a work of fan-fiction by The Mardy Bum, 14th July, 2006
ONE
"Looks
fine, sir," Harper said, approaching the small campfire. Major Sharpe
was sitting at the small tripod, tea urn in hand, about to pour the first
cup of the evening. He looked up.
"What does?" he asked, pouring the tea and handing
it to Harper as he sat. The big Irishman looked at it dubiously.
"The supplies that just arrived by mule, sir, a
grand turn-out," he said. He looked back at the tea. "Aaiii, but you
have a lot to learn about making tea, sir."
The Major spared him a glance before pouring his own
tea, setting the urn back on the tripod.
"Well if you'd been here brewin' it instead of
farting about with donkeys, we both would have had a better cup," he
observed brusquely.
"Yes sir," Harper said obediently. He sniffed at the
cup, keeping his eyes on it. Something told him he wasn't to break any
more silence. He got comfortable on his camp stool and looked around.
Men were decamped and pretty much taking the boots
by the straps; uniform tunics were hung impudently on rifles and
muskets as their owners lounged around the grass in the darkness. The
tents, arranged in a perfectly straight line, moved in the slight
breeze and the fronts flapped quietly. The sound of singing, far off,
wafted over the two men's small campfire, made all the more welcome by
the lateness of the hour. Someone joined in and they heard men laughing
and joking at some other squaddie's expense.
Harper sniffed and looked at the flames in front of
him. The tips broke away and floated around, drifting on the slight
breeze. They snapped and crackled, punctuating the derisory exchanges
of young men making good use of what short time they thought they had.
"Thinking of home, sir?" he asked gamely, wondering
just what was provoking the superior officer's slightly sullen look.
"Aye."
"England's a long way off, to be sure, but remember
Ireland's further still," he said, trying, as always, to prove this man
had it easier than he.
"Home's not a place," Sharpe said quietly. Harper nodded.
"Well then, you'll be wanting to think of your fond
memories by yourself, sir." He drained the tea cup, not because he
wanted to, but to soften the blow of his earlier criticism. The tea, as
he had suspected, was vile, and he suddenly wished his criticism had
been much harsher after all.
"I hate fond memories," Sharpe said suddenly, just
as quietly, and Harper sighed, reaching out for the tea urn.
Here we go, he thought to himself. Guess I'm not excused just yet.
"You don't mean that, sir," he said. He leaned over and checked, but
Sharpe hadn't even started on his tea. He set the urn back on the
tripod over the flames.
"Yeah, I do," he said.
"But, pardon me for pointing it out sir, you've more
fond memories than the rest of us. Especially of the ladies, sir."
"Given a choice between the memories and a real live
girl, I'll take the girl every time," he admitted.
"I'm sure you would sir, and what hot-blooded
soldier wouldn't?" he quipped, and was surprised by the sudden loud
laughter from the Major. He looked at him, trying to remember the last
time he had heard him laugh like that.
"Speaking of which, where's Ramona?" he asked.
"Shouldn't you be trying to convince her she were right to marry you?"
he asked cheekily. Harper smiled, glad to have lifted his spirits.
"She's with a few of the other Spanish girls, sir.
Talking, so they are," he said conspiratorially. "Best I not get
involved."
"Oh aye? What about?" he asked lightly.
"Men, sir. Oh, you thought soldiers could moan, but
sweet Mary Mother of God, you've never heard anyone go on like women
can, sir." He sniffed at Sharpe's laughter. "My mother would be red in
the face just knowing they were together, talking away like that, so
she would." Sharpe laughed louder, straightening in his seat. "The
thought of any wife of mine behaving like that, or yours," he added,
trying to take some of the enjoyment from his commanding officer's good
humour. He realised, too late, that perhaps that had not been the best
way to do it. Sharpe's face had stilled and then the wide grin had
shrunk. Harper tutted. "Oh Jeez, but I'm sorry sir. Me and me big
mouth, sir. Comes from having –"
"Shut it, Pat," Sharpe said quietly. "It dunt matter."
"You think we'll make this town thing tomorrow
then?" he asked, trying to change the subject.
"Nope." He swilled the tea in the cup, raising it to
drink. He hesitated. "That new Colonel will bugger it up and we'll be
camping somewhere much like this tomorrow night," he said thoughtfully.
He let his arm drop, the tea forgotten.
"He doesn't look the type to be able to read a map, sir," he said reassuringly.
"Who needs to read maps?" he demanded, "He dunt know
his arse from his elbow, that one. How you can get through three years
of soldiering and not know where a musket ball goes, I can't fathom,"
he said, shaking his head and wheezing air through his teeth.
"Where is this place, sir?"
"I don't know. I'm buggered if I can remember the
name of it. Something foreign," he shrugged, embarrassed at not knowing
how to read the name written across the map in his pocket.
"Ah. That'll be on account of you English not having
conquered it before, then," Harper grinned.
"Oh, you never know," Sharpe said, and Harper
dreaded the next few words, knowing as he did they would be the Major's
attempt at levity, "we might get there and find the name's been changed
to New Rotherham."
Harper sighed. Sharpe raised his cup to drink, but
they heard heavy footfalls and looked up to find the new Colonel
approaching. He let his tea wait.
"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath. The
Colonel, a portly little man of no more than five feet, marched over
haughtily and stopped by the fire.
"Gentlemen," he boomed, in a friendly voice that seemed to carry over the entire camp.
"Evening, Colonel Parker, sir," Harper said in a
very friendly manner, getting to his feet. Sharpe rose slowly, nodding.
"Colonel," he said dutifully.
"Planning the day ahead, I see," the Colonel grinned.
"Sir," Sharpe said non-commitedly.
"Good man. I'll need a favour tomorrow, Major. Seems
we have men arriving – cartographers – and they'll need an
escort. Civilians, you see, not used to all this marching and camping
malarkey. You'll see to them, won't you Major?" he asked.
"Of course, sir," he said, careful his face did not belie his annoyance.
"Marvellous. Just three of them, Major, nothing your
Chosen Men can't handle, I fancy. Apparently they're to accompany us to
some village. The General thinks perhaps they could plot some routes
for us too, if you please! Hardly seems necessary, what? We know where
we're going, just wish Wellington would remember that," he said, his
good cheer sliding off for a second. Harper opened his mouth but Sharpe
was quicker.
"I'm sure we'll show him, sir," he said, and the Colonel grinned at him.
"So we shall, Major, so we shall. God, I'm glad
we're working together, man. My brains and your brawn, eh?" he grinned.
Again, Harper opened his mouth but it was Sharpe who spoke.
"Yes sir," he said obediently. Colonel Parker nodded.
"Good man. Well then, as you were," he said, nodding
and turning with a flourish. He marched away and Sharpe huffed as he
sat down again.
"Bloody civvi-minding again," he tutted. Harper sighed.
"Well, maybe it won't be all that bad, sir. Perhaps one of them's Irish."
Sharpe looked at the big Irishman's face, then just
let all the annoyance go and let a small smile crack his stern
features. Always trying to find the bright side, eh.
"Go on, Pat, bugger off. I'm going to bed," he said,
standing again. Harper looked at his tea cup in his hand. He grinned,
then wiped it off.
"But you've not finished your tea, sir," he said
innocently. Sharpe looked at him and then got that look in his eye,
sticking his chin out obstinately. Keeping his eyes on Harper's, he
reached his hand out and tipped the tea on the campfire. Through the
hiss and grey smoke, Sharpe sniffed and handed Harper back the cup.
"Sometimes you have to sacrifice small comforts in
the name of safety," he said smugly, turning away.
"Well there's no need to be such a smarmy shite,"
Harper muttered, and Sharpe turned back to him quickly. "I'll be making
the tea tomorrow night," he said more loudly, and Sharpe nodded.
"'Night Pat," he said suspiciously, turning and
walking to his tent, sliding his tunic off before flipping the opening
wider and ducking inside.
Harper watched him go, then grinned to himself.
TWO
"Here they come, sir," Hagman said, walking back
from the brow of the embankment. He carried his rifle in his right hand, the
cloth tight over the flintlock. "Just three horses, sir, dunt look like
much baggage," he said. Sharpe looked at him, then up at the hot, blue
sky.
"Not much. Just them," he said to himself. Harper
came walking up the shingle road, carrying his huge volley gun across
his shoulders.
"They've turned again, sir. Looks like he had his
map upside down," he said apologetically. Hagman caught his eye and
grinned.
"That's alright. Means we won't have to work too
hard to catch 'em up again," Sharpe said. He could feel
the sweat prickling at his back, just where the strap on the ammunition
belt pushed it against his shirt. He fingered his collar and Harper
cleared his throat.
"If we were to hang back a little sir, perhaps these
cartographers wouldn't know any different if we weren't in full
uniform, sir," he said quietly.
"Harper, you get over there and say hello. Make sure
they know we're not slowing down fer 'em," Sharpe said curtly, and
Harper shot a defeated look at Hagman before walking off, his gun still
over his shoulders. "Hagman, get back to the others, have 'em ready
when the time comes. I want to catch up with the battalion today," he
said.
"Yes sir," Hagman nodded, turning and walking back
to the other five Riflemen, currently sprawling on the grass verge. The
Major looked ahead, down the shingle road, waiting.
I should move out of the sun, he thought to himself, might keep this tunic from stinkin' like a horse's arse.
He sniffed, the sweat on his forehead turning icy in
the sudden breeze, and then walked to the side of the road to be in the
shade. He looked at the Chosen Men, sweating and fanning themselves,
simply waiting. Moore and Brown were arguing about something to do with
frizzens, by the look of them, Hagman listening in and smiling to
himself. Harris was enjoying the slight breeze, Robinson and Taylor
sharing some amusing stories. Sharpe looked up the road again,
listening to the men gossip and chuckle.
Presently they heard the sound of horses' hooves and Sharpe looked at his men.
"On yer feet," he said quickly. They got up
obediently, dusting off their trousers and checking weapons. "Look
smart," he instructed. They hurried out into the road, straightening
into an impressive line of men, weapons standing-to, backs straight,
chins high. Sharpe smiled, then looked back down the road.
Harper was leading the front horse, something about
the way he walked telling Sharpe that he was in a good mood suddenly.
He felt his eyes narrow suspiciously; he couldn't help it. If Harper
was happy to see them, they were either carrying copious amounts of
brandy, or copious amounts of Irish whiskey. Or tea leaves.
He walked out from the line, his rifle slung,
waiting for them. As they got closer he noticed Harper's grin spread
from ear to ear, and then looked up at the horses.
They were very fine, expensive looking animals. The
first one alone must have cost a year's salary for a Major like him
– before stoppages. He realized they must be dealing with some
high-class family of Spanish nobility and cursed on the inside. Just
what we don't need.
The horses got within thirty feet and Sharpe noticed
the first rider was quite short, quite slight, but the sword hung from
its strap was long enough. It glittered in the sun, and he wondered if
it was for show. He looked at the other horses, finding them just as
expensive-looking.
Harper led the horses right up to Sharpe and then
stopped curtly. He grinned at the Major.
"Major Sharpe sir, the cartographers, sir," he said,
plainly amused. Sharpe looked up into the face of the first man.
Raven-black curls and a ridiculous top hat greeted him as the man
looked down and grinned.
"Delighted to meet you, Mr Sharpe," he said, and
Sharpe heard a very English voice. But something about it wasn't right.
He nodded.
"And you, Mister…?"
"Hindle, Peter," he said, smiling. "This is my
brother, Nigel," he said, waving a hand to the second rider, who tipped
a hand to his forehead and smiled. He had similarly curly hair, but it
seemed more chestnut than black. "And this is my sister, Marjorie," he
said. All eyes turned to the sister, sat on the last horse. She had
long chestnut hair, this time wavy. She sat tall enough in the saddle,
wearing a simple men's white shirt covered with a waistcoat that had
been unbuttoned in the heat. She had a cream silk scarf tied quite high
around her neck, reminding him of the stocks he hated so much. She just
looked at Sharpe, nodding curtly with no trace of smile. "She's been
ill, Mr Sharpe – the heat, you understand," he said. "She needs
rest, as I'm sure we all do."
"That's as may be, Mr Hindle, but we have to rejoin
our Light Company. We've already lost half a day's –"
"Mr Sharpe, I would be much obliged if you'd let us
rest, just half an hour perhaps, before we continue," he pressed.
Sharpe looked at him, something about his voice striking him a little
peculiar. The man looked back at him, oblivious. Sharpe sniffed,
feeling the sweat trickling down his own back. "We would, of course,
make all speed as soon as we resumed," Mr Hindle added eagerly. Sharpe
was aware of the sweat now apparent under his sword belt, tricking down
and soaking into the seat of his trousers, and sighed.
"Alright, Mr Hindle. Thirty minutes, then we continue," he said.
"Much obliged, Mr Sharpe, much obliged," he said,
relieved. He turned in his saddle and looked at the others. "Nigel,
Marjorie, this lovely man has given us leave to rest for thirty
minutes. Let's not upset him by wasting any more time, eh?" he said
warmly. Nigel grinned, swinging down from the saddle and taking the
bridle of his horse. He looked around the generous bulk of Harper and
spotted the group of Chosen Men.
"I say," he said suddenly, "what a fearsome bunch,"
he said, delighted. Sharpe turned and looked at him, then realised he
was grinning in excitement. "Strikes confidence into any man's heart,
such a battalion of stout fellows," he crowed. The faces of the six
Chosen Men, twenty feet away, broke into small smiles and snorts of
amusement.
"That's just a small escort, Mr Hindle," he said.
"The battalion's got over two hundred men." Nigel Hindle looked at him.
"Two hundred, you say? Well, I'll be," he said,
shaking his head. "And all in red coats, I should imagine? Tell me
– Harp, is it? Why are these men in green tunics?"
Sharpe could feel Harper's amusement without even having to look at the Sergeant Major.
"Sharpe, Mr Hindle. And they're riflemen, not
red-coats." He turned to Harper. "Alright, Sergeant," he said harshly,
and Harper nodded, dismissed. Nigel jumped and looked at him, backing
away one and turning to his horse. Sharpe looked over, seeing Peter
Hindle make no attempt to help his sister from her horse. He turned to
look at her and found her staring dead back at him with a baleful look
of anger. He stared back at her, wondering just what he had done to
warrant that kind of look, then walked over.
"You poorly, Miss Hindle?" he asked challengingly.
She looked momentarily surprised, then narrowed her eyes at him. She
said nothing. She waved a hand at him to step back, and then lifted her
leg over the horse, sliding down and landing on her feet squarely. She
looked at him, sniffed and tossed her head, turning and marching off.
Sharpe just tutted, unimpressed, and turned and walked back over to
his men.
"Nice family," Harper put in quietly, and Sharpe looked at him.
"Why, carrying liquor, are they?" Sharpe shot back.
Harper just closed his mouth, surprised by Sharpe's sudden edge. "Fall
'em out, Sergeant, tell 'em to strip off their jackets. They've got
thirty minutes, then we march like bloody hell," he said harshly.
Harper turned to look at the men as Sharpe pulled
the rifle from his shoulder, carrying it toward the grass verge. He
sat, his annoyance plain, and Harper avoided approaching him again. He
turned to the men, relaying the orders, and they gratefully pulled off
their green jackets. Sleeves were rolled up and shirt-fronts unlaced, and
they sank to the green verges again, the relief evident. Harper sat
too, Harris finding himself next to him.
"Something wrong with the Major?" he asked, smiling
and nodding. Harper looked over at Sharpe, who was stewing quite
nicely, due to his sudden anger and his green jacket. He was glad they
were twenty feet from him.
"He's just a moody bugger," Harper agreed. "You know
how he hates to be held up, and on top of that they're civvies", he
added, then looked around. "Come on then, who's carrying?" he demanded.
"Brown, my old friend! You never march anywhere without a wee tot," he
grinned. Men protested and moaned at their rum ration being summarily
commandeered.
The
groans and cries of denial floated over the wind, reaching Sharpe's
ears. He dug his boot heels into the grass stubbornly, his knees bent
and his elbows on them, then looked up at their guests. He was
surprised to find Nigel Hindle walking over enthusiastically.
"Well, this is all jolly exciting, isn't it?" he
said, in a rather polished, clipped accent, producing a handkerchief from
his top pocket and dabbing delicately at his nose.
"Just bloody hot, Mr Hindle," Sharpe said, trying to remain polite.
"Yes, that too," he agreed, then planted himself on
the grass next to the officer. Sharpe looked at him, his eyes sweeping
over him suspiciously from the grass to his top hat, then shook his
head, looking toward the horses again. "Are you a good soldier?" he
asked suddenly, innocently.
"Come again?"
"I mean, have you killed people and what-not?" he
asked, looking at him. Sharpe just huffed. "I see. French, I expect,"
he said quickly.
"Plenty more where they came from," he said roughly.
"Well yes. But where?" Nigel said lightly.
"France, probably. Should think there's a whole
bloody country of the buggers," he said shortly, and Nigel laughed.
"Oh Mr Harp, you do –"
"Sharpe."
"Yes. You do have a singular wit," he grinned, his
interruption not stopping his words from tumbling out enthusiastically.
Sharpe felt his eyes roll with consternation. "No, I meant are they
going to be anywhere near us?"
Sharpe turned his head and looked at him. "Oh be sure."
Nigel swallowed. "I see." He looked over at Peter
and Marjorie Hindle, the brother fussing about finding something to sit
on to protect his clean trousers from the ground. Marjorie simply sat
and then fell backwards, clearly unfazed by grass stains or a little
dirt.
"Is yer sister alright?" Sharpe asked curiously, nodding towards her.
"She will be, Mr Harp, she just –"
"Sharpe."
"Yes. She will be, she just needs more rest. A
terrible affliction of the throat, you see. Please don't be upset if
she doesn't speak to you, it causes her pain," he added
conversationally. "Has had it for as long as I've kn – as long as
I can remember," he said, changing tack swiftly. Sharpe looked at him.
"I see," he said quietly, still studying his profile. Nigel looked at him, then swallowed.
"You know, Mr Harp, I find –"
"Sharpe."
"Yes. I find you a man of extraordinary presence. I,
ah, well, this is…" He sniffed delicately, and Sharpe simply
stared at him, puzzled. Nigel wilted under his stare and lost his
nerve, along with whatever it was he was trying to say. He shrugged and
got to his feet suddenly, as if kicked. "Well," he said, clearing his
throat, "I should see to my brother."
"Aye," Sharpe said thoughtfully.
"Nigel! What are you doing?" Peter Hindle suddenly called. Sharpe and Nigel looked over.
"Simply talking, Peter," he called, in a friendly,
dismissive tone. "Getting to know our magnificent protector," he added,
turning and nodding to Sharpe before walking back toward Nigel and
Marjorie. Sharpe shook his head, feeling it all wash over it and
beyond. He put his hands to his tunic and unbuttoned it quickly with
the ease of the practised. He slid it off and flung it to the grass,
unimpressed by its smell. He rolled up his sleeves and fell backwards,
wiping his hands over his face.
He heard the sound of footfalls on the shingle and
opened his eyes, putting his elbows under him to look.
"I have the only pocket-watch, sir," Harris said
genially, sitting down a few feet from him.
"Bully fer you," he said curtly, moving his elbows out and lying down again.
"That Nigel, sir," he said quietly. Sharpe opened an eye and looked at him.
"Well?"
"Watch your back, sir. Especially with him behind
it, sir," he said thoughtfully, clearing his throat.
"Dunt seem the type to know how to use a weapon,
much less carry one," he said dismissively.
"Yes sir, I share your doubts there." He paused.
"However, it seems Mr Nigel is rather… enamoured of you, sir.
Might be prudent to keep him at arm's length."
"What does that mean?" he asked, his confusion so innocent Harris chuckled.
"In the same way that Robinson is enamoured of every
Spanish skirt that crosses his path, sir," he said slowly.
Sharpe sat up slowly, staring at Harris. "Yer joking–"
"I think I'll be getting back to my 'battalion',
sir," he said with a wide grin, getting to his feet and doing just
that. Sharpe groaned, falling back to grass.
"Bloody great," he tutted to himself. "Wouldn't have minded if it were the sister."
THREE
The men marched hard under the sun, tunics off and
flung over one shoulder, rifles in their hands, ready. Hats had been
stuffed into pockets, shirts were unlaced and the men marched easier
for it.
Harper kept the speed up, his hands on his gun,
waiting for anyone to cross the road in front of them. He could feel
Sharpe's impatience, and looked at him.
He also had his tunic over his shoulder, his rifle
in his hand, his boots crunching over the shingle in that curious gait
of his. He was watching the road ahead, sweat occasionally dripping
from his chin, his eyes communicating most admirably just how much he
enjoyed chivvying civilians to hurry.
Their horses were between the officers and the men,
keeping good pace with them. Harper knew it would also grate with the
Major that these civvies had horses and weren't actually walking
themselves, and yet still found excuse to moan.
"I say, Mr Harp –"
"Sharpe!" he bit out.
"Yes. Could we stop?" Nigel Hindle called out, as
always oblivious to Sharpe's interruption. Sharpe looked at Harper.
"Halt," he said quietly. Harper's mouth rounded into
an 'o' shape, his eyebrows arching in trepidation, as he turned to the
men.
"Rifles! Halt!" he shouted. The men stopped
gratefully, shuffling into line wearily. Sharpe walked round to Nigel's
horse.
"Mr Hindle," he said loudly, stopping a few feet from the saddle and looking up at him.
"Mr Harp, I know –"
"Sharpe! It's Sharpe! How many bloody times!" he
bellowed. The men sniggered. "I'm about this close to marching on
without you! You're slowing us down, causing my men to hang back so as
they don't have to listen to you moaning about the bloody weather
– which is always like this, Mr Hindle, it's Spain – and
you have the balls to demand we stop? This is an army march, Mr Hindle,
not a bloody countryside tour!" he shouted. Harper glanced at the men
and they stopped sniggering. "Now I were ordered to escort you to meet
up with the battalion, and that's what I'm going to do. But it dunt say
anything about you being conscious. Now put up and shut up, before we
make other arrangements for yer entry into the village!" he roared.
Nigel, atop his horse and visibly shaken, looked at Peter for support of some kind.
"Peter, I only -"
"Chap has a good argument, Nigel," Peter said
apologetically. "Look, we can manage, we have horses, eh?" he said
brightly. "These poor souls have nothing but their feet. We should be
grateful we have our animals, Nigel. Poor Mr Sharpe has bent over
backwards for us, wouldn't you say?" he asked charmingly. Nigel let his
mouth hang loose a second, causing a ripple of sniggers through the
Chosen Men, but Harper hissed and they stopped abruptly.
"Oh, well, yes, I suppose –"
"Sergeant, march!" Sharpe snapped, turning and
walking to the front again. Harper turned the men and grinned widely.
"Rifles! March!" he called, and the men picked up their weapons and followed the horses.
It was near dark before they sighted the battalion.
"Sir," Harper called, "Hagman reports we're less
than a quarter mile behind. They're camping by the river, sir," he
said. Sharpe nodded.
"Good. Tell the men to get a bloody move on. Let's
catch 'em and camp before proper dark," he said. Harper nodded,
floating back toward the men. He found a horse drawing up alongside him
and looked up, fearing the worst.
"Mr Sharpe," said Peter, and Sharpe breathed an
unconscious sigh of relief. "I would like to apologise for my brother's
behaviour. He's harmless, really, but not too bright sometimes. He just
cannot bear the hot weather, you see," he said, his pained expression
almost making Sharpe feel guilty for his earlier outburst.
"And I can't bear being held up," he admitted.
"I appreciate that, Mr Sharpe, but my brother does
not. He has had a wealthy upbringing, and sometimes doesn't understand
other people's points of view," he said.
"And you, sir?" he asked plainly. "Do you understand others' points of view?"
"I try, Mr Sharpe," he said pleasantly. "Look, I
know it's probably not what you would enjoy, but would you care to dine
with us this evening? We have some excellent food," he said warmly.
Sharpe sighed.
"Actually, Mr Hindle, I –"
"My sister would also like to apologise," he put in. "She feels she has mis-judged you."
"Mis-judged?" he asked, curious. "I've said three words to her."
"Well, women are nothing if not peculiar," he shrugged apologetically.
"You're right there," Sharpe muttered under his
breath. He thought of his food rations and the inevitable stolen
chicken than awaited him at the army camp, and sighed. "Fair enough, Mr
Hindle, I'll have dinner with you lot," he said, looking at him.
"You are too kind, sir," he smiled, relieved.
He marched the men into camp, looking around for
Colonel Parker's tent. He grabbed a private walking past his motley
band of men and horses.
"Where's the Colonel?" he asked.
"At the end," the man shrugged, not recognising
Sharpe's rank with his sash hidden in his pocket. Sharpe released him
and turned to Harper.
"Dismiss the men, Sergeant, get 'em bivouacked," he said.
"Rifles! Halt!" he called. The men stopped and
Sharpe and the horses continued. Sharpe heard Harper dismissing the
group of riflemen and walked on, his gaze passing over the red coated
men still putting up tents and lighting campfires. He turned to the
first horse behind him, knowing it was Peter.
"Mr Hindle, I have to report to the Colonel. You are
free to see to your family," he said, nodding.
"Thank you, Mr Sharpe," he said, turning his horse.
Sharpe walked on to the far tent, finding it already up and a full
allowance of rations cooking. He paused at the smell of chicken and let
his mouth water for a second, before approaching the man at the tent
flap.
"Major Sharpe, to see the Colonel," he said. The man
ducked his head inside, said something, then pulled it back out quickly.
"Please wait, sir," he said, casting an eye over the
tunic still in the officer's hand. Sharpe ignored him and stepped back
one, looking around the camp in the falling night. The tent flap parted
and Parker walked out, his tunic also spared and his boots off. He
smiled when he saw Sharpe.
"Ah, there you are, Major. Thought we'd lost you," he grinned.
"You know civilians, sir, walk slower than Spaniards," he said grimly. Parker nodded.
"Quite, quite," he said, nodding professionally,
"bad show of me to make fun, eh?" He waved Sharpe over as he walked
from the tent slowly. "Do you know why we're going to this village,
Sharpe?" he asked quietly.
"No sir," he admitted. He had been told to go, so he went.
"Supplies, Major. We're going to steal some French supplies. That do you?" he asked.
"Yes sir," Sharpe replied, smiling slightly. "Do they hold the village, sir?"
"Not at all. But they raid it every so often and
take what they want. The villagers have got wise to this, and now they
simply put it out in the main square on a cart. The French go in, take
the cart, and simply walk off with it." He waved Sharpe to follow him
as he walked further from the privates cooking for him.
"And the people just let them, sir?"
"Oh you must understand Major that if they didn't
provide, the French would simply attack and take it anyway, burning
what they want and taking the women too, I shouldn't wonder," he said,
grimacing at the prospect as they walked. "This way they get left alone."
"So we're going to walk in and take it, sir?" he asked indignantly.
"Yes Major. What's the matter, too simple for you?" he asked knowingly.
"Well, just seems… like –"
"Come now Major. We're taking it before the French arrive, that's all."
"Yes sir. But what happens when the French arrive
and find there's nowt for 'em, sir? What will they do to the villagers,
sir?" he asked curiously. Parker looked at him.
"Do? Do? That's no concern of ours, Major. They are
Spanish, you know," he added shortly. Sharpe stared at him.
"We're just going to leave 'em to it?" he demanded. "The General will have a fit, sir!"
"Major, we can't –"
"Why don't we just wait for the French to turn up,
wipe 'em out, and then take the supplies, sir?" he asked earnestly. The
Colonel stopped walking and stared at him.
"My, my, Sharpe," he said quietly. "Can you imagine
the furore that would cause in London?" he demanded. Sharpe wasn't
quite sure what a furore was, but it didn't sound good.
"Can you imagine what a kick up the arse it'd be for
the French?" he countered. "Sir." The Colonel stared for a long moment,
then turned away, sighing. He looked back at Sharpe.
"I had heard you were not an easy man to work with,"
he said quietly. "I had heard you were a bugger for messing up other,
better men's plans." He considered Sharpe's face, which looked less
than concerned by this. "However, I can see the… merit in your
plan," he said, his face breaking into a small smile. "Yes… I
can see great merit in it. Great merit indeed." He put a finger to his
chin, turning away again. Sharpe just waited, transferring his tunic
from one hand to the other.
Parker turned back to him. "By Jove, I think we'll
do it too!" he grinned. "I'll send a rider to Wellington's camp, of
course," he said. "All we have to do is get to the village before the
French do, ingratiate ourselves with the locals, convince them we're
there to stop the French, and then lie in wait," he said. He clapped
his hands together. "Marvellous suggestion, Sharpe! Marvellous!" he
cried.
"If I could make one more, sir," he said quietly.
Parker looked at him, nodding and waving his hand in a circular
gesture. "Let's go in and stay out of uniform. So we don't look like
we're laying siege to the bloody village - hide our numbers an' that."
"Excellent!" Parker cried, nodding enthusiastically.
"As you say, we don't want the French to spot us waiting for them, do
we?" He grinned. "Well, an excellent day's work all round for you,
Major! Good night then, and sleep easy. Dismissed," he said, patting
his shoulder.
Sharpe nodded and walked away slowly, wiping a hand over
his face. He walked back through the camp, down the two long lines of
tents, looking for his own. Eventually he found one that looked
familiar through its green grass stains on the left flap, and walked
toward it.
"Harper?" he called.
"He's washing," Ramona said, appearing, as always,
as if from nowhere. Sharpe looked at her.
"Washing what?" he asked.
"Himself! He smell like – an animal!" she
tutted, then looked at him. "And you too! You filthy men, always dirty
and muddy. Aaaiii, if there were no women, you men will be smelly and
dirty all day…" she continued, waving her hands and walking
away. He lifted his forearm and smelt the shirt sleeve, then tutted and
looked around.
He walked to the tent, dumping his tunic on the
made-up bed inside. He peeled off the smelly shirt, looking around for
his pack. He found it and opened it, rummaging through, but found no
other shirt. Cursing, he stood and picked up the dirty shirt, then slid
his tunic back on, not bothering to button it. He ducked back out of
the tent and looked around, listening. He smiled and headed in the
direction of the water.
He came upon a river, grinning and walking to the
rocks that served as a bank. It was a good twenty feet wide, with a
fast current and sharp rocks sprinkled through it. He looked at his
shirt, then down at himself, and then heard splashing and singing. He
frowned, walking to the edge of the rocks and around the largest one to see down the bank.
There was Harper, thirty feet upstream, standing chest-deep in freezing
running water, splashing and rubbing at his arms with a huge grin on
his face.
"Hey! You dozy bog-treader! People have to drink
that!" he called out, grinning. Harper looked round.
"Another two minutes and you'd have been in here
too, and no mistake!" he called back. "My clothes are already drying,
so they are. I've a head start on you!" he shouted.
"Right yer bastard," Sharpe said determinedly under
his breath, yanking off his boots and stripping off his uniform in
double-quick time. He looked at the fast-running water, feeling the
heat of dusk on his skin, and then put a foot in. It was freezing and
he hesitated. His other bare foot slid on the rock, and no amount of
nimble footwork prevented him from tumbling into the water with a
shout. He surfaced, grabbing at his clothes lest they get carried away,
and threw them toward the rocks. He heard Harper laughing. "Bastard!"
he shouted in his direction, before reaching the rocks and taking down
his shirt, dunking it in the water and letting the water flow through
it for a few minutes. He let himself start to relax, let the cold water
cool his temper, and reached for the trousers.
He did his best to rinse out his uniform, then
climbed out and arranged them over the bushes. He stood there, hands on
hips, watching the cold water seep out of them and wondering just how
long they would take to dry out enough that he could put them back on.
He sighed, shaking his head and turning back to the river. He sat on
the edge of the rock, dangling his feet in the water. Harper strode
over through the waves, looking at him.
"So what did that Colonel Parker have to say?" he asked.
"He said to find that Irishman and make sure he weren't drunk," he replied, seriously.
"Good news is it then?" he asked, putting his hands
on the rocks and hauling himself out. He sat on the edge, two feet from
his commanding officer, letting his feet sink back into the water.
"We're to go into the village, make friends with the
people, and then lie in wait fer the Frogs."
"And then?" Harper asked, grinning.
"We're going to chase 'em off and nick all their
food," he said simply, looking at him apologetically. Harper laughed.
"Oh, that's a good one. And I suppose I get to pick
the finest apples from the cart?" he asked. Sharpe's smile dropped.
"Yeah," he said seriously. Harper stopped laughing.
"By God, you're serious," he realised.
"As yellow fever," he said.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Harper swore.
"Exactly," Shape commiserated. "It's my fault, I
told the Colonel we couldn't just steal a supply cart from the
villagers and run away, leaving 'em empty-handed when the Frogs came,"
he said. "Bloody hell."
"Ah well. Maybe we'll be lucky, and the Frogs will
only have half our number of men," he said. "After all, how many Frogs
does it take to go and get a supply wagon?" he reasoned.
"I don't know, how many Frogs does it take to go and
get a supply wagon?" Sharpe replied, and Harper laughed. They heard
someone calling through the trees and Ramona appeared. She caught sight
of the two of them, sitting in their white regulation shorts, dripping on the
rocks they were sitting on.
"No brains," she sighed simply, walking over and
handing each of them a clean pair of trousers.
"Thanks Ramona," Sharpe said, getting to his feet
and pulling them on. Harper stood, looking at her.
"I'm smelling much better now," he grinned, and she smiled, shaking her head.
"Yes, but can you follow me back into camp, not
dressing like that?" she teased, before squeezing his chin. She turned
and walked off, laughing. Harper watched her go.
"You know, I think God put women on the Earth to
test us, so he did," he said, shaking his head as he walked away from
the river, still holding his trousers in his hand. Sharpe followed him,
pausing to push his feet into his boots and collect his uniform.
"You're right there," he agreed, folding his uniform
over his arm and buttoning up the front of his trousers securely.
Harper disappeared into the darkness, and Sharpe turned and made his way
back toward camp. He hadn't gone two minutes before Harper caught him
up, his trousers on and carrying his own uniform.
"So, what's all this about dinner with the snooty lot?" he asked curiously.
"The Hindles, Harper. Something about saying sorry
fer holding us up, like," he said as they walked.
"Oh. Good food, is it?" he asked. Sharpe grinned.
"Why do you think I'm going?" he asked. Harper slapped him on the shoulder.
"You officers get all the perks, sir," he laughed.
"Hello?" someone called, and they turned to their left
to find Nigel Hindle appearing from the bushes. The two men stopped,
looking at him.
"Mr Hindle?" Harper asked, surprised. "Did you get
lost, sir?" he asked kindly, grinning. Nigel looked the two men up and
down, Harper noticing he took his time over Sharpe.
"Er, yes, yes I did," he said urgently, stepping out
of the bushes. He looked at Sharpe. His face, this time. "I came to
find you, Mr Harp. Peter is rather worried you weren't coming."
"Oh, I… er, needed a bath," he admitted,
sniffing and wiping a dribble of water from his forehead. His hair
still dripped down him.
"Oh yes, I can imagine," Nigel said with a small smile, and Harper cleared his throat.
"Well sir, we need to get back to our tents and
cleaned up, if you'll excuse us," he said, pulling Sharpe by the arm.
Sharpe nodded to him and let himself be pulled. They heard Nigel
crashing around in the foliage and didn't look back. "That bugger's
following you, so he is," Harper said.
"Don't be daft, Pat. He's just lost," he allowed, trying to be fair.
"Aye, in more ways than one," he said. Sharpe looked at him.
"So if we were looking fer me, why is still hunting
round the bushes?" he asked. Harper and Sharpe stopped, looking back.
They looked at each other.
"I told you the rich were a funny lot," Harper sighed. Sharpe shook his head.
"Let's just get back to camp. I've a spare tunic
while this lot dries," he said. They walked on.
"Ah, Mr Sharpe, good to see you," Peter Hindle
said, meeting him at the tent flaps. He put his hand out and Sharpe
shook it cautiously. "Please, step this way – you must be hungry
after that long march," he said pleasantly.
"A little," he lied, following Peter as he turned
and walked around the tent. He found enough food and stools for four
people, and walked over, looking around. "All yours?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," Peter said, flapping a hand at the three
tents. Sharpe wondered, in a detached way, if Peter really worried
about his sister sleeping alone in the middle of an army camp. He
pushed it from his mind and looked at him. "Please, sit," he said,
waving at the stools. Sharpe chose the one further from the fire in the
middle, and Peter sat opposite him. "I just wanted to say thank you for
providing us with such splendid safety, Mr Sharpe," he said. "After
all, Nigel tells me you think there are French afoot. Tell me, do you
really believe so?" he asked, fascinated.
"I know so, sir. Smelt 'em not so long ago," he admitted, but Peter laughed.
"Oh really. Nigel's right, you do have a delightful
sense of humour," he grinned. Sharpe just nodded. He got to his feet as
he spotted Nigel and Marjorie approaching from behind Peter's tent.
Nigel was dressed in a dark evening jacket, with beige jodhpurs that
seemed rather more expensive than Sharpe's entire outfit. He looked at
Marjorie.
She had changed into an elegant cream bodice, a
lacy, fancy blouson over the top. It blew around in the slight breeze
as she lifted her long, heavy skirts to step over the tent guy-ropes.
Her long chestnut hair was wrapped around a large comb and she had
pinned it into place with great success. She had a pale blue silk scarf
tied high round her neck, and Sharpe wondered if it was something to do
with her alluded illness. He waited.
"Evening, Mr Harp, evening," Nigel said, making no
attempt to shake hands. 'Sharpe', the Major mouthed to himself. Nigel didn't notice, merely finding a seat and plonking himself down
in it squarely. Sharpe watched Marjorie pick her way to the last
remaining free seat with grace. He cleared his throat.
"Evening Mr Hindle, ma'am," he said, nodding to her.
She looked up and pinned him with a stare that could have been broken
up and served in some of Harper's whiskey. Sharpe's eyebrows raised all
by themselves, then he simply gave up and sat slowly. She sat coldly,
arranging her skirts and looking at
Peter. Sharpe noticed her stern gaze didn't relax much, and for some
reason he felt relieved she appeared to treat everyone with such
disdain, not just himself.
"Really Mr Harp, you must call me Nigel," he said
warmly. Sharpe caught his brother's look of annoyance and filed it away
for future reference. "And what should I call you?" he asked.
"Sharpe," he said pleasantly. Peter appeared to smile. Nigel laughed.
"Oh come now. What does your man call you?" he asked.
"My man?" Sharpe asked, confused.
"You know, that fine stout fellow – the
Sergeant with the big arms," he said. Sharpe frowned, wondering just
what kind of description that was supposed to be, and then sniffed.
"Major," he said, and he heard an odd wheezing
sound. He looked at Marjorie and saw her laughing, her hand over her
mouth. Nigel, however, appeared disappointed.
"Ah well. Anyway, let me serve," he said brightly,
springing up from his seat and rushing to the various cooking pots
slightly to the left of the tents. Peter looked at Sharpe, bending to
pick up a bottle of something dark red. He poured three glasses,
handing one to the lady first, before handing one to Sharpe. Sharpe
noticed he poured one for Nigel before himself, setting it in the grass
by his stool for him.
"So, Major, tell us about yourself," he said warmly.
"All we see it what's written in the newspapers and suchlike," he said.
Sharpe considered him, wondering just what it was about his voice that
struck a chord. He smiled slightly.
"I go wherever Wellington wants, fight whoever he
wants, and then go home and clean me kit," he said succinctly. Peter
grinned, nodding.
"And you usually win, Mr Sharpe, if what I hear is
true," he said. Sharpe shrugged non-commitedly, and Peter looked at
Marjorie. "My sister here reads avidly. She says you're quite a
headliner," he said.
"She says that, does she sir?" Sharpe asked guilelessly, and Peter reached for his drink.
"Well, you know, she shows me the papers when we can
get them," he said slowly. Sharpe nodded, sparing Marjorie a glance.
"I see, sir," he said.
"Really, you must call me Peter." He
paused, taking a long sip of the drink. "And wherever do you hail from,
Mr Sharpe?" he asked. "Quite a strange voice for an officer, what?" he
asked.
"London."
"London? Well, can't say I've been there in…
oh, nearly five years now I must say, eh Marjorie? But last time I was
there I can't remember them talking as you do," he said slyly. "I sense
a story here, eh?" he said, looking at his sister again. She smiled and
nodded, looking at Sharpe and putting her chin in her elbow, resting it
on her knee. She watched him and he got the message.
"I was born in London, but… moved cities," he allowed. "Bit of a misunderstanding."
"Between gentlemen?" Peter enquired.
"Summat like that."
"Over money, I shouldn't wonder," Peter smiled.
"Over a dead man, Peter," he said quietly. Peter sat back, nodding seriously.
"I see. Is that how you came to be in the army?" he
asked. Marjorie looked at Peter, then back at Sharpe. Sharpe eyed her
suddenly.
"Summat like that."
"I see. Well, you see before you a travelling
caravan of cartographers," he said, indicating Marjorie and himself.
"Used to work for Barlow and Sons, did some damned fine work, even if I
do say so myself," he grinned. "Did very well out of that, decided to
broaden our horizons a little. We volunteered for all this map-making
lark out here, and here we are, doing our bit for King and country," he
grinned. Sharpe nodded, although he very much doubted he was getting
even half the story.
"Will you go back, Peter?" he asked.
"Eventually, Mr Sharpe, eventually," he sighed.
Marjorie sniffed and Sharpe looked at her. She frowned at him and shook
her head ever so slightly. He let his chin raise and then looked away
silently, before letting it fall again, knowing she was still watching
him. So he is talking crap, he thought.
"Here we are," Nigel said, appearing with food. They talked, and ate.
Sharpe wandered back to his tent, confused and
tired. Peter had seemed nice enough, but had spent the best part of the
evening convincing him he was rich yet tired of it all. Nigel had been
rather too zealous in his admiration for Sharpe's exploits, while
Marjorie had sat and watched, her face indicating to Sharpe very
clearly who was telling the truth and when.
He unbuttoned his best tunic as he walked, sliding
it off and carrying it by the collar back to his tent. He heard the
unmistakable sounds of riflemen gossiping as he rounded the corner.
"What's all this?" he asked, finding Harper, Robinson and Taylor sat round cups of tea.
"Just having a wee blether, sir," Harper said. "Did
you enjoy your dinner, sir?" he asked. Sharpe walked past them and sat
on the spare stool tiredly.
"Not particularly. Interesting, though," he added thoughtfully. Harper grinned at Robinson.
"And ah, what did you find out then sir?" he asked. Sharpe sighed.
"That Peter lies through his teeth, Nigel's the
worst fop since Mr Price, and that sister's got a right mardy stare on
her," he admitted. Harper laughed.
"So what lies did Mr Peter Hindle tell you, sir?"
Taylor asked. Ten years of snatching purses in London's barrowed
streets had taught him to watch people's actions carefully. Sharpe had
not sat comfortably.
"He reckons he's rich and dunt want it," he said. "Can't believe that," he added quietly.
"Bet it were a rich father," Robinson put in sourly. "Wish I'd had one."
"Naw… says he got rich making maps," Sharpe
said, confused. "Is there really money in that?" he asked.
"Depends, sir," Taylor put in. "Work for the right company, you could make a mint."
"Is Barlow and Sons a posh name then?" Sharpe asked. Robinson looked at him, surprised.
"Barlow and Sons? Near Castlefield?" he asked. Sharpe looked at him.
"Aye, he mentioned summat about a castle," he said.
"Castlefield is a place, sir. Up in the Cotton
City," he said. "Barlow and Sons are the best cartographers in the
parish."
"'The Cotton City'?" Harper interrupted.
"Manchester," Robinson supplied. "Why would he be
over here if he made his money wi' them, sir?" he asked, confused.
"They hire fer life, they do. Don't want to let you go, in case you end
up working fer't opposition and suchlike."
Sharpe looked at him suddenly. "What?" he asked quickly.
"Well, other map houses and... suchlike," Robinson
said lamely. Sharpe nodded, grinning. Robinson looked at Sharpe and
then everyone else, just as mystified. "What did I say?" he asked
nervously. Sharpe shook his head.
"Nothing, rifleman, nothing," he said slowly, but
Harper could see his crafty smile was failing to hide some great
discovery. "Right then, get yerselves off to yer tents. Go on," he
said, getting up slowly.
FOUR
The next day was spent marching to the village in
the boiling heat. As soon as it was sighted, the Colonel halted his men
and called a galloper to reach Sharpe and bring him back from his
Chosen Men's scout ahead.
Sharpe reached him after half an hour, finding the
South Essex fallen out in the heat. He approached the Colonel, who
appeared to be sharing a pipe with Peter Hindle.
"Ah, there you are, Mr Sharpe," he said in his
booming voice. "Jolly hot day, what?" he grinned.
"Sir," Sharpe replied.
"Well, here we are," he said. "I trust you and your men found nothing?" he asked.
"Not yet, sir," he said.
"Good, good. That means we're here before those
damned French," he grinned. "I'll need you and Mr Hindle here," he
said. "We're to go in and make friends with the locals. That do you,
Sharpe?" he asked, as if the Major had a choice.
"Sir," he said smartly.
"Good man. Well then, Mr Hindle, if you please," he
said graciously. Sharpe watched them, wondering why a civilian like
Peter was being asked to help persuade a village head that they were
there for the village's protection. And food. He followed, ever
watchful, keeping the rifle tight in his hand.
They reached the gates of the village and stopped.
Twenty foot high and made of solid wood, Sharpe suddenly had a bad
feeling. How could it be so easy for the French to simply batter them
down and attack the place? These gates were not new, and yet carried no
sword or scorch marks. Perhaps they had been taken from another,
undamaged entrance, but he sincerely doubted it. He looked around,
something making him look up at the tops of them.
He saw a face looking out at him, before it
disappeared behind the gate. He started, stepping back one as if this
would make it possible to see where the face was now hiding.
"Major?" the Colonel asked, and Sharpe looked down
to find the two men had reached the gate and were pounding on it.
Sharpe looked up again, saw no face, and walked over.
A small shutter opened and a man looked out at them.
Peter smiled, starting up some conversation in Spanish. Sharpe and the
Colonel waited, the Major realising why this civilian had been chosen
to accompany the Colonel after all. Neither Parker nor Sharpe spoke
enough Spanish to order food, and yet this gentleman seemed to be
discussing Life itself at great length and with little effort.
Eventually the man closed the shutter and Peter turned to them.
"He's going to let us in," he said. "I've told him
we've been sent by Wellington to protect their village, for a small fee
in food," he said, looking very pleased with himself.
"I take it he's amenable to the idea?" Colonel Parker grinned.
"Of course, Colonel. He seems most pleased we're
bringing red-coats to help him." He looked at Sharpe. "Sorry Major, he
thought you were a man-servant in that greenery," he smiled. Sharpe
just nodded, then looked around. He's not far wrong at the moment, he
thought to himself.
"So do we wait or what?" he asked, looking back at Peter.
"He needs to address the village at large first. He says to give him an hour."
"Good man! Now let's give the soldiers a good
talking to, Major. I don't want any trouble here," the Colonel said,
nodding to Peter and turning away. He walked off, and Sharpe looked at
Peter.
"Did you tell 'em we were here for the Frogs too?"
he asked him. Peter looked at him, before taking his elbow and walking
him away from the gate. Sharpe freed his arm, unimpressed at the
familiarity.
"I intimated we were here against any and all
comers," he said quietly. "I get the impression he does not fear the
French so much as… soldiers in general," he said.
"The men'll keep to themselves," Sharpe said, and
Peter looked at him dubiously. "They know that if they steal or go on
the rampage they'll be hung," he said firmly. Peter looked surprised.
"Oh. Well in that case, we have nothing to worry about," he said.
Sharpe and Harper were walking the village, getting
an idea of the size and general lay-out. The town houses were large and
cool, painted easy yellow and oranges, making the whole place look gay
and relaxing. The first two town houses had caught Sharpe's attention;
the one of the right hand side of the street because it had a wide,
open kitchen on the ground floor, and the opposite house because it had
an ancient-looking eight-pound gun on top. He had wanted to walk up and
inspect it, to see if it could be used in defence, but time constrained
him to rejoining the South Essex and finding them places to pretend to
be locals.
Colonel Parker was standing on a balcony, one storey
up, watching the street of red-coated men march up and into
pre-destined lodgings. He caught sight of the green-jacketed Major and
grinned. "Mr Sharpe! Up here, sir!" the Colonel called down.
Sharpe looked up and then at Harper. "Bloody hell,
now what does he want?" he muttered. "Sergeant, get the men settled and
find me."
"Sir," Harper nodded, and Sharpe turned and walked
to the building, finding the stairs and climbing them two at a time. He
arrived at the top and pulled his shako off, slinging his rifle and
hearing the Colonel's voice booming from one of the rooms.
"I'm sure you won't mind, it's only for a few
nights," Colonel Parker was saying. Sharpe knocked smartly on the
half-open door, and the three occupants turned. "Ah, Mr Sharpe. Be with
you in a moment. Just settling the Hindles," he said. Sharpe nodded,
hanging back in the hallway, noticing Marjorie was not among them. He
found that odd. He listened as the Colonel persuaded the two Hindles to
billet the three of them in the same room. At last he said his goodbyes and
walked to the door, walking out and closing it behind him. "Right then,
Mr Sharpe, you're this way," he said. Sharpe followed as the Colonel
strode off.
"Me, sir?" he asked.
"You, sir," the Colonel grinned. "Don't expect a
Major under me to rough it with the grunts, when he can have fine rooms
befitting his rank," he said. Sharpe let his shoulders sag.
"But it's not necessary, sir," he said, feeling the first pangs of guilt.
"Oh but it is, Mr Sharpe. You need a clean-up and a
fix-up, sir. You're starting to look like one of your men," he said as
they walked the landing. Sharpe began to protest that he always looked
like that, but the Colonel would not be swayed. "Nonsense, man. To
think you'd rather be sleeping in some barracks, ten men to a room. The
very thought," he scoffed, leading on.
He found him a room at the back of the town house, a
small but very clean affair. Just as he was left to himself and let his pack
fall onto the bed, someone knocked on the half-open door. In walked Nigel.
"So here you are, Major. Marvellous, simply
marvellous," he said, grinning. Sharpe just looked at him.
"Mr Hindle," he said politely.
"I was, er… just wondering…" He looked
over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be there.
"Well?" Sharpe asked.
"Well, Mr Harp, I –"
"Sharpe."
"Yes. I was wondering if you… felt safe, sir," he said nervously.
"Meaning?"
"Oh dear me," Nigel said faintly, wringing his
hands. He crossed and sat on Sharpe's bed abruptly. "I'm awfully
worried, you see," he said needlessly. "I… I'm rather averse to
being attacked by French soldiers," he continued, "I'm not really a
physical type. Scares me wretched," he added, looking just that. Sharpe
stood back, pinching at his nose absently, looking to the window.
"Look, er… Mr Hindle," he began, then didn't
know what to say. "Look, we have more than enough soldiers to stop 'em
from getting into this place. You saw the gates," he said, then looked
back at him. "It'd take a gun to get through 'em, and I can't see the
Frogs dragging a proper-sized cannon all the way over them hills, just
to come and get a cart of food."
"I see. So what you're saying is… you feel safe," Nigel said hopefully.
"Yes," Sharpe lied glibly.
"Oh, well that's a relief," he said, sagging
slightly, letting his hands drop. He looked at Sharpe curiously. He
opened his mouth but there was a knock on the door. They looked up to
find Marjorie looking at them. She seemed amused, but then just
gestured to Nigel with her head. He stood and walked over. "Peter, is
it?" he asked pleasantly. She nodded, and he moved to walk past her.
She looked at Sharpe, winked, and followed him out.
Sharpe frowned after her, then sighed and turned to
the window, looking out. He heard boots on the landing and in walked
Harper.
"There y'are sir, been looking all over for you, so
I have," he said. "The Colonel found me, told me to bring your
belongings up," he added. "You staying here, sir?"
"Looks that way," he said grumpily. He looked at the
pack on his bed. "What belongings was he talking about?" he asked,
confused.
"Beats me, sir. He seems to think we travel with
matching suitcases," he grinned. Sharpe smiled at last.
"Well consider me stuff brought up already, Harper,"
he said. "Get back to the men, and wait wi' em while we find out how
long we're going to be stuck here," he added.
"Yes sir," he said.
"And Harper," he said quickly.
"Yes sir?"
"Keep an eye on that Nigel bloke," he said darkly, and Harper grinned.
"Oh yes, sir. No problem, sir," he said, turning and walking out.
The food was plentiful and the wine flowed as the
Colonel regaled them with tales of epic battles and brave heroes,
fighting and dying in their hundreds. The heads of the village
appreciated the running translation from Peter, and it seemed the
slight hum of Spanish voices and the Colonel's booming oratory would go
on forever.
Sharpe was seated next to one of the village heads,
an old, wise looking man with a huge pipe in his mouth. He ate very
little and listened a great deal. Sharpe wondered suddenly if he'd
heard the one about having more ears than mouths meant you had to
listen twice as much as you shouted, and couldn't help smiling to
himself at the memory. He found it hurt less than it used to.
On his left was Marjorie, who had used every excuse
to stifle her yawns for the past hour. She was dressed very finely in a
silk dress and matching modest shawl, and again had a pale cream scarf
tied high round her neck. Sharpe had said very few words to her, but
she seemed to be in a good mood, despite her hidden weariness at the
Colonel's verbosity.
"Well said, Colonel," Nigel said suddenly, clapping
abruptly. "You really are a most gifted speaker, sir," he said
enthusiastically.
"Pompous bastard."
Sharpe heard the words and for a long moment
wondered why he'd said them out loud. Realisation dawned and he looked
at Marjorie. She noticed and looked at him quickly, her eyes widening
slightly. She looked away from his knowing stare quickly, picking up
her wine glass and sipping at it, keeping her face away from his.
He smiled slightly, unconsciously wetting his lower
lip with his tongue as he reached out for his own wine glass. He
drained it and placed it back on the table deliberately. He cleared his
throat clumsily.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I must check on the picquets,"
he said apologetically. The Colonel nodded.
"Oh yes, of course," he said. "Wouldn't do to have
the French appear in the night, would it?" he allowed.
"No, sir," Sharpe replied, nodding to everyone
respectfully. "Good evening gentlemen," he said. "Miss," he added,
smiling at Marjorie serenely. She stared at him, but he simply shoved
back his chair and got to his feet, walking from the room. He rounded
the door and grinned to himself, before walking off down the landing.
He was nearly to the top of the stairs of the town house when he heard
feet. He stopped and turned.
Marjorie was looking at him, annoyed. She crossed
the ten or so feet between them and looked up at him.
"Yes?" he asked, amused. She folded her arms,
huffing. "'Night Miss," he said graciously, inclining his head and
turning away.
"Smarmy arse," she hissed suddenly. He froze and thought about the voice for a long second. He turned slowly.
"You're a bad liar, and so's yer brother," he pointed out coldly.
"Takes one to know one," she countered. His eyes narrowed.
"So why do you do it?" he demanded, riled at having been deceived.
"You're too nosy by half," she snapped.
"And you're a bad-tempered little princess," he shot back.
"Lanky git!"
"Bloody snob!" he challenged stubbornly. They stood
there, staring at each other in the half-light. She smiled suddenly,
then shook her head.
"If only you knew, Major," she said sadly. She
looked around, then put a hand out and pulled him by the elbow of his
tunic. He glared at her but followed down the stairs and out into the
yard. She walked on, away from the steps, looking at him over her
shoulder. He followed cautiously.
"Well?" he demanded. She bit her lip, waiting for
him to draw closer before falling into step beside him.
"What do you think we're really here for?" she asked
quietly. He studied her face, drawn to the familiar sound.
"To give the Frogs a good kickin' and take their
food," he said carefully. She grinned, and they walked in silence for a
long few minutes. It struck him they were heading back toward the
soldier's lodgings.
"It's not just that," she said quietly, and he
watched her keenly. He thought about it, and their wandering took them
to a large barn door. She leaned on it, looking up at her.
"What else could it be?" he asked. "What do you
know?" he added, wondering why he trusted anything she said. He
realised he had done so since he had met her; following her cues during
dinner with her brothers, finding her being the brains behind Nigel's
whereabouts without questioning it. He could have smiled at himself.
"If it were just that, would we need the locals all
made up with us?" she said, one eyebrow raised. He stared at her.
"Where are you –"
They heard feet behind the barn door and she looked
at him, waving a hand over his mouth before turning and running back
through the darkness. For some reason he did not doubt her ability to
find her way back – or keep herself safe as she did so. It
bothered him slightly, until the barn door was wrenched open and Harper
stopped next to him.
"Jesus, another one!" he breathed, and Sharpe turned
from watching the darkness to look at him.
"'Ey?" he asked, not quite sure what conversation they were having.
"She talks just like you, sir!" he said.
"Not quite," he said thoughtfully. "Get in there,"
he said, pushing him back inside the barn. He followed, finding the
other six Chosen Men lying in the straw, dosing.
"Were that the young lass, sir?" Hagman said knowingly, and Sharpe looked at him.
"Aye, a right turn-up fer the Day Book," he said
ruefully, and Hagman laughed. He sat up in the straw as Harper crossed
over, watching Sharpe.
"But she talked just as funny as you, sir! All bent
and cock-eyed, and no mistake!" he said, surprised still. Sharpe looked at
him, amused, and Harper heard Robinson give a wary huff, rousing
himself from his straw bed. Hagman cleared his throat pointedly. "Not
that it's a bad thing – lovely lilt, so it is," he added hastily.
"Apart from the one them Pennines slackers use," Robinson put in cheekily.
"'Ey, less o' your lip, Cotton City boy," Sharpe
snorted, amused, and Hagman chuckled quietly.
"Now, now, yer all just upset because yer not proper
Cheshire lads. 'S no shame in it – I were born a Cheshire-man and
I'll die a Cheshire-man," he said proudly.
"Jesus, have you no ambition, man?" Harper quipped, and they all shared a chuckled.
"Is that why she kept silent the whole time, sir?"
Harris asked suddenly from a far corner of the hay. "I notice her
brothers are better spoken."
Robinson and Hagman saw Sharpe shoot a familiar
warning look at Harris, but he was obviously ensconced too far back in
the darkness to notice. Sharpe snorted suddenly in amusement.
"They're not brothers," he said dismissively.
"Oh no? What makes you say that, sir?" Harper asked curiously.
"Cos Nigel keeps forgetting that Marjorie's supposed
to be his sister," he said, then smiled broadly. "And as Harris says,
he speaks too gentile-like."
"But so does that Peter, sir," Harper pointed out.
Robinson, Hagman and Sharpe looked at him, a similarly
knowledgeable expression on their faces.
"That's learnt, that is. And I think I know what
it's trying to hide," he said thoughtfully.
"Where do you think they're from, sir?" Robinson asked eagerly.
"Don't know. Have to get her to open her mouth
first," he said, his mind on other things. Robinson and Hagman
exchanged a glance, Harper grinning. Sharpe noticed. "What?" he asked,
that look of innocent confusion on his face.
"Shouldn't be too hard, sir," Harper reassured him.
"You heard her, Pat. She's not exactly enamoured of me," he stressed.
"Wear her down with kindness, sir. All women love the polite and gentile," Harris put in.
"I'll do you a swap then," he said easily, unamused.
"You can amaze her, talking about all them books and poetry stuff you
read." He waited, but they heard Harris sniff in the darkness.
"Thank you, but I think she'd respond better to an officer," he said smugly.
"Bloody hell," Sharpe muttered.
