Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold Read Free Page B

the soldiers had slowed as they passed the gate of the House Beautiful. Oporto might be falling to the enemy, but there was plenty of fight left in Portugal, though it was hard to believe that as yet more soldiers followed the retreating six-pounder gun down to the river. Lieutenant Colonel Christopher glanced at the fugitives, then looked back at Sharpe. “What on earth was Captain Hogan thinking of?” he asked, evidently expecting no answer. “What possible use could you be to me? Your presence can only slow me down. I suppose Hogan was being chivalrous,” Christopher went on, “but the man plainly has no more common sense than a pickled onion. You can go back to him, Sharpe, and tell him that I don’t need assistance in rescuing one damned silly little girl.” The Colonel had to raise his voice because the sound of cannons and musketry was suddenly loud.
    “He gave me an order, sir,” Sharpe said stubbornly.
    “And I’m giving you another,” Christopher said in the indulgent tone he might have used to address a very small child. The pommel of his saddle was broad and flat to make a small writing surface and now he laid a notebook on that makeshift desk and took out a pencil, and just then another of the red-blossomed trees on the crest was struck by a cannonball so that the air was filled with drifting petals. “The French are at war with the cherries,” Christopher said lightly.
    “With Judas,” Sharpe said.
    Christopher gave him a look of astonishment and outrage. “What did you say?”
    “It’s a Judas tree,” Sharpe said.
    Christopher still looked outraged, then Sergeant Harper chimed in. “It’s not a cherry, sir. It’s a Judas tree. The same kind that Iscariot used to hang himself on, sir, after he betrayed our Lord.”
    Christopher still gazed at Sharpe, then seemed to realize that no slur had been intended. “So it’s not a cherry tree, eh?” he said, then licked the point of his pencil. “You are hereby ordered”—he spoke as he wrote—“to return south of the river forthwith—note that, Sharpe, forthwith—and report for duty to Captain Hogan of the Royal Engineers. Signed, Lieutenant Colonel James Christopher, on the forenoon of Wednesday, March the 29th in the year of our Lord, 1809.” He signed the order with a flourish, tore the page from the book, folded it in half and handed it to Sharpe. “I always thought thirty pieces of silver was a remarkably cheap price for the most famous betrayal in history. He probably hanged himself out of shame. Now go,” he said grandly, “and ‘stand not upon the order of your going.’ ” He saw Sharpe’s puzzlement, “ Macbeth , Lieutenant,” he explained as he spurred his horse toward the gate, “a play by Shakespeare. And I really would urge haste upon you, Lieutenant,” Christopher called back, “for the enemy will be here any moment.”
    In that, at least, he was right. A great spume of dust and smoke was boiling out from the central redoubts of the city’s northern defenses. That was where the Portuguese had been putting up the strongest resistance, but the French artillery had managed to throw down the parapets and now their infantry assaulted the bastions, and the majority of the city’s defenders were fleeing. Sharpe watched Christopher and his servant gallop through the fugitives and turn into a street that led eastward. Christopher was not retreating south, but going to the rescue of the missing Savage girl, though it would be a close-run thing if he were to escape the city before the French entered it. “All right, lads,” Sharpe called, “time to bloody scarper. Sergeant! At the double! Down to the bridge!”
    “About bloody time,” Williamson grumbled. Sharpe pretended not tohave heard. He tended to ignore a lot of Williamson’s comments, thinking the man might improve but knowing that the longer he did nothing the more violent would be the solution. He just hoped Williamson knew the same thing.
    “Two files!”