Either this is one of the better entries into the series, or the longer pause I've decided to take between installments has made me more indulgent towards this slightly formulaic and hero worshipping historical account of the Napoleonic Wars. The books have this advantage of being in general self-contained episodes, so a new reader could jump in at any point. I preferred to start chronologically, and there are advantages in this also, mainly in background stories for secondary characters.
Before I jump into the plot, let's get reacquainted with our hero, an orphan raised in the gutters of London, recruited as a common soldier in Flanders, sent to India to fight the local rajahs, risen up from the ranks for acts of valour in battle, now a brevet Captain in a Rifle Regiment, fighting a losing battle in Portugal in the winter of 1811 against the Emperor's Army controlling almost all of the Iberic Peninsula.
His uniform was torn and dirty and, though he wore a sword, as officers did, the blade was a heavy cavalry trooper's weapon, which was a huge and unwieldy blade better suited for butchering. He carried a rifle too, and officers did not usually carry longarms. Then there was his face, tanned and scarred, a face you might meet in some fetid alley, not in a salon. It was a frightening face and Lecroix, who was no coward, almost recoiled from the hostility in Sharpe's eyes.
Plot wise, the book is structured in three largely independent novellas, stitched together by common location and timeline. The first episode and the shorter of the three is a commando raid by a small British force tasked with destroying a vital pontoon bridge on the border with Spain, used to ferry supplies to the French armies fighting in Portugal. Sharpe is assisted by a few of his regular riflemen, Irish Sergeant Harper as his rusted sidekick,gets once again in trouble with authority as his general esents Sharpe's obvious talents in strategy and ruthlessness, and meets with another archenemy in Colonel Vandal of the 8th Regiment of the Line, a Frenchman whose only ethic in war is to be on the winning side.
The second part and the longest sees Sharpe taking refuge in the besieged city of Cadiz, asked to put his thieving skills in the service of the British Ambassador, who is blackmailed by a renegade priest with love letters written to a local courtesan. I really liked the way this section developed, putting Sharpe in action in an urban environment instead of in a battle line. I've also enjoyed the return to the narrow streets and tall towers of Cadiz, a city I actually visied two years ago. Of course, the author felt the need to introduce a romantic entaglement for Sharpe, but this one held together better with the overall story than the usual gratuitous hot bimbo with a passion for brutal killers. One of my favorite exchanges takes place between Sharpe and an old acquaintance from Copenhagen, Lord Pomphrey:
- So in your world everyone lies and everyone's corrupt?
- It is called the diplomatic service.
- Then thank God I'm just a thief and murderer.
The third part is the payoff of the whole buildup, the description of the actual battle of Barrosa, an effort by a combined Spanish - British army to relieve the siege of Cadiz. The insertion of Sharpe into the story is more than a little forced, as he had no business being in the field other than to try to exact revenge against his enemy, Colonel Vandal, but once again Bernard Cornwell proves he is at his best in describing actual battles: lying out the terrain, the strategies, the armament and the leadership of the opposing sides, and then throwing the reader right in the middle of the action. He compares the two stationary lines of muskets firing at each other to two heavyweight boxers throwing punches at each other until one of them falls down. I've become accustomed to the author's habit of heaping praise on his own side and mocking the enemy and the allies, especially Spanish cowardice, and I accept it as fictional licence rather than accurate historical account. One of the most revealing passages of the battle enumerates the complicated procedures involved in firing a musket, and how a well trained soldier could do it at a rate of three or four shots a minute, much faster than their French counterparts. Killing becomes thus a matter of mathematics and endurance.
Take out a cartridge, bite off the top, prime the lock with a pinch of powder from the bitten end of the cartridge, close the frizzen to keep the pinch in place, drop the musket butt to the round, pour the rest of the powder down the hot barrell, thrust the paper on top as wading, ram it down, and inside the paper was the ball. Bring the musket up, pull back the cock, remember to aim low because the brute of a gun kicked like a mule, wait for the order, pull the trigger.
I will continue with the series, although I am torn between wanting to be done with it and reach Waterloo as soon as possible and my fear that I will overindulge an become disenchanted.