This did not just depend on Juanita and Loup doing their duty, but rather on the clever scheme of a man whom even Ducos acknowledged as his equal, a man whose passion to defeat the British equalled Ducos's passion to see France triumphant, and a man who was already behind the British lines where he would sow the mischief that would first rot the British army, then lead it into a trap beside a narrow ravine. Ducos's thin body seemed to quiver as the vision unfolded in his imagination. He saw an insolent British army eroded from within, then trapped and beaten. He saw France triumphant. He saw a river gorge crammed to its rocky brim with bloody carcasses. He saw his Emperor ruling over all Europe and then, who could tell, over the whole known world. Alexander had done it, why not Bonaparte?
And it would begin, with a little cunning from Ducos and his most secret agent, on the banks of the Coa near the fortress of Almeida.
"This is a chance, Sharpe, upon my soul it is a chance. A veritable chance. Not many chances come in a man's life and a man must seize them. My father taught me that. He was a bishop, you see, and a fellow doesn't rise from being curate to bishop without seizing his chances. You comprehend me?"
"Yes, sir."
Colonel Claud Runciman's massive buttocks were well set on the inn bench while before him, on a plain wooden table, were the remnants of a huge meal. There were chicken bones, the straggling stalks of a bunch of grapes, orange peel, rabbit vertebrae, a piece of unidentifiable gristle and a collapsed wineskin. The copious food had forced Colonel Runciman to unbutton his coat, waistcoat and shirt in order to loosen the strings of his corset and the subsequent distending of his belly had stretched a watch chain hung thick with seals tight across a strip of pale, drum-taut flesh. The Colonel belched prodigiously. "There's a hunchbacked girl somewhere about who serves the food, Sharpe," Runciman said. "If you see the lass, tell her I'll take some pie. With some cheese, perhaps. But not if it's goat's cheese. Can't abide goat's cheese; it gives me spleen, d'you see?" Runciman's red coat had the yellow facings and silver lace of the 37th, a good line regiment from Hampshire that had not seen the Colonel's ample shadow in many a year. Recently Runciman had been the Wagon Master General in charge of the drivers and teams of the Royal Wagon Train and their auxiliary Portuguese muleteers, but now he had been appointed liaison officer to theReal Companпa Irlandesa .
"It's an honour, of course," he told Sharpe, "but neither unexpected nor undeserved. I told Wellington when he made me Wagon Master General that I'd do the job as a favour to him, but that I expected a reward for it. A fellow doesn't want to spend his life thumping sense into thick-witted wagon drivers, good God, no. There's the hunchback, Sharpe! There she is! Stop her, Sharpe, there's a kind fellow! Tell her I want pie and a proper cheese!"
The pie and cheese were arranged and another wineskin was fetched, along with a bowl of cherries, to satisfy the last possible vestiges of Runciman's appetite. A group of cavalry officers sitting at a table on the far side of the yard were making wagers on how much food Runciman could consume, but Runciman was oblivious of their mockery. "It's a chance," he said again when he was well tucked into his pie. "I can't tell what's in it for you, of course, because a chap like you probably doesn't expect too much out of life anyway, but I reckon I've got a chance at a Golden Fleece." He peered up at Sharpe. "You do know what real means, don't you?"
"Royal, sir."
"So you're not completely uneducated then, eh? Royal indeed, Sharpe. The royal guard! These Irish fellows are royal! Not a pack of common carriers and mule-drivers. They've got royal connections, Sharpe, and that means royal rewards! I've half an idea that the Spanish court might even give a pension with the Order of the Golden Fleece. The thing comes with a nice star and a golden collar, but a pension would be very acceptable. A reward for a job well done, don't you see? And that's just from the Spanish! The good Lord alone knows what London might cough up. A knighthood? The Prince Regent will want to know we've done a good job, Sharpe, he'll take an interest, don't you see? He'll be expecting us to treat these fellows proper, as befits a royal guard. Order of the Bath at the very least, I should think. Maybe even a viscountcy? And why not? There's only one problem." Colonel Runciman belched again, then raised a buttock for a few seconds. "My God, but that's better," he said. "Let the effusions out, that's what my doctor says. There's no future in keeping noxious effusions in the body, he tells me, in case the body rots from within. Now, Sharpe, the fly in our unguent is the fact these royal guards are all Irish. Have you ever commanded the Irish?"
"A few, sir."
"Well, I've commanded dozens of the rogues. Ever since they amalgamated the Train with the Irish Corps of Wagoners, and there ain't much about the Irish that I don't know. Ever served in Ireland, Sharpe?"
"No, sir."
"I was there once. Garrison duty at Dublin Castle. Six months of misery, Sharpe, without a single properly cooked meal. God knows, Sharpe, I strive to be a good Christian and to love my fellow man, but the Irish do sometimes make it difficult. Not that some of them ain't the nicest fellows you could ever meet, but they can be obtuse! Dear me, Sharpe, I sometimes wondered if they were gulling me. Pretending not to understand the simplest orders. Do you find that? And there's something else, Sharpe. We'll have to be politic, you and I. The Irish" — and here Runciman leaned awkwardly forward as though confiding something important to Sharpe—"are very largely Romish, Sharpe. Papists! We shall have to watch our theological discourse if we're not to unsettle their tempers! You and I might know that the Pope is the reincarnation of the Scarlet Whore of Babylon, but it won't help our cause if we say it out loud. Know what I mean?"
"You mean there'll be no Golden Fleece, sir?"
"Good fellow, knew you'd comprehend. Exactly. We have to be diplomatic, Sharpe. We have to be understanding. We have to treat these fellows as if they were Englishmen." Runciman thought about that statement, then frowned. "Or almost English, anyway. You came up from the ranks, ain't that right? So these things might not be obvious to you, but if you just remember to keep silent about the Pope you can't go far wrong. And tell your chaps the same," he added hastily.
"A fair number of my fellows are Catholics themselves, sir," Sharpe said. "And Irish."
"They would be, they would be. A third of this army is Irish! If there was ever a mutiny, Sharpe… " Colonel Runciman shuddered at the prospect of the papist redcoats running wild. "Well, it doesn't bear thinking about, does it?" he went on. "So ignore their infamous heresies, Sharpe, just ignore them.
Ignorance is the only possible cause for papism, my dear father always said, and a burning at the stake the only known cure. He was a bishop, so he understood these matters. Oh, and one other thing, Sharpe, I'd be obliged if you didn't call me Colonel Runciman. They haven't replaced me yet, so I'm still the Wagon Master General, so it ought to be General Runciman."
"Of course, General," Sharpe said, hiding a smile. After nineteen years in the army he knew Colonel Runciman's type. The man had purchased his promotions all the way to lieutenant colonel and there got stuck because promotion above that rank depended entirely on seniority and merit, but if Runciman wanted to be called General then Sharpe would play along for a while. He also sensed that Runciman was hardly likely to prove a difficult man so there was small point in antagonizing him.
"Good fellow! Ah! You see that scrawny chap who's just going?" Runciman pointed to a man leaving the inn through its arched entrance. "I swear he's left half a skin of wine on his table. See it? Go and snaffle it, Sharpe, there's a stout fellow, before that hunchbacked girl gets her paws on it. I'd go myself, but the damn gout is pinching me something hard today. Off you go, man, I'm thirsty!"
Sharpe was saved the indignity of scavenging the tables like a beggar by the arrival of Major Michael Hogan who waved Sharpe back towards the wreckage of Runciman's luncheon. "Good afternoon to you, Colonel," Hogan said, "and it's a grand day too, is it not?" Hogan, Sharpe noticed, was deliberately exaggerating his Irish accent.
"Hot," Runciman said, dabbing with his napkin at the perspiration that dripped down his plump cheeks and then, suddenly conscious of his naked belly, he vainly tried to tug the edges of his corset together. "Damnably hot," he said.
"It's the sun, Colonel," Hogan said very earnestly. "I've noticed that the sun seems to heat up the day. Have you noticed that?"
"Well, of course it's the sun!" Runciman said, confused.
"So I'm right! Isn't that amazing? But what about winter, Colonel?"
Runciman threw an anguished glance towards the abandoned wineskin. He was about to order Sharpe to fetch it when the serving girl whisked it away. "Damn," Runciman said sadly.
"You spoke, Colonel?" Hogan asked, helping himself to a handful of Runciman's cherries.
"Nothing, Hogan, nothing but a twinge of gout. I need some more Husson's Water, but the stuff is damned hard to find. Maybe you could put a request to the Horse Guards in London? They must realize we need medication here? And one other thing, Hogan?"
"Speak, Colonel. I am ever yours to command."
Runciman coloured. He knew he was being mocked but, though he outranked the Irishman, he was nervous of Hogan's intimacy with Wellington. "I am still, as you know, Wagon Master General," Runciman said heavily.
"So you are, Colonel, so you are. And a damned fine one too, I might say. The Peer was only saying to me the other day. Hogan, says he, have you ever seen wagons so finely mastered in all your born days?"
"Wellington said that?" Runciman asked in astonishment.
"He did, Colonel, he did."
"Well, I'm not really surprised," Runciman said. "My dear mother always said I had a talent for organization, Hogan. But the thing is, Major," Runciman went on, "that until a replacement is found then I am still the Wagon Master General" — he stressed the word 'General'—"and I would be vastly obliged if you addressed me as—"
"My dear Wagon Master," Hogan interrupted Runciman's laborious request, "why didn't you say so earlier? Of course I shall address you as Wagon Master, and I apologize for not thinking of that simple courtesy myself. But now, Wagon Master, if you'll excuse me, theReal Companпa Irlandesahave reached the edge of town and we need to review them. If you're ready?" Hogan gestured to the inn's gateway.
Runciman quailed at the prospect of exerting himself. "Right now, Hogan? This minute? But I can't. Doctor's orders. A man of my constitution needs to take a rest after… " He paused, seeking the right word. «After…» he went on and failed again.
"Rest after labour?" Hogan suggested sweetly. "Very well, Wagon Master, I'll tell Lord Kiely you'll meet him and his officers at General Valverde's reception this evening while Sharpe takes the men up to San Isidro."
"This evening at Valverde's, Hogan," Runciman agreed. "Very good. And Hogan. About my being Wagon Master General—"
"No need to thank me, Wagon Master. You'd just embarrass me with gratitude, so not another word! I shall respect your wishes and tell everyone else to do the same. Now come, Richard! Where are your green fellows?"
"In a taproom at the front of the inn, sir," Sharpe said. His riflemen were to join Sharpe in the San Isidro Fort, an abandoned stronghold on the Portuguese border, where they would help train theReal Companпa Irlandesain musketry and skirmishing.
"My God, Richard, but Runciman's a fool!" Hogan said happily as the two men walked through the inn's gateway. "He's a genial fool, but he must have been the worst Wagon Master General in history. McGilligan's dog would have done a better job, and McGilligan's dog was famously blind, epileptic and frequently drunk. You never knew McGilligan, did you? A good engineer, but he fell off the Old Mole at Gibraltar and drowned himself after drinking two quarts of sherry, God rest his soul. The poor dog was inconsolable and had to be shot. The 73rd Highlanders did the deed with a full firing party and military honours to follow. But Runciman's just the fellow to flatter the Irish and make them think we're taking them seriously, but that's not your job. You understand me?"
"No, sir," Sharpe said, "don't understand you in the least, sir."
"You're being awkward, Richard," Hogan said, then stopped and took hold of one of Sharpe's silver coat buttons to emphasize his next words. "The object of all we now do is to upset Lord Kiely. Your job is to insert yourself into Lord Kiely's fundament and be an irritant. We don't want him here and we don't want his bloody Royal Company here, but we can't tell them to bugger off because it wouldn't be diplomatic, so your job is to make them go away voluntarily. Oh! Sorry now," he apologized because the button had come away in his fingers. "The buggers are up to no good, Richard, and we have to find a diplomatic way of getting rid of them, so whatever you can do to upset them, do it, and rely on Runciman the Rotund to smooth things over so they don't think we're being deliberately rude." Hogan smiled. "They'll just blame you for not being a gentleman.