Sharpe’s Escape: The Bussaco Campaign, 1810. Bernard Cornwell
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of the statues. They kicked some candles aside to make more room. One drew Sharpe’s sword and tossed it onto the path outside, while the cowled monk pushed back his hood.
It was Ferragus, vast and tall, filling the shrine with his menace. ‘You cost me a lot of money,’ he said in his strongly accented English. Sharpe was still on the ground. He tried to stand up, but one of Ferragus’s two companions kicked him in the shoulder and forced him back. ‘A lot of money,’ Ferragus said heavily. ‘You wish to pay me now?’ Sharpe said nothing. He needed a weapon. He had a folding knife in one pocket, but he knew he would never have time to pull it out, let alone extract the blade. ‘How much money do you have?’ Ferragus asked. Sharpe still said nothing. ‘Or would you rather fight me?’ Ferragus went on. ‘Bare knuckles, Captain, toe to toe.’
Sharpe made a curt suggestion of what Ferragus could do and the big man smiled and spoke to his men in Portuguese. They attacked with their boots, kicking Sharpe, who drew up his knees to shield his belly. He guessed they were ordered to disable him and thus leave him to Ferragus’s mercies, but the shrine was small, the space left by the statues cramped and the two men got in each other’s way. Their kicks still hurt. Sharpe tried to lunge up at them, but a boot caught him on the side of the face and he fell back heavily, rocking the kneeling image of Mary Magdalene, and that gave him his weapon. He hammered the statue with his right elbow, smacking its knee so hard that the clay shattered and Sharpe snatched up one shard that was nearly a foot long and ended in a wicked point. He stabbed the makeshift dagger at the nearest man, aiming at his groin, but the man twisted aside so that the clay sliced into his inner thigh. The man grunted. Sharpe was up from the floor now, using his head as a battering ram that he thumped into the wounded man’s belly. A fist caught him on the side of the nose, a boot slammed into his ribs, but he lunged the clay dagger at Ferragus, slicing it along the big man’s jawbone, then a mighty blow on the side of his head threw him back and he fell against Christ’s clay lap. Ferragus ordered his men to get out of the shrine, to give him room, and he punched Sharpe again, delivering a ringing blow on the temple, and Sharpe let go of his makeshift knife, put his arm round the Son of God’s neck and jerked it hard so that the whole head came clean off. Ferragus threw a straight left jab and Sharpe dodged it, then came off the ground to ram the broken head with its crown of thorns up into Ferragus’s face. The hollow clay skull cracked apart as it hit, its jagged edges gouging deep cuts in the big man’s cheeks, and Sharpe twisted to his left as Ferragus recoiled. Sharpe scrambled through the door, trying to reach his sword, but the two men were outside and they fell on him. Sharpe heaved, managed to half turn over, and then got a kick in the belly that drove all the wind out of him.
Ferragus had kicked him, and now he ordered his two men to pull Sharpe up. ‘You can’t fight,’ he told Sharpe, ‘you’re feeble,’ and he began punching, using short, hard blows that looked to have little force in them, but they felt to Sharpe as if he was being kicked by a horse. The blows started at his belly, worked up his chest, then one slammed into his cheek and blood started inside Sharpe’s mouth. He tried to free himself from the two men’s grip, but they held him too tight and he was dazed, confused, half conscious. A fist caught him in the throat and now he could hardly breathe, gagging for air, and Ferragus laughed. ‘My brother said I shouldn’t kill you, but why not? Who’ll miss you?’ He spat into Sharpe’s face. ‘Let him go,’ he said to the two men in Portuguese, then changed to English. ‘Let’s see if this Englishman can fight.’
The two men stepped away from Sharpe who spat blood, blinked, and staggered two paces backwards. His sword was out of reach, and even if he could have fetched it he doubted he would have the strength to use it. Ferragus smiled at his weakness, stepped towards him and Sharpe staggered again, this time half falling sideways, and he put his hand down to steady himself and there was a stone there, a big stone, the size of a ration biscuit, and he picked it up just as Ferragus threw a right fist intended to knock Sharpe down for ever. Sharpe, still half aware, reacted instinctively, blocking the fist with the stone, and Ferragus’s knuckles cracked on the rock and the big man flinched and stepped back, astonished by the sudden pain. Sharpe tried to step towards him and use the stone again, but a left jab banged into his chest and threw him back down onto the path.
‘Now you’re a dead man,’ Ferragus said. He was massaging his broken knuckles, and was in such pain from them that he wanted to kick Sharpe to death. He began by aiming a massive boot at Sharpe’s groin but the blow landed short, on the thigh, because Sharpe had managed to twist feebly to one side, and Ferragus kicked his leg away, drew his boot back again and suddenly there was a light on the path behind him and a voice calling.
‘What’s going on!’ the voice shouted. ‘Hold still! Whoever you are, hold still!’ The boots of two or three men sounded on the path. The approaching men must have heard the fight, but they could surely see nothing in the thickening mist and Ferragus did not wait for them. He shouted at his two men and they ran past Sharpe, down through the trees, and Sharpe curled up on the ground, trying to squeeze the pain from his ribs and belly. There were thick gobs of blood in his mouth and his nose was bleeding. The light came nearer, a lantern held by a redcoat. ‘Sir?’ one of the three men asked. He was a sergeant and had the dark-blue facings of the provosts, the army’s policemen.
‘I’m all right,’ Sharpe grunted.
‘What happened?’
‘Thieves,’ Sharpe said. ‘God knows who they were. Just thieves. Jesus. Help me up.’
Two of them lifted him while the Sergeant retrieved his sword and shako. ‘How many were there?’ the Sergeant asked.
‘Three. Bastards ran away.’
‘You want to see a surgeon, sir?’ The Sergeant flinched as he saw Sharpe’s face in the lantern light. ‘I think you should.’
‘Christ, no.’ He sheathed the sword, put his shako on his bruised skull and leaned against the shrine. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said.
‘We can take you to the monastery, sir.’
‘No. I’ll make my way up to the ridge.’ He thanked the three men, wished them a peaceful night, waited until he had recovered some strength, and then limped back uphill, through the wall and down the ridge to find his company.
Colonel Lawford had pitched a tent close to the new road that had been hacked along the ridge top. The tent flaps were open, revealing a candlelit table on which silver and crystal gleamed, and the Colonel heard a sentry challenge Sharpe, heard Sharpe’s muffled response and shouted through the open flaps, ‘Sharpe! Is that you?’
Sharpe thought briefly about pretending not to have heard, but he was plainly within earshot so he turned towards the tent. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Come and have some brandy.’ Lawford was entertaining Majors Forrest and Leroy, and with them was Lieutenant Slingsby. All had on greatcoats for, after the last few days of brutal heat, the night was suddenly winter cold.
Forrest made space on a bench made out of wooden ammunition crates, then stared up at Sharpe. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Took a tumble, sir,’ Sharpe said. His voice was thick, and he leaned to one side and spat out a glutinous gobbet of blood. ‘Took a tumble.’
‘A tumble?’ Lawford was gazing at Sharpe with an expression of horror. ‘Your nose is bleeding.’
‘Mostly stopped, sir,’ Sharpe said, sniffing blood. He remembered the handkerchief that had been used as a white flag at the telegraph station and fished it out. It seemed a pity to stain the fine linen with blood, but he put it over his nose, flinching at the pain. Then he noticed his right hand was cut, presumably by the makeshift clay dagger.
‘A tumble?’ Major Leroy echoed the Colonel’s question.
‘Treacherous path down there, sir.’
‘You’ve got a black eye too,’ Lawford said.
‘If you’re not up to scratch,’ Slingsby said, ‘then I’ll happily command the company tomorrow, Sharpe.’ Slingsby was high-coloured and sweating, as if he had drunk too much. He looked