“Yes.” Sharpe knew the joy of war. No other thing gave such excitement, or asked such a price. He stared at the grass fires which scorched the flesh of the wounded and dead. War had brought Sharpe promotion, a wife, La Marquesa, and it could yet kill him as it Was killing Spears. Capricious Fate.
Spears coughed and this time he wiped blood from his lips. “I gambled the whole lot away. Jesus God! Every bloody penny.”
“All?”
“Twice over. You don’t gamble, do you?”
“No.”
Spears grinned. “You’re very tedious for a hero.” He coughed and turned his head to spit blood on the grass. Most of it went onto Sharpe’s greatcoat. “It’s like standing on a clifftop and knowing you can fly. There’s nothing like it, nothing. Except war and women.”
The wind was cooler now, chilling the skin of Sharpe’s face. He pulled Spears’jacket over the wound. He wished he had known this man better; Spears had offered friendship and Sharpe had been wary of it. Now he felt very close to Spears as the blood seeped into the lungs.
Spears pulled on the cigar, coughed again, and the blood flecked his cheeks. He turned his face towards Sharpe. “Will you do something for me?”
“Of course.”
“Write to my sister. Hogan’s got her address. Tell her I died well. Tell her I died a hero.” He smiled in self-deprecation. “Do you promise?”
“I promise.” Sharpe looked upwards. The stars were the camp fires of a limitless heavenly army. Beneath them, the fires of the victorious British were dull. The muskets sounded far away as men dispatched the wounded.
Spears blew out a spume of smoke. “Her name’s Dorothy. Ugly name. I do like her. I want her to know I died well. It’s the least I can do now.”
„I’ll tell her.“
Spears seemed to ignore Sharpe’s words. “I’ve ruined her life, Richard. No money, no inheritance, no dowry. She’ll have to marry some bloody tradesman to get his money and in return he’ll get her body and some noble blood.” His voice was very bitter. “Poor Dorothy.” He took a deep breath that rasped in his throat. “I’m broke, I’m poxed, and I’ve disgraced the family. But if I die a hero, then at least she has that. A lot of people won’t cash my notes of hand. Bad behaviour when a fellow has just died for King and Country.” Spears laughed, and the blood was dark on his skin. “You can live as bad as you like, Richard, as long as you can, but if you die for your country you’ll be forgiven everything. Everything.” Spears turned away from Sharpe so he could stare into the immensity of the battlefield’s sadness. “I used to get dragged to bloody church every Sunday. We went into the private pew and all the peasants tugged their forelocks. Then the bloody preacher got up on his back trotters and warned us about gambling, drunkenness, and fornication. He gave me all my ambitions in life.” He coughed again, worse this time, and there was a pause as he forced air into his lungs. “I just want Dorothy to know I was a hero. They can put a marble plaque in the church. The last of the Spears, dead at Salamanca.”
„I’ll write.“ Sharpe took off his shako and pushed a hand through his hair. ”I’m sure the Peer will write.“
Spears turned his head to look at Sharpe again. “And tell Helena she broke my heart.”
Sharpe smiled. He did not know if he would ever see La Marquesa again, but he nodded. „I’ll tell her.“
Spears sighed, smiled ruefully, and stared at the battlefield.“ I could havedone my bit for England. Given her the pox.”
Sharpe grinned dutifully. He supposed that it must be near eleven o’clock. So many people in England would be going to bed and they would be quite ignorant that at tea-time the Third Division had smashed the French left, and that by the time the bone china was cleared away the French had lost a quarter of their army. In a few days, though, the bells would ring out in all the villages and parsons would give thanks to God as though the deity were some kind of superior General of Division. The squires would pay for hogsheads of beer and make speeches about the Tyrant Broken by Honest Englishmen. There would be a fresh crop of plaques in the churches, for those who could afford it, but on the whole England would not show much gratitude for the men who had done their bit this day. Then he remembered what Spears had said. “Given her the pox‘, ”done my bit for England’ and Sharpe was suddenly cold inside. Spears knew she was French and he had betrayed it because he could not resist the joke. Sharpe kept his voice calm. “How long have you known about her?”
Spears twisted to look at him. “You know?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus. The things people say in bed.” He wiped blood off his cheek.
Sharpe stared into the darkness. “How long have you known.”
Spears tossed his cigar down the slope. “A month.”
“Did you tell Hogan?”
There was a pause. Sharpe looked at Spears. The cavalryman was watching him, conscious suddenly that he had said too much. Slowly, Spears nodded. “Of course I did.” He smiled suddenly. “How many do you think died today?”
Sharpe did not reply. He knew Spears was lying. Hogan had only discovered that La Marquesa was once Helene Leroux yesterday. Curtis had received the letter in the morning, seen Hogan in the afternoon, and then come to Sharpe. Spears had never told Hogan, nor did Spears know that Curtis had seen Sharpe. “How did you find out?”
“It doesn’t matter, Richard.”
“It does.”
There was a flash of anger in Spears. “I’m a bloody Exploring Officer, remember? It’s my job to find things out.”
“And to tell Hogan. You didn’t.”
Spears breathed heavily. He watched Sharpe, then shook his head. His voice was weary. “Christ! It doesn’t matter now.”
Sharpe stood up, tall against the night sky, and he hated what he had to do, but it did matter now, whatever Spears thought. The sword hissed out of the scabbard, came free, and the steel was pale in the half-moon.
Spears frowned. “What the hell are you doing?”
Sharpe put the blade beneath Spears, pushed away a protesting arm, and then levered with the steel so that the cavalryman was half rolled over, facing away from Sharpe, and then the Rifleman put one foot on Spears’ waist and the sword blade against Spears’ back. There was anger in Sharpe’s voice, a cold, frightening anger. “Heroes don’t have scarred backs. You talk to me, my lord, or I’ll carve your back into bloody ribbons. I’ll tell your sister you died as a poxed coward, with your wounds behind.”
“I know nothing!”
Sharpe leaned on the blade, enough for its razor point to go through cloth. His voice was loud, strong. “You know, you bastard. You knew she was French, no one else did. You knew she was Leroux’s sister, didn’t you?” There was silence. He pushed the sword.
“Yes.” Spears choked, spat blood. “Stop it, for God’s sake, stop it.”
“Then talk.” There was silence again, except for the wind rustling the leaves of the trees behind them, the crackle of flames from the fires of the Sixth Division, and the desultory, far-away musket shots. Sharpe lowered his voice. “Your sister will be disgraced. She’ll have nothing. No money, no prospects, not even a dead hero as a brother. She’ll have to marry some ironmonger with dirty hands and a great belly and she’ll whore herself for his money. You want me to save your bloody honour, my lord? You talk.”
Spears talked. His words were punctuated by the coughing, the spitting of blood. He whined at times, tried to wriggle, but the sword was always close and, bit by horrid bit, Sharpe took the story from him. It depressed Sharpe, it saddened him. Spears pleaded for understanding, forgiveness even, but it was a tale of honour sold. Spears had told Sharpe, weeks before, that he had been nearly captured by Leroux. He had told of escaping through a window, tearing his arm to shreds, but the story was not true.
Lord Spears had never escaped from Leroux. He had been captured and had signed his parole. Leroux, he said, had talked to him through a long night, had drunk with him, and found the weakness. They had made a bargain. Information for money. Spears sold Colquhoun Grant, the army’s finest Exploring Officer, and Leroux gave him five hundred Napoleons and all had been gambled away. “I thought I might get the town house back, at least.”