Sharpe's Eagle s-8

by Бернард Корнуэлл

  “You’re going to have to wash your uniform, Lieutenant.” Sharpe smiled.

  The man’s horse had whinnied and gone forward a few paces, and the furious Lieutenant struggled to his feet and put his hand to the hilt of his sabre.

  “Hello there!” Hogan was peering into the alley. “I thought I’d lost you!” The Engineer rode his horse up to the two men and stared cheerfully down on the Rifleman. “Mules all stabled, powders locked up.” He turned to the strange Lieutenant and raised his hat. “Afternoon. Don’t think we’ve met. My name’s Hogan.”

  The Lieutenant let go of his sword. “Gibbons, sir. Lieutenant Christian Gibbons.”

  Hogan grinned. “I see you’ve already met Sharpe. Lieutenant Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles.”

  Gibbons looked at Sharpe and his eyes widened as he noticed, for the first time, that the sword hanging by Sharpe’s side was not the usual sword-bayonet carried by Riflemen but was a full-length blade. He raised his eyes to look nervously at Sharpe’s. Hogan went cheerfully on. “You’ve heard of Sharpe, of course; everyone has. He’s the laddie who killed the Sultan Tippoo. Then, let me see, there was that ghastly affair at Assaye. No-one knows how many Sharpe killed there. Do you know, Sharpe?” Hogan ignored any possible answer and ground on remorselessly. “Terrible fellow, our Lieutenant Sharpe, equally fatal with a sword or gun.”

  Gibbons could hardly mistake Hogan’s message. The Captain had seen the scuffle and was warning Gibbons about the likely consequence of a formal duel. The Lieutenant took the proffered escape. He bent down and picked up his Light Company shako, then nodded to Sharpe.

  “My mistake, Sharpe.”

  “My pleasure, Lieutenant.”

  Hogan watched Gibbons retrieve his horse and disappear from the alleyway. “You’re not very gracious at receiving an apology.”

  “It wasn’t very graciously given.” Sharpe rubbed his cheek. “Anyway, the bastard hit me.”

  Hogan laughed incredulously. “He what?”

  “Hit me, with his whip. Why do you think I dumped him in the manure?”

  Hogan shook his head. “There’s nothing so satisfying as a friendly and professional relationship with your fellow officers, my dear Sharpe. I can see this job will be a pleasure. What did he want?”

  “Wanted me to salute him. Thought I was a private.”

  Hogan laughed again. “God knows what Simmerson will think of you. Let’s go and find out.”

  They were ushered into Simmerson’s room to find the Colonel of the South Essex sitting on his bed wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. A doctor knelt beside him who looked up nervously as the two officers came into the room; the movement prompted an impatient flap of Simmerson’s hand. “Come on, man, I haven’t all day!”

  In his hand the doctor was holding what appeared to be a metal box with a trigger mounted on the top. He hovered it over Sir Henry’s arm and Sharpe saw he was trying to find a patch of skin that was not already scarred with strangely regular marks.

  “Scarification!” Sir Henry barked to Hogan. “Do you bleed, Captain?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You should. Keeps a man healthy. All soldiers should bleed.” He turned back to the doctor who was still hesitating over the scarred forearm. “Come on, you idiot!”

  In his nervousness the doctor pressed the trigger by mistake and there was a sharp click. From the bottom of the box Sharpe saw a group of wicked little blades leap out like steel tongues. The doctor flinched back. “I’m sorry, Sir Henry. A moment.”

  The doctor forced the blades back into the box and Sharpe suddenly realised that it was a bleeding machine. Instead of the old-fashioned lancet in the vein Sir Henry preferred the modern scarifier that was supposed to be faster and more effective. The doctor placed the box on the Colonel’s arm, glanced nervously at his patient, then pressed the trigger.

  “Ah! That’s better!” Sir Henry closed his eyes and smiled momentarily. A trickle of blood ran down his arm and escaped the towel that the doctor was dabbing at the flow.

  “Again, Parton, again!”

  The doctor shook his head. “But, Sir Henry… “

  Simmerson cuffed the doctor with his free hand. “Don’t argue with me! Damn it, man, bleed me!” He looked at Hogan. “Always too much spleen after a flogging, Captain.”

  “That’s very understandable, sir,” Hogan said in his Irish brogue, and Simmerson looked at him suspiciously. The box clicked again, the blades gouged into the plump arm, and more blood trickled onto the sheets. Hogan caught Sharpe’s eye and there was the glimmer of a smile that could too easily turn into laughter. Sharpe looked back to Sir Henry Simmerson, who was pulling on his shirt.

  “You must be Captain Hogan?”

  “Yes, sir.” Hogan nodded amiably.

  Simmerson turned to Sharpe. “And who the devil are you?”

  “Lieutenant Sharpe, sir. 95th Rifles.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re a damned disgrace, that’s what you are!”

  Sharpe said nothing. He stared over the Colonel’s shoulder, through the window, at the far blue hills where the French were gathering their strength.

  “Forrest!” Simmerson had stood up. “Forrest!”

  The door opened and the Major, who must have been waiting for the summons, came in. He smiled timorously at Sharpe and Hogan and then turned to Simmerson. “Colonel?”

  “This officer will need a new uniform. Provide it, please, and arrange to have the money deducted from his pay.”

  “No.” Sharpe spoke flatly. Simmerson and Forrest turned to stare at him. For a moment Sir Henry said nothing; he was not used to being contradicted, and Sharpe kept going. “I am an officer of the 95th Rifles and I will wear their uniform so long as I have that honour.”

  Simmerson began to go red and his fingers fluttered at his side. “Damn you, Sharpe! You’re a disgrace! You’re not a soldier, you’re a crossing sweeper! You’re under my orders now and I’m ordering you to be back here in fifteen minutes… “

  “No, sir.” This time Hogan had spoken. His words checked Simmerson in full flow but the Captain gave the Colonel no time to recover. He unleashed all his Irish charm, starting with a smile of such sweet reasonableness that it would have charmed a fish out of the water. “You see, Sir Henry, Sharpe is under my orders. The General is quite specific. As I understand it, Sir Henry, we accompany each other to Valdelacasa but Sharpe is with me.”

  “But… “ Hogan raised a hand to Simmerson’s protest.

  “You are right, sir, so right. But of course you would understand that conditions in the field may not be all that we would want, and it may be as well, sir, I need hardly tell you, that I should have the dispositions of the Riflemen.”

  Simmerson stared at Hogan. The Colonel had not understood a word of Hogan’s nonsense but it had all been stated in such a matter-of-fact way, and in such a soldier-to-soldier way, that Simmerson was desperately trying to find an answer that did not make him sound foolish. He looked at Hogan for a moment. “But that would be my decision!”

  “How right you are, sir, how true!” Hogan spoke emphatically and warmly. “Normally, that is. But I think the General had it in his mind, sir, that you would be so burdened with the problems of our Spanish allies and then, sir, there are the exigencies of engineering that Lieutenant Sharpe understands.” He leaned forward con-spiratorially. “I need men to fetch and carry, sir. You understand.”

  Simmerson smiled, then gave a bray of a laugh. Hogan had taken him off the hook. He pointed at Sharpe. “He dresses like a common labourer, eh Forrest? A labourer!” He was delighted with his joke and repeated it to himself as he pulled on his vast scarlet and yellow jacket. “A labourer! Eh, Forrest?” The Major smiled dutifully. He resembled a long-suffering vicar continually assailed by the sins of an unrepentant flock, and when Simmerson’s back was turned he gave Sharpe an apologetic look. Simmerson buckled his belt and turned back to Sharpe. “Done much soldiering then, Sharpe? Apart from fetching and carrying?�
��

  “A little, sir.”

  Simmerson chuckled. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two, sir.” Sharpe stared rigidly ahead.

  “Thirty-two, eh? And still only a Lieutenant? What’s the matter, Sharpe? Incompetence?”

  Sharpe saw Forrest signalling to the Colonel but he ignored the movements. “I joined in the ranks, sir.”

  Forrest dropped his hand. The Colonel dropped his mouth. There were not many men who made the jump from Sergeant to Ensign, and those who did could rarely be accused of incompetence. There were only three qualifications that a common soldier needed to be given a commission. First he must be able to read and write, and Sharpe had learned his letters in the Sultan Tippoo’s prison to the accompaniment of the screams of other British prisoners being tortured. Secondly the man had to perform some act of suicidal bravery and Sharpe knew that Simmerson was wondering what he had done. The third qualification was extraordinary luck, and Sharpe sometimes wondered whether that was not a two-edged sword. Simmerson snorted.

  “You’re not a gentleman then, Sharpe?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well you could try to dress like one, eh? Just because you grew up in a pigsty that doesn’t mean you have to dress like a pig?”

  “No, sir.” There was nothing else to say.

  Simmerson slung his sword over his vast belly. “Who commissioned you, Sharpe?”

  “Sir Arthur Wellesley, sir.”

  Sir Henry gave a bray of triumph. “I knew it! No standards, no standards at all! I’ve seen this army, its appearance is a disgrace! You can’t say that of my men, eh? You cannot fight without discipline!” He looked at Sharpe. “What makes a good soldier, Sharpe?”

  “The ability to fire three rounds a minute in wet weather, sir.” Sharpe invested his answer with a tinge of insolence. He knew the reply would annoy Simmerson. The South Essex was a new Battalion and he doubted whether musketry was up to the standard of other, older Battalions. Of all the European armies only the British practised with live ammunition but it took weeks, sometimes months, for a soldier to learn the complicated drill of loading and firing a musket fast, ignoring the panic, just concentrating on out-shooting the enemy.

  Sir Henry had not expected the answer and he stared thoughtfully at the scarred Rifleman. To be honest, and Sir Henry did not enjoy being honest with himself, he was afraid of the army he had encountered in Portugal. Until now Sir Henry had thought soldiering was a glorious affair of obedient men in drill-straight lines, their scarlet coats shining in the sun, and instead he had been met by casual, unkempt officers who mocked his Militia training. Sir Henry had dreamed of leading his Battalion into battle, mounted on his charger, sword aloft, gaining undying glory. But staring at Sharpe, typical of so many officers he had met in his brief time in Portugal, he found himself wondering whether there were any French officers who looked like Sharpe. He had imagined Napoleon’s army, despite their conquest of Europe, as a herd of ignorant soldiers shepherded by foppish officers and he shuddered inside at the thought that they might turn out to be lean, hardened men like Sharpe who might chop him out of his saddle before he had the chance to be painted in oils as a conquering hero. Sir Henry was already afraid and he had yet to see a single enemy, but first he had to get a subtle revenge on this Rifleman who had baffled him.

  “Three rounds a minute?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how do you teach men to fire three rounds a minute?”

  Sharpe shrugged. “Patience, sir. Practice. One battle does a world of good.”

  Simmerson scoffed at him. “Patience! Practice! They aren’t children, Sharpe. They’re drunkards and thieves! Gutter scourings!” His voice was rising again. “Flog it into them, Sharpe, flog! It’s the only way! Give them a lesson they won’t forget. Isn’t that right?”

  There was silence. Simmerson turned to Forrest. “Isn’t that right, Major?”

  “Yes, sir.” Forrest’s answer lacked conviction. Simmerson turned to Sharpe. “Sharpe?”

  “It’s the last resort, sir.”

  “The last resort, sir.” Simmerson mimicked Sharpe, but secretly he was pleased. It was the answer he had wanted. “You’re soft, Sharpe! Could you teach men to fire three rounds a minute?”

  Sharpe could feel the challenge in the air but there was no going back. “Yes, sir.”

  “Right!” Simmerson rubbed his hands together. “This afternoon. Forrest?”

  “Sir?”

  “Give Mr Sharpe a company. The Light will do. Mr Sharpe will improve their shooting!” Simmerson turned and bowed to Hogan with a heavy irony. “That is if Captain Hogan agrees to lend us Lieutenant Sharpe’s services.”

  Hogan shrugged and looked at Sharpe. “Of course, sir.”

  Simmerson smiled. “Excellent! So, Mr Sharpe, you’ll teach my Light Company to fire three shots a minute?”

  Sharpe looked out of the window. It was a hot, dry day and there was no reason why a good man should not fire five shots a minute in this weather. It depended, of course, how bad the Light Company were at the moment. If they could only manage two shots a minute now, then it was next to impossible to make them experts in one afternoon, but trying would do no harm. He looked back to Simmerson. “I’ll try, sir.”

  “Oh you will, Mr Sharpe, you will. And you can tell them from me that if they fail then I’ll flog one out of every ten of them. Do you understand, Mr Sharpe? One out of every ten.”

  Sharpe understood well enough. He had been tricked by Simmerson into what was probably an impossible job, and the outcome would be that the Colonel would have his orgy of flogging and he, Sharpe, would be blamed. And if he succeeded? Then Simmerson could claim it was the threat of the flogging that had done the trick. He saw triumph in Simmerson’s small red eyes and he smiled at the Colonel. “I won’t tell them about the flogging, Colonel. You wouldn’t want them distracted, would you?”

  Simmerson smiled back. “You use your own methods, Mr Sharpe. But I’ll leave the triangle where it is; I think I’m going to need it.”

  Sharpe clapped his misshapen shako onto his head and gave the Colonel a salute of bone-cracking precision. “Don’t bother, sir. You won’t need a triangle. Good day, sir.”

  Now make it happen, he thought.

  CHAPTER 3

  “I don’t bloody believe it, sir. Tell me it’s not true.” Sergeant Patrick Harper shook his head as he stood with Sharpe and watched the South Essex Light Company fire two volleys to the orders of a Lieutenant. “Send this Battalion to Ireland, sir. We’d be a free country in two weeks! They couldn’t fight off a church choir!”

  Sharpe gloomily agreed. It was not that the men did not know how to load and fire their muskets; it was simply that they did it with a painful slowness and a dedication to the drill book that was rigorously imposed by the Sergeants. There were officially twenty drill movements for the loading and firing of a musket; five of them alone applied to how the steel ramrod should be used to thrust ball and charge down the barrel, and the Battalion’s insistence on doing it by the book meant that Sharpe had timed their two demonstration shots at more than thirty seconds each. He had three hours, at the most, to speed them up to twenty seconds a shot and he could understand Harper’s reaction to the task. The Sergeant was openly scornful.

  “God help us if we ever have to skirmish alongside this lot! The French will eat them for breakfast!” He was right. The company was not even trained well enough to stand in the battle-line, let alone skirmish with the Light troops out in front of the enemy. Sharpe hushed Harper as a mounted Captain trotted across to them. It was Lennox, Captain of the Light Company, and he grinned down on Sharpe.

  “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

  Sharpe was not sure how to reply. To agree might seem to be criticising the grizzled Scot, who seemed friendly enough. Sharpe gave a non-committal answer and Lennox swung himself out of the saddle to stand beside him.

  “Don’t worry, Sharpe. I know how bad they are, but his Eminen
ce insists on doing it this way. If he left it to me I’d have the bastards doing it properly, but if we break one little regulation then it’s three hours’ drill with full packs.” He looked quizzically at Sharpe. “You were at Assaye?” Sharpe nodded and Lennox grinned again. “Aye, I remember you. You made a name for yourself that day. I was with the 78th.”

  “They made a name for themselves too.”

  Lennox was pleased with the compliment. Sharpe remembered the Indian field and sight of the Highland Regiment marching in perfect order to assault the Mahratta lines. Great gaps were blown in the kilted ranks as they calmly marched into the artillery storm but the Scotsmen had done their job, slaughtered the gunners, and daringly reloaded in the face of a huge mass of enemy infantry that did not have the courage to counter-attack the seemingly invincible Regiment. Lennox shook his head.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Sharpe. What the devil am I doing here with this lot?” He did not wait for an answer. “I’m an old man, I was retired, but the wife died, the half pay wasn’t stretching, and they needed officers for Sir Henry bloody Simmerson. So here I am. Do you know Leroy?”

  “Leroy?”

  “Thomas Leroy. He’s a Captain here, too. He’s good. Forrest is a decent fellow. But the rest! Just because they put on a fancy uniform they think they’re warriors. Look at that one!”

  He pointed to Christian Gibbons who was riding his black horse onto the field. “Lieutenant Gibbons?” Sharpe asked.

  “You’ve met then?” Lennox laughed. „I’ll say nothing about Mr Gibbons, then, except that he’s Simmerson’s nephew, he’s interested in nothing but women, and he’s an arrogant little bastard. Bloody English! Begging your pardon, Sharpe.“

  Sharpe laughed. “We’re not all that bad.” He watched as Gibbons walked his horse delicately to within a dozen paces and stopped. The Lieutenant stared superciliously at the two officers. So this, Sharpe thought, is Simmerson’s nephew? “Are we needed here, sir?”