Sharpe’s Havoc by Bernard Cornwell

Maria, the red-headed girl, served Colonel Christopher his coffee. The Colonel was picking his teeth with a sliver of ivory, but he took it from his mouth to thank her. „Obrigado, Maria,” he said in a pleasant tone. Maria shuddered, but nodded a hasty acknowledgment as she backed away.

„She’s replaced your servant?” Brigadier Vuillard asked.

„The wretched fellow’s missing,” Christopher said. „Runaway. Gone.”

„A fair exchange,” Vuillard said, watching Maria. „That one’s much prettier.”

„She was pretty,” Christopher allowed. Maria’s face was badly bruised now and the bruises had swollen to spoil her beauty. „And she’ll be pretty again,” he went on.

„You hit her hard,” Vuillard said with a hint of reproach.

Christopher sipped his coffee. „The English have a saying, Brigadier. A spaniel, a woman and a walnut tree, the more they’re beaten the better they be.”

„A walnut tree?”

„They say if the trunk is well thrashed it increases the yield of nuts; I have no idea if it’s true, but I do know that a woman has to be broken like a dog or a horse.”

„Broken,” Vuillard repeated the word. He was rather in awe of Christopher’s sangfroid.

„The stupid girl resisted me,” Christopher explained, „she put up a fight, so I taught her who is master. Every woman needs to be taught that.”

„Even a wife?”

„Especially a wife,” Christopher said, „though the process might be slower. You don’t break a good mare quickly, but take your time. But this one”-he jerked his head toward Maria-”this one needed a damned fast whipping. I don’t mind if she resents me, but one doesn’t want a wife to be soured by resentment.”

Maria was not the only one with a bruised face. Major Dulong had a black mark across the bridge of his nose and a scowl just as dark. He had reached the watchtower before the British and Portuguese troops, but with a smaller group of men and then he had been surprised by the ferocity with which the enemy had attacked him. „Let me go back, mon General,” he pleaded with Vuillard.

„Of course, Dulong, of course.” Vuillard did not blame the voltigeur officer for the night’s only failure. It seemed that the British and Portuguese troops, whom everyone had expected to find in the Quinta’s stables, had decided to go south and thus had been halfway to the watch-tower when the attack began. But Major Dulong was not accustomed to failure and the repulse on the hilltop had hurt his pride. „Of course you can go back,” the Brigadier reassured him, „but not straightaway. I think we shall let les belles filles have their wicked way with them first, yes?”

„Les belles filles?” Christopher asked, wondering why on earth Vuillard would send girls up to the watchtower.

„The Emperor’s name for his cannon,” Vuillard explained. „Les belles filles. There’s a battery at Valengo and they must have a brace of howitzers. I’m sure the gunners will be pleased to lend us their toys, aren’t you? A day of target practice and those idiots on the hill will be as broken as your redhead.” The Brigadier watched as the girls brought out the food. „I shall look at their target after we’ve eaten. Perhaps you will do me the honor of lending me your telescope?”

„Of course,” Christopher pushed the glass across the table. „But take care of it, my dear Vuillard. It’s rather precious to me.”

Vuillard examined the brass plate and knew just enough English to decipher its meaning. „Who is this AW?”

„Sir Arthur Wellesley, of course.”

„And why would he be grateful to you?”

„You couldn’t possibly expect a gentleman to answer a question like that, my dear Vuillard. It would be boasting. Suffice it to say that I did not merely black his boots.” Christopher smiled modestly, then helped himself to eggs and bread.

Two hundred dragoons rode the short journey back to Valengo. They escorted an officer who carried a request for a pair of howitzers, and the officer and the dragoons returned that same morning.

With one howitzer only. But that, Vuillard was certain, would be enough. The riflemen were doomed.

CHAPTER 6

„What you really wanted,” Lieutenant Pelletieu said, „was a mortar.”

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