman had known there was a brigadier watching, he’d never have made up such a pack of lies. And, of course, Moon dislikes you—he’s made that very clear—so he’s hardly likely to exonerate you if there was even the smallest chance of making trouble for you. So you can forget it, Sharpe, and I have to say I’m glad. I didn’t want to think you were capable of doing what Vandal claimed.”
“Of course I’m not, sir.”
“But Brigadier Moon, eh?” Sir Thomas had asked, laughing. “Moon and the widow! Is she a widow? A proper one, I mean, not just Henry’s leavings?”
“Not that I know of, sir, no.”
“Well, she’s a wife now,” Sir Thomas said, amused. “Let us all hope he never discovers who she really is!”
“She’s a lovely lady, sir.”
Sir Thomas had looked at him with some surprise. “Sharpe,” he had said, “we should all be as generous as you. What a kind thing to say.” Sir Thomas had thanked him effusively then, and Henry Wellesley had thanked him again that evening, an evening during which Lord Pumphrey found he had business away from the embassy.
Even Sir Barnaby Moon had thanked Sharpe, not just for the return of the precious saber, but for saving his life. “And for Lady Moon’s life, Sharpe.”
“That was an honor, sir.”
“Her ladyship insists I must give your men some proper reward, Sharpe,” Moon had said, and pressed coins into Sharpe’s hand, “but I do it gladly on my own behalf as well. You’re a brave man, Sharpe.”
“And you’re a lucky one, sir. Her ladyship is beautiful.”
“Thank you, Sharpe,” the brigadier had said, “thank you.” His leg had been broken again in the fall from the curricle so he was staying a few more days in Cadiz, but Sharpe and his men were free to leave the city. And so they sailed to Portugal, to Lisbon, to the army, to the South Essex, and to the Light Company. They were sailing home.
HISTORICAL NOTE
I would hate anyone to think that Sergeant Patrick Masterson’s feat in capturing the eagle of the 8th regiment was in any way due to Sharpe’s help. Masterson and Ensign Keogh were wholly responsible and poor Keogh died in the attempt. Their eagle was the first to be captured by British troops in the Peninsular War (despite Sharpe’s Eagle), and Masterson was rewarded with a battlefield commission. Another member of the family, a descendant, was awarded a VC at Ladysmith. Masterson’s name is sometimes given as Masterman (I’ve seen it spelled both ways on the same page), but Masterson seems correct. He is usually quoted as saying, “Bejabbers, boys, I have their cuckoo.” He did, too.
The colonel of the 8th was Colonel Autie and he died at Barrosa. I did not want to give a real man, who died heroically, my fictional villainy so I awarded the 8th to Vandal instead. Sous-Lieutenant Guillemain was the standard-bearer and he died trying to defend the eagle that was taken to London and presented, with great fanfare, to the prince regent. It was eventually lodged in the Royal Hospital, Chelsea, from where it was stolen in 1852. The staff is still there, but the eagle itself has never been recovered.
Sir Thomas Graham is one of the more likable generals of the Peninsular War. The story of his life sketched in Sharpe’s Fury is true. Until the French insulted his dead wife, he had been a sympathizer with France and her revolution, but he became so convinced of the evil that the revolution’s fine words disguised that he raised the 90th regiment with his own money and so joined the army. Barrosa was his finest achievement, a terrible battle in which the British infantry (greatly helped on the lower ground by Major Duncan’s superb gunnery) gained an astounding victory. They were outnumbered, they were tired, they remained unsupported by General Lapena’s troops, and they won. Marshal Victor, after his defeat at Wellington’s hands at Talavera, should have some idea of the destructive power of British musketry, yet once again he attacked in columns, thus denying most of his men the ability to discharge their muskets. Once again the two-deep British line proved the superior weapon. It was still a close-run thing and, at the end, the bayonet proved decisive.
The Spanish were mortified by General Lapena’s supine behavior. Their troops were more than capable of fighting, and of fighting well. They had proved that at Bailen where, in 1808, they had won an overwhelming victory against the French (and captured an eagle), and General Zayas and his men were to fight brilliantly at Albuera just two months after the battle of Barrosa. Zayas had wanted to help his allies at Barrosa, but Lapena refused his permission. The Spanish government, realizing the service Graham had rendered, offered him the title of Duque del Cerro del Puerco, but Graham refused it, regarding it as a mere bribe that might persuade him to keep quiet about Lapena’s conduct. Lapena’s nickname was indeed Dona Manolito, so perhaps it should have been no surprise that he behaved so badly. One thing Graham did gain from the battle was a dog. General Rousseau, who was badly wounded when he led his grenadiers against the Guards, died of his wounds on the Cerro del Puerco. His dog, a poodle, found his dying master and refused to leave his side, or indeed, the grave where Rousseau was buried. Graham adopted the dog and sent him back to Scotland. “He seems to understand French best,” he wrote home. Graham, after the battle, became Wellington’s second in command for much of the Peninsular War. In time he was to become Lord Lynedoch. He lived to a great age and never remarried. His Mary was the love of his life. I strongly recommend Antony Brett-James’s biography, General Graham (London, Macmillan, 1959), to anyone wishing to learn more about this extraordinary and most likeable Scot.
Henry Wellesley was also a most likeable man, probably the most amiable of the Wellesley brothers. I fear, by giving him an inappropriate love affair, I have traduced his memory. It is, nevertheless, true that he had suffered in love. His wife had left him for Henry Paget, 2nd Earl of Anglesey who, as the Marquess of Anglesey, was to lead Wellington’s cavalry at Waterloo. The divorces of Henry Wellesley and Henry Paget (who divorced his first wife to marry Wellesley’s wife) caused a great scandal, and I have no evidence whatsoever that Henry Wellesley was the cause of any more scandal. He was, however, an extremely able ambassador, and Britain needed such a man because the political situation in Spain (which meant, in 1811, Cadiz) was explosive. Britain
