Sharpe's Havoc

„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 ca

„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 to have 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!” Harper shouted. „Stay together!”

A ca

Sharpe was halfway down the hill now. His pack, haversack, rifle, cartridge box and sword scabbard bounced and banged as he ran. Few officers carried a longarm, but Sharpe had once served in the ranks and he felt uncomfortable without the rifle on his shoulder. Harper lost his balance, nailing wildly because the new nails on his boot soles kept slipping on patches of stone. The river was visible between the buildings. The Douro, sliding toward the nearby sea, was as wide as the Thames at London, but, unlike London, the river here ran between great hills. The city of Oporto was on the steep northern hill while Vila Nova de Gaia was on the southern, and it was in Vila Nova that most of the British had their houses. Only the very oldest families, like the Savages, lived on the northern bank and all the port was made on the southern side in the lodges owned by Croft, Savages, Taylor Fladgate, Burmester, Smith Woodhouse and Gould, nearly all of which were British owned and their exports contributed hugely to Portugal’s treasury, but now the French were coming and, on the heights of Vila Nova, overlooking the river, the Portuguese army had lined a dozen ca

„Jesus.” Rifleman Pendleton, the youngest in the company, was the first to see what was happening at the river and his eyes widened as he stared at the throng of men, women, children and livestock that was crammed onto the narrow pontoon bridge. When Captain Hogan had led Sharpe and his men north across the bridge at dawn there had been only a few people going the other way, but now the bridge’s roadway was filled and the crowd could only go at the pace of the slowest, and still more people and animals were trying to force their way onto the northern end. „How the hell do we get across, sir?” Pendleton asked.

Sharpe had no answer for that. „Just keep going!” he said and led his men down an alley that ran like a narrow stone staircase toward a lower street. A goat clattered ahead of him on sharp hooves, trailing a broken rope from around its neck. A Portuguese soldier was lying drunk at the bottom of the alley, his musket beside him and a wineskin on his chest. Sharpe, knowing his men would stop to drink the wine, kicked the skin onto the cobbles and stamped on it so that the leather burst. The streets became narrower and more crowded as they neared the river, the houses here were taller and mingled with workshops and warehouses. A wheelwright was nailing boards over his doorway, a precaution that would only a