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Sharpe’s Devil: Napoleon and South America, 1820–1821
Bernard Cornwell
Richard Sharpe, asked to help an old friend, meets, at last, the greatest enemy.Five years after the Battle of Waterloo, Sharpe’s peaceful retirement in Normandy is shattered. An old friend, Don Blas Vivar, is missing in Chile, reported dead at rebel hands – a report his wife refuses to believe. She appeals to Sharpe to find out the truth.Sharpe, along with Patrick Harper, find themselves bound for Chile via St. Helena, where they have a fateful meeting with the fallen Emperor Napoleon. Convinced that they are on their way to collect a corpse, neither man can imagine that dangers that await them in Chile…Soldier, hero, rogue – Sharpe is the man you always want on your side. Born in poverty, he joined the army to escape jail and climbed the ranks by sheer brutal courage. He knows no other family than the regiment of the 95th Rifles whose green jacket he proudly wears.
SHARPE’S
DEVIL
Richard Sharpe and the Emperor, 1820-21
BERNARD CORNWELL
Copyright
This novel is a work of fiction. The incidents and some of the characters portrayed in it, while based on real historical events and figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1992
Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 1992
Bernard Cornwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007235179
Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2010 ISBN: 9780007334544
Version: 2017-05-06
Sharpe’s Devil is for Toby and Isabel Eady
‘Sharpe and his creator are national treasures’
Sunday Telegraph
Table of Contents
Title Page (#u9a4f5aa2-a81d-5864-976e-32388792e7b5)
Copyright (#u83c8dc04-f5ab-5e87-812f-0cc3dc01552c)
Dedication (#u61b2879d-da2a-53f9-b66d-e4169ea767ec)
Epigraph (#u86121219-471f-507b-9e21-bcdcd2f38fbe)
Map (#u8686aab9-a6aa-57de-9163-755573371976)
Prologue (#u3c0da061-2ed7-52a2-a8fc-1e7fa5b82038)
Part One: Bautista (#u413cdc4a-1f19-522f-a7be-dddbdef797ed)
Chapter One (#uee36c041-5d17-5ff6-82ad-4b8df2d31eb5)
Chapter Two (#uec70a219-b95e-534a-b63f-562e0a7b18f3)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two: Cochrane (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three: Vivar (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Sharpe’s Story (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
The SHARPE Series (in chronological order) (#litres_trial_promo)
The SHARPE Series (in order of publication) (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Bernard Cornwell (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE
There were sixteen men and only twelve mules. None of the men was willing to abandon the journey, so tempers were edgy and not made any better by the day’s oppressive and steamy heat. The sixteen men were waiting by the shore, where the black basalt cliffs edged the small port and where there was no wind to relieve the humidity. Somewhere in the hills there sounded a grumble of thunder.
All but one of the sixteen men were uniformed. They stood sweltering and impatient in the shade of heavily branched evergreen trees while the twelve mules, attended by black slaves, drooped beside a briar hedge that was brilliant with small white roses. The sun, climbing towards noon, shimmered in an atmosphere that smelt of roses, pomegranates, seaweed, myrtle and sewage.
Two warships, their square-cut sails turned dirty grey by the long usage of wind and rain, patrolled far offshore. Closer, in the anchorage itself, a large Spanish frigate lay to twin anchors. It was not a good anchorage, for the ocean’s swells were scarcely vitiated by the embracing shore, nor was the water at the quayside deep enough to allow a great ship to moor alongside, and so the sixteen men had come ashore in the Spanish frigate’s longboats. Now they waited in the oppressive windless heat. In one of the houses just beyond the rose-bright hedge a baby cried.
‘More mules are being fetched. If you gentlemen will do us the honour of patience? And accept our sincerest apologies.’ The speaker, a very young red-coated British Lieutenant whose face was running with sweat, displayed too much contrition. ‘We didn’t expect sixteen gentlemen, you understand, only fourteen, though of course there would still have been insufficient transport, but I have spoken with the adjutant, and he assures me that extra mules are being saddled, and we do apologize for the confusion.’ The Lieutenant had spoken in a rush of words, but now abruptly stopped as it dawned on him that most of the sixteen travellers would not have understood a word he had spoken. The Lieutenant blushed, then turned to a tall, scarred and dark-haired man who wore a faded uniform jacket of the British 95th Rifles. ‘Can you translate for me, sir?’
‘More mules are coming,’ the Rifleman said in laconic, but fluent Spanish. It had been nearly six years since the Rifleman had last used the language regularly, yet thirty-eight days on a Spanish ship had made him fluent again. He turned again to the Lieutenant. ‘Why can’t we walk to the house?’
‘It’s all of five miles, sir, uphill, and very steep.’ The Lieutenant pointed to the hillside above the trees where a narrow road could just be seen zig-zagging perilously up the flax-covered slope. ‘You really are best advised to wait for the mules, sir.’
The tall Rifle officer made a grunting noise, which the young Lieutenant took for acceptance of his wise advice. ‘Sir?’ The Lieutenant, emboldened by the grunting noise, took a step closer to the Rifleman.
‘What?’
‘I just wondered.’ The Lieutenant, overwhelmed by the Rifleman’s scowl, stepped back. ‘Nothing, sir. It doesn’t signify.’
‘For God’s sake, boy, speak up! I won’t bite you.’
‘It was my father, sir. He often spoke of you and I wondered if you might recall him? He was at Salamanca, sir. Hardacre? Captain Roland Hardacre?’
‘No.’
‘He died at San Sebastian?’ Lieutenant Hardacre added pathetically, as though that last detail might revive his father’s image in the Rifleman’s memory.
The scarred Rifleman made another grunting noise that might have been translated as sympathy, but was in fact the inadequate sound of a man who never knew how to react properly to such revelations. So many men had died, so many widows still wept and so many children would be for ever fatherless that the Rifleman doubted there would ever be sufficient pity for all the war’s doings. ‘I didn’t know him, Lieutenant, I’m sorry.’
‘It was truly an honour to meet you anyway, sir,’ Lieutenant Hardacre said, then stepped gingerly backwards as though he might yet be attacked by the tall man whose black hair bore a badger streak of white and whose dark face was slashed by a jagged scar. The Rifleman, who was wishing he could respond more easily and sympathetically to such appeals to his memory, was called Richard Sharpe. His uniform, that might have looked shabby on a beggar’s back, bore the faded insignia of a Major, though at the war’s end, when he had fought at the greatest widowmaking field of all, he had been a Lieutenant Colonel. Now, despite his uniform and the sword which hung at his side, he was just plain mister and a farmer.
Sharpe turned away from the embarrassed Lieutenant to stare morosely across the sun-glinting sea at the far ships which guarded this lonely, godforsaken coast. Sharpe’s scar gave him a sardonic and mocking look. His companion, on the other hand, had a cheerful and genial face. He was a very tall man, even taller than Sharpe himself, and was the only man among the sixteen travellers not wearing a uniform. Instead he was dressed in a brown wool coat and black breeches that were far too thick for this tropical heat and, in consequence, the tall man, who was also hugely fat, was sweating profusely. The discomfort had evidently not affected his cheerfulness, for he gazed happily about himself at the dark cliffs, at the banyan trees, at the slave huts, at the rain clouds swelling above the black volcanic peaks, at the sea, at the small town, and at last delivered himself of his considered verdict. ‘A rare old shitheap of a place, wouldn’t you say?’ The fat man, who was called Mister Patrick Harper and was Sharpe’s companion on this voyage, had expressed the exact same sentiment at dawn when, as their ship crept on a small wind to the island’s anchorage, the first light had revealed the unappealing landscape.
‘It’s more than the bastard deserves,’ Sharpe replied, but without much conviction; merely in the tone of a man making conversation to pass the time.
‘It’s still a shitheap. How in Christ’s name did they ever find the place? That’s what I want to know. God in his heaven, but we’re a million miles from anywhere on earth, so we are!’
‘I suppose a ship was off course and bumped into the bloody place.’
Harper fanned his face with the brim of his broad hat. ‘I wish they’d bring the bloody mules. I’m dying of the bloody heat, so I am. It must be a fair bit cooler up in them hills.’
‘If you weren’t so fat,’ Sharpe said mildly, ‘we could walk.’
‘Fat! I’m just well made, so I am.’ The response, immediate and indignant, was well practised, so that if any man had been listening he would have instantly realized that this was an old and oft-repeated altercation between the two men. ‘And what’s wrong with being properly made?’ Harper continued. ‘Mother of Christ, just because a man lives well there’s no need to make remarks about the evidence of his health! And look at yourself! The Holy Ghost has more beef on its bones than you do. If I boiled you down I wouldn’t get so much as a pound of lard for my trouble. You should eat like I do!’ Patrick Harper proudly thumped his chest, thus setting off a seismic quiver of his belly.
‘It isn’t the eating,’ Sharpe said. ‘It’s the beer.’
‘Stout can’t make you fat!’ Patrick Harper was deeply offended. He had been Sharpe’s sergeant for most of the French wars and now, as then, Sharpe could think of no one he would rather have beside him in a fight. But in the years since the wars the Irishman had run a hostelry in Dublin. ‘And a man has to be seen drinking his own wares,’ Harper would explain defensively, ‘because it gives folks a confidence in the quality of what a man sells, so it does. Besides, Isabella likes me to have a bit of flesh on my bones. It shows I’m healthy, she says.’
‘That must make you the healthiest bugger in Dublin!’ Sharpe said, but without malice. He had not seen his friend for over three years and had been shocked when Harper had arrived in France with a belly wobbling like a sack of live eels, a face as round as the full moon and legs as thick as howitzer barrels. Sharpe himself, five years after the battle of Waterloo, could still wear his old uniform. Indeed, this very morning, taking the uniform from his sea chest, he had been forced to stab a new hole in the belt of his trousers to save them from collapsing round his ankles. He wore another belt over his jacket, but this one merely to support his sword. It felt very strange to have the weapon hanging at his side again. He had spent most of his life as a soldier, from the age of sixteen until he was thirty-eight, but in the last few years he had become accustomed to a farmer’s life. From time to time he might carry a gun to scare the rooks out of Lucille’s orchard or to take a hare for the pot, but he had long abandoned the big sword to its decorative place over the fireplace in the château’s hall, where Sharpe had hoped it would stay forever.
Except now he was wearing the sword again, and the uniform, and he was once more in the company of soldiers. And also of sixteen mules because four more animals had at last been found and led to the waiting men who, trying to keep their dignity, clumsily straddled the mangy beasts. The black slaves tried not to show their amusement as Patrick Harper clambered onto an animal that looked only half his own size, yet which somehow sustained his weight.
An English Major, a choleric-looking man mounted on a black mare, led the way out of the small town and onto the narrow road which made its tortuous way up the towering mountainside towards the island’s interior. The slopes on either side of the road were green with tall flax plants. A lizard, iridescent in the sunlight, darted across Sharpe’s path and one of the slaves, who was following close behind the mounted men, darted after the animal.
‘I thought slavery had been abolished?’ commented Harper, who had evidently forgiven Sharpe for the remarks about his fatness.
‘In Britain, yes,’ Sharpe said, ‘but this isn’t British territory.’
‘It isn’t? What the hell is it then?’ Harper asked indignantly, and indeed, if the island did not belong to Britain then it seemed ridiculous for it to be so thickly inhabited with British troops. Off to their left was a barracks where three companies of redcoats were being drilled on the parade ground, to their right a group of scarlet-coated officers were exercising their horses on a hill slope, while ahead, where the valley climbed out of the thick flax into the bare uplands, a guardpost straddled the road beside an idle semaphore station. The flag above the guardpost was the British Union flag. ‘Are you telling me this might be Irish land?’ Harper asked with heavy sarcasm.
‘It belongs to the East India Company,’ Sharpe explained patiently. ‘It’s a place where they can supply their ships.’
‘It looks bloody English to me, so it does. Except for them black fellows. You remember that darkie we had in the grenadier company? Big fellow? Died at Toulouse?’
Sharpe nodded. The black fellow had been one of the battalion’s few casualties at Toulouse; killed a week after the peace treaty had been signed, only no one at the time knew of it.
‘I remember he got drunk at Burgos,’ Harper said. ‘We put him on a charge and he still couldn’t stand up straight when we marched him in for punishment next morning. What the hell was his name? Tall fellow, he was. You must remember him. He married Corporal Roe’s widow, and she got pregnant and Sergeant Finlayson was taking bets on whether the nipper would be white or black. What was his name, for Christ’s sake?’ Harper frowned in frustration. Ever since he had met Sharpe in France they had held conversations like this, trying to flesh out the ghosts of a past that was fast becoming attenuated.
‘Bastable.’ The name suddenly shot into Sharpe’s head. ‘Thomas Bastable.’
‘Bastable! That was him, right enough. He used to close his eyes whenever he fired a musket, and I never could get him out of the habit. He probably put more bullets into more angels than any soldier in history, God rest his soul. But he was a terror with the bayonet. Jesus, but he could be a terror with a spike!’
‘What colour was the baby?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Bit of both, as far as I remember. Like milky tea. Finlayson wouldn’t pay out till we had a quiet word with him behind the lines, but he was always a slippery bugger, Finlayson. Never did understand why you gave him the stripes.’ Harper fell silent as the small group of uniformed men approached a shuttered house that was surrounded with a neatly-trimmed hedge. Bright flowers grew in a border either side of a pathway made from crushed seashells. A gardener, who looked Chinese, was digging in the vegetable patch beside the house, while a young woman, fair-haired and white-dressed, sat reading under a gazebo close to the front hedge. She looked up, smiled a familiar greeting at the red-faced Major who led the convoy of mules, then stared with frank curiosity at the strangers. The Spanish officers bowed their heads gravely, Sharpe tipped his old-fashioned brown tricorne hat, while Harper offered her a cheerful smile. ‘It’s a fine morning, miss!’
‘Too hot, I think.’ Her accent was English, her voice gentle. ‘We’re going to have rain this afternoon.’
‘Better rain than cold. It’s freezing back home, so it is.’
The girl smiled, but did not respond again. She looked down at her book and slowly turned a page. Somewhere in the house a clock struck the tinkling chimes of midday. A cat slept on a windowsill.
The mules climbed slowly on towards the guardpost. They left the flax and the banyan trees and the myrtles behind, emerging onto a plateau where the grass was sparse and brown and the few trees stunted and wind-bent. Beyond the barren grassland were sudden saw-edged peaks, black and menacing, and on one of those rocky crags was a white-walled house which had the gaunt gallows of a semaphore station built on its roof. The semaphore house stood on the skyline and, because they were backed by the turbulent dark rainclouds, its white painted walls looked unnaturally bright. The semaphore machine beside the guardhouse on the road suddenly clattered into life, its twin black arms creaking as they jerked up and down.
‘They’ll be telling everyone that we’re coming,’ said Harper happily. He was finding every mundane event of this hot day exciting.
‘Like as not,’ Sharpe said.
The redcoats on duty at the guardpost saluted as the Spanish officers rode past. Some smiled at the sight of the monstrous Harper overlapping the struggling mule, but their faces turned to stone when Sharpe glowered at them. Christ, Sharpe thought, but these men must be bored. Stuck four thousand miles from home with nothing to do but watch the sea and the mountains and to wonder about the small house five miles from the anchorage. ‘You do realize,’ Sharpe said to Harper suddenly, and with a sour expression, ‘that we’re almost certainly wasting our time.’
