a work of fan-fiction by The Mardy Bum, 26th August, 2006
ONE
Harper wandered back through the
night, listening to the men chatting and gambling, laughing and joking,
and smiled to himself as he recognised a different sound. Hagman was
singing. This time it wasn’t a dour, sobering soldier’s
song, but a happy children’s rhyme. He reached the cluster of
tents away from those of the South Essex, finding, as he knew he would,
those he cared about the most.
Ramona
was sat with Hagman as he bounced a giggling baby Patrick on his knee.
He sang quietly but confidently, waving little Patrick’s hands in
time to the ditty. Harper carried his volley gun over quietly, stopping
behind his wife and putting a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at
him, smiled, and then went back to watching her son.
Harper looked around the circle of faces and smiled.
Harris, his nose in a book. Moore, cleaning his rifle as if the last
four times he’d already done it that evening didn’t count.
Robinson, Taylor and Brown playing some strange variation of cards,
which seemed to involve cartridges and child-safe swear-words. He
walked round to the fire, taking the tea urn and pouring himself a cup.
He walked over and sat near Harris, looking at the book.
“Another dirty book, Harris?” he asked, amused.
“Not at all, sir,” Harris grinned,
looking over the top of the slim volume with his small, round glasses
perched on his nose. “A witty yet profound tale of love, betrayal
and forgiveness,” he said.
“Oh. King’s Regulations then,” Harper grinned.
“Hardly,” Harris snorted. “The Marriage of Figaro.”
“Where’s the wit in marriage?” he
asked, and Harris snapped the book shut, looking at him.
“You’re supposed to tell me that,”
he said plainly, and Harper smiled. “And while we’re on the
subject of telling people things, do you know what we’re doing
here, Harps?” he asked. Harper looked into his tea.
“Waiting. Just waiting. The South Essex
hasn’t been ordered anywhere, so we’re just sitting here
while our arses go biscuit-shaped, so we are,” he said quietly.
“Why? Fancy a chance to get your head blown off, do you?”
“Just wondered why we’re not drilling.
Where’s the Major, anyway?” he asked. “Not like him
to miss his tea.”
“Day Book,” Harper said knowingly, and Harris nodded.
Harris opened his book again, and Harper stood slowly. He finished his
tea, stretched, and went back to the tea urn, refilling the tin mug. He
walked back out of the circle and toward the Major’s tent.
It was well-lit inside, the silhouette of the
Major’s table and chair plainly visible. So was the form of the
Major himself, one elbow out on the table and book, his head in his
head. The other hand scratched away with the second quill that evening.
The candles flickered, the breeze brought the sound of birds and
animals abroad, but the quill kept scratching, scratching, scratching.
Harper waited out of sight, wondering if the Major
had known he’d have to keep the books before he’d taken the
rank. He doubted it. He was about to cross to the tent and interrupt
his scribblings when he heard the distant sound of the
Postmaster’s voice.
“Schofield! Marjorie Schofield! Postmaster for Marjorie Schofield!”
He looked over quickly, finding the man marching
through the lines of tents, waving an envelope in the air, looking
around for signs of someone claiming it. He hurried over, following the
man, hoping to catch up with him and Miss Schofield. That’ll put a smile on the Major’s face, so it will, he grinned, finding she’s back.
As he followed he saw the man stop at a tent, bending and talking.
Harper caught the sound of a female voice and grinned, making sure he
knew where he was before turning and hurrying back to Sharpe’s
tent. He crashed his big hand against the wooden post outside.
“Sir!” he called cheerfully. “Sir! News, sir!” he cried.
“What?” Sharpe said, his voice a study
in disinterest. Harper pushed the tent flaps aside and stooped, sliding
into his tent and holding up the mug of tea first. Sharpe just looked
up from the book, waiting. “Well?” he asked, his face bored.
“Miss Marjorie’s here, sir,” he
said, waiting for the smile to break over Sharpe’s face. It
didn’t. Instead, it ruptured with confusion.
“Here? How?” he asked, putting the quill
down and staring at the Sergeant Major. “She’s supposed to
be in Lisbon.”
“That she is, sir, but I just caught the Postmaster delivering,
sir. She was talking to him just now, sir, her tent’s just five
minutes from here, so it is,” he said. Sharpe put his hands to
the table and lifted it away from him slowly.
“Bloody strange,” he said to himself,
standing slowly. He waved at Harper and they ducked out of the tent.
Sharpe stopped and gave his back a bone-popping stretch, rubbing his
hands over his face. He sniffed and took the proffered tea from Harper.
“Well why didn’t she come over here?” he asked
himself.
“Couldn’t say, sir. Don’t know how long she’s
been there, in that army tent, sir,” he said, then realised
perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything. Sharpe drained the tea
double-quick time and looked at him.
“Well, maybe I’ll ask her,” he said reasonably. “Show me.”
Harper turned and led him through the maze of tents
and soldiers, the flickering fires and lamplights, until he stopped.
“That one, sir,” he said, pointing cheerfully. Sharpe
walked over slowly, unable to stop a smile cracking his stern features.
“Mar?” he called curiously. “Marjorie?”
“What do you want?” said a voice. It was
female, definitely female. And definitely not that of Marjorie
Schofield. The tent flaps were swished aside and a woman stepped out.
She was perhaps five foot five, with long jet-black
hair that sat freely around her shoulders. It blew around in the breeze
as she looked back at the confused-looking squaddie in the darkness.
Her dark eyes studied his face, finding the scars, the puzzled
expression, and the eyes. She smiled slightly.
“I’m sorry, forgive my appalling
manners,” she said, putting her hands to her dress and attempting
to pull it straight. With it being hemmed so tightly to her bodice
there was neither reason nor improvement. “May I help you…
gentlemen?” she asked, as if searching for the correct word.
“I were looking for Marjorie,
ma’am,” Sharpe said, hoping he sounded polite. “Miss
Marjorie Schofield?”
She
nodded. “That’s me. Do I know you?” she asked,
curious. She looked past him to Harper, then back at Sharpe. “I
think I’d remember,” she added to herself.
“Begging yer pardon, ma’am,” he
said, recognising money when he saw it. “Major Sharpe, of the
South Essex. This is Sergeant Major Harper,” he said, waving a
hand behind him.
“Major Sharpe? Major Sharpe? A Major?”
she repeated, staring. There was a long, silent moment. She stared at
him, her eyes disbelieving, it seemed. She collected herself.
“And in green! What is
the world coming to?” she said icily. He just raised his
eyebrows. “And why are you roaming round this time of night
looking for a girl, Major?” she asked, and her voice was definitely unfriendly.
“She’s a friend, ma’am,” he
said gingerly. He didn’t like the way her eyes were burning into
his, the way her stare had turned cold and hard. He lifted his chin.
“Well there’s only one Marjorie
Schofield here, Major, and that’s me,” she said. “And
at the risk of being rude, I neither know you nor want to know you.
Goodnight,” she said briskly, turning and stalking back inside
the tent flaps. Sharpe just watched for a long moment, and Harper
prayed he wasn’t about to lift the flaps and follow her in.
But the argumentative gleam in his eye died, his
chin lost its rigidity and he turned slowly from the glow of the tent,
not looking at Harper as he walked away slowly.
“Come on, Pat. Leave her be,” he said
quietly as he passed him. Harper watched him walk off, and then looked
back at the tent. He sighed, then turned and followed the Major back
toward their part of the world.
They walked in silence, but the disconsolate depression was almost deafening.
It had been three weeks. Three weeks with no orders,
three weeks with no action, and more importantly, three weeks with no
letter or note from Marjorie. Not that it bothered the big Irishman,
but it bothered his commanding officer, and that made it his business.
Of course, the Major never complained about it or discussed it with
anyone, and a part of Harper found that sad. He should have someone to complain to. He should have someone to tell.
He fell into step next to him, noticing he hardly bothered to watch
where his feet were going. Major Sharpe had a curious, nimble gait at
the best of times, but right now it was all over the hillside. What he needs is a fight to get his teeth into, so he does, he nodded to himself.
“Strange that,” he said aloud. Sharpe
just grunted. “Her having the same name, so exactly. And saying
she didn’t know you, sir,” he said curiously. Oh, she knew you alright, he realised, she knew you and hated you for it.
“Well I don’t know her. And just like
her, I don’t want to,” he tutted. They reached the tents
and Harper waited for him to stop, but he just carried on straight into
his own tent. He stood outside.
“Well, I’ll just be… sending the
boys to bed, so I will,” Harper called for Sharpe’s
benefit. He made out the shape of the Major closing the Day Book and
putting things in order, and then the candle was blown out. Harper
nodded. “And God keep you too, sir,” he said a little
sadly, turning and walking back to the circle of faces.
As he sat and sang and drank fresh tea, he
couldn’t help worry over the face that wasn’t there. And
then his thoughts turned to the woman. Her face. Something about her face… I’ve seen her before, I know I have. He sighed, lifted little Patrick onto his knee, and thanked the heavens he had different stars to those of Major Sharpe.
*
“Do me this favour, Harris, and I’ll see
to it you get light duties, so I will,” Harper said quietly, and
Harris nodded and turned away, heading for the officers’ tents of
the South Essex.
“Sending him fer rum, Harper?” Sharpe asked from behind him
suddenly. Harper wheeled quickly, looking at him. He had seen Sharpe
covered in mud, blood and all kinds of substances in between, but
he’d never seen his eyes look so… empty.
“Not at all, sir,” he grinned guiltily.
Sharpe grunted and walked past him, toward the large tub of steaming
water that Ramona had left out for him on the wooden table. He slid his
tunic off and dumped it unceremoniously on the ground next to him,
pulling his shirt free before sliding it off over his head. It went the
same way as the tunic and Harper sighed, turning and walking off
quietly.
Sharpe put his
hands toward the water, then hesitated. He leaned forward, put his arms
against the sides of the tub comfortably, and instead thrust his whole
head into the hot water.
Everything’s clearer under here, he admitted to himself. No dust, no French, no waiting, no writing in that bloody great book.
He let a few bubbles of air escape his nose, feeling them bump against
his face as they made their way to the surface. He stayed that way
until he felt his lungs start to burn. He was thinking about the point
in removing his head when he felt a hand on his back.
For some reason he smiled, opening his eyes under
the water and straightening, pulling his head out. He turned and his
smile dropped as he saw it was Ramona watching him. He realised he
wasn’t disappointed it was Ramona; more that it was not whom
he’d hoped it would be without knowing it.
“You silly boy,” she said sternly,
pushing a towel at him. “You make yourself cold out here. Is
early, and too cold for your head in there.” She watched him
press the towel to his face, then looked around, checking who was close
enough to hear her. “Lawford has riders this morning. Maybe
you’ll have a job now,” she said quietly. He pulled the
towel away and looked at her.
“About bloody time,” he grumbled. She folded her arms and sighed.
“I hope you find something worth
killing,” she said sternly, and he just looked at her. “You
are looking for something big and fierce to kill, I know that
look,” she said. He just turned away from her. “Make sure
it’s what you’re looking for, and not something that looks
the same,” she said wisely, reaching past him and taking the
bundle of linen from the wooden table. He turned to look at her but she
swished away in a flurry of long skirts. He sighed, then caught sight
of Harris sidling out of an officer’s tent and into another. He
shook his head and turned for his uniform, picking it up off the ground
and shaking it out.
*
There was no movement from Lawford, that day or the
next. After the third day Sharpe was contemplating shooting at redcoat
picquets in the dead of night just to alleviate the boredom. His
uniform had been patched and re-sewn, his boots re-heeled and his sword
had been sharpened more times than a Pond Street whore.
He was lying out on his cot, studying the ceiling of
his tent as if he’d never seen it before. He brought his hands
down from behind his head, looked over at the rifle standing in the
corner of the tent, and decided it was time for some shooting practice.
He rose off the bed, not bothering to find his tunic or pull his braces
over his shoulders, and grabbed up the weapon. He turned for the tent
flaps and walked out, looking round.
Moore and Brown turned and looked at him as if
surprised. Brown tugged on Harper’s elbow urgently. Harper
stopped arguing with Harris in mid-flow and looked round. He caught
sight of Sharpe and looked back at Harris. Harris looked over, looked
back at Harper, and turned to walk away quickly, their heated argument
forgotten as Harper gave him a slight push.
Sharpe’s eyes narrowed. “Harris!”
he shouted. Harris stopped short. Harper turned, stepping into the line
of sight neatly.
“Sir,
you’re awake,” he said, walking toward him with a cheery
smile. He held a hand behind his back carefully.
“Harris, get back here now!” Sharpe
called. Harris turned slowly and began to walk back toward them. Brown
and Moore started to back away, Sharpe noticed. He let them. Somehow he
had the feeling they were superfluous.
“Harris has some things to –“
“Sergeant, shut it,” Sharpe said
harshly. He watched Harris walk up and stop next to Harper, as if for
protection. “Now what’s going on?” he demanded.
“Something you don’t want me to know about?”
“Well sir, it’s not something –“
“Not you, Harper,” he snapped. He looked at Harris. “You.”
Harris gave a great sigh, as if it were all
monumentally unjust, then flicked his gaze at Harper momentarily. He
looked at his feet.
“The Sergeant gave me a task, sir,” he said gingerly.
“What task?” he demanded. “Out with it, man!”
“Oh but it’s nothing, sir,” Harper put in. “I just –“
“Sergeant, one more word out of you,”
Sharpe breathed, and Harper closed his mouth, having noted the wild
look in the Major’s eye. “Now, Harris, explain what this
errand was,” he said dangerously. Harris didn’t look up.
“The Sergeant Major instructed me to get word
to Miss Schofield, sir. I started by verifying she was still in Lisbon,
sir. And then a helpful Lieutenant in the ‘Essex found news for
me, sir,” he said quietly. Sharpe studied his face, noted the
discomfort and looked at Harper quickly.
“Well?” he demanded. Harper tried a small smile.
“Seems she’s not there, sir, as if
she’s just dis-“ Sharpe stepped up very close to Harper
suddenly, and he braced himself for a strike. But Sharpe just shoved
his hand behind Harper’s back and snatched the piece of paper
from his hand. “Sir!” he said desperately. Sharpe stepped
back, out of reach, lifting the paper to see it.
It was a despatch. ‘For
the attention of Mr P. Caron, aide to the General Sir Arthur Wellesley,
for the sums and amounts of those lost in the skirmish at the outer
Lisbon redoubts.’ He snorted without mirth. “A
butcher’s bill,” he observed. His eyes skimmed down the
list, naming officers and soldiers who had been identified as those
lost in some small surprise attack by French. His eyes stopped
abruptly, captured by one simple phrase at the bottom.
‘And
the regrettable loss of two highly skilled and devoted cartographers ~
Mr Peter Schofield, and his sister, Miss Marjorie Schofield, formerly
of England.’
He
stared for a long moment, then read it again. He let his hand drop
slowly, then looked up at Harper.
“Jesus, sir,” the Irishman said quietly,
his dark eyes heavy. Sharpe just sniffed dismissively, then looked at
Harris.
“Thank you, rifleman. Go clean some kit,” he said gruffly.
“Sir,” Harris said gratefully, turning
and sidling off as fast as was polite. Sharpe turned to go. Harper
grabbed his arm quickly.
“Sir,” he blurted. Sharpe turned slowly and looked at him.
“What? What are you going to say?” he
asked, looking weary. “Is there something you can
say?” he asked, curious. Harper just let go of his arm slowly.
“Didn’t think so,” he said quietly, and walked back
toward his tent, his rifle over his shoulder. Harper watched him duck
under the tent flaps and inside. He stood there a good few minutes, but
still no plan struck him that could help the situation.
He turned and walked away.
TWO
“I say, Sergeant Major Harper! Where is Major
Sharpe?” a tall, elegant young man called from the edge of the
tents. Harper appeared, wiping frizzen oil from his hands with a
much-used cloth. He looked the young man up and down, thinking perhaps
he was twenty-five if he was lucky, with the physique of a spring
sapling. He walked a few steps closer.
“Who shall I say is asking for him,
sir?” he asked pleasantly, smiling. The man looked at him.
“You’re Harper?” he asked, surprised.
“That I am, sir. Is it the Major you’re
wanting? Can I give him your compliments, sir?” he asked
cheerfully, noting the man’s expression soften into a small smile.
“Please do,” he said, walking forward
and holding out a hand. “Lieutenant Colonel James
Hardwick,” he said pleasantly. Harper lifted his hands in the
rag, shrugging.
“Oh
I’m sorry sir, wouldn’t want to get you all greasy,
now,” he said. Hardwick smiled a little wider.
“Much obliged, I’m sure,” he said.
“Please inform the Major that I await him in Colonel
Lawford’s tent, Mister Harper,” he said. Harper eyed him.
“That I will, sir, straight away, sir,” he nodded.
“Good man,” he nodded, turning and
walking away smartly. Harper watched him go, then just shrugged to
himself and turned, walking through the tent lines to Sharpe’s
tent. He found him round the back of it, shaving over a bowl of warm
water.
“Sir,” he said loudly.
“What is it?” he asked quietly, watching
the cut-throat razor carefully as he swept it up his jaw slowly.
“Colonel Lawford’s asking for you,
sir,” he said cheerfully. “Seems we have a new recruit,
too,” he added.
“Oh aye?” Sharpe asked, but Harper recognised the
disinterested tone too easily.
“A Lieutenant Colonel, if you please,” Harper said
indignantly. “A Mister James Hardwick,” he added.
“Seems nice enough, if you like people that can read but
can’t shoot straight, sir.”
“Right now I’d settle for –“
he paused as he stroked at the opposite side of his jaw –
“something to shoot at, Pat,” he finished.
“Ooh, you’re not wrong there,
sir,” Harper grinned. “Best be getting to Colonel
Lawford’s tent then, eh sir?” he asked.
“In a bit,” Sharpe allowed, continuing
his slow, steady routine. Harper just sighed, and turned and walked
away.
“Ah, there
you are at last!” Lawford called as Sharpe ducked into his huge
tent, shako under his arm. “Well at least your uniform’s
clean,” he tutted, eyeing him. Sharpe just stared at the far wall.
“Sir,” he replied. Bastard, he thought vindictively. Bloody shaved an’ all.
“Well then, Major Sharpe, allow me to present
the Lieutenant Colonel Sir James Hardwick,” he said, waving a
hand toward a willowy young man. The man, light brown haired and hazel
eyed, nodded to him, and even tipped a jaunty finger from his forehead.
Sharpe nodded politely.
“Colonel,” he said respectfully.
“Major,” he grinned, and Sharpe wondered
just what was in store. His eyes swept to the swarthy man seated at the
left of Lawford’s table, looking very comfortable indeed.
“And Monsieur Caron,” Lawford said,
indicating the man. He stood slowly, inclining his head.
“Major,” he said smoothly, and Sharpe
had an instant impression of charm and sophistication. Something about
him suddenly set his teeth on edge. But he nodded politely as the man
sat again.
“Mr
Caron,” he said, copying Lawford’s educated pronunciation
of the name, emphasising the last syllable. A Frog? In Bill’s tent?
“Mr Caron and Sir James have brought me a
rather strange despatch, Major,” Lawford said. Sharpe turned his
attention back to him.
“Sir,” he replied. Caron watched him, his eyes amused.
Lawford sat slowly, reaching to the desk and picking up a roll of
parchment tied with a red ribbon.
“The General orders you to the village of
Venganza, two day’s march from here, on the other side of the
river,” he said abruptly. Sharpe looked at him, surprised.
“With the South Essex, sir?” he asked.
“Don’t be premature, Major,”
Lawford said cautiously. “You’re to take your precious
Chosen Men and find something for the General. He advocates any and all
reasonable force to procure this item and return it to Mr Caron
forthwith,” he said. “He shall take it back Lord Wellington
himself.” Sharpe looked at the man in question, smiling back at
him. Sharpe half-expected him to spit canary feathers.
“Did you lose something, Mr Caron?” he asked innocently, hoping to annoy him.
“I did not, Major Sharpe,” Caron replied
smoothly, his French accent non-existent. “It is something we
need to acquire to prevent it causing trouble elsewhere.”
“May I know what it is, sir?” Sharpe asked Lawford directly.
“I think it best we leave –“ Lawford began.
“It’s a leather-bound book,
Major,” Hardwick interrupted cheerfully. Caron and Lawford looked
at him, apparently unimpressed. He looked over at them. “Oh come
now, the Major is expected to retrieve it for us, what’s with all
the secrecy?” he scoffed loudly. Sharpe eyed him warily, even as
he was impressed with the loud man’s extreme confidence. He
turned back and looked at him. “You’re about to ask
what’s in the book. Names, Major, just names,” he said.
“Names of the good General’s… wandering
officers,” he said with a broad smile.
“And would you be one of those wandering
officers, sir?” he asked innocently. Hardwick affected horror.
“Oh good Lord, no,” he chuckled.
“I fight battles, Major. And just like you, I win,” he
added pleasantly. “This book was the last foolish act performed
by one of the General’s less fortunate of wandering
officers,” he said helpfully. Lawford cast him a glance, but he
ignored it admirably. “Seems he wanted something to bargain with,
should he be caught.”
“And was he, sir?” Sharpe asked, after a long moment of silence.
“I should hope so. It’s the only way I
could explain how he was found with a French cavalry sabre aligning him
with the dirt not unlike a tent-peg does a guy-rope,” he said
pleasantly.
“So where’s the book now, sir?” he asked. Hardwick grinned.
“If we knew that, we wouldn’t need you,
Major,” he said. Sharpe cleared his throat, looking at his feet
slowly.
“With all due
respect, sir, I’m a soldier. I don’t know anything about
chasing down missing books and –“
“Ah, I stand corrected,” Hardwick said
suddenly. He turned and looked at Caron. “Too bad, old
man,” he shrugged, apparently not fazed in the least. Sharpe
watched him, but it was Caron who spoke, drawing his attention.
“We have you to be the most secretive of
diggers, Mister Sharpe,” he said quietly. Sharpe felt anger
rising at the man's haughty tone. “After all, was it not you who
intercepted a report bound for me?” He eyed Sharpe, and he in
turn sized him up. Within a second he’d decided where and how
best to carve the flesh from this man Caron’s ribs with one
strike.
Caron stood,
breaking the moment, and made a show of looking through his pockets.
Hardwick watched, amused, as he produced a rumpled piece of paper.
“A butcher’s bill? From the skirmishes at the Lisbon
redoubts?” Caron pressed.
“No, sir,” Sharpe said, his fingers gripping the beak of the shako tightly.
“So you had that dirty Irish thief do it for
you?” he asked, his smile gone. Sharpe’s lips thinned.
“Say that again. Sir,” he breathed dangerously. Hardwick looked at him, then back at Caron.
“Come, come,” Hardwick said pleasantly.
“It was just temporarily mislaid, Pierre,” he said
dismissively.
“Did you read the bottom?” Caron said to Sharpe smoothly.
“Mr Caron,” Hardwick interrupted.
“The silly girl’s dead, Sharpe, and there’s –“
The two soldiers, standing outside Colonel
Lawford’s tent on guard, heard a loud crash and sounds of a
scuffle. They looked at each other from beside the tent flaps. The
taller one gestured inside with his head. The shorter one stared at
him, then shook his head. “You first,” he dared.
“Guard!”
Lawford roared from inside. They both put hands to their shakoes and
ducked into the tent quickly, cocking their loaded muskets.
They found two red-coated officers dragging a
green-tunicked officer off another man. He was lying on the floor, his
black jacket and smart matching trousers dusty and in complete
disarray.
“Calm
yourself, man!” Hardwick shouted at Sharpe, pulling desperately
on his right arm, even as Sharpe kicked his foot out in the direction
of Caron. Good Lord, he’s got a pull on him, he breathed.
“Richard! I will not have this!” Lawford
shouted in his left ear. Sharpe stopped struggling to free himself and
let the two men drag him over toward the two soldiers. They just looked
at him at musket-point, taking no chances.
Hardwick let go and Lawford released him, pushing
him toward the tent flaps. Sharpe caught his feet and turned quickly,
pinning Caron with a look that would have boiled tea for the entire
regiment of the South Essex.
“Now get out, and take a moment to remember you’re an
officer and a gentleman!” Lawford roared. “You are leaving
at dawn tomorrow, Major!”
Sharpe tugged his tunic straight, pulled his sword
to sit properly again, and looked at Lawford with narrowed eyes.
“Yes, sir,” he breathed, looking at
Hardwick and nodding respectfully before turning and disappearing from
the tent flaps. Lawford brushed at his sleeves, pulling them straight
and turning to Hardwick. He shook his head, letting the moment dissolve
slowly.
“Well, sorry about all this, Sir James,” he said sheepishly. Hardwick grinned.
“Oh, don’t be, old boy. I rather like
him,” he said, turning and looking at Caron, who was picking
himself up off the floor and feeling his jaw gingerly. “But you,
dear chap. Well, that was rather too far below the belt, I fear,”
he said disapprovingly. “We need him. Must you attempt to make
enemies of everyone you meet?”
THREE
“Are we right?” Sharpe asked Harper in
the cool morning air. The Irishman sniffed, leaning onto his heels and
tucking his thumbs in his belt.
“Me and the boys are just fine and dandy, sir.
It’s you we worry about, so it is,” he said lightly. Sharpe
looked at him.
“Leave
it.” He looked at the Chosen Men, hastily trying to avoid eye
contact. “Get ‘em on the road,” he said harshly.
“Aye sir,” Harper acknowledged. He
turned to the men. “Right you lot, you heard the man, elbows and
arseholes, come on,” he said, clapping his hands. The Chosen Men
shuffled into a loose group and shouldered their rifles, Harris taking
the lead as they began the slope toward the village of Venganza.
Sharpe fell in behind them, deliberately avoiding
Harper’s watchful eye from in front.
I just don’t want him sticking his nose in. Not today.
He thought back to the last time he’d received a letter from
Marjorie. To the untrained eye it wouldn’t have rivalled a
Marquis de Sade, but it had smacked of such promise and care he’d
let himself believe she could be someone he could be comfortable with
– perhaps for as long as survived the battles and injuries, even
if that had meant the next few hundred years.
He cursed himself for his foolishness as he
remembered how he’d sat there, alone in his tent, grinning at the
hand-written note like a little boy with a shiny new shilling. How
he’d realised she had made him happy just by writing frank,
forward letters about weather, other people’s horses, the dry
dirt roads to Lisbon. How he’d laughed at her descriptions, and
warmed to her closing lines for him to take care of himself. How
he’d wished she’d been sat there telling him her stories in
person.
His foot landed on a
stone that gave sideways suddenly, and he almost stumbled. He looked up
and around, hoping no-one had seen him being so careless, and
straightened unconsciously.
After a good few hours he spotted Harper’s head wandering back
and suddenly the big Irishman had fallen into step beside him. He swung
his volley gun up across his shoulders and wiped his forehead with his
sleeve.
“I was
thinking, sir, when we get to Venganza we should find the library and
simply take the first big book,” he said cheerfully.
“Were you,” Sharpe said, uninterested.
“A book of names, they want. We’ll just
find a book of the local names, that’ll do the trick,”
Harper continued, nodding to himself, satisfied. “Then we can get
on with the drinking, so we can,” he beamed.
“Pat, there’s more to life than drinking,” he said, annoyed.
“Oh, now that’s where you’ve got
it backwards, sir,” he said brightly. “There’s more
to drinking than life.”
“I can’t argue with you Pat, I haven’t a bloody clue
what yer talking about,” he snapped. Harper cleared his throat
quietly.
“No sir, I don’t suppose –“
Sharpe interrupted him by putting a sudden hand out.
He stopped, tilting his head slightly.
I’m sure I heard a shout. Sounded like a man. French?
Harper froze for a long second, waiting for Sharpe
to move. Sharpe looked at him and nodded. Harper whistled and the
Chosen Men turned and looked at him. Harper pointed at the trees lining
the shingle road, and they split and ran without hesitation.
Sharpe pushed at Harper’s arm, and the
Irishman ran for the side of the road. Sharpe went to the opposite
side, taking his rifle from his shoulder and pulling it to half-cock.
He raised it, ready, and stepped carefully backwards into the brush.
There was another shout, and this time he heard it
clear enough to know he had been right, but not clear enough to hear
which language it was in. He waited as the sound of horses approached,
but it seemed they would take forever to appear.
At last a tall, elegant chestnut horse slowly
plodded into view. Sharpe lifted the rifle and aimed, hoping the rider
would be about the normal height for a man. He followed the
rider’s position until the horse wandered on past him.
He recognised the rider: Pierre Caron.
He hesitated for a long moment. Then he closed one
eye, pulling the rifle onto full cock and aiming carefully. At this
range, a mere twenty feet, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
His mouth pulled to one side in a wicked sneer as he drew a very clear
and precise bead on the Frenchman’s head.
“Major Sharpe!” someone else shouted,
and he froze, his aim still locked. “Major Sharpe, we were sent
to aide you as best we can!” the voice continued, and Sharpe
opened his eye, huffing angrily.
“Colonel Hardwick?” he called.
“Yes, sir! At your service, sir!”
Hardwick replied, still out of view. Sharpe cursed fluidly and at
length, pulling the rifle back to half-cock and letting it drop slowly.
He eased it back off cock and slung it over his shoulder fiercely,
stamping out of the brush and out onto the road.
He stopped and stared. He had seen Caron and then
Hardwick, but behind them, flanked by ten redcoats, was a third rider.
The mysterious Miss Schofield. He looked at his feet as he spat some
invective, growling another to himself as he lifted his head and pulled
out his whistle. He blew it three times in short, shrill notes.
Hardwick turned his horse dextrously and looked at him, surprised.
Caron and Miss Schofield turned across their horses to see.
Chosen Men poured out of their hiding places, and
Hardwick smiled, leading his horse back toward Sharpe.
“My compliments, Major, we had no idea where
you were hiding,” he said, dismounting quickly and grasping the
reins tightly in his left hand. Sharpe just looked at him.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded,
then remembered who he was talking to. “Sir,” he added
quickly. Hardwick grinned.
“Exactly as I said, old boy – we’ve come to help you.
I managed to convince old Lawford we could do this together. After all,
I felt it rather unfair it be pushed on you, especially right
now,” he said, letting his voice drop slightly in volume. Sharpe
looked daggers at him, but he simply clapped him on the arm and turned
to look around at the Chosen Men. “Now then, where’s that
Sergeant of yours? I need a drink, and I’m not talking about that
god-awful tea he makes,” he grinned boisterously. The Chosen Men
looked at Sharpe, confused.
“Harper!” Sharpe called harshly. As if by magic, the
Irishman appeared. “Get the Colonel some of your booze. The rest
of you, pick yer bloody feet up,” he snapped, nodding
respectfully to Hardwick before walking round him deliberately and
marching on.
The Men looked at
Harper, who shrugged and gestured with his head, and they turned and
slung their rifles, following the angry figure stomping up the shingle
road.
“I say, rather
touchy, isn’t he?” Hardwick said to Harper quietly. Harper
sighed, reaching into his cartridge box and finding his tiny flask.
“That he is, sir, that he is. But if the
French find us out here, sir, you’ll be glad he’s such a
mean bastard, sir,” he said cheerfully. Hardwick eyed him as he
took the proffered flask.
“I’m sure I will,” he said with a small smile.
*
Sharpe set a cracking pace, and by sundown the
Chosen Men were struggling to keep up. Harper had tried his best to
slow him with his chit-chat and then straight asking, but he may as
well have tried to stop the sun going down.
The two of them strode ahead, forging the way down
the shingle road, and Harper noticed that even after a whole
day’s marching, Sharpe still walked like he’d stamp
vindictively on the next person to get in his way.
He looked behind, to the Chosen Men, their rifles
over their shoulders and their shakoes hanging limply from their spare
hands. Behind them rode Pierre Caron and Colonel Hardwick, and Harper
took the time to study them both.
Caron was smaller, lighter, but his swarthy features
and dark eyes made him look somehow dangerous. He looked to be dozing
in the saddle, but Harper noticed his hands kept a tight hold on the
reins. Hardwick was looking tired but Harper had to admit he looked the
professional soldier, still keeping a sharp look-out for anything that
moved in the wrong direction. His red coat was clean and new, his face
square and open, and his horse must have cost a king’s ransom. He
wondered idly if it had ever spirited him backwards from a fight.
Something told him it hadn’t.
Harper looked behind them, at the lady riding the
dark horse by herself. She rode side-saddle, her face harsh and thin,
her dark hair pinned back under her sensible hat. She turned her head
to watch the ten South Essex soldiers, apparently her own escort, as
they marched stiffly. Harper was struck again by the feeling that
he’d seen her before. As she turned her head to look at her own
hands on the reins, he felt he almost had the time and place in mind.
He looked back at Sharpe, then slowed so that he drew alongside Hagman.
“Dan,” he said quietly.
“Harps,” he nodded genially, weary though he was.
“You’ve seen the lady, Dan?” he
asked quietly, from the corner of his mouth.
“That I have,” he said, equally quietly.
“Do you recognise her at all?” he asked.
Hagman was no fool. He swung his head around in a complete circle, as
if just stretching, before looked back where he was putting his feet.
“Seems familiar sir, but can’t place her,” he admitted.
“Hmm. Me neither. Very strange, is that. Her
having the same name. And saying she didn’t know the Major.”
“You think she does?” he asked.
“I know she does. Saw it on her face, so I
did. And her mood after he told her his name. I just can’t for
the life of me think who she reminds me of,” he said, and then
snapped his fingers. “That’s it – it’s not her I recognise. She looks like someone, so she does,” he breathed. Hagman turned and looked at her deliberately.
“Can’t say as I know who it is,”
he said truthfully. “What we need is camp and sleep. Maybe
it’ll come to us later,” he nodded wisely. Harper nodded,
patting his shoulder. “Can you get him to stop, or is he going to
have us march all night?” he asked cheerfully, but Harper noticed
the strain. He nodded.
“I’ll have a word,” he said, winking grimly, and
quickened pace again to catch up with the Major. “Nearly dusk, so
it is,” he said cheerfully. Sharpe grunted. “Will you be
wanting to stop, sir?”
“No.”
“The men have marched all day, sir. Awful tired, so they are.”
“No.”
“It’ll be hard going when it’s dark,” he added.
“No.”
“Well of course, it’s entirely up to
you, so it is. But I can’t make tea if we’re
walking,” he said sadly. Sharpe hesitated. He huffed and wiped a
hand over his mouth.
“Go on then,” he said. “Tell Robinson to find a good spot.”
“Yes sir!” Harper grinned, dropping back
and nodding to Hagman before finding Robinson. Though his bones ached
and his feet throbbed, he tore off the side of the road and crashed
about for a few minutes.
“Sir!” he called eventually, and Sharpe lifted his hand.
“Halt!” he called. Robinson came out of
the bushes. He dashed up to Sharpe and stopped, straightening smartly.
“Good bit o’ ground, sir. It’s got
a small stream an’ all!” he beamed. Sharpe nodded.
“Good lad. Right Sergeant,” he said,
turning to look at Harper. “Fall ‘em out. We’re
camping on Robinson’s recommendation tonight, and starting out
fresh at dawn.”
“Yes sir!” Harper said, relieved. He turned and shouted at
the Green Jackets, then looked over at the South Essex boys. They were
stood to attention, watching longingly. Harper looked back at Sharpe.
“The South Essex escort, sir?” he asked, noting their heads
bob up and look at him gratefully. Sharpe stopped, looking back at
them. He walked over slowly, past Harper, and up to Miss
Schofield’s horse. He stopped, looking at her with trepidation.
“Are these men your escort,
ma’am?” he asked, trying to sound polite. She turned her
nose up at him.
“They
are, and as such are no concern of yours,” she snapped. He licked
dry lips and looked at them.
“We’re camping. So are you,” he said. She looked back at him.
“Don’t think you can tell me what to do,
you impertinent scruff!” she cried. Caron and Hardwick looked
over from their horses, currently nibbling at the grass by the side of
the road. Hardwick smiled slightly.
“I can’t, you’re right
there,” he said. He looked at the men, sweating and trembling
with fatigue. “But unless you hold a commission in his Britannic
Majesty’s Army as is higher than mine, you can’t stop me
ordering them to fall out. Can you,” he stated. She glared at
him. He smiled maliciously at her and turned away. “South Essex,
fall out. Make camp with the riflemen,” he called. They sagged
and lifted off their shakoes as one, nodding to him gratefully and
dragging themselves over to the path trodden by the Green Jackets. They
had already disappeared through the bushes and started fixing up
tripods and collecting firewood, and the redcoats followed.
Sharpe watched them, finding himself alone with Caron, Hardwick and her.
“How dare you!” she fumed, lifting her
riding crop and slapping at his shoulder with it. He turned like
lightning and grabbed it as she pulled it back to strike him again. She
struggled but he had a good hold. He glared at her, and they locked
gazes for a long, dangerous moment.
“I say, as amusing as all this is,
couldn’t we get a drink of rum in too?” Hardwick called
over. Caron urged his horse forward and dismounted by the side of the
road. He tied the horse and ducked through the hole made by the
soldiers, disappearing.
Miss Schofield still held firm to the crop, as did Sharpe.
“I’ll let go so long as you stay away
from me,” he breathed. She snorted with contempt.
“Nothing would please me more. Give it
back,” she demanded. He let go simply and she wrenched it
backwards, pulling sharply on the reins to move past him to the bushes.
Sharpe wiped his hand over his face, and then realised someone was
standing behind him. He turned and saw it was Hardwick.
“Women. Can’t say two words to them,
eh?” he said, clapping Sharpe on the shoulder and turning him
round to the bushes. Sharpe shook him off politely as they ducked
through the bushes.
“Not
that one,” Sharpe grunted, and Hardwick followed him to the small
circle of Chosen Men. Sharpe stopped as Hagman looked up at him from
his place in the grass.
“Soon have a cup brewing, sir, don’t you fret,” he
smiled. Sharpe nodded then turned and lifted his pack from his back,
letting it fall to the ground. He wiped his forehead, looking around
the small clearing and hearing the sound of the tiny brook trickling
past them, about ten feet away.
“Major, I wonder if I might have a
word,” Hardwick said, and Sharpe looked at him before undoing the
top buttons on his tunic and sliding the rifle off his shoulder. He
walked over and passed it to Harper, then looked back at the Colonel.
“Of course, Colonel,” he said
non-commitedly. Hardwick inclined his head, and Sharpe followed him
back to the road. They stopped by Hardwick’s horse, and the
Colonel turned and looked at the road they’d already covered.
“It’s a bad business, Major. I’m
sorry to have dragged you into it,” he said gingerly, and Sharpe
realised it was the first time the Colonel had not been radiating
complete confidence. He sniffed.
“Yeah well. If it’s the job I’ve
been given, I’ll do it and then get back, sir,” he
admitted. Hardwick looked at him now, and smiled slightly.
“Was it your job to steal a French standard,
Major?” he asked craftily. “Did the General give you orders
to do that?”
“Not in so many words, sir,” he said warily, eyeing him. Hardwick nodded.
“I see. Have to say, dear chap, was ever so
pleased when you did. Went over so well with the parish at home. You
don’t know who I am, do you?” he asked knowingly. Sharpe
shrugged.
“Lieutenant
Colonel, sir, and therefore my superior officer,” he said simply.
Hardwick chuckled softly.
“You haven’t questioned the ‘Sir James’ bit,
Major,” he said. Sharpe put a hand to the back of his head,
rubbing slightly. He let his hand drop and looked out over the road.
“Well… Every officer has a ri –
great family, sir,” he said, changing tack quickly. Hardwick
laughed outright.
“Except you, Major.” He was quiet for a moment. “Yes,
I have a great family. May I ask where you grew up, Major?” he
asked eventually.
“Why?” he asked, looking at him curiously.
“Because you may have heard of my great
grandmother, Elizabeth Shrewsbury of Hardwick?” he asked
guilelessly. Sharpe thought for a long moment.
“Can’t say as I have, sorry,” he said awkwardly. Hardwick smiled.
“Hardwick Hall? More glass –“
“Than stone!” Sharpe finished, nodding.
“Bloody ‘ell! That’s your family?” he gasped. “Sir,” he added quickly.
“Oh come now, Major, it’s just
us,” he said. He paused. “You’ve seen the
hall?” he asked.
“Oh aye – who hasn’t?” he asked.
“It’s certainly big enough! What are you doing out here
with a family like that?” he wondered.
“It’s because of my family that I
am out here, Major,” he said wearily, and Sharpe saw his
perpetual cheer deflate. He sighed. “It’s all so…
tiresome,” he heaved. “They want me to marry this poor
girl, just because her father is rich. Then they want me to lord over
the landscape, as if that’s something to be proud of.
Honestly,” he snorted contemptuously. He glanced at Sharpe, who
was watching him openly. “So I bought myself a commission and
escaped out here,” he smiled brightly.
“You bought in at Lieutenant Colonel?” Sharpe asked curiously.
“Oh no, dear chap, Heaven forbid!”
Hardwick laughed, putting a hand on Sharpe’s shoulder. “I
bought in at Ensign, man! Much more fun,” he grinned. Sharpe tutted.
“It int fun, it’s shit,” he muttered. Hardwick let his smile dim.
“Well you must know – you were an Ensign
once, weren’t you?” he asked. “Surely?”
“Aye, I were an Ensign. In India,” he added.
“India! Well! Were you at Gawilghur?” he
asked. Sharpe looked at him, surprised.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Bloody hard
time that were, an’ all,” he added.
“I’ll say. Thought my goose was well and
truly cooked there!” Hardwick beamed. “But as you can see,
I came through. As did you, eh?” he said, patting his shoulder,
then letting his hand drop.
“So… When did you buy your Captaincy, sir?” he asked, confused.
“Buy? Buy, say you? No! I got my Captaincy
through killing Johnny Foreigner, Major, as I suspect you did,”
he admitted. Sharpe nodded dumbly. “Then came a Majority –
that was fun,” he said, nodding to himself. “Talavera, you
see. Obviously not as noteworthy as yourself, Major, but…
satisfying, none the less,” he said. Sharpe blew out a sigh,
wiping his hands over his face and looking round in the falling light.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Sharpe said, and Hardwick shook his head.
“Just seems wrong, don’t it?” he
said quietly. Sharpe watched him, unsure. “You calling me
‘sir’, I mean. You’ve got to be more than five years
older than me, with more experience.” He paused. “You must
have been pretty upset when you saw me roll into camp. Must have
thought I was there to interfere with your light company, eh?” he
asked lightly. Sharpe nodded. “Thought so. Actually, I was sent
here by the General.”
“The General?”
“Family friend,” he shrugged. “We
gave him some money a while back for ships, or something. I
forget,” he said simply.
“So can you tell me what you’re really
doing here, sir?” he asked quietly.
“James. The name’s James, Major.” He looked back out over the road, and Sharpe hesitated.
“Richard,” he admitted, and the Colonel turned and looked at him.
“Splendid. Well, I shall tell you, Richard,
we’re going to this place Venganza to find the book. If we
can’t safely spirit it out, we’re to destroy it –
thoroughly. There’s just one problem,” he said, a shadow
passing over his face. Sharpe sighed, nodding.
“Let me guess. There are French spies in the
village. Happens everywhere I go,” he shrugged. Hardwick chuckled.
“Worse than that – there are French spies and they’re not all
in the village,” he said conspiratorially. Sharpe looked back to
the bushes, hearing the sounds of the men making food and tea.
“Caron?” he asked quietly. Hardwick shrugged.
“Who can say? I don’t know for sure, but
look at him! He should walk round with a sign on his back, saying
‘everyone look at me, I’m extremely suspicious’,” he scoffed, and Sharpe smiled.
“Then it’s not him,” he said. Hardwick studied his face.
“You think so?”
“He’d be daft to be a spy with his face, sir. James,” he corrected. Hardwick shrugged.
“The girl?” he asked. Sharpe’s
eyes narrowed. “Look old man, I’m not one to pry, but why
does she hate you so?” he asked curiously.
“Buggered if I know.” He paused, wetting
his lip slowly. “But she’s lying. About a great many
things,” he added.
“Oh jolly good!” Hardwick crowed boisterously, grinning,
and Sharpe looked at him. “Means we can play at wandering
officers ourselves, get to the bottom of her deception!”
Sharpe shook his head, smiling, and Hardwick
chuckled. “Oh, I say!” he said, snapping his fingers
suddenly, “do you think one of us should – you know –
get to know her? Court her and such, find out what she’s up
to?” he whispered enthusiastically. Sharpe chuckled.
“Are you like this all the time, or just when
there’s a bit of pretty skirt about?” he asked. Hardwick
chuckled.
“Oh all the
time, definitely,” he nodded vigorously. “I say old man,
let me have a go, eh?” he asked earnestly. “After all, she
already hates you, and I’m a sparkling officer with a rich
family. I could be in there and find out everything in no time,”
he offered. “What do you say, eh?” he said eagerly, nudging
Sharpe’s shoulder. “Eh?”
“Just make sure she dunt find out yer real
reasons, and that she stays away from me. Other than that, you’re
a grown man James, you do what you want,” he grinned. Hardwick
laughed.
FOUR
“Harper!” Sharpe roared, crouching by his pack in disgust.
“Yes sir!” Harper replied, hurrying over
from the other side of the road. He and the Chosen Men had been
relieving themselves away from the makeshift camp.
“What the bloody hell’s gone on
here?” Sharpe demanded. Harper looked around. Packs and
belongings had been rifled through and dumped in disarray. “I
were gone less than five minutes, Pat, and look at it!” he
snapped.
“Jesus, sir, I
have no idea,” he said, confused. “Is anything missing,
sir?” he asked, wondering over Sharpe’s sudden anger. He
had woken up to hot, fresh tea and had seemed much more cheerful.
“Personal stuff. Letters,” he admitted
icily, and Harper let his mouth round into a silent ‘o’
before nodding to himself. Letters from Miss Marjorie, he realised.
“Anything else, sir?” he asked. Sharpe thought about it.
“No. Me flask and telescope are still
there,” he said, then looked at Harper directly. “Get the
men back, and them South Essex. Get every pack turned out.”
“Surely you don’t think –“
“I want to see what else is missing, Pat.
Something’s not right here,” he breathed, crouching down
again to do up his pack securely. Harper nodded and turned away.
“Richard?” Hardwick asked, appearing
from the side, carrying his open bag. He stopped and looked around,
taking in the sight of the other packs emptied out. “Oh, I
say,” he said quietly to himself.
“Anything missing, James?” he asked.
“Not that I can see. Strange, eh?” he said to himself.
“Not really,” Sharpe realised suddenly,
then stood abruptly and ran through the bushes to the horses.
“Bloody hell!” he spat, and Hardwick followed quickly.
“What?” he demanded, alert. Sharpe waved a hand at the tied horse.
“Caron and that girl – they’ve gone,” he snarled.
“What? Well, there we go – perhaps
they’re in it together,” he shrugged, and Sharpe turned on
him.
“They’ve gone to Venganza with my letters and your horse,” he pointed out. Hardwick looked at the single remaining horse.
“Good Lord! What complete – what’s
the word, Richard?” he asked angrily.
“Bastards?” Sharpe replied, as Harper caught them up.
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t use that kind of –“ Hardwick began.
“The South Essex lads, sir,” Harper
interrupted breathlessly, and Sharpe looked at him.
“Well? Gone too, are they?” he demanded.
“Pity they’re not, sir. They’re
all dead, sir, every man jack of them,” he said, shaking his head.
“What? How?” Hardwick demanded.
“Throats slit sir, clean as a surgeon’s blade,” he said.
“Well damn it all! If that’s not sheer
impudence!” he shouted, enraged. “To kill ten good fighting
men to cover your escape! That’s just – just – sheer bloody
wickedness!” he shouted. He stopped short, surprised. “Oh
my,” he said hastily, then swallowed and looked at Sharpe.
“I do apologise, Richard. Such language,” he said
fearfully, shaking his head and walking away. Harper watched him go. He
turned to Sharpe.
“What now sir?” he asked eagerly. Sharpe looked at him.
“We get to Venganza. We find the pair of
‘em,” he breathed, and Harper nodded, grinning maliciously.
“Then we get ‘em to tell us everything they know about that
damned book.”
“Oh.
But that Mr Caron sir, he looked a frightful tight-lipped sort,
sir,” he said doubtfully.
“Oh aye,” he snapped scornfully,
“one swift boot to the nadgers and he’ll be giving me that
girl’s home address.”
Harper grinned and turned away to round up the Chosen Men.
FIVE
The nine men and one horse arrived at the gates of
Venganza the next evening. That was as much success as they would have.
“Lieutenant Colonel Hardwick!” shouted a
thin, nasal rasp of a commanding tone. The men stopped just shy of the
gates and looked up. A small, rotund man was watching from the ramparts
of the high stone wall, sliding a telescope shut. “We were told
you were coming!” he added. They took in his red coat, shiny
epaulettes and cocked hat. Sharpe sighed and Hardwick looked at him.
“Well. Seems your reign and mine have come to
an end, old man,” he said cheerfully, then removed his own hat
and looked up. “Yes, sir!” he called up. “May we
trouble you for entrance?”
“Of course!” the man called. He
disappeared as shouts were heard from inside the tall wooden gates.
After a few minutes the gates creaked and were reluctantly coaxed open
from inside. Sharpe and Hardwick looked at each other, then began to
walk inside.
They found
themselves in a large courtyard, surrounded by redcoats with loaded
muskets at the ready. There seemed to be hundreds of them. Sharpe and
Harper took careful note of the buttons on the jackets.
“The 42nd!” Harper whispered, surprised.
Sharpe straightened unconsciously as the small man reappeared, marching
over to Hardwick and stopping. He saluted abruptly, ignoring everyone
else.
“Lieutenant
Colonel Hardwick,” he said, a small smile on his round face.
“The General was good enough to send word of your arrival,”
he added. Hardwick nodded.
“I must beg your forgiveness sir, for I was not informed you were
here,” he said graciously. The man waved a hand.
“Oh tosh, don’t think about it. We are
the 42nd Regiment sir, Colonel Edward Adams commanding,” he said.
Hardwick saluted neatly.
“Sir,” he said.
“No need, sir, no need,” he said.
“This is M-“
“Yes, yes, you can bring your partisans inside
if you so wish,” he said dismissively, turning to go.
“Major Sharpe, sir, of the South Essex,”
Sharpe said loudly. The Colonel stopped short.
“South Essex, you say? Well what’s that
get-up, man?” he demanded rudely, staring at him. “Someone
steal your uniform?”
Sharpe bristled and opened his mouth, but Hardwick stepped into their
line of sight and smiled.
“Formerly of the 95th Rifles, sir,” he said helpfully.
“Green Jackets, and all that?” he prompted.
“Oh, oh yes, I see,” Adams said, looking
round Sharpe to the Chosen Men. “And who are they? Drummers? Bit
dirty,” he tutted.
“The Chosen Men, sir,” Sharpe said angrily.
“Chosen? For what?” he demanded, looking
at Sharpe as though he’d just that moment scraped him from the
underside of his boot.
“Riflemen, sir,” Sharpe said hotly. Adams tutted again, looking skyward.
“Another useless dalliance by his lordship, no
doubt,” he sighed, turning and walking off. Sharpe opened his
mouth but Harper gripped his elbow suddenly. He ran a slow tongue over
his upper lip, controlling the desire to snatch his rifle from his
shoulder and demonstrate just how useless it wasn’t.
He huffed and Harper let go of his arm, stepping back again. Hardwick
looked back at Sharpe apologetically, then at the Colonel.
“Sir?” he asked, catching up with him.
Sharpe and Hardwick walked toward the stone steps, following the
Colonel. He turned and looked at Hardwick. “Why are you here,
sir? We’ve been on the road a few days, I’m afraid
I’m somewhat out of the loop,” he said helplessly.
“Ah. Well, you see -.” The Colonel
stopped when he realised Sharpe could hear as well. He pulled on
Hardwick’s arm to walk with him, but Sharpe kept pace on the
outside of Hardwick. “Do you hunt, Hardwick?” he asked
loudly, stopping. Hardwick looked at him.
“Oh, well, yes sir, as a matter of fact I do, sir,” he said, confused.
“Hounds? Which group?” he asked, looking
at Sharpe surreptitiously. Hardwick thought for a second.
“The green swatch,” he added, confused. Adams grinned.
“Ah, very good. Just so.” He paused and
looked at Sharpe. “And you? Hunt, do you?” he asked. Sharpe
looked at him.
“Just the French, sir,” he bit out, highly annoyed. Adams looked vindicated.
“Ah. Just as well. Would probably get mistaken for a hound,” he said pointedly. Sharpe took a step across them but Hardwick grabbed him.
“Richard,” he said warningly.
“I’m sure he’s referring to the green,” he said
helpfully. Sharpe let his weight backwards, then stepped back again.
Slowly.
“I’m sure,
sir,” he breathed, slapping Adams with a look whose heat would
have shamed any Spanish summer day. Adams swallowed hastily and then
flapped his hands at him.
“Anyway, get your men seen to, Mister…?”
“Major. Major Sharpe. Sir,” he said stonily. Adams shrugged.
“Whatever. Off you go, there’s a good
chap,” he said carelessly. Hardwick just looked at Adams, the
disgust plainly evident on his face. Sharpe’s lips thinned and
his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He turned on his heel and
marched off, to rejoin the Green Jackets milling around the courtyard.
“I say, bit rough, what?” Hardwick said gingerly.
“Oh tosh. He’s just a grunt under that
pathetic excuse for a uniform. Shouldn’t be allowed,” he
said, shivering suddenly, “just shouldn’t be allowed. Men
like him should be put to work digging, not wearing an officer’s
sword.”
“So, what are
you doing here, sir?” Hardwick asked, hoping to change the
subject. Adams smiled suddenly, as if everything else were forgotten.
“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t
heard,” he said cheerfully. “We’re waiting for the
French to storm us, Colonel. They should be here in… oh, day
after tomorrow, I think,” he said.
“Storm? Here?” Hardwick asked, shocked. Adams looked at him.
“Is that a problem, Colonel?” he asked.
“Well, it is a bit of bad luck, really. We
were hoping to collect something and then be on our way. We must return
it to the General, you see,” he said apologetically. Adams nodded.
“Ah. Well perhaps you’ll have time to
fetch it and be off before the French arrive, eh?” he asked,
patting him on the back. “Perhaps you could send that rabble back
with it, and stay here for the fun? It’s going to be a splendid
how-do-you-do, Colonel, a splendid how-do-you-do,” he said,
grinning. “They’ve got cannon, you see. They’re going
to try and breach the wall and then storm through it, probably with one
of their own Forlorn Hopes, or whatever the French call it. All we have
to do is stop them. It’s going to be a glorious fight, I can tell
you,” he said.
Hardwick looked at him. He’s completely mad,
he realised. “Oh well, sounds jolly exciting,” he said out
loud. Adams clapped him on the back and turned him toward the steps.
“I knew you’d fit right in,” he said proudly.
*
“And that’s the size of it,
Richard,” Hardwick said quietly. They were standing by the stone
steps to the courtyard, Hardwick enjoying a rather expensive looking
cigar. Sharpe was leaning against the wall, his rifle stood next to
him. His hands leaned on the barrel eye, leaning it from side to side
slowly as he thought about the day’s events.
“Bugger him,” he said vindictively.
“He’s not getting in me way, Colonel or no,” he
added. “I’ve orders from Wellington himself, and that
little prick’s not going to stop me.”
“I daresay he’ll try, Richard. He
doesn’t seem to like you,” he said apologetically.
“That’s alright, I can’t stand him
neither,” he replied. There was a long pause. “So you and
the Chosen Men are to join in this redoubt.”
“Sorry, old chap, had no say. He’s my
commanding officer, you know,” he said miserably. “You
know, I think now would be a good time for me to retire to
England,” he said thoughtfully, then puffed on the cigar slowly.
“I could just do with six months of rolling green hills and
nothing but hunting and shooting for sport.”
Sharpe looked at him. “Well go on then.
You’ve a choice, James, I haven’t. Get yourself back to
England and marry that bird yer dad picked out for you,” he said
dismissively. James grinned.
“I will not. I’ll go back to England and find a girl who
likes hunting and shooting, same as me,” he smiled. Sharpe
snorted in amusement. “She’ll ride in the woods with me,
and read with me, and help me fix rabbit snares. She’ll be
handsome and capable, you’ll see,” he grinned.
Sharpe’s smile faded.
“I knew a girl like that once,” he admitted quietly.
Hardwick let his smile drop too. He thought about it.
“The girl in that despatch?” he asked gingerly.
“Aye.”
“I see. Those letters that went missing from
your pack… From her, were they?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“I see. Well then old boy, I should say
I’m quite hoping I never have to read such a report about any
girl I like the look of. And then I’ll say goodnight, and tell
you that Colonel Adams has asked me to tell you to see him in the
morning,” he said, yawning. Sharpe looked at him. “It
really is too bad, dear boy, I’m dreadfully sorry for you.”
He patted Sharpe’s shoulder once. Sharpe nodded to him and he
turned and walked away.
Sharpe
looked out through the pitch, wondering if he’d bother sleeping.
If he did it would just be fitful, short napping again. He toyed with
the idea of standing there all night, enjoying the peaceful courtyard,
with no noise or disturbance. He might have been there a long time,
thinking these thoughts; he had no way of knowing. He sighed, realised
he really should get some rest, and lifted his hand to rub his eye.
Something moved in the far corner of the courtyard
and he froze, staring. He tried to make it out. It moved again and he
used the movement to make out the form as it slid across the far wall
and toward the steps. It slid ever closer to him, and he rested the
rifle to lean against the wall silently, crouching further into the
shadows thrown by the steps.
The figure swept over and put a foot on the steps. Sharpe waited until
they were near the top, and he heard the door swing open. He leapt out
and round, taking the steps two at a time. He flung himself through the
door still on its back-swing, and grabbed at the figure.
He wrenched them back and against the inside wall, snatching the hood away.
“Well, well, well,” he breathed into the
face of Miss Schofield. “Are you going to tell me who you really
are now? And why you took me letters?” he demanded. She struggled
fiercely, but he slammed her shoulder back against the wall. She
gasped, shocked, and froze. She swallowed, recovering her composure.
She looked at him from a mere four inches, studying
his emerald eyes coldly. “Oh believe me Major, I yearned
to tell you who I really was – that first night in the army camp.
But I couldn’t give the entire game away, now could I?”
“What game?” he demanded roughly. She
smiled, despite the definite malice in his scowl.
“That’s for me to know and you to find
out. My name might clear it up,” she snapped. “Charlotte.
Charlotte Berry,” she hissed. He just stared at her.
“Is that supposed to mean summat to me?” he demanded angrily.
“You arrogant bastard!” she screamed
into his face. He lifted his other hand and kept her shoulders pinned
to the wall. “You killed my brother! Lieutenant Berry, of the
South Essex! I’ve waited this long to find you, you murdering
gutter-snipe, and now I’ll get my revenge!”
“Maybe I’ll just kill you here and now
and be done with it,” Sharpe seethed. She laughed in his face.
“You can’t. You’re such a good
man, Richard Sharpe, or so they all say!”
He pushed on her shoulders roughly and she bumped
against the wall. “What do you want?” he snapped.
“I want what you want, Major – the book,” she admitted.
“And you think pilfering some useless letters
from me bag’s going to make me give it to you?” he
demanded. “I don’t even know where it is!”
“No, you won’t give it to me for the
letters. But maybe for this,” she said, lifting a hand slowly. In
it was a pale pink scarf, exactly as one he remembered so well. He
grabbed it and stepped back, watching her cautiously. He ran his thumb
over the silk, knowing whose it was by the slight smell of lavender
that drifted up to shock him.
“A scarf?” he demanded, covering his fear. “Just a
scarf? Yer off yer head,” he snapped dismissively. She sneered.
“Oh no, Major, I don’t mean to torture
you with a scarf,” she grinned, and he swallowed. “The
owner of that scarf is very much alive, Major. She hasn’t
mentioned you, but then, it’s not easy with one just like it tied
over her mouth,” she grinned. He moved and in one sudden, fluid
movement had caught her by the throat.
“Where is she?” he breathed. Her fingers
dug at the wall desperately, her eyes staring at him in surprise.
“Where I can – keep an eye on
her,” she rasped. “If anything happens to me, she
dies,” she managed, and he let his fingers ease just a tad. She
breathed more easily. “If you don’t give me that book, she
dies,” she added.
He eyed her dangerously. “If you so much as touch –“
“Do we have a deal?” she snapped.
“Or shall I have her finger cut off to convince you? It’d
be damned hard to write such spirited letters with only four digits,” she hissed.
“I’ll get you the book. You’ll let
her go, safe and sound. Or I’ll find you and you can burn in hell
with yer brother,” he snarled. She felt his fingers tightening
slowly. She clawed at them, smiling despite the difficulty.
“Deal.” She yanked on his fingers
suddenly. She coupled the movement with her knee, driving it into his
groin with as much angry strength as she could muster. He let go
abruptly, staggering back and into the wall behind him, bending double
and coughing horribly. He slid to his side, his left shoulder against
the wall for support, but could already see her bouncing away down the
corridor.
He let himself get
his breath back, cursing her, her family, and anyone vaguely related to
her. It was a long few minutes before he could put his hand on the wall
and straighten slowly. He moved to walk and winced, cursing her again
before limping out of the corridor, back to the door.
He pushed it open roughly and made his way down the stone steps awkwardly. “Harper!” he bellowed, then winced and coughed again. “Harper!” he shouted, wiping his mouth.
He heard running and there was the Irishman,
stopping at the bottom of the steps, his volley gun at the ready.
Sharpe reached the bottom and shifted his weight onto one leg, not
looking at him as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
“Jesus sir, what happened to you? You look
white as a sheet!” Harper cried. Sharpe swallowed, checked his
breathing, and looked at him.
“Tell me where we can find that Caron,” he said, putting a
hand out and pushing him round to walk. Harper nodded.
“Oh, right sir. Harris spotted him not too long
ago sir – he’s really not very smart for a spy,” he
said conversationally. Sharpe snorted in disgust.
“He’s not a spy,” he tutted.
“But I’ll bet he knows where that damned book is.”
“And why would he know that, sir?” he asked.
“Cos that bitch who’s pretending to be
Marjorie Schofield wants it.” He stopped and looked at Harper.
“She’s Berry’s sister,” he said heavily.
“God save Ireland!” Harper hissed.
“Berry? He had a sister, sir?” he asked, shocked.
“Aye. And twice as conniving as that
rat-bastard piece of shit were, an’ all,” he spat.
“She’s got Mar. She’ll trade her for the book.”
Harper grinned abruptly. “Well, at least
she’s alive, sir,” he cried, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Fer now. We have to get that book.”
“Jesus sir, but you’re not going to hand
it over, are you?” he asked quietly, as Sharpe turned and they
walked on.
“Absolutely,
Pat. But she’s not going to get far with it. She’s going to
get it just as the Frogs attack. And then there’s no way she can
leave, is there?” he asked pointedly. “And then we have
time to catch her with it.”
Harper nodded thoughtfully. “Although,
you’d think that if she laid all these plans, she’d have
laid a way out of a French siege, so she would,” he offered.
Sharpe stopped and looked at him.
“Shut it, Pat. I were just starting to get hopeful,” he grumbled.
“Sorry sir. How’s this for cheerful
news, sir,” he said eagerly, catching him up as he walked away
again. “Harris has found a book of Milton, and Robinson’s
found the rum stash of the entire village!”
“Both wasted on me, Pat,” he said,
shaking his head. “Come on, we’ve got work to do,” he
said, and Harper grinned.
On to balls, bayonets and books!
