on the ridge, were just shadows as they turned and ran for the safety of the dark woods.
The cavalryman went through the gap in the British infantry and he still screamed defiance at the French as they disappeared. He set his horse at the bank of the ridge, scrambled up, and his sabre flailed like a whip as he forced his horse after the enemy. Sharpe urged his own horse forward. The cavalryman was Lord Spears.
Spears had disappeared into the dark trees and Sharpe, pulling his clumsy sword free of the scabbard, went round the flank of the British line, in front of the silent, smoking guns, and the slope of the small ridge was horrid with French dead. Officers of the Sixth Division shouted at him, cursed him, because he was in their line of fire, but then his horse tipped over the crest and he was riding for the deep shadows. He could hear shouts ahead, then musket fire, and Sharpe ducked his head as La Marquesa’s horse went into the trees.
Spears was in a small clearing among the trees, fighting a crazy lone battle with French fugitives, and Sharpe came too late. The cavalryman had ridden the length of the clearing, chopping down with his sabre, and as Sharpe arrived he was turning the horse, hacking down, and a French Sergeant was on his other side, musket raised, and Sharpe saw the flash, saw Spears go rigid, and then the French fled into the trees. Spears’ mouth opened, silently, he seemed to shake, and then he slumped in the saddle. The sabre hung beside him, his arm limp, and he was gasping for breath.
Sharpe rode to his side. Spears’ right hand was clasped to the silver and blue of his uniform and, between the fingers, dark blood stained the cloth. He looked at Sharpe. “I was almost too late.”
“You’re a fool.”
“I know.” Spears looked past Sharpe to the three bodies he had made in the clearing. “It was good swordwork, Richard. You know that, don’t you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Call me Jack.” Spears was fighting to control his breath. He looked disbelievingly at the blood that stained his hand and jacket. He shook his head. “Oh, God.”
Sharpe could hear the infantry of the Sixth Division coming into the trees. “Come on, my lord. A doctor.”
“No.” Spears’ eyes glistened. He blinked rapidly and seemed ashamed. “Must be the musket smoke, Richard.”
“Yes.”
“Get me out of here.”
Sharpe sheathed his sword for the second time that day, and both times it had been unblooded, and he took the reins of Spears’ horse and led it out of the trees. He skirted the advancing infantry, not wanting to be fired on by a nervous man, and they came out onto the small ridge a hundred yards from where the last fighting of the day had happened.
“Stop here, Richard.” They were at the top of the bank. The fires and the darkness of the battlefield were spread out in front of them.
Sharpe still held the reins of Spears’ horse. “You need a doctor, my lord.”
“No.” Spears shook his head. “No, no, no. Help me down.”
Sharpe tethered both horses to a misshapen, stunted tree. Then he lifted Spears from the saddle, and laid him on the bank. He made a pillow from his own greatcoat. He could hear the Sixth Division hacking at branches with bill-hooks and bayonets, making their fires, and the battle, at last, was truly over. Sharpe opened Spears’ jacket, his shirt, and he had to tug the linen away from the wound. The bullet had driven some threads of the shirt into the chest and they stuck out, matted and obscene, like thick hairs. The hole seemed very small. Blood welled in it, glistened black in the moonlight, then spilt dark on Spears’ pale skin. Spears grimaced. “It hurts.”
“Why the hell did you do it?”
“I didn’t want to miss the battle.” Spears put his fingers on the blood, lifted them away and looked at his fingertips in horror.
“It was a crazy thing to do. The battle was over.” Sharpe cut with his pocket knife at Spears’ shirt, tearing away the clean linen to make a pad for the wound.
Spears gave a lopsided grin. “All heroes are crazy.” He tried to laugh and the laugh turned into a cough. He put his head back on the pillow. “I’m dying.” He said it very calmly.
Sharpe put the pad on the wound, pressed gently and Spears flinched because the bullet had broken a rib. Sharpe took his hand away. “You won’t die.”
Spears twisted his head and watched Sharpe’s face. His voice had some of his old, impish charm. “Actually, Richard, at the risk of sounding frightfully heroic and dramatic, I rather want to die.” The tears that were in his eyes belied his words. He sniffed and turned his head back so he stared upwards. “That’s awfully embarrassing, I know. Apologies.” Sharpe said nothing. He stared at the fires that threaded the battlefield, grass fires, and at the mysterious lumps that were broken bodies. A wind came off the field and brought the smell of victory; smoke, powder, blood, and burning flesh. Sharpe had known other men want to die, but never someone who was a lord, who was handsome, charming, and who now apologised again. “I did embarrass you. Forget I spoke.”
Sharpe sat beside him. “I’m not embarrassed. I don’t believe you.”
For a moment neither man spoke. Musket shots came flat over the battlefield; either looters being discouraged or men putting other men out of their misery. Spears turned his head again. “I never slept with La Marquesa.”
Sharpe was startled by the sudden, strange confession. He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Spears nodded slowly. “Say thank you.”
Sharpe, not understanding, humoured him. “Thank you.”
Spears looked up again. “I tried, Richard. God, I tried. That wasn’t very decent of me.” His voice was low, directed at the stars.
It seemed a strange guilt and Sharpe still did not understand why Spears had raised the subject. “I don’t think she took offence.”
“No she didn’t.” Spears paused. “Crazy Jack.”
Sharpe drew his feet in, as if to get up. “Let me fetch a doctor.”
“No. No doctor.” Spears put a hand on Sharpe’s arm. “No doctor, Richard. Can you keep a secret?”
Sharpe nodded. “Yes.”
Spears took his hand away. His breath was heavy in his throat. He seemed to be making up his mind whether to speak or not, but finally he said it. His voice was very bitter. “I’ve got the Black Lion. Dear God! The Black Lion.”
CHAPTER 24
“Oh, God.” Sharpe did not know what to say.
The two men were on the edge of the battlefield, the edge of an immense expanse of misery. Shadows crossed in front of the intermittent flames, dogs howled at the half moon that silvered the humped shapes of the wounded and dead. The guns that had shattered the French rearguard were left where they had fired, and their barrels cooled in the night wind. From far across the dark field came the sound of singing. A group of men round a fire were celebrating their survival. Sharpe looked at Spears. “How long have you known?”
Spears shrugged. “Two years.”
“Oh, God.” Sharpe felt the hopelessness of it. All men feared it, of course, it lurked in the shadows like the dark beast that the army nicknamed it. The Black Lion, the worst kind of pox, the pox that killed a man through senility, blindness, and gibbering madness. Sharpe had once paid his pennies to walk through Bedlam, the mad- house in London’s Moorfields, and he had seen the syphilitic patients in their small, foul cages. The patients could earn a small pittance, thrown farthings, by capering and displaying themselves. The Insane of Bedlam were one of the sights of London, more popular even than the public executions. Spears faced a long, filthy, agonising death. Sharpe looked at him. “Is that why you did this?”
The handsome face nodded. “Yes. You won’t tell?”
“No.”
Spears’ sabretache was lying on the bank and he reached for it, failed, and flapped a hand at it. “There are
