Sharpe’s Enemy: The Defence of Portugal, Christmas 1812. Bernard Cornwell
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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 to stop 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.
‘How many, sir?’
Nairn shrugged. ‘We don’t know. Numbers vary between four hundred and two thousand. I’d guess six or seven hundred.’
Sharpe raised his eyebrows. That could be a formidable force. ‘Why have they come south, sir?’
‘That’s a question.’ Nairn blew his nose into the huge wrinkled handkerchief. ‘It seems that the Frogs are being pretty lively in Galicia. I don’t know, bloody rumour again, but there’s a whisper that they might try a winter attack on Braganza then on to Oporto. I don’t believe it for a second, but there’s a school of thought which maintains that Napoleon is in need of some victory, any victory, after the Russian catastrophe. If they capture the north of Portugal then they can trumpet that as some kind of achievement.’ Nairn shrugged. ‘I can’t think why, but we’re told to take the possibility seriously and certainly there’s a lot of Frog cavalry lumbering about in Galicia and our belief is that they drove our friend Pot-au-Feu towards us. And he promptly sends his British deserters to attack a village called Adrados where they murder a small Spanish garrison and go on to make themselves free with all the ladies. Now half of bloody Spain thinks that the Protestant English are reverting to the Wars of Religion. That, Sharpe, is the story in its rancid little nutshell.’
‘So we go up there and turn the bastards inside out?’
Nairn smiled. ‘Not yet, Sharpe, not yet. We have a problem.’ He got to his feet, crossed to the table, rummaged through the mess of papers and litter, and returned with a small, black leather-bound book. He tossed the book to Sharpe. ‘Did you see a tall, thin man when you arrived here? Silver hair? Elegant?’
Sharpe nodded. He had noticed the man because of the flawless uniform, the look of bored distinction, and the obvious wealth of the man’s spurs, sword and other ornaments. ‘I did.’
‘That’s him.’ Nairn pointed at the book.
Sharpe opened it. It was new, the covers stiff, and on the title page he read ‘Practical Instructions to the Young Officer in the Art of Warfare with Special Reference to the Engagements now Proceeding in Spain’. The author was named as Colonel Sir Augustus Farthingdale. The book cost five shillings, published by Richard Phillips, and was printed by Joyce Gold of Shoe Lane in London. The pages were mostly uncut, but Sharpe’s eye was caught by a sentence that ran over a page and so he took out his pen-knife and slit the next two pages apart. He finished the sentence and smiled. Nairn saw the smile. ‘Read it to me.’
‘“The men, during the march, should keep their files, and no indecent language or noise be allowed”.’
‘God! I missed that one.’ Nairn grinned. ‘You will note that the book has an introduction by my friend the Chaplain General. He recommends frequent divine service to keep the men quiet and ordered.’
Sharpe closed the book. ‘So why is he a problem?’
‘Because Colonel Sir Augustus Farthingdale has taken himself a wife. A Portuguese wife. Some filly of a good family, it seems, but a Papist. God knows what the Chaplain General would say to that! Anyway, this spring flower of Sir Augustus’ autumn wants to go to Adrados to pray at some bloody shrine where miracles are two a penny and guess who meets her there. Pot-au-Feu. Lady Farthingdale is now a hostage. If any troops go within five miles of Adrados they’ll turn her over to the rapists and murderers who make up their ranks. On the other hand, Sir Augustus can have her back on payment of five hundred guineas.’
Sharpe whistled, Nairn grinned. ‘Aye, it’s a pretty price for a pair of legs to wrap round you in bed. Anyway, Sir Augustus swears the price is fair, that he will do anything, anything to bring his bride safe home. God, Sharpe, there’s nothing so disgusting as the sight of an old man in love with a woman forty years younger.’ Sharpe wondered if there was some jealousy in Nairn’s words.
‘Why would they want to ransom her, sir, if she’s their insurance against attack?’
‘You’re not a fool, are you. God knows the answer to that. They have deemed to send us a letter and the letter informs us that we may send the money on a certain date, at a certain time, and so on and so on. I want you to go.’
‘Alone?’
‘You can take one other man, that’s all.’
‘The money?’
‘Sir Augustus will provide it. He claims his lady wife is a pearl beyond price so he’s busy writing notes of hand to get her back.’
‘And if they won’t release her?’
Nairn smiled. He was huddled back in his dressing gown. ‘I don’t believe they will. They just want the money, that’s all. Sir Augustus made a half-hearted offer to deliver it, but I turned him down much to his relief. I suppose two hostages are better than one and a Knight of the Realm makes a useful bargaining piece. Anyway, I need a soldier to go up there.’
Sharpe raised the book. ‘He’s a soldier.’
‘He’s a bloody author, Sharpe, all words and wind. No, you go, man. Take a look at their defences. Even if you don’t bring the filly back you’ll know how to go and get her.’
Sharpe smiled. ‘A rescue?’
Nairn nodded. ‘A rescue. Sir Augustus Farthingdale, Major, is our government’s military representative to the Portuguese government which means, between you and me, damn all except that he gets to eat a lot of dinners and meet pretty young