Sharpe's Havoc Part 20

"How deficient?"

"Three batteries of six-pounders," Christopher said, "and one of three. There are rumors that more guns, heavier guns, are coming, but such rumors have always proved false in the past."

"Three-pounders!" Vuillard laughed. "He might as well chuck rocks at us." The Brigadier tapped the envelope. "So what do you want from us?"

Christopher walked a few paces in silence, then shrugged. "It seems to me, General, that Europe is going to be ruled from Paris, not from London. You're going to put your own king here."

"True," Vuillard said, "and it might even be King Nicolas if he captures Lisbon quickly enough, but the Emperor has a stableful of idle brothers. One of those will probably get Portugal."

"But whoever it is," Christopher said, "I can be useful to him."

"By giving us this"-Vuillard flourished the envelope-"and a few names that I can kick out of Argenton whenever I wish?"

"Like all soldiers," Christopher said smoothly, "you are unsubtle. Once you conquer Portugal, General, you will have to pacify it. I know who can be trusted here, who will work with you and who are your secret enemies. I know which men say one thing and do another. I bring you all the knowledge of Britain's Foreign Office. I know who spies for Britain and who their paymasters are. I know the codes they use and the routes their messages take. I know who will work for you and who will work against you. I know who will lie to you, and who will tell you the truth. In short, General, I can save you thousands of deaths unless, of course, you would rather send your troops against peasants in the hills?"

Vuillard chuckled. "And what if we don't conquer Portugal? What happens to you if we withdraw?"

"Then I shall own Savages," Christopher answered calmly, "and my masters at home will simply calculate that I failed to encourage mutiny in your ranks. But I doubt you'll lose. What has stopped the Emperor so far?"

"La Manche," Vuillard said dryly, meaning the English Channel. He drew on his cigar. "You came to me," he said, "with news of mutinv. But you never told me what you wanted in exchange. So tell me now, Englishman."

"The port trade," Christopher said, "I want the port trade."

The simplicity of the answer made Vuillard check his pacing. "The port trade?"

"All of it. Croft, Taylor Fladgate, Burmester, Smith Woodhouse, Dow's, Savages, Gould, Kopke, Sandeman, all the lodges. I don't want to own them, I already own Savages, or I will soon, I just want to be the sole s.h.i.+pper."

Vuillard took a few seconds to understand the scope of the demand. "You'd control half the export trade of Portugal!" he said. "You'd be richer than the Emperor!"

"Not quite," Christopher said, "because the Emperor will tax me and I can't tax him. The man who becomes impressively rich, General, is the man who levies the tax, not he who pays it."

"You'll still be wealthy."

"And that, General, is what I want."

Vuillard stared down at the black lawn. Someone was playing a harpsichord in the House Beautiful and there was the sound of women's laughter. Peace, he thought, would eventually come and maybe this polished Englishman could help bring it about. "You're not telling me the names I want," he said, "and you've given me a list of British forces. But how do I know you're not deceiving me?"

"You don't."

"I want more than lists," Vuillard said harshly. "I need to know, Englishman, that you're willing to give something tangible to prove that you're on our side."

"You want blood," Christopher said mildly. He had been expecting the demand.

"Blood will do, but not Portuguese blood. British blood."

Christopher smiled. "There is a village called Vila Real de Zedes," he said, "where Savages have some vineyards. It has been curiously undisturbed by the conquest." That was true, but only because Christopher had arranged it with Argenton's colonel and fellow plotter whose dragoons were responsible for patrolling that stretch of country. "But if you send a small force there," Christopher went on, "you will find a token unit of British riflemen. There are only a score of them, but they have some Portuguese troops and some rebels with them. Say a hundred men altogether? They're yours, but in return I ask one thing."

"Which is?"

"Spare the Quinta. It belongs to my wife's family."

A grumble of thunder sounded to the north and the cypresses were outlined by a flash of sheet lightning. "Vila Real de Zedes?" Vuillard asked.

"A village not far from the Amarante road," Christopher said, "and I wish I could give you something more, but I offer what I can as an earnest of my sincerity. The troops there will give you no trouble. They're led by a British lieutenant and he didn't strike me as particularly resourceful. The man must be thirty if he's a day and he's still a lieutenant so he can't be up to much."

Another crackle of thunder made Vuillard look anxiously to the northern sky. "We must get back to quarters before the rain comes," he said, but then paused. "It doesn't worry you that you betray your country?"

"I betray nothing," Christopher said, and then, for a change, he spoke truthfully. "If France's conquests, General, are ruled only by Frenchmen then Europe will regard you as nothing but adventurers and exploiters, but if you share your power, if every nation in Europe contributes to the government of every other nation, then we will have moved into the promised world of reason and peace. Isn't that what your Emperor wants? A European system, those were his words, a European system, a European code of laws, a European judiciary and one nation alone in Europe, Europeans. How can I betray my own continent?"

Vuillard grimaced. "Our Emperor talks a lot, Englishman. He's a Corsican and he has wild dreams. Is that what you are? A dreamer?"

"I am a realist," Christopher said. He had used his knowledge of the mutiny to ingratiate himself with the French, and now he would secure their trust by offering a handful of British soldiers as a sacrifice.

So Sharpe and his men must die, so that Europe's glorious future could arrive.

Chapter 5.

The loss of the telescope hurt Sharpe. He told himself it was a bauble, a useful frill, but it still hurt. It marked an achievement, not just the rescue of Sir Arthur Wellesley, but the promotion to commissioned rank afterward. Sometimes, when he scarcely dared believe that he was a King's officer, he would look at the telescope and think how far he had traveled from the orphanage in Brewhouse Lane and at other times, though he was reluctant to admit it to himself, he enjoyed refusing to explain the plaque on the telescope's barrel. Yet he knew other men knew. They looked at him, understood he had once fought like a demon under the Indian sun and were awed.

Now b.l.o.o.d.y Christopher had the gla.s.s.

"You'll get it back, sir," Harper tried to console him.

"I b.l.o.o.d.y will, too. I hear that Williamson got into a fight in the village last night?"

"Not much of a fight, sir. I pulled him off."

"Who was he milling?"

"One of Lopes's men, sir. As evil a b.a.s.t.a.r.d as Williamson."

"Should I punish him?"

"G.o.d, no, sir. I looked after it."

But Sharpe nevertheless declared the village out of bounds, which he knew would not be popular with his men. Harper spoke for them, pointing out that there were some pretty girls in Vila Real de Zedes. "There's one wee slip of a thing there, sir," he said, "that would bring tears to your eyes. The lads only want to walk down there of an evening to say h.e.l.lo."

"And to leave some babies behind."

"That too," Harper agreed.

"And the girls can't walk up here?" Sharpe asked. "I hear some do."

"Some do, sir, I'm told, that's true."

"Including one wee slip of a thing that has red hair and can bring tears to your eyes?"

Harper watched a buzzard quartering the broom-clad slopes of the hill on which the fort was being made. "Some of us like to go to church in the village, sir," he said, studiously not talking about the red-headed girl whose name was Maria.