THREE
"Are we right?" Sharpe asked Harper in the cool morning air. The Irishman sniffed, leaning onto his heels and tucking his thumbs in his belt.
"Me and the boys are just fine and dandy, sir. It's you we worry about, so it is," he said lightly. Sharpe looked at him.
"Leave it." He looked at the Chosen Men, hastily trying to avoid eye contact. "Get 'em on the road," he said harshly.
"Aye sir," Harper acknowledged. He turned to the men. "Right you lot, you heard the man, elbows and arseholes, come on," he said, clapping his hands. The Chosen Men shuffled into a loose group and shouldered their rifles, Harris taking the lead as they began the slope toward the village of Venganza.
Sharpe fell in behind them, deliberately avoiding Harper's watchful eye from in front.
I just don't want him sticking his nose in. Not today. He thought back to the last time he'd received a letter from Marjorie. To the untrained eye it wouldn't have rivalled a Marquis de Sade, but it had smacked of such promise and care he'd let himself believe she could be someone he could be comfortable with – perhaps for as long as survived the battles and injuries, even if that had meant the next few hundred years.
He cursed himself for his foolishness as he remembered how he'd sat there, alone in his tent, grinning at the hand-written note like a little boy with a shiny new shilling. How he'd realised she had made him happy just by writing frank, forward letters about weather, other people's horses, the dry dirt roads to Lisbon. How he'd laughed at her descriptions, and warmed to her closing lines for him to take care of himself. How he'd wished she'd been sat there telling him her stories in person.
His foot landed on a stone that gave sideways suddenly, and he almost stumbled. He looked up and around, hoping no-one had seen him being so careless, and straightened unconsciously.
After a good few hours he spotted Harper's head wandering back and suddenly the big Irishman had fallen into step beside him. He swung his volley gun up across his shoulders and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
"I was thinking, sir, when we get to Venganza we should find the library and simply take the first big book," he said cheerfully.
"Were you," Sharpe said, uninterested.
"A book of names, they want. We'll just find a book of the local names, that'll do the trick," Harper continued, nodding to himself, satisfied. "Then we can get on with the drinking, so we can," he beamed.
"Pat, there's more to life than drinking," he said, annoyed.
"Oh, now that's where you've got it backwards, sir," he said brightly. "There's more to drinking than life."
"I can't argue with you Pat, I haven't a bloody clue what yer talking about," he snapped. Harper cleared his throat quietly.
"No sir, I don't suppose –"
Sharpe interrupted him by putting a sudden hand out. He stopped, tilting his head slightly.
I'm sure I heard a shout. Sounded like a man. French?
Harper froze for a long second, waiting for Sharpe to move. Sharpe looked at him and nodded. Harper whistled and the Chosen Men turned and looked at him. Harper pointed at the trees lining the shingle road, and they split and ran without hesitation.
Sharpe pushed at Harper's arm, and the Irishman ran for the side of the road. Sharpe went to the opposite side, taking his rifle from his shoulder and pulling it to half-cock. He raised it, ready, and stepped carefully backwards into the brush.
There was another shout, and this time he heard it clear enough to know he had been right, but not clear enough to hear which language it was in. He waited as the sound of horses approached, but it seemed they would take forever to appear.
At last a tall, elegant chestnut horse slowly plodded into view. Sharpe lifted the rifle and aimed, hoping the rider would be about the normal height for a man. He followed the rider's position until the horse wandered on past him.
He recognised the rider: Pierre Caron.
He hesitated for a long moment. Then he closed one eye, pulling the rifle onto full cock and aiming carefully. At this range, a mere twenty feet, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. His mouth pulled to one side in a wicked sneer as he drew a very clear and precise bead on the Frenchman's head.
"Major Sharpe!" someone else shouted, and he froze, his aim still locked. "Major Sharpe, we were sent to aide you as best we can!" the voice continued, and Sharpe opened his eye, huffing angrily.
"Colonel Hardwick?" he called.
"Yes, sir! At your service, sir!" Hardwick replied, still out of view. Sharpe cursed fluidly and at length, pulling the rifle back to half-cock and letting it drop slowly. He eased it back off cock and slung it over his shoulder fiercely, stamping out of the brush and out onto the road.
He stopped and stared. He had seen Caron and then Hardwick, but behind them, flanked by ten redcoats, was a third rider. The mysterious Miss Schofield. He looked at his feet as he spat some invective, growling another to himself as he lifted his head and pulled out his whistle. He blew it three times in short, shrill notes. Hardwick turned his horse dextrously and looked at him, surprised. Caron and Miss Schofield turned across their horses to see.
Chosen Men poured out of their hiding places, and Hardwick smiled, leading his horse back toward Sharpe.
"My compliments, Major, we had no idea where you were hiding," he said, dismounting quickly and grasping the reins tightly in his left hand. Sharpe just looked at him.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, then remembered who he was talking to. "Sir," he added quickly. Hardwick grinned.
"Exactly as I said, old boy – we've come to help you. I managed to convince old Lawford we could do this together. After all, I felt it rather unfair it be pushed on you, especially right now," he said, letting his voice drop slightly in volume. Sharpe looked daggers at him, but he simply clapped him on the arm and turned to look around at the Chosen Men. "Now then, where's that Sergeant of yours? I need a drink, and I'm not talking about that god-awful tea he makes," he grinned boisterously. The Chosen Men looked at Sharpe, confused.
"Harper!" Sharpe called harshly. As if by magic, the Irishman appeared. "Get the Colonel some of your booze. The rest of you, pick yer bloody feet up," he snapped, nodding respectfully to Hardwick before walking round him deliberately and marching on.
The Men looked at Harper, who shrugged and gestured with his head, and they turned and slung their rifles, following the angry figure stomping up the shingle road.
"I say, rather touchy, isn't he?" Hardwick said to Harper quietly. Harper sighed, reaching into his cartridge box and finding his tiny flask.
"That he is, sir, that he is. But if the French find us out here, sir, you'll be glad he's such a mean bastard, sir," he said cheerfully. Hardwick eyed him as he took the proffered flask.
"I'm sure I will," he said with a small smile.
Sharpe set a cracking pace, and by sundown the Chosen Men were struggling to keep up. Harper had tried his best to slow him with his chit-chat and then straight asking, but he may as well have tried to stop the sun going down.
The two of them strode ahead, forging the way down the shingle road, and Harper noticed that even after a whole day's marching, Sharpe still walked like he'd stamp vindictively on the next person to get in his way.
He looked behind, to the Chosen Men, their rifles over their shoulders and their shakoes hanging limply from their spare hands. Behind them rode Pierre Caron and Colonel Hardwick, and Harper took the time to study them both.
Caron was smaller, lighter, but his swarthy features and dark eyes made him look somehow dangerous. He looked to be dozing in the saddle, but Harper noticed his hands kept a tight hold on the reins. Hardwick was looking tired but Harper had to admit he looked the professional soldier, still keeping a sharp look-out for anything that moved in the wrong direction. His red coat was clean and new, his face square and open, and his horse must have cost a king's ransom. He wondered idly if it had ever spirited him backwards from a fight. Something told him it hadn't.
Harper looked behind them, at the lady riding the dark horse by herself. She rode side-saddle, her face harsh and thin, her dark hair pinned back under her sensible hat. She turned her head to watch the ten South Essex soldiers, apparently her own escort, as they marched stiffly. Harper was struck again by the feeling that he'd seen her before. As she turned her head to look at her own hands on the reins, he felt he almost had the time and place in mind.
He looked back at Sharpe, then slowed so that he drew alongside Hagman.
"Dan," he said quietly.
"Harps," he nodded genially, weary though he was.
"You've seen the lady, Dan?" he asked quietly, from the corner of his mouth.
"That I have," he said, equally quietly.
"Do you recognise her at all?" he asked. Hagman was no fool. He swung his head around in a complete circle, as if just stretching, before looked back where he was putting his feet.
"Seems familiar sir, but can't place her," he admitted.
"Hmm. Me neither. Very strange, is that. Her having the same name. And saying she didn't know the Major."
"You think she does?" he asked.
"I know she does. Saw it on her face, so I did. And her mood after he told her his name. I just can't for the life of me think who she reminds me of," he said, and then snapped his fingers. "That's it – it's not her I recognise. She looks like someone, so she does," he breathed. Hagman turned and looked at her deliberately.
"Can't say as I know who it is," he said truthfully. "What we need is camp and sleep. Maybe it'll come to us later," he nodded wisely. Harper nodded, patting his shoulder. "Can you get him to stop, or is he going to have us march all night?" he asked cheerfully, but Harper noticed the strain. He nodded.
"I'll have a word," he said, winking grimly, and quickened pace again to catch up with the Major. "Nearly dusk, so it is," he said cheerfully. Sharpe grunted. "Will you be wanting to stop, sir?"
"No."
"The men have marched all day, sir. Awful tired, so they are."
"No."
"It'll be hard going when it's dark," he added.
"No."
"Well of course, it's entirely up to you, so it is. But I can't make tea if we're walking," he said sadly. Sharpe hesitated. He huffed and wiped a hand over his mouth.
"Go on then," he said. "Tell Robinson to find a good spot."
"Yes sir!" Harper grinned, dropping back and nodding to Hagman before finding Robinson. Though his bones ached and his feet throbbed, he tore off the side of the road and crashed about for a few minutes.
"Sir!" he called eventually, and Sharpe lifted his hand.
"Halt!" he called. Robinson came out of the bushes. He dashed up to Sharpe and stopped, straightening smartly.
"Good bit o' ground, sir. It's got a small stream an' all!" he beamed. Sharpe nodded.
"Good lad. Right Sergeant," he said, turning to look at Harper. "Fall 'em out. We're camping on Robinson's recommendation tonight, and starting out fresh at dawn."
"Yes sir!" Harper said, relieved. He turned and shouted at the Green Jackets, then looked over at the South Essex boys. They were stood to attention, watching longingly. Harper looked back at Sharpe. "The South Essex escort, sir?" he asked, noting their heads bob up and look at him gratefully. Sharpe stopped, looking back at them. He walked over slowly, past Harper, and up to Miss Schofield's horse. He stopped, looking at her with trepidation.
"Are these men your escort, ma'am?" he asked, trying to sound polite. She turned her nose up at him.
"They are, and as such are no concern of yours," she snapped. He licked dry lips and looked at them.
"We're camping. So are you," he said. She looked back at him.
"Don't think you can tell me what to do, you impertinent scruff!" she cried. Caron and Hardwick looked over from their horses, currently nibbling at the grass by the side of the road. Hardwick smiled slightly.
"I can't, you're right there," he said. He looked at the men, sweating and trembling with fatigue. "But unless you hold a commission in his Britannic Majesty's Army as is higher than mine, you can't stop me ordering them to fall out. Can you," he stated. She glared at him. He smiled maliciously at her and turned away. "South Essex, fall out. Make camp with the riflemen," he called. They sagged and lifted off their shakoes as one, nodding to him gratefully and dragging themselves over to the path trodden by the Green Jackets. They had already disappeared through the bushes and started fixing up tripods and collecting firewood, and the redcoats followed.
Sharpe watched them, finding himself alone with Caron, Hardwick and her.
"How dare you!" she fumed, lifting her riding crop and slapping at his shoulder with it. He turned like lightning and grabbed it as she pulled it back to strike him again. She struggled but he had a good hold. He glared at her, and they locked gazes for a long, dangerous moment.
"I say, as amusing as all this is, couldn't we get a drink of rum in too?" Hardwick called over. Caron urged his horse forward and dismounted by the side of the road. He tied the horse and ducked through the hole made by the soldiers, disappearing.
Miss Schofield still held firm to the crop, as did Sharpe.
"I'll let go so long as you stay away from me," he breathed. She snorted with contempt.
"Nothing would please me more. Give it back," she demanded. He let go simply and she wrenched it backwards, pulling sharply on the reins to move past him to the bushes. Sharpe wiped his hand over his face, and then realised someone was standing behind him. He turned and saw it was Hardwick.
"Women. Can't say two words to them, eh?" he said, clapping Sharpe on the shoulder and turning him round to the bushes. Sharpe shook him off politely as they ducked through the bushes.
"Not that one," Sharpe grunted, and Hardwick followed him to the small circle of Chosen Men. Sharpe stopped as Hagman looked up at him from his place in the grass.
"Soon have a cup brewing, sir, don't you fret," he smiled. Sharpe nodded then turned and lifted his pack from his back, letting it fall to the ground. He wiped his forehead, looking around the small clearing and hearing the sound of the tiny brook trickling past them, about ten feet away.
"Major, I wonder if I might have a word," Hardwick said, and Sharpe looked at him before undoing the top buttons on his tunic and sliding the rifle off his shoulder. He walked over and passed it to Harper, then looked back at the Colonel.
"Of course, Colonel," he said non-commitedly. Hardwick inclined his head, and Sharpe followed him back to the road. They stopped by Hardwick's horse, and the Colonel turned and looked at the road they'd already covered.
"It's a bad business, Major. I'm sorry to have dragged you into it," he said gingerly, and Sharpe realised it was the first time the Colonel had not been radiating complete confidence. He sniffed.
"Yeah well. If it's the job I've been given, I'll do it and then get back, sir," he admitted. Hardwick looked at him now, and smiled slightly.
"Was it your job to steal a French standard, Major?" he asked craftily. "Did the General give you orders to do that?"
"Not in so many words, sir," he said warily, eyeing him. Hardwick nodded.
"I see. Have to say, dear chap, was ever so pleased when you did. Went over so well with the parish at home. You don't know who I am, do you?" he asked knowingly. Sharpe shrugged.
"Lieutenant Colonel, sir, and therefore my superior officer," he said simply. Hardwick chuckled softly.
"You haven't questioned the 'Sir James' bit, Major," he said. Sharpe put a hand to the back of his head, rubbing slightly. He let his hand drop and looked out over the road.
"Well… Every officer has a ri – great family, sir," he said, changing tack quickly. Hardwick laughed outright.
"Except you, Major." He was quiet for a moment. "Yes, I have a great family. May I ask where you grew up, Major?" he asked eventually.
"Why?" he asked, looking at him curiously.
"Because you may have heard of my great grandmother, Elizabeth Shrewsbury of Hardwick?" he asked guilelessly. Sharpe thought for a long moment.
"Can't say as I have, sorry," he said awkwardly. Hardwick smiled.
"Hardwick Hall? More glass –"
"Than stone!" Sharpe finished, nodding. "Bloody 'ell! That's your family?" he gasped. "Sir," he added quickly.
"Oh come now, Major, it's just us," he said. He paused. "You've seen the hall?" he asked.
"Oh aye – who hasn't?" he asked. "It's certainly big enough! What are you doing out here with a family like that?" he wondered.
"It's because of my family that I am out here, Major," he said wearily, and Sharpe saw his perpetual cheer deflate. He sighed. "It's all so… tiresome," he heaved. "They want me to marry this poor girl, just because her father is rich. Then they want me to lord over the landscape, as if that's something to be proud of. Honestly," he snorted contemptuously. He glanced at Sharpe, who was watching him openly. "So I bought myself a commission and escaped out here," he smiled brightly.
"You bought in at Lieutenant Colonel?" Sharpe asked curiously.
"Oh no, dear chap, Heaven forbid!" Hardwick laughed, putting a hand on Sharpe's shoulder. "I bought in at Ensign, man! Much more fun," he grinned. Sharpe tutted.
"It int fun, it's shit," he muttered. Hardwick let his smile dim.
"Well you must know – you were an Ensign once, weren't you?" he asked. "Surely?"
"Aye, I were an Ensign. In India," he added.
"India! Well! Were you at Gawilghur?" he asked. Sharpe looked at him, surprised.
"Yes, sir," he said. "Bloody hard time that were, an' all," he added.
"I'll say. Thought my goose was well and truly cooked there!" Hardwick beamed. "But as you can see, I came through. As did you, eh?" he said, patting his shoulder, then letting his hand drop.
"So… When did you buy your Captaincy, sir?" he asked, confused.
"Buy? Buy, say you? No! I got my Captaincy through killing Johnny Foreigner, Major, as I suspect you did," he admitted. Sharpe nodded dumbly. "Then came a Majority – that was fun," he said, nodding to himself. "Talavera, you see. Obviously not as noteworthy as yourself, Major, but… satisfying, none the less," he said. Sharpe blew out a sigh, wiping his hands over his face and looking round in the falling light. "Something wrong?" he asked.
"No, sir," Sharpe said, and Hardwick shook his head.
"Just seems wrong, don't it?" he said quietly. Sharpe watched him, unsure. "You calling me 'sir', I mean. You've got to be more than five years older than me, with more experience." He paused. "You must have been pretty upset when you saw me roll into camp. Must have thought I was there to interfere with your light company, eh?" he asked lightly. Sharpe nodded. "Thought so. Actually, I was sent here by the General."
"The General?"
"Family friend," he shrugged. "We gave him some money a while back for ships, or something. I forget," he said simply.
"So can you tell me what you're really doing here, sir?" he asked quietly.
"James. The name's James, Major." He looked back out over the road, and Sharpe hesitated.
"Richard," he admitted, and the Colonel turned and looked at him.
"Splendid. Well, I shall tell you, Richard, we're going to this place Venganza to find the book. If we can't safely spirit it out, we're to destroy it – thoroughly. There's just one problem," he said, a shadow passing over his face. Sharpe sighed, nodding.
"Let me guess. There are French spies in the village. Happens everywhere I go," he shrugged. Hardwick chuckled.
"Worse than that – there are French spies and they're not all in the village," he said conspiratorially. Sharpe looked back to the bushes, hearing the sounds of the men making food and tea.
"Caron?" he asked quietly. Hardwick shrugged.
"Who can say? I don't know for sure, but look at him! He should walk round with a sign on his back, saying 'everyone look at me, I'm extremely suspicious'," he scoffed, and Sharpe smiled.
"Then it's not him," he said. Hardwick studied his face.
"You think so?"
"He'd be daft to be a spy with his face, sir. James," he corrected. Hardwick shrugged.
"The girl?" he asked. Sharpe's eyes narrowed. "Look old man, I'm not one to pry, but why does she hate you so?" he asked curiously.
"Buggered if I know." He paused, wetting his lip slowly. "But she's lying. About a great many things," he added.
"Oh jolly good!" Hardwick crowed boisterously, grinning, and Sharpe looked at him. "Means we can play at wandering officers ourselves, get to the bottom of her deception!"
Sharpe shook his head, smiling, and Hardwick chuckled. "Oh, I say!" he said, snapping his fingers suddenly, "do you think one of us should – you know – get to know her? Court her and such, find out what she's up to?" he whispered enthusiastically. Sharpe chuckled.
"Are you like this all the time, or just when there's a bit of pretty skirt about?" he asked. Hardwick chuckled.
"Oh all the time, definitely," he nodded vigorously. "I say old man, let me have a go, eh?" he asked earnestly. "After all, she already hates you, and I'm a sparkling officer with a rich family. I could be in there and find out everything in no time," he offered. "What do you say, eh?" he said eagerly, nudging Sharpe's shoulder. "Eh?"
"Just make sure she dunt find out yer real reasons, and that she stays away from me. Other than that, you're a grown man James, you do what you want," he grinned. Hardwick laughed.