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.
"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 like to apologise also," 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. "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 and 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. 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 Parker have to say?" he asked.
"He said to find that Irishman and make sure he wasn'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 realized.
"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 regulation shorts, dripping on the rocks they were sitting on.
"No brains," she said 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 awkwardly. Harper disappeared in 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 the 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 one 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 Sharpe, evening," Nigel said, making no attempt to shake hands. He merely found a seat and plonked himself down in it squarely. Sharpe watched Marjorie pick her way to the last remaining free seat with grace.
"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 cleared his throat 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 Sharpe, 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, Mr Sharpe." 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 inquired.
"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.