Sharpe 3-Book Collection 4: Sharpe's Escape, Sharpe's Fury, Sharpe's Battle by Bernard Cornwell

Author:Bernard Cornwell [Cornwell, Bernard]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, War, British, Fiction / Historical / General, Historical Fiction, Fiction, Historical, War & Military, Action & Adventure
Amazon: B005ML8N7Y
Goodreads: 18999701
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2011-12-01T00:00:00+00:00

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SIR THOMAS Graham's quarters in San Fernando were modest. He had commandeered a boat builder's workshop that had whitewashed stone walls. He had furnished it with a bed, a table, and four chairs. The workshop had a great hearth in front of which Sharpe's clothes were put to dry. Sharpe had put his rifle there too, with its lock plate removed so that the heat of the fire could reach the mainspring. He himself was swathed in a shirt and cloak that General Graham insisted on lending him. The general, meanwhile, was dictating his report. "Breakfast soon," the general said in between sentences.

"I'm starving," Lord William Russell observed.

"Be a good fellow, Willie, see what's keeping it," the general said, then dictated lavish praise of the men he had led to the creek. Dawn was outlining the inland hills, but still the glow of the burning rafts was vivid in the dark marshlands, while the plume of smoke must have been visible in Seville over sixty miles away. "You want me to mention your name, Sharpe," Sir Thomas asked.

"No, sir," Sharpe said. "I didn't do anything, sir."

Sir Thomas gave Sharpe a shrewd look. "If you say so, Sharpe. So what's this favor I can do for you?"

"I want you to give me a dozen rounds of shell, sir. Twelve-pounders if you've got them, but nine-pounders will do."

"I've got them. Major Duncan does, anyway. What happened to your jacket? Sword cut?"

"Bayonet, sir."

"I'll have my man sew it up while we have breakfast. Twelve rounds of shell, eh? What for?"

Sharpe hesitated. "Probably best you don't know, sir."

Sir Thomas snorted at that answer. "Write that up, Fowler," he said to the clerk, dismissing him. He waited for the clerk to leave, then went to the fire and held his hands to its warmth. "Let me guess, Sharpe, let me guess. Here you are, orphaned from your battalion, and suddenly I'm commanded to keep you here rather than send you back where you belong. And meanwhile Henry Wellesley's love letter is amusing the citizens of Cádiz. Would those two things be connected?"

"They would, sir."

"There are more letters?" Sir Thomas asked shrewdly.

"There are plenty more, sir."

"And the ambassador wants you to do what? Find them?"

"He wants to buy them back, sir, and if that doesn't work he wants them stolen."

"Stolen!" Sir Thomas gave Sharpe a skeptical look. "Had any experience in that business?"

"A bit, sir," Sharpe said and, after a pause, realized the general wanted more. "It was in London, sir, when I was a child. I learned the business."

Sir Thomas laughed. "I was once held up by a footpad in London. I knocked the fellow down. Wasn't you, was it?"

"No, sir."

"So Henry wants you to steal the letters and you want a dozen of my shells? Tell me why, Sharpe."

"Because if the letters can't be stolen, sir, they might be destroyed."

"You're going to explode my shells inside Cádiz?"

"I hope not, sir, but it might come to that."

"And you'll expect the Spanish to believe it was a French mortar bomb?"

"I hope the Spanish won't know what to think, sir.

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