Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2. Bernard Cornwell
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Britain? France and Portugal? No! It is between the old way of doing things and the new way. Superstitions are being challenged. I’m not defending Bonaparte. Good God, no! He’s a braggart, an adventurer, but he’s also an instrument. He’s burning out what is bad in the old regimes and leaving a space into which new ideas will come. Reason! That’s what animates the new regimes, Kate, reason!’
‘I thought it was liberty,’ Kate suggested.
‘Liberty! Man has no liberty except the liberty to obey rules, but who makes the rules? With luck, Kate, it will be reasonable men making reasonable rules. Clever men. Subtle men. In the end, Kate, it is a coterie of sophisticated men who will make the rules, but they will make them according to the tenets of reason and there are some of us in Britain, a few of us in Britain, who understand that we will have to come to terms with that idea. We also have to help shape it. If we fight it then the world will become new without us and we shall be defeated by reason. So we must work with it.’
‘With Bonaparte?’ Kate asked, distaste in her voice.
‘With all the countries of Europe!’ Christopher said enthusiastically. ‘With Portugal and Spain, with Prussia and Austria, with Holland and, yes, with France. We have more in common than divides us, yet we fight! What sense does that make? There can be no progress without peace, Kate, none! You do want peace, my love?’
‘Devoutly,’ Kate said.
‘Then trust me,’ Christopher said, ‘trust that I know what I’m doing.’
And she did trust him because she was young and her husband was so much older and she knew he was privy to opinions that were far more sophisticated than her instincts. Yet the following night that trust was put to the test when four French officers and their mistresses came to the House Beautiful for supper, the group led by Brigadier General Henri Vuillard, a tall elegantly handsome man who was charming to Kate, kissing her hand and complimenting her on the house and the garden. Vuillard’s servant brought a crate of wine as a gift, though it was hardly tactful, for the wine was Savages’ best, appropriated from one of the British ships that had been trapped on Oporto’s quays by contrary winds when the French took the city.
After supper the three junior officers entertained the ladies in the parlour while Christopher and Vuillard paced the garden, their cigars trailing smoke beneath the black cypress trees. ‘Soult is worried,’ Vuillard confessed.
‘By Cradock?’
‘Cradock’s an old woman,’ Vuillard said scathingly. ‘Isn’t it true he wanted to withdraw last year? But what about Wellesley?’
‘Tougher,’ Christopher admitted, ‘but it’s by no means certain he’ll come here. He has enemies in London.’
‘Political enemies, I presume?’ Vuillard asked.
‘Indeed.’
‘The most dangerous enemies of a soldier,’ Vuillard said. He was of an age with Christopher, and a favourite of Marshal Soult. ‘No, Soult’s worried,’ he went on, ‘because we’re frittering troops away to protect our supply lines. You kill two peasants armed with matchlock guns in this damn country and twenty more spring up from the rocks, and the twenty don’t have matchlocks any longer, instead they have good British muskets supplied by your damn country.’
‘Take Lisbon,’ Christopher said, ‘and capture every other port, and the supply of arms will dry up.’
‘We’ll do it,’ Vuillard promised, ‘in time. But we could do with another fifteen thousand men.’
Christopher stopped at the garden’s edge and stared across the Douro for a few seconds. The city lay beneath him, the smoke from a thousand kitchens smirching the night air. ‘Is Soult going to declare himself king?’
‘You know what his nickname is now?’ Vuillard asked, amused. ‘King Nicolas! No, he won’t make the declaration, not if he’s got any sense and he’s probably got just enough. The local people won’t stand for it, the army won’t support it and the Emperor will poach his balls for it.’
Christopher smiled. ‘But he’s tempted?’
‘Oh, he’s tempted, but Soult usually stops before he goes too far. Usually.’ Vuillard sounded cautious for Soult, only the day before, had sent a letter to all the generals in his army, suggesting that they encourage the Portuguese to declare their support for him to become king. It was, Vuillard thought, madness, but Soult was obsessed with the idea of being a royal. ‘I told him he’ll provoke a mutiny if he does.’
‘That he will,’ Christopher said, ‘and you need to know that Argenton was in Coimbra. He met Cradock.’
‘Argenton’s a fool,’ Vuillard snarled.
‘He’s a useful fool,’ Christopher observed. ‘Let him keep talking to the British and they’ll do nothing. Why should they exert themselves if your army is going to destroy itself by mutiny?’
‘But will it?’ Vuillard asked. ‘Just how many officers does Argenton speak for?’
‘Enough,’ Christopher said, ‘and I have their names.’
Vuillard chuckled. ‘I could have you arrested, Englishman, and given to a pair of dragoon sergeants who’ll prise those names out of you in two minutes.’
‘You’ll get the names,’ Christopher said, ‘in time. But for the moment, Brigadier, I give you this instead.’ He handed Vuillard an envelope.
‘What is it?’ It was too dark in the garden to read anything.
‘Cradock’s order of battle,’ Christopher said. ‘Some of his troops are in Coimbra, but most are in Lisbon. In brief he has sixteen thousand British bayonets and seven thousand Portuguese. The details are all there, and you will note they are particularly deficient in artillery.’
‘How deficient?’
‘Three batteries of six-pounders,’ Christopher said, ‘and one of three. There are rumours that more guns, heavier guns, are coming, but such rumours 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 drily, meaning