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, although it really was not 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 realizing 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 grinned.
"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 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 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 room. As he was left to himself and let his pack fall on the bed, someone knocked on the 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 talked, 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. Realization 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 realized 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 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, so it is!" he said, surprised still. Sharpe looked at him, amused, and Harper heard Robinson give a wary sniff, 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.
"Jeez man, have you no ambition?" 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, an almost identical 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 said.
"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.