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

by Bernard Cornwell

  Windham pointed the whip at Sharpe. ‘Did you lose anything?’

  Sharpe shook his head. ‘I’ve nothing here, sir.’ Everything he owned he carried on his back, except for the Patriotic Fund sword and the gold stolen at Almeida which were with his London agents.

  ‘Where’s your pack?’

  ‘With the others, sir.’

  ‘Is it marked?’

  Sharpe shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Fetch it, Sharpe.’

  It did not make sense. Was the Colonel accusing Sharpe of being the thief? If so, why ask Sharpe to fetch his own pack and, in so doing, have an opportunity of hiding the stolen goods? He found the pack, brought it back to the sheepfold. ‘Do you want to search it, sir?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Sharpe. You’re an officer.’ And thereby, went the unspoken words, and despite all evidence to the contrary, a gentleman. ‘I want to see how far our thief’s net was cast. See if anything’s missing, man!’

  Sharpe unbuckled the straps. The French pack was crammed with spare, dirty clothes; two spare locks for his rifle, and a half bottle of rum. He kept only one valuable in the pack and he did not need to look for it; it was gone. He looked up at Windham. ‘I’m missing a telescope.’

  ‘Telescope? Anything special about it?’

  Something very special; the inlet brass plate that was inscribed In Gratitude. AW. 23 September 1803. It had gone. Sharpe pushed his hand desperately down through the clothes, but it was gone. Damn the thief! The telescope had been a gift form Wellington, a valued gift, and Sharpe cursed himself for leaving the pack with all the others. Yet they had been guarded. As the sheepfold with the officers’ valuables had been guarded. Windham listened to Sharpe’s description and nodded with satisfaction. ‘That proves one thing.’

  ‘Proves? What, sir?’

  Windham smiled. ‘I think we know where our thief comes from. Only one Company would know that pack!’ He pointed at Sharpe’s gradually soaking clothes in their French pig-skin pack. He turned to Major Collett. ‘Parade the Light Company, Jack. Search every man.’

  Sharpe tried to protest. ‘Sir?’

  Windham whipped round on him, held out the crop accusingly. ‘If you had stayed on guard, Sharpe, instead of gallivanting on the hill, this would not have happened. Stay out of it!’

  Hakeswill! It had to be Hakeswill! Sharpe knew it, and knew with an utter certainty that the accusation would never be proved. The theft of the telescope, at least, had to have been done in the afternoon because Sharpe had seen the glass in his pack at midday. The Light Company, or most of them, had been with Sharpe fighting the French, but he suddenly remembered the awkward, lumbering figure of the yellow-faced Sergeant hurrying back towards the baggage. The loot would all be hidden by now. And the guards whom Sharpe had left to watch the baggage would all have wandered to the hilltop to see the fight. He strapped up the buckles of his pack. Major Forrest waited till the other officers had filed out the gate. ‘I’m sorry, Sharpe.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the Light Company, sir.’

  ‘I meant about the telescope.’

  Sharpe grunted. Forrest was a decent man, always wanting others to be content. The Rifleman shrugged. ‘It’s gone, sir. It won’t come back.’ Hakeswill was too clever a thief to be discovered.

  Forrest shook his head unhappily. ‘I don’t believe it. And we used to be such a happy battalion!’ His face suddenly changed, became curious. ‘Sharpe?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Colonel Windham said you were married. I didn’t like to contradict him.’

  ‘Did you, sir?’

  ‘Good Lord, no! Are you?’

  Sharpe shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But he said you told him you were.’

  Sharpe squatted back on his heels and smiled up at the Major. ‘I did.’

  ‘For God’s sake, why?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. It just came out.’

  ‘But, Good Lord, Sharpe. It goes on your papers, it…’ Forrest gave up. ‘Why don’t you tell him the truth?’

  ‘I quite like the idea, sir.’

  Forrest laughed. ‘Well I never. I thought it was odd when he mentioned it, but I thought it could be true. You’re such a private fellow, Sharpe.’

  ‘The way I’m going, sir, I probably will be soon.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Forrest frowned. ‘There’ll be a Captaincy soon. There nearly was this afternoon. Poor Sterritt tripped over and had a bayonet through his jacket.’

  Sharpe said nothing. He had shamelessly searched the survivors to see if any Captain was missing, but they all seemed to bear charmed lives and a remarkable freedom from disease in the foul weather. He stood up and slung his pack on one shoulder. Over the hill came the thumps of the French guns, a sound so common that men hardly noticed it any more. As common as the endless hissing of the rain.

  Forrest looked over his shoulder, at the parading Light Company. ‘This is sad, Sharpe. Very sad.’

  Windham paraded them and the Sergeant Major called each man forward in turn to have pouches, haversack and pack emptied on to a groundsheet. Another Sergeant went through the packets. Sharpe turned away. He found it sad, too, and unnecessary. He would have paraded them and given them ten minutes to come up with the thief or face the consequences; if, that is, he really believed that one of the Company was the thief. Forrest shook his head. ‘He’s very thorough, Sharpe.’

  ‘Not really, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Sharpe gave a tired smile. ‘When I was in the ranks, sir, we had packs with false bottoms. He’s not looking inside the shakoes. Anyway, a real thief won’t have the stuff anymore.’

  ‘He’s hardly had time to get rid of it.’

  ‘Sir. One of the women could have it by now, he could have sold it all to the Sutler for a few shillings and a bottle or two. It could be hidden. It won’t be found. We’re just wasting our time.’

  A horseman pulled up outside the sheepfold and saluted Forrest. ‘Sir?’

  Major Forrest peered through the rain. ‘Good Lord! Young Knowles! You’ve got a new horse!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Robert Knowles slid from the saddle and grinned at Sharpe. ‘Now I’m not in your Company, I’m allowed to ride a horse. Do you like it?’

  Sharpe looked morosely at the beast. ‘Very nice, sir.’

  Knowles stiffened on the ‘sir’. He looked from Sharpe to Forrest. His smile went. ‘Your gazette?’ He stammered at Sharpe.

  ‘It was refused, sir.’

  ‘Stop it.’ Knowles was embarrassed. He had learned his trade from Sharpe, modelled himself on his old Captain, and now he had a Light Company of his own he tried to think, every hour, of how Sharpe would lead them. ‘It’s ridiculous!’

  Forrest nodded. ‘The world’s gone mad.’

  Knowles frowned, shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it!’

  Sharpe shrugged. ‘It’s true.’ He felt sorry for having embarrassed Knowles. ‘How’s the Company?’

  ‘Wet. They want to get on with the fighting.’ He shook his head again. ‘So who’s got your Company?’

  Forrest sighed. ‘A man called Rymer.’

  Knowles shrugged. ‘They’re mad.’ He looked at Sharpe. ‘It seems crazy! You underneath some Captain?’

  Forrest tut-tutted. ‘Oh, no. Mr Sharpe has special duties.’

  Sharpe grinned. ‘I’m the Lieutenant in charge of women, pick-axes, mules, and baggage guard.’

  Knowles laughed. ‘I don’t bloody believe it!’ He suddenly noticed the strange parade beyond the circular, small sheepfold. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘A thief.’ Forrest sounded sad. ‘The Colonel thinks it might be someone in the Light Company.’

  ‘He’s mad!’ Knowles kept a fierce loyalty to his old Company. ‘They’re much too fly to be caught!’

  ‘I know.’ Sharpe watched the search. The men had all been processed, and nothing found, and now the Sergeants came forward. Hakeswill stood ramrod
straight, his face twitching, as his pack was turned upside down. Nothing would be found, of course. The Sergeant gave Windham a snapping salute.

  Harper came forward, grinning with amusement that anyone should think him capable of such an act. Hakeswill first, then Harper, and Sharpe began running up the hillside because, of course, Hakeswill wanted Harper out of the way. Patrick Harper saw Sharpe coming and raised his eyebrows, taking the insult of the search with the same calm tolerance with which he met most of life’s indignities, and then the face registered shock.

  ‘Sir?’ The Sergeant Major was straightening up.

  Sharpe had realized what was happening, but too late. He should have got to Harper sooner. Before the parade.

  ‘Officer of the Day!’ Windham’s voice was harsh. ‘Put the Sergeant under arrest.’

  They only found one thing, but it was enough. On top of the pack, not even hidden, was the silver frame that had enclosed the picture of Windham’s wife. The glass had been smashed and the portrait was missing, razored from the filigree that had itself been bent. Windham held the frame, seemed to quiver with rage, and looked up at the huge Sergeant. ‘Where’s the picture?’

  ‘I know nothing about it, sir. Nothing. So help me, sir, I did not take it.’

  ‘I’ll flog you! By God! I will flog you!’ He turned on his heel.

  The Light Company stood frozen, the rain dripping from shako peaks, their uniforms soaked. They seemed shocked. The rest of the Battalion, crouched in their inadequate shelters, watched as the Officer of the Day assembled a guard and Harper was taken away. Sharpe did not move.

  The Company was dismissed. Fires were lit under the shelters in a vain attempt to drive out the dampness. Bullocks were slaughtered for the evening meal, the musket smoke lingering over the panicked survivors of the herd, and Sharpe let the rain chill his skin as he felt a terrible impotence. Knowles tried to move him. ‘Come and eat with us. Be my guest. Please.’

  Sharpe shook his head. ‘No. I must be here for the Court-Marital.’

  Knowles looked worried. ‘What’s happening to the Battalion, sir?’

  ‘Happening, Robert? Nothing.’

  He would kill Hakeswill one day, but now he needed proof or otherwise Harper could never be cleared. Sharpe did not know how to get the truth. Hakeswill was cunning and Sharpe knew that the truth could not be beaten out of him. He would laugh at a beating. But one day Sharpe would bury the sword in that belly and let the rottenness burst out like putrescent ooze. He would kill the bastard.

  The bugles sounded sunset, the end of the regulation day, the fourth day of Badajoz.

  CHAPTER 15

  It rained all night; Sharpe knew, for he was awake most of it, listening to the ceaseless water, the wind, and the sporadic shot from the French cannon that tried to disturb the digging of the batteries. There was no counter-fire from the British; the siege guns, still wrapped in straw and sacking, were waiting for a break in the weather so that the carts could be dragged over the hill and the massive guns put into their emplacements.

  Sharpe sat with Harper at the top of the hill and stared down at the dull lights inside the city. They looked far away, blurred by the weather, and Sharpe tried to distinguish the Cathedral and thought of the sick child nearby.

  Harper should not have been with him. He was under guard, sentenced to be flogged and reduced to the ranks, but Sharpe had simply told the sentries to look the other way while he and Harper climbed to the hilltop. Sharpe glanced at the Irishman. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry for, sir. You did all you could.’

  Which had amounted to very little. Sharpe had pleaded, begged almost, but the filigree frame was proof enough for the Regimental Court Marital. Sharpe had testified that Harper had been with him all afternoon, fighting the French attack, and that his own telescope had disappeared in that time so the Sergeant could not have been responsible. Windham had been implacable. The telescope, he said, must have been stolen by another thief. Harper was guilty, broken down to a Private, and sentenced to a flogging.

  Harper was thinking of the morning. The Donegal voice was soft. ‘A hundred strokes, eh? Could be worse.’ Twelve hundred lashes was the maximum sentence.

  Sharpe handed a bottle to him. Both men were swathed in lengths of tarred canvas on which the rain drummed. ‘I got two hundred.’

  ‘The army’s going soft, so it is.’ Harper laughed. ‘And back to a bloody Private, too! They don’t even call me a Rifleman in this bloody Regiment. Private bloody Harper.’ He drank. ‘And when do they think I stole the bloody things?’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘God save Ireland! St Patrick’s Day?’

  ‘You were missing from the lines.’

  ‘Jesus! I was with you. Drinking.’

  ‘I know. I told them.’

  There was silence between them, a companionable misery. From the slope below came the chink of pick-axes as the batteries were sunk below the topsoil. At least, Sharpe reflected, the two of them had plenty of drink. The Light Company had pooled their resources, scrounged and stolen more, and beneath the canvas shelters there were at least a dozen canteens of rum or wine. ‘I’m sorry, Patrick.’

  ‘Save your breath, sir. It’ll not hurt.’ He knew he was lying. ‘I’ll kill that bastard!’

  ‘After me.’ They sat and thought about the comforting idea of killing Hakeswill. The Sergeant was taking precautions. He had pitched his shelter just yards from the officers’ crude, canvas tents, and Sharpe knew that there was no hope, this night, of their successfully spiriting Hakeswill away to some silent, lonely place.

  The Irishman chuckled softly and Sharpe looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I was thinking of the Colonel. What was on the bloody portrait?’

  ‘His wife.’

  ‘She must be a rare beauty.’

  ‘No.’ Sharpe uncorked another canteen. ‘She looked a sour bitch, but you can never tell with paintings. Anyway, our Colonel approves of marriage. He thinks it keeps a man out of trouble.’

  ‘It’s probably true.’ Harper sounded unconvinced. ‘I hear a rumour that you and Miss Teresa are married. How the hell did that get started?’

  ‘I told the Colonel.’

  ‘You did!’ Harper laughed. ‘Mind you, you should marry her. Make an honest woman of her.’

  ‘And what about Jane Gibbons?’

  Harper grinned. He had met the blonde girl, the sister of the man he had killed, and he shook his head. ‘She’ll not have you. You have to be born in a big house to marry that kind; lots of money and all that. You’re just a foot soldier, like the rest of us. A fancy red sash won’t get you into her bed. At least, not for keeps.’

  Sharpe chuckled. ‘You think I should marry Teresa?’

  ‘Why not? She’s a skinny thing, so she is, but you could put some meat on her bones.’ Harper profoundly disapproved of Sharpe’s taste for slim women.

  They sat silent again, listening to the rain pelt on the canvas, and sharing a friendship that rarely had a chance to be expressed or defined. Sharpe had a reputation, with those who did not know him well, of being a man short on words and it was true, he thought, except with a handful of friends. Harper and Hogan; Lossow, the German cavalryman, and that was about all. Exiles to a man, cut off from their own countries and fighting with a strange army. Sharpe was an exile, too, a stranger in the Officers’ Mess. ‘You know what the General says?’

  Harper shook his head. ‘Tell me what the General says.’

  ‘He says that no one ever promoted from the ranks turns out well.’

  ‘Does he now?’

  ‘He says they turn to drink.’

  ‘In this army, who wouldn’t? Harper pushed a canteen at Sharpe. ‘Here, get yourself drunk.’

  Some fool opened the door of a lantern in the parallel and the French gunners, ever alert, saw the light and suddenly the ramparts of Badajoz blossomed flame and shot. There were shouts from the workings, the light disappeared, but then there was
the sick thud of the shots striking home and the screams from the trench. Harper spat. ‘We’ll never take this bloody town.’

  ‘We can’t stay here for ever.’

  ‘That’s what you said when you first went to Ireland.’

  Sharpe grinned. ‘It’s the welcome you give us. We don’t want to leave. Anyway, we like the weather.’

  ‘You can keep it.’ Harper squinted up into the darkness. ‘Christ! I wish the rain would stop!’

  ‘I thought the Irish liked rain.’

  ‘We love rain, so we do, but this isn’t rain.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the flood, the deluge, the end of the whole sodden world.’

  Sharpe leaned back on a wicker gabion, abandoned by a working party, and stared up. ‘I haven’t seen the stars in a week. Longer.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘I like stars.’

  ‘That’s nice for them.’ Harper was amused; he did not often hear Sharpe’s tongue loosened by drink.

  ‘No, really. You like birds, I like stars.’

  ‘Birds do things. They fly, make nests. You can watch them.’

  Sharpe said nothing. He remembered the nights lying in fields, head on haversack, body inside the sewn blanket, and legs thrust into the arms of the jacket which was buttoned upside down on his stomach. It was the soldier’s way of sleeping, but on some nights he would simply lie there and watch the great smear in the sky that was like the camp fires of an unimaginably huge army. Legion upon incomprehensible legion, up there in the sky, and he knew that they were coming nearer, night by night, and the picture was confused in his head by the strange, drunken preachers who had come to the foundling home when he was a child. The stars were mixed up with the four horsemen of the apocalypse, the last trump, the second coming, the raising of the dead, and the lights in the night were the army of the world’s end. ‘The world won’t end in a flood. It’ll be bayonets and battalions. A bloody great battle.’