Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy Read online

  ‘Probably.’

  Harper shook his head, massively and slowly. ‘God save Ireland. I would never have believed it. Will you talk to the General?’

  Sharpe shook his head. He had thought of it, but instantly dismissed the thought. He had once saved Wellington’s life, but the debt had long been repaid and the General had already promoted him Captain once. It was not Wellington’s fault that the gazette had been refused, if it had, or that a lawyer had sold a commission illegally. It happened all the time. ‘I can’t run to him every time there’s trouble.’ He shrugged. ‘Something’ll turn up, Patrick, it always does.’

  Harper, unappeased, slammed a fist against a wall, startling a sleeping dog. ‘I don’t believe it! They can’t do it!’

  ‘They can.’

  ‘Then they’re fools.’ Harper thought for a second. ‘Would you be thinking of moving on?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Back to the Rifles?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing’s certain yet. Anyway, the Rifles have all the officers they need, and then more.’

  ‘So you have thought about it.’ Harper nodded to himself. ‘Would you promise me something?’

  Sharpe smiled. ‘I know, and the answer’s yes.’

  ‘By God, I’ll not stay on here without you. I’ll go back to the Rifles with you. You need someone sensible near you.’

  They parted at the officers’ house, just as the great cloud bank engulfed Elvas in shadow and a promise of rain. Sharpe paused in the archway. ‘I’ll see you at four.’

  ‘Aye, sir, I hope it’s you.’ There was to be a parade at four at which Colonel Windham would inspect his new battalion.

  Sharpe nodded. ‘So do I. Make it a good turn-out.’

  He did not know where Windham would be, so he paused in the hallway and saw the array of clean, new shakoes on the table. He could not face the big room, the Mess, the pitying glances of his fellow-officers and the inevitable confrontation with Rymer, so he stayed in the hall and stared at a huge, gloomy painting of a white-cassocked priest who was being burned at a stake. The soldiers who stoked the faggots were mean-faced, weaselly, and obviously intended to be the English, while the suffering priest had an ethereal look of forgiveness and martyrdom. Sharpe hoped the bastard had hurt.

  ‘Captain Sharpe?’ He turned. A small Major with a clipped moustache was looking at him from a doorway.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Collett. Major Collett. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sharpe. Heard of you, of course. This way.’

  Sharpe was regretting his lack of charity to the long burned priest, wondering if the evil wish would bring him bad luck, so he looked up at the painting and winked at the man. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What’s that, Sharpe?’

  ‘Nothing, sir, nothing.’ He followed Collett into the parlour of the house; a room hung with more gloomy, religious pictures and with vast, brown curtains that seemed to enclose the room in premature night. Colonel Windham was at a low table, feeding scraps of meat to his dogs, and he did not look up as Collett led Sharpe into the room.

  ‘Sir! This is Sharpe, sir!’ Collett could have been Windham’s twin; the same bowed, horseman’s legs, the same leathery skin, and the same cropped grey hair, but, as the Colonel looked up, Sharpe saw shrewd lines on Windham’s face that were lacking on the Major. The Colonel nodded affably. ‘You like dogs, Sharpe?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Faithful beasts, Sharpe. Feed ’em regular, kick ’em often, and they’ll do anything for you. Just like soldiers, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He was standing awkwardly, shako in hand, and Windham waved him towards a chair.

  ‘Brought the beasts with me. I hear there’s some decent sport to be had. Do you hunt, Sharpe?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Fine sport! Fine sport!’ He was holding a scrap of beef high, teasing a hound with it so that the dog jumped vainly, higher and higher, until Windham dropped the food and the dog snapped it in mid air, and took it, growling, beneath the table. ‘Shouldn’t spoil ’em, of course. Bad for them. That’s Jessica, my wife.’ He was pointing to the table.

  ‘Your what, sir?’

  ‘Wife, Sharpe, wife. Wife’s called Jessica. Colonel’s Lady, and that sort of thing. Mrs Windham.’ He offered the various categories of his wife in a rapid voice and Sharpe understood that he was not referring to the dog beneath the table, but to an oval portrait, about six inches high, that stood above the dog. The portrait was mounted in a superb filigree silver frame and it showed a woman with dark, severe hair, a receding chin, and an expression of terrifying disapproval. Sharpe had the distinct feeling that the chewing dog would be a better companion, but the Colonel’s face softened as he looked at the painting. ‘A good woman, Sharpe, a good woman. A force for the good in society.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe was beginning to feel slightly confused. He had come to the meeting expecting to be told about the Company, about Rymer, even to be reprimanded for the fracas at the stable yard, but, instead, the new Colonel of the Battalion was extolling the virtues of a good wife.

  ‘She takes a keen interest, Sharpe, very keen. Knows about you. Wrote to me when I said I was getting the Battalion and sent me a scrap from a newspaper. She thinks you’ve done well, Sharpe.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘She’s eager to see people better themselves. Isn’t that true, Jack?’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’ Collett rapped the words out with an alacrity that made Sharpe wonder if Collett’s role in life was to agree with everything the Colonel said. Windham put the portrait back on the table. He had been holding it, cradling it between his hands.

  ‘What was that business about this morning, Sharpe?’

  ‘A private argument, sir. It’s been dealt with.’ He felt a stab of satisfaction at the memory of punching Hakeswill.

  Windham was not satisfied. ‘What was the argument about?’

  ‘The girl was insulted, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ The expression was one of profound disapproval. ‘Local girl?’

  ‘Spanish, sir.’

  ‘Following the troops, no doubt. I want the women cleared out, Sharpe. Proper wives can stay, of course, but there are too many whores. Looks bad. Clear them out!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘The whores, Sharpe. You’re to clear them out.’ Windham nodded as if, the command being given, the deed was as well as done. Sharpe saw him glance, very quickly, at the portrait of the stern Jessica and the Rifleman suspected that Mrs Windham’s keen interest in the Battalion extended, by letter, to its moral welfare.

  ‘Where do I clear them to, sir?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The next battalion, sir?’

  Collett stiffened, but Windham did not take offence. ‘I take your point, Sharpe, but I want them discouraged. Understand? I shall make an example of men caught brawling over women.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The Colonel obviously intended being busy.

  ‘Number two, Sharpe. Battalion’s wives are to parade for inspection each Sunday. Ten of the forenoon. You parade them, I’ll inspect them.’

  ‘A wives’ inspection, sir. Yes, sir.’ Sharpe kept his thoughts to himself. Such a parade was not unusual in England, but it was rare in Spain. Officially the wives were subject to army discipline, though very few of them accepted the fact, and Sharpe suspected that the coming Sundays would be amusing, if nothing else. But why him? Why not one of the Majors, or even the Sergeant Major?

  ‘Ten o’clock, Sharpe. And I don’t want any unmarried women on parade. Tell ’em that. I’ll demand papers. I want no one like that girl this morning!’

  ‘That was my wife, sir.’ Sharpe had no idea why he said it, unless it was to puncture Windham’s air of certainty, and it worked. The Colonel’s mouth dropped; he looked to Collett for help, received none, and stared back at Sharpe.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My wife, sir. Mrs Sharpe.’

  ‘Good God.’ The Colonel
leafed through papers that were beside his own wife’s portrait. ‘There’s no note here of your marriage.’

  ‘It was private, sir.’

  ‘When? Who gave permission?’

  ‘Sixteen months ago, sir.’ He smiled at the Colonel. ‘We have a daughter, nearly eight months old.’

  He could see the Colonel adding up the figures, receiving the wrong answer, and the discrepancy effectually stopped any more questioning. Windham was embarrassed. ‘Owe you an apology, Sharpe. No offence, I trust.’

  ‘None, sir.’ Sharpe smiled seraphically.

  ‘Lives with the Battalion, does she? Mrs Sharpe?’

  ‘No, sir. In Spain. She has employment there.’

  ‘Employment!’ Windham looked suspicious. ‘What does she do?’

  ‘Kills Frenchmen, sir. She’s a Partisan, known as “La Aguja”. The needle.’

  ‘Good God alive!’ Windham gave up. He had heard about Sharpe from Lawford and from a dozen other people, and he had construed the information as a kind of warning. Sharpe, he had been told, was an independent man, effective in battle, but liable to use irregular means to succeed. He had come up from the ranks, the Colonel knew, which had to be a liability. Windham had never known a man from the ranks to make a successful officer. Either the power went to their heads, or the drink did, and, whichever it was, the men usually resented them. They were good for one thing though; administration. They knew the system backwards, far better than other officers, and they made the best drill-masters in the army. It was true that Lawford had said Sharpe was an exception, but Windham was fifteen years older than Lawford and reckoned he knew the army better. He conceded that Sharpe’s record was magnificent, but it was also undeniably true that the man had been given uncommon freedom, and freedom, Windham knew, was a damned dangerous thing. It could give a man ideas well above his station, but he still found himself reluctant to cut him down, even though that was his duty. Windham liked to jump his fences straight, yet here he was, dithering like an old woman on a tubed nag searching for a gap in the hedge! ‘I’ve been lucky, Sharpe.’

  ‘Lucky, sir?’

  ‘In my establishment.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe felt like a man who has known execution was coming, but did not believe it, and now the barrels of the firing squad were being levelled.

  ‘Eleven Captains, it’s too much!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Windham glanced at Collett, but the Major had his eyes down, being no help at all. Damn it then! Straight at the fence! ‘Rymer has to have the Company, Sharpe. He’s purchased it, used his own money. You can see his rights, I’m sure.’

  Sharpe said nothing. He kept his face expressionless. He had expected this, but it did not lessen the bitterness. So Rymer got the prize because Rymer had the money? The fact that Sharpe had captured an Eagle, had been described by Wellington as the finest leader of Light troops in the army, counted for nothing. Such things were meaningless matched against the purchase system. If Napoleon Bonaparte had joined the British Army, instead of the French, he would count himself lucky if he had achieved a Captaincy by now instead of being Emperor of half the world! Damn Rymer, and damn Windham, and damn the whole army! Sharpe felt like walking away, and shaking the whole unfair system from his back. There was a sudden, harsh rattle of rain on the window. Windham cocked his head, just as the foxhounds at his feet had done. ‘Rain!’ The Colonel turned to Collett. ‘My blankets are airing, Jack. Can I trouble you to rouse my servant?’

  Collett obligingly left and Windham leaned back. ‘I’m sorry, Sharpe.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And the gazette?’

  ‘Refused.’ So there it was. The firing squad pulled their triggers and Lieutenant Richard Sharpe gave a mocking, sardonic laugh that made Windham frown. A Lieutenant again!

  ‘So what am I to do, sir?’ Sharpe let the bitterness edge his voice. ‘Am I to report to Captain Rymer?’

  ‘No, Mr Sharpe, you are not. Captain Rymer would find your presence an embarrassment, I’m sure you can understand that. He must be given time to settle in. I’ll keep you busy.’

  ‘I forgot, sir. I’m in charge of the women now.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent, Sharpe!’ Windham snapped forward, startling the dogs. ‘You don’t understand, do you? There are rules, orders, regulations, Sharpe, by which our lives are conducted. If we ignore those rules, burdensome though they may be, then we open the gates to anarchy and tyranny; the very things against which we fight! Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe knew it would be pointless to mention that the rules, orders, and regulations were made by the privileged to protect the privileged. It had always been so, and always would. The only thing for him to do now was to get out with his shreds of dignity intact and then get stinking drunk. Show fellow Lieutenant Price how a real expert fell over.

  Windham leaned back. ‘We’re going to Badajoz.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’re senior Lieutenant.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe’s replies were listless.

  ‘There’ll be vacancies, man! If we attack.’ That was true, and Sharpe nodded.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You can exchange.’ Windham looked expectantly at Sharpe.

  ‘No, sir.’ There were always officers who found their Regiments going to unpopular places such as the Fever Islands and who would offer to exchange with another officer in a battalion closer to the gaming tables and far from weird diseases. Usually they would offer a cash bribe to facilitate the exchange, but Sharpe dared not leave Spain, not while Teresa and Antonia were shut up in Badajoz. He listened to the rain on the window and thought of the girl riding. ‘I’ll stay, sir.’

  ‘Good!’ Windham sounded far from pleased. ‘There’s plenty of work. The mule train needs tidying up, I’ve seen that already, and, God knows, we’ll be swamped with pick-axes and spades. They all need counting.’

  ‘In charge of mules, pick-axes, and women, sir?’

  Windham’s eyes met the challenge. ‘Yes, Mr Sharpe, if you insist.’

  ‘A suitable job, sir, for an ageing Lieutenant.’

  ‘It might, Lieutenant, engender humility.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ An important quality to a soldier, humility, and Sharpe gave another sardonic laugh. Humility had not captured the gun at Ciudad Rodrigo, nor hacked a path through Fuentes de Onoro’s tight streets, nor fetched the gold from Spain, nor taken an Eagle from the enemy, nor rescued a General, nor brought a group of starving Riflemen out of a rout nor killed the Sultan Tippoo, and Sharpe’s sardonic laugh became real. He was being arrogant to himself, and perhaps Windham was right. He needed humility. He would now be parading wives and counting shovels, neither of which activity called for much initiative or leadership, and mules were notoriously chary of quick, confident decisions, and humility was best. He would be humble. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A request.’

  ‘Go on, man.’

  ‘I want to lead a Forlorn Hope at Badajoz, sir. I’d like you to forward my name now. I know it’s early, but I would be grateful if you would do so.’

  Windham stared at him. ‘You’re unbalanced, man.’

  Sharpe shook his head. He was not going to explain that he wanted a promotion that no man could take from him, and that he wanted to test himself in a breach because he had never done it. And if he died, as he surely would, and never saw his daughter? Then she would know that her father had died trying to reach her, leading an attack, and she could be proud. ‘I want it, sir.’

  ‘You don’t need it, Sharpe. There will be promotion at Badajoz.’

  ‘Will you forward my name, sir?’

  Windham stood up. ‘Think about it, Sharpe, think about it.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Report to Major Collett in the morning.’ The interview had been far worse than he had feared and the Colonel shook his head. ‘You don’t need it, Sharpe, you don’t. Now good day to you.’

  Sharpe did not notice the rain. He stoo
d and stared across the valley at the fortress. He thought of Teresa closing on the huge walls, and knew that he must go into the breach, whatever happened. The restitution of his rank, and hopefully the command of his Company, demanded it, but, most of all, because he was a soldier, it was pride.

  The meek, he had been told, would inherit the earth, but only when the last soldier left it to them in his will.

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘Sergeant Hakeswill, sir! Reporting to Lieutenant Sharpe, sir, as ordered, sir!’ The right boot crashed into the attention, the arm quivered at the salute, the face twitched, but was full of amusement.

  Sharpe returned the salute. It had been more than three weeks since his demotion, yet it still hurt. The Battalion, embarrassed, called him ‘sir’ or ‘Mr Sharpe’. Only Hakeswill twisted the knife. Sharpe pointed to the mess on the ground. ‘That’s it. Sort it out.’

  ‘Sir!’ Hakeswill turned to the working party from the Light Company. ‘You heard the Lieutenant! Sort it out and get a bloody move on! The Captain wants us back.’

  Hagman, the old Rifleman, the best shot in the Company, who had served with Sharpe for seven years, gave his old Captain a sad smile. ‘Nasty day, sir.’

  Sharpe nodded. The rain had stopped, but it looked as if it would start again soon. ‘How are things, Dan?’

  The Rifleman grinned, shrugged, and looked round to see if Hakeswill was listening. ‘Bloody terrible, sir.’

  ‘Hagman!’ Hakeswill bellowed. ‘Just because you’re bloody old doesn’t mean you can’t work. Get your bloody self here, fast!’ The Sergeant grinned at Sharpe. ‘Sorry, Lieutenant, sir. Can’t stop to chat, can we? Work to do.’ The teeth ground together, the blue eyes blinked rapidly. ‘How’s your lady, sir. Well? I was hoping to renew the acquaintance. In Baddy-joss is she?’ He cackled and turned away, back to the working party that was rescuing the fallen shovels from the broken-axled cart.

  Sharpe ignored the gibes because to react was to give Hakeswill the satisfaction of having unsettled him, and he looked away from the cart and stared over the grey, swollen river. Badajoz. Just four miles away; a city built on a corner of land formed by the River Guadiana and the Rivillas stream. The city was dominated by the sprawling castle high on the rock hill which stood where the stream flowed into the river. The army had marched from Elvas that morning and now they waited as the Engineers put the last touches to the pontoon bridge that would take the British to the southern bank on which Badajoz stood. Each tin pontoon, strengthened by wooden braces, weighed two tons, and the clumsy, oblong boats, dragged here by oxen, had been floated in a line across the Guadiana. They were all moored now, anchored against the rain-heightened river, and across their top surfaces the Engineers had laid massive thirteen-inch cables. The water foamed dirty between the tin boats as, on top of the cables, planks were slapped into place with a speed that spoke of the frequent practice the Engineers had made in crossing Spain’s rivers. Almost before the last planks were in place the first carts were crossing and men shovelled sand and earth on to the planks to make a crude roadway.