TWO
"Here they come, sir," Hagman said, walking back from the brow of the hill. 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, then sniffed. He could feel the sweat prickling at his back, just where the strap on the ammunition belt pushed it against his shirt. He fingered the 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, and the riders just as plain.
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 had 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 realized 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 snorted, 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 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 that 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, 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."