Sharpe's Company

CHAPTER 8

Halt! Boots thudded on to the roadway. 'Stand bloody still, you bastards! Still! The Sergeant cackled, ground his few remaining teeth together, turned away and immediately spun back. 'I said still! If you want your sodding bum scratched, Gutteridge, I'll do it with my bayonet! Still! He turned to the young officer and snapped an immaculate salute. 'Sir!

The Ensign, visibly nervous of the tall Sergeant, returned the salute. 'Thank you, Sergeant.

'Don't thank me, sir. My job, sir. The Sergeant gave his habitual cackle, a wild, discomfiting sound, and his eyes flicked left and right. The Sergeant's eyes were blue, almost a baby blue, the Ensign decided, while the rest of him was yellow, fever yellow, a sickly cast over his hair, teeth and skin. The baby blue eyes settled on the Ensign. 'Are you going to find the Captain, sir, are you? Tell him we've arrived, sir?

'Yes, of course.’

'Give him my best, sir. My very best. The Sergeant cackled again, and the cackle turned into a racking cough, and the head twitched on its long, scrawny neck that had the terrible scar.

The Ensign walked into the courtyard that had SE/LC chalked on the gatepost. He was relieved to be away from the Sergeant, his constant bane on the long journey from the South Essex depot, and relieved that the other officers of the South Essex Light Company could now share the brunt of the Sergeant's madness. No, that was not right. The Sergeant was not mad, the Ensign decided, but there was something about him that spoke of the possibility of utter horror that lurked just bellow the yellow surface. The Sergeant was terrifying: the Ensign, as he was to the recruits.

The soldiers in the courtyard were almost as frightening. They had the look that other veterans in Portugal had assumed, a look quite at odds with soldiering in England. Their uniforms had turned from scarlet into either a faded, whitish pink, or else into a dark, virulent purple. The commonest colour was brown where jackets and trousers had been repeatedly patched with coarse, peasant cloth. Their skins, even in winter, were dark brown. Above all, the Ensign noticed, was their air of confidence. They carried themselves casually, at home with their polished and battered weapons, and the Ensign felt ill at ease in his new scarlet jacket with its bright yellow facings. An Ensign was the lowest of all commissioned officers and William Matthews, a sixteen-year-old who pretended to shave, was scared by the first sight of these men he was supposed to command.

A man was bent beneath the yard pump, a second man working the handle so that water pulsed on to his head and naked back. As the man stood up Matthews saw a lattice of thick scars that had been caused by a flogging and the Ensign turned away, sickened by the sight. His father had warned him that the army attracted the filth of society, the troublemakers, and Matthews knew he had just seen such a piece of human flotsam. Another soldier, for some reason dressed in Rifle green, saw his expression and grinned. Matthews knew he was being watched, and judged, but then an officer appeared, dressed properly, and it was with relief that he crossed to the newcomer, a Lieutenant, and saluted. 'Ensign Matthews, sir. Reporting with the recruits.

The Lieutenant smiled vaguely, turned away, and vomited. 'Oh, Christ! The Lieutenant seemed to be having trouble in breathing, but he stood upright again, painfully, and turned back to the Ensign. 'My dear fellow, frightfully sorry. Bloody Portuguese put garlic in everything. I'm Harold Price. Price took off his shako and rubbed his head. 'I missed your name. Frightfully sorry.’

'Matthews, sir.

'Matthews. Matthews. Price said the name as if it might mean something, and then held his breath as his stomach heaved and, when the spasm had passed, breathed out slowly. 'Forgive me, my dear Matthews. I think my stomach's delicate this morning. You wouldn't, I suppose, do me the honour of lending me five pounds? Just for a day or two? Guineas would be better.

His father had warned him of this, too, but Matthews felt it would be unwise to begin his acquaintance with his new Company by a churlish refusal. He was aware of the soldiers in the yard listening and he wondered if he was an innocent in some kind of private joke, but what eke could he do?

'Of course, sir.

Lieutenant Price looked astonished. 'My dear fellow, how kind! Splendid! I'll give you my note, of course.

'And hope the Ensign gets killed at Badajoz?’

Matthews spun round. The tall soldier, the one whose back was so horribly scarred, had spoken. The man's face was scarred, too, and it gave him a knowing, even mocking expression, that was belied by his voice. He grinned at Matthews. 'He's doing it to everyone. Borrowing in the hope that they die. He should make a tidy enough profit.

Matthews did not know what to say. The soldier had spoken in a kindly way, but he had not used the word 'sir', which was disconcerting, and Matthews had the feeling that what little authority his lowly rank endowed was already being dissipated. He hoped the Lieutenant would intervene, but Price's expression was sheepish as he put the shako on his head and grinned at the scarred man. 'This is Ensign Matthews, sir. He's brought the replacements.

The tall, scarred man nodded at the Ensign. 'Glad you're here, Matthews. I'm Sharpe, Captain Sharpe. What's your name?

'Matthews, sir. The Ensign gaped at Sharpe. An officer who had been flogged? He realized his answer had been inadequate. 'William, sir.’

'Good morning and welcome. Sharpe was making an effort to be pleasant. He hated mornings and this morning, in particular, was unpleasant. Today Teresa was going from Elvas and riding the few miles, across the border, to Badajoz. Another parting. 'Where did you leave the men?"

Matthews had not left them anywhere; the Sergeant had made all the decisions, but he pointed through the gate. 'Outside, sir.

'Get them in, get them in. Sharpe rubbed his hair dry with a piece of sacking. 'Sergeant Harper! Sergeant Read! Harper could settle the recruits into the Company, while Read, the Methodist teetotaler, could fuss over the Company books. It would be a busy day.

Sharpe dressed hurriedly. The rain had stopped, at least for the moment, but the wind still came cold from the north and brought with it high, streaked clouds that promised more bad weather in March. At least, being the first troops to arrive, the Battalion had the pick of Elvas's billets and the men lived in comparative comfort even as they stared across the border at Badajoz. The two fortresses were just eleven miles apart, either side of a shallow valley, but, despite their closeness, they were vastly different. Badajoz was a city, the capital of a province, while Elvas was a small market town that found itself in the centre of wide, spreading defences. Impressive as were the Portuguese walls, they were small compared with the Spanish fortifications that barred the road to Madrid. Sharpe knew it was fanciful, but there seemed something sinister about the huge fortress to the east and he hated to think of Teresa going behind the towering walls and wide ditches. Yet she had to return to the child, his child, and he would have to find her and protect her when the moment came.

His thoughts of Teresa and Antonia suddenly stopped, wrenched violently away, replaced by a loathing thick as vomit. His past was here, in Elvas, a hated past. The same yellow face, with the same twitch, and the same cackle! My God! Here, in his Company? Their eyes met, and Sharpe saw the insolent grin that seemed to verge on total insanity. 'Halt! The Sergeant glared at the replacements. 'Left turn! Still, you bastards! Keep your bloody mouth shut, Smithers, or I'll use it to clean out the stables! The Sergeant turned smartly, marched to Sharpe, and crashed to a halt. 'Sir!

Ensign Matthews looked between the two tall men. 'Sir? This is Sergeant…

'I know Sergeant Hakeswill.

The Sergeant cackled, showing his few yellow teeth. Spittle dribbled on to his stubbled chin. Sharpe tried to work out the Sergeant's age. Hakeswill had to be forty, at least, maybe forty-five, but the eyes were still the eyes of a cunning child. They looked unblinkingly at Sharpe with amusement and scorn. Sharpe was aware that Hakeswill was trying to outstare him so he turned away and saw Harper buckling his belt as he came into the courtyard. He nodded at the Irishman. 'Stand them easy, Sergeant. They need sleeping space and food.

'Sir.

Sharpe turned back to Hakeswill 'You're joining this Company?

'Sir! He barked the reply, and Sharpe remembered how punctilious Hakeswill had always been in the etiquette of the army. No soldier drilled more exactly, replied more formally, yet every action seemed imbued with a kind of contempt. It was impossible to pin it down, yet it had something to do with the expression in those childlike eyes, as if there was a freak inside the rigorously correct soldier that watched and laughed as it fooled the army. Hakeswill's face twitched into a grin. 'Surprised, sir?

Sharpe wanted to kill the man on the spot, to blot out those offensive eyes, still for ever the twitch and the teeth-grinding, the cackle and the grin. Many men had tried to kill Obadiah Hakeswill. The scar on his neck with its fiery red folds of skin had been put there when he was just twelve years old. He had been sentenced to death by hanging for stealing a lamb. He had been innocent of the charge. His real offence was that he had forced the vicar's daughter to undress for him by holding a viper at her neck, its tongue flickering, and she had fumbled off her clothes and screamed as the boy attacked her. Her father had rescued the girl and it had been simpler to accuse the boy of stealing a lamb, more certain to end in death, and the deal had been struck with the Justices. No one, even then, had wanted Obadiah Hakeswill to live except, perhaps, his mother, and the vicar, if he could have thought of a way, would have gladly strung her alongside her foul son.

He had lived somehow. They had strung him up, but he was still alive, with the stretched, scrawny neck and its livid scar to prove he had once been hanged. He had found his way into the army and into a way of life that suited him. He put up a hand and rubbed the scar below his left ear. 'Be all right, sir, now that I'm here.

Sharpe knew what he meant. There was a legend that Hakeswill the indestructible man, the survivor of a judicial execution, could not be killed and the legend did not diminish with time. Sharpe had seen two files of men blown away by grapeshot, yet Hakeswill, standing immediately to their front, had not been touched.

Hakeswill's face twitched, hiding the laugh that was prompted by Sharpe's unexpressed hatred. The twitch stopped. ‘I'm glad I'm here, sir. Proud of you, I am, proud. My best recruit. He had spoken loudly, letting the courtyard know of their joint history; and there was a challenge, too, as unspoken as their hatred, which announced that Hakeswill would not submit easily to the discipline of a man he had once drilled and tyrannized.

'How's Captain Morris, Hakeswill?

The Sergeant grinned, then cackled into Sharpe's face so that the officer caught the foul breath. 'Remember him, sir, do you? He's a Major now, sir, so I hear. In Dublin. Mind you, sir, you was a naughty boy, you'll pardon an old soldier for saying so.

There was silence in the courtyard. Every man was listening to the words, aware of the hostility between the two men. Sharpe dropped his voice, so no one but Hakeswill could hear. 'If you lay a finger on any man in this Company, Sergeant, I'll bloody kill you. Hakeswill grinned, was about to reply, but Sharpe was faster. 'Shun! Hakeswill snapped upright, his face suddenly clouded with anger because he had been denied his reply. 'About turn!

Sharpe left him there, facing a wall. God damn it! Hakeswill! The scars were on Sharpe's back because of Hakeswill and Morris, and Sharpe had sworn on that far-off day that he would inflict as much pain on them as they had on him. Hakeswill had beaten a Private into bloody insensibility; the man had recovered his consciousness, but never his senses, and Sharpe had been a witness. He had tried to stop the hammering and, for his efforts, was accused by Morris and Hakeswill of the beating. He had been tied to a cart's wheel and flogged.

Now, suddenly face to face with his enemy after all these years, he felt an uneasy sense of helplessness. Hakeswill seemed untouchable. He had the confidence of a man who simply did not care what happened to him, because he knew he was indestructible. The Sergeant went through life with a suppurating hatred of other men, and, from behind his mask of military conformity, spread poison and fear throughout the companies he served. Hakeswill, Sharpe knew, would not have changed, any more than his appearance had changed. The same great belly, perhaps a few inches bigger, a few more lines on the face, another tooth or two missing, yet still the same yellow skin and the mad stare, and Sharpe remembered, uncomfortably, that once Hakeswill had told him they were alike. Both on the run, both without family, and the only way to survive, the Sergeant said, was to hit hard and hit first.

He looked at the recruits. They were wary, as well they might be, cautious of this new Company. Sharpe, though they could not know it, shared their unease. Hakeswill, of all people, in his Company? Then he remembered the gazette, and knew that the Company might not be his, and he felt his thoughts begin their profitless descent into gloom so he snapped them away. 'Sergeant Harper?

'Sir?

'What's happening today?

'Football, sir. Grenadier Company playing the Portuguese. Heavy casualties expected.

Sharpe knew that Harper was trying to cheer up the newcomers and so he dutifully smiled. 'A light day, then, for your first day. Enjoy it. Tomorrow we work. Tomorrow he would be without Teresa, tomorrow would be a day nearer Badajoz and tomorrow he might be a Lieutenant. He realized the recruits, some of whom he had found himself, were waiting for him to continue. He forced another smile. 'Welcome to the South Essex. I'm glad you're here. This is a good Company and I'm sure it will stay that way. The words sounded incredibly lame, even to himself, as if he knew they were untrue.

He nodded at Harper. 'Carry on, Sergeant.

The Irishman's eyes flicked towards Hakeswill, still facing the wall, and Sharpe pretended not to see. Damn Hakeswill, he could stay there, but then he relented. 'Sergeant Hakeswill!

'Sir!

'Dismiss!

Sharpe walked into the street, wanting to be alone, but Leroy was leaning on the gatepost and the American lifted an amused eyebrow. 'Is that how the Hero of the Field of Talavera welcomes recruits? No calls to glory? No bugles?

'They're lucky to get a welcome at all.

Leroy drew on his cigar and fell into step beside Sharpe. 'I suppose this unhappiness is caused by your lady leaving us?"

Sharpe shrugged. 'I suppose so.

'Then shall I share other news?

Leroy had stopped and his dark eyes seemed to be amused.

'Napoleon's dead?

'Alas, no. Our Colonel arrives today. You don't seem surprised?

Sharpe waited for a priest, mounted on a drooping mule, to go past. 'Should I be surprised?

'No. Leroy grinned at him. 'But the usual reaction is to say "who, why, what, how do you know?" Then I give you all the answers, and that's called a conversation.

Sharpe's depression was dissipated by Leroy. 'So tell me.

The thin, laconic American looked surprised. 'I never thought you would ask. Who is he? His name is Brian Windham. I've never liked the name Brian, it's the sort of name a woman gives to a boy in the hope he will grow up honest. He tapped ash on to the roadway. 'Why? I think there is no answer to that. What is he? He is a mighty hunter of foxes. Do you hunt, Sharpe?

'You know I don't.

'Then your future may be gloomy, as mine may be. And how do I know?

He paused.

'How do you know?’

'Because our good Colonel, honest Brian Windham, has a forerunner, a messenger, a John the Baptist to his coming, a Paul Revere, no less.

'Who?

Leroy sighed; he was being unusually loquacious. 'You've never heard of Paul Revere?

'No.

'Lucky man, Sharpe. He called my father a traitor, and our family called Revere a traitor, and I rather think we lost the argument. The point is, my dear Sharpe, that he was a forerunner, an agent of warning, and our good Colonel has sent such a warning of his arrival in the shape of a new Major.

Sharpe looked at Leroy, the American's expression had not changed. ‘I'm sorry, Leroy. I'm sorry.

Leroy shrugged. As the senior Captain he had been hoping for the vacant Majority in the Battalion. 'One should expect nothing in this army. His name is Collett, Jack Collett, another honest name and another foxhunter.

'I'm sorry.

Leroy began walking again. 'There is something else.

'What?

Leroy pointed with his cigar into the courtyard of the house where the officers were billeted and Sharpe looked through the archway and, for the second time that morning, he had a sudden, unwelcome shock. A young man, in his middle twenties, stood next to a pile of luggage that his servant was unstrapping. Sharpe had never seen the officer before but the uniform was only too familiar. It was the uniform of the South Essex, complete even to the silver badge of the Eagle that Sharpe had captured, but it was a uniform only one man could wear. It had a curved sabre, slung on chains, and a silver whistle holstered on the cross belt. The insignias of rank, denoting a Captain, were not epaulettes, but wings made from chains and decorated with a bugle horn. Sharpe was looking at a man dressed as the Captain of the South Essex Light Company. He swore. Leroy laughed. 'Join the downtrodden.

No one had the guts to tell him, except Leroy! The bastards had brought in a new man, over his head, and he had never been told! He felt a huge anger, a depression, and a helplessness in the face of the army's cumbersome machinery. He could not believe it. Hakeswill, Teresa going, and now this?

Major Forrest appeared in the archway, saw Sharpe, and came towards him. 'Sharpe?

'Sir.

'Don't jump to conclusions. The Major sounded miserable.

'Conclusions, sir?

'About Captain Rymer. Forrest nodded towards the new Captain who, at that moment, turned and caught Sharpe's eye. He bowed briefly, a polite acknowledgement, and Sharpe forced himself to respond. He looked back to Forrest.

'What happened?

Forrest shrugged. 'He bought Lennox's commission.

Lennox? Sharpe's predecessor had died two and a half years before. 'But that was…

'I know, Sharpe. His will was in the courts. The estate has only just released the commission for sale.

'I didn't even know it was for sale! Not, Sharpe thought, that he could have afforded the fifteen hundred pounds.

Leroy lit a new cigar from the butt of his old. 'I doubt if anyone knew it was for sale. Right, Major?

Forrest nodded miserably. An open sale meant that the legal price had to be paid. It was far more likely that Captain Rymer was a friend of one of the lawyers who had cut out the competition, sold it to Rymer, and in return received a higher price. The Major spread his hands. I'm sorry, Sharpe.

'So what happens? Sharpe's voice was hard.

'Nothing. Forrest tried to sound hopeful. 'Major Collett, you haven't met him, Sharpe, agrees with me. It's a mix up. So you stay in command till Colonel Windham arrives.

'Later today, sir.

Forrest nodded. 'Everything will be all right, Sharpe. You'll see. Everything.

Sharpe saw Teresa walk through the courtyard, carrying her saddle, but she did not see him. He turned away and stared over the rooftops of Elvas, pink in the sunlight, and saw that a cloudbank, riding the north wind, had bisected the landscape with its shadow. Spain lay in shadow and Badajoz was a dark citadel far away. He swore again, foully and at length, as if the curses might fight for him against the ill fortune. He knew it was fanciful, stupid even, but it seemed as if the fortress that barred the eastern road, its walls high over the Guadiana, was at the centre of the evil, spreading a baleful fate over all who came near. Hakeswill, Rymer, Teresa going, all things changing, and what else, he wondered, would go wrong before they lanced the evil in Badajoz?

CHAPTER 9

Everything about Obadiah Hakeswill was graceless and repulsive to the point of fascination. The body was huge, but any man who mistook the belly for a sign of weakness would be caught by the arms and legs that had massive strength. He was clumsy, except when performing a drill movement, though even when he was marching there was a hint that, at any moment, he might become some snarling, shambling beast; half wild, half man. His skin was yellowish, a legacy of the Fever Islands. His hair was blond, going grey, and stretched thinly over his scarred scalp, falling lank to the stretched, tensed, obscenely mutilated neck.

Some time in the past, even before the hanging, he had known he would never be liked and so, instead, determined to be feared. He had one advantage. Obadiah Hakeswill was afraid of nothing. When other men complained of hunger or cold, dampness or disease, the Sergeant simply cackled and knew that it would end. He did not care how much he was hurt in a fight; wounds mended, bruises disappeared, and he could not die. He had known that from the moment he had dangled on the rope's end; he could not die because he was protected by a magic, his mother's magic, and he was proud of the foul scar, the symbol of his invulnerability, and knew that it frightened other men. Officers did not cross Obadiah Hakeswill. They feared the consequences of his anger, the foulness of his looks, and so they humored him, knowing that in return he would stick to the letter of the regulations and would support their authority against the men. Within those limits he was free to take his revenge on a world that had made him ugly, lumpen, and friendless, a world that had tried to kill him and which now, above all, feared him.

He hated Sharpe. To Hakeswill officers were officers, born, like John Morris, to their exalted station and the purveyors of reward and privilege. But Sharpe was an upstart. He came from the same gutters as Hakeswill, and the Sergeant had once tried to break him and failed. He would not fail again. Now, sitting in the stable behind the officers' house, stripping a hambone with his fingernails and cramming the scraps into an open, churning mouth, he took pleasure at remembering their meeting. Hakeswill had recognized the officer's embarrassment and chalked it up as a small victory to be followed and exploited. There was the Sergeant too, the Irishman who would be worth baiting, and he cackled as he stuffed the food into his mouth and scratched the flea-bites in his armpit. There was profit in fear, none in harmony. Hakeswill had made himself comfortable by reducing companies into divided camps; those for him and those against. Those he disliked would be forced to pay money, or services, so that the Sergeant's life would be bearable. Hakeswill had a shrewd idea that Patrick Harper would not allow it to happen easily, nor Sharpe, but he laughed out loud. He had not re-enlisted in an active service battalion, one that would lead to the rich pickings of a war, to be thwarted by those two.

He fished in his ammunition pouch and came up with a handful of coins. It was not much, a few shillings, but all he had managed to steal in the chaos of the arrival. He had come to the stable to count his gains and to hide them deep in his pack. He preferred services to money. Soon he would discover which soldiers in the Light Company were married, and which had the prettiest wives. Those were the ones to go for, the ones who would be reduced to quaking misery by Hakeswill's battery of weapons till they would offer anything for a release from his torment. Their wives were his usual price. He knew that, on average, two or three would give in; would bring their women in tears to some straw-filled stable like this and, after a while, the women surrendered. Some came drunk, but he never minded that, and one had tried to rip him with a bayonet and he had killed her, and blamed the husband for her death, and he laughed as he remembered the man's execution, hung from a high tree. It would take time to become comfortable in this new battalion, to root around in it like a beast settling in its lair, but he would do it. And, just like an animal slumping into rest, he would first claw out the rocks that would be uncomfortable beneath his yellow hide, rocks like Sharpe and Harper.

He had the stable to himself. A horse moved in the stall behind him, light chinked between the thick, curved roof tiles, and the Sergeant was glad of the time to be alone, to think. Stealing equipment was a good beginning. Pick your men, steal from them, then report the loss and have them charged, hoping that the new Colonel was a flogging man. It was extraordinary what a man would do to avoid a flogging, and what a woman would give to save her man from the lashes! It was so easy, and he laughed again. Two or three savage floggings and the Company would be eating out of his hand! There was even a rumor, that had flashed through the Battalion like wildfire, that Sharpe had lost the Company. That was good news; it removed an obstacle, and Hakeswill had judged that Price would be no great problem. The new Ensign, Matthews, was a mere boy, and the only problem was Patrick Harper. His fault was probably excessive honesty, and Hakeswill grinned. It was so easy!

The door of the stable opened and Hakeswill froze. He liked to stay unseen; to watch without being watched. One person entered, he could tell by the footsteps, and walked to the row of stalls behind Hakeswill as the big, wooden door closed under its own ponderous weight. The newcomer was hidden from him and he moved, infinitely slowly, timing his movements so that the rustle of straw should seem like the stirrings of a draught and then, thankfully, a horse staled noisily and the splashing covered the sound of him kneeling up to peer through a chink in the boards.

He almost crowed with delight. It was a girl; a girl with the kind of beauty a man might dream of, but know he could never possess. She was a native, too, he could see that by the clothes and by her dark skin and hair, and native girls were always fair game. He tensed himself. He wanted this girl. He forgot everything; Sharpe, Harper, his plans, everything, for he was suddenly swamped with lust for this girl and he began to edge the bayonet from its scabbard.

Teresa heaved the saddle on to her horse, pulled the blanket straight beneath the leather, and pulled the girth through its thick buckle. She spoke to the horse in Spanish, murmuring to it, and heard nothing strange in the stable. She did not want to leave Sharpe, to return to the Anfrancesados, the French-lovers, in the city, but Antonia was there, and ill, and Teresa had to go back to protect her child through the siege. After that, pray God, the child would be well enough to be moved.

And marriage? She sighed and looked up to the roof. It was not right that Antonia should be a bastard, yet Teresa could not see herself following this army like a puppy behind a pack, and she knew Richard Sharpe would not leave to live in Casatejada. Marry anyway? At least the baby would have a name, a good name, and there was no shame for a child to carry the name of an unknown, absent father. She sighed again. It would all have to wait until the siege was done, or the child better, and suddenly, like a dark cloud, she wondered what might happen if Sharpe died in the siege. She shrugged. She would tell everyone that he had married her before the siege, and no one would be any the wiser.

Hakeswill waited till her hands were full, bridling the horse, and then he rolled over the partition, the bayonet bright in his hand, and grabbed her hair and pulled her down with his lumbering weight. She lashed at him, hopelessly falling, and then he had the needle-point of the slim bayonet at her throat and was kneeling at her head. 'Hello, missy. She said nothing. She was flat on her back, beside the horse, and his face was upside down above her. Hakeswill licked his lips. 'Portuguese, are we?

The Sergeant laughed. This was a gift from the gods, a present on his first day with his new Company. He kept the bayonet at her throat and edged his way round so he could see her properly. The horse stirred, but he was not afraid of horses, and then his knees were beside her waist and he laughed aloud. This one was beautiful, even more beautiful than she had looked through the gap in the stalls. This one he would remember for ever. 'Speak English? The girl said nothing. He pressed with the bayonet, the slightest fraction, not breaking the skin. 'D'you speak English, missy?

Probably not, which did not matter much, because there was no chance that she would live to tell any tales, in any language. The provosts would hang a man for rape so the girl would have to die, unless she liked him, of course, which he conceded was not likely. It was not impossible. There had been that bitch in the Fever Islands, the blind girl, but there was no sign that this little beauty was exactly welcoming his attentions.

She did not seem frightened either, which was puzzling and distressing. He expected them to scream, they usually did, but she was watching him calmly with big, dark, long-lashed eyes. The scream might come later, but he was ready for it. In a moment he would hold her throat and move the bayonet into her mouth. He would force the blade down till she was on the point of gagging, so all she could see was the seventeen inches of edged metal protruding from her mouth, gripped in his fist and, in that position, Hakeswill knew, they neither moved, nor screamed, and it was so easy to kill them at the end with one brief, convulsive plunge. Her body could be pushed under straw at the back of the stable and, even if she was found, no one would know it was him. He cackled. 'Obadiah Hakeswill, missy, at your service.

She smiled at him, transfixing, unexpected. 'Obber-dyer?

He paused. He had been about to transfer the bayonet. He was suspicious, but he nodded. 'Sergeant Obadiah Hakeswill, missy, and in a hurry, if you don't mind.

Her eyes, large already, widened as if impressed. 'Sarj-ent? Si? She smiled again. 'Sarj-ent Obber-dyer Hag-swill? Si? She caressed the words, lingered on them.

Hakeswill was puzzled. It was dark enough in the stable, to be sure, but not so dark that she could not see his face. Yet she seemed to like him. It was not impossible, he supposed, but even if she did like him that was no reason to linger. Reason, indeed, to make haste. 'That's right, dearie, a Sergeant. Mucha Importante. He was short of room, the damned horse was too close, but then the girl smiled again and patted the straw on her other side. 'Importante?

He grinned at her, glad she was impressed, and eased the bayonet back a trifle. 'Move over, then.

She nodded, smiled again, and her hands went to the back of her neck, and she licked her lips, and Hakeswill's eyes moved to watch her draw up her long, slim, trousered legs, and he never saw the blade that she took from the sheath that hung at the top of her spine. He was fumbling with his buttons when the knife sliced at his face, sprang blood, and the knees kept coming and slammed him against the horse's rear legs. He bellowed, swung the bayonet, but the knife was faster and cut at his wrist, so he dropped the blade, screaming at her, and she kicked at it as she scrambled, fast as a hare, under the belly of her horse.

'Whore! He reached for her under the horse, but the bitch had his bayonet and stabbed at him, so he was forced back, and then she swore at him in fast, fluent English, and he wiped blood from his face and spat at her.

She laughed, crouching beyond the horse, and she leveled the blade at him. 'Come and get it, Obadiah.

He stood up and backed into the passageway between the stalls. He was still between her and the door, and there were more ways than one of skinning a cat. He felt his face. The wound was small enough, and his wrist was usable. He grinned at her. ‘I’ll have you, missy, then I'll carve you into little pieces. He cackled, feeling his head twitch. 'Bloody little Portuguese whore! She was still between the horse and the wooden partition and he went forward as she stood up, his bayonet still in her hand, and she was smiling.

He checked at the sight of the bayonet. She was holding it low, ready to rip it upwards, and there was no sign of trembling. He thought of rushing her, but the bitch looked as if she might do real damage, so he backed away, keeping himself between her and the door, and looked around for the pitchfork that had to be in a stable. He wanted this girl. She was beautiful, and he wanted her, and he would have her, and his face twitched, and the words hammered in his head. He would have her, have her, have her, and then he saw the pitchfork and went back fast, turned, and grabbed at it.

The girl was nearly on to him. She had guts, for a Portuguese bitch, and he twisted to one side to avoid the lunge of the bayonet. Damn her! She had passed him, was by the door, but instead of opening it she stopped, turned, and taunted him. She spoke to him in Spanish, a language of rich insult, and laughed at her own words.

Hakeswill assumed it was Portuguese, a language of which he was as ignorant as he was of Spanish, but one thing was sure. He was not being complimented. He put the pitchfork out ahead of him and stalked towards her. There was no way she could beat this attack and he grinned at her. 'Make it easy for yourself, missy, drop the spike. Come on, drop it!

Teresa wanted to kill him, not leave it to Sharpe, and she switched to English so she might provoke an angered, unthinking charge. She had to assemble the sentence carefully, make sure it was right in her head, and then she laughed at him. 'Your mother was a sow, sold to a toad.

He bellowed, the anger exploding like powder. 'Mother! He ran at her, swinging the pitchfork, and she would have placed the bayonet with the precision of a Bishop pinning down a mortal sin if the door of the stable had not opened, the wood caught the pitchfork's tines, and the ugly Sergeant was tipped off balance, fell and the bayonet stabbed into empty air.

Hakeswill spun as he fell, momentarily dazzled by the sun streaming through the doorway, and had an impression of a giant shadow. A boot caught him; he was kicked as he had never been kicked before, lifted off the ground, slammed backwards, but he kept hold of the pitchfork and snarled at his assailant. The bloody Irish Sergeant! He picked himself up and lunged at the Irishman, but Harper simply caught the pitchfork by its two tines and bent them outwards and apart. Hakeswill pushed forward, using all his strength, but Harper was rock solid and the fork did not move except for the metal which was bent straight as if it was made from wet willow wands.

'What the hell's happening? Sharpe stood in the doorway, holding it open.

Teresa smiled at him over the bayonet. 'Sergeant Obadiah wanted to have me, then carve me in little pieces.

Harper pulled the pitchfork away from Hakeswill and tossed it on the ground. 'Permission to commit murder, sir?

'Denied. Sharpe came forward, letting the door swing shut. 'Latch that door.

Hakeswill watched as Harper looped the string over the peg. So this was Sharpe's bloody woman? It looked like that, from the way she smiled at him, touched his arm, and Hakeswill knew he should have pushed the bayonet through the slut's throat when he had a chance. God, but she was beautiful, and he felt the desire still there and he would have her, by God, he would have her! Then he looked at Sharpe's face, tight with anger, and Hakeswill shrugged. So he was about to have the hell beaten out of him? He had been beaten before, and a beating meant no rape charges, and anyway the girl was the only witness and she was obviously unharmed. His face twitched violently, and he could not stop it, and then he remembered how the girl had angered him, made him rush his attack, and he decided that the same tactics would work on an angry Sharpe. 'Whores for the officers, does she, Captain? How much? I can pay for her filth.

Harper growled, Teresa started forward, but Sharpe checked them both. He looked only at Hakeswill, took two paces towards him, and it seemed as if he had not heard what the Sergeant had said. He cleared his throat, spoke mildly. 'Sergeant Hakeswill. You and I, through no choice of mine, find ourselves in the same Company. Do you understand? Hakeswill nodded. So the jumped-up little bastard was going to do his officer act! Sharpe spoke calmly. 'We have three rules in this Company, Sergeant, are you listening?

'Yes, sir! Hakeswill fancied the bitch. He would have her, too, when the time came.

'Those rules are as follows, Sergeant. Sharpe spoke in sweet reasonableness, as a Captain to a valued noncommissioned officer, though whether he was a Captain or no, he still had no idea. 'First, that you fight well, that you fight to win. I know you can do that, Sergeant, I've watched you.

'Yes, sir! Hakeswill barked the response.

'Second, that no man gets drunk without my permission. Sharpe wondered if his permission would be worth a used musket ball in a few hours, but then let Rymer look after Lieutenant Price. 'Understand?

'Yessir!

'Good. And third, Sergeant. Sharpe was now two paces from Hakeswill, ignoring the muttered Spanish threats from Teresa. 'Third, Sergeant, that you steal nothing, except from the enemy, and except when you're starving. Understand?

'Sir! Hakeswill was laughing inside. Sharpe had turned as soft as bloody butter!

'I'm glad you understand, Sergeant. Shun!

Hakeswill sprang to attention and Sharpe kicked him between the legs. Hakeswill snapped forward and the officer's right hand cracked into his face, too high, but with enough force to send him staggering backwards.

'Shun! I'll tell you when to move, you bastard!

Habit froze the Sergeant, as Sharpe had known it would. Hakeswill's survival in the army depended on absolute obedience to orders. Beyond that, anything could be done, but to disobey orders was to risk losing his stripes, his privileges, and his position to torment others. Hakeswill was hurting badly, but he stood still. Perhaps, the Sergeant thought, Sharpe had not gone quite as soft as he thought, but no man had got the better of Obadiah Hakeswill and lived to boast of it. Sharpe faced him again. 'I'm glad you understand, Sergeant, because that will make our life easier. Don't you agree?

'Sir! It came out as a grunt of pain.

'Good. What were you doing to my woman?

'Sir?

'You heard, Sergeant.

'Getting acquainted, sir.

Sharpe hit him again, hard in the great belly, and again Hakeswill bent forward and again Sharpe brought up the heel of his hand into the face, this time on the Sergeant's nose so that blood started from it. 'Still!

Hakeswill was shaking with anger, the years of discipline fighting the desire to hit back, but he stilled himself, stood to attention, and then the involuntary twitching spasm jerked his head and Sharpe bellowed again. 'Still! I didn't give you permission to move! Sharpe stepped closer, almost inviting Hakeswill to hit him. 'What happens next, Hakeswill? I suppose the Company will begin to lose things. Spare boots, camp kettles, pipe clay, brushes, belts, and good Sergeant Hakeswill will be reporting the losses, am I right? Hakeswill did not move. 'And then it will be sabotage on weapons. Threads stripped on the flint screws, missing tumblers, wet mud down barrels. I know your tricks. How many floggings do you want before they're all paying you money? Three, four?

There was silence in the stable. Outside there was the sound of dogs, yelping excitedly, but Sharpe ignored the sound. Teresa came forward. 'Why don't you kill him? Let me.

'I don't know. Sharpe stared at the ravaged, malevolent face. 'Because he says he can't be killed, and when I kill him, I want it to be in public. I want his victims to know he died, that someone took revenge for them, and if we do it now it will have to be in secret. I don't want that. I want a thousand eyes watching, and then I'll kill him. He turned his back on the Sergeant, looked at Harper. 'Open the door.

Sharpe stood to one side, turned back to Hakeswill. 'Get out, and keep going. Just leave here, Sergeant, and keep walking. Eleven more miles and you can put on a blue uniform. Do something for your country, Hakeswill, desert.

The blue eyes looked at Sharpe. 'Permission to go, sir! He was still hurting.

'Go.

Harper held the door ajar. He was disappointed. He wanted to crush Hakeswill, to obliterate him, and as the Sergeant marched past he spat at him. Hakeswill began to sing, very softly. 'His father was an Irishman, his mother was a pig…

Harper lashed out. Hakeswill blocked the blow and turned on the vast Irishman. They were of a size, but Hakeswill was still hurting. He kicked out, missed, and felt the blows crash on his forearms and head. God! But the Irishman was a strong brute!

'Stop it! Sharpe bellowed.

They were too far gone. Harper hit and hit again, butted with his head, and then a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him off. I said stop it!

Hakeswill could see nothing after the butting. He swung a fist at a vaguely green uniform and Sharpe stepped back, brought up a leg, and pushed it into Hakeswill's belly. The Sergeant fell backwards, out into the sunlight, splashing into a yellow puddle of horse urine. Sharpe looked at Harper. He was unhurt, but staring into the yard, over the fallen Hakeswill's head, and the Irishman's face was astonished, stunned.

Sharpe looked into the sunlight. The yard seemed full of dogs, foxhounds, some of whom, their tails busy in ecstasy, explored the fallen man in the beautiful-smelling puddle. In the centre of the dogs was a horse; a black horse, big and beautifully groomed, and on the horse's back was a Lieutenant Colonel who wore, beneath his bicorne hat, an expression of savage distaste. The Lieutenant Colonel looked down on the Sergeant who was bleeding from wrist, nose, and cheek, and then the flinty eyes came back to Sharpe. The rider's hands gripped a crop, his boots were exquisitely tasseled, while his face, above the crowned epaulette, was the kind of face Sharpe expected to see over the bench of a county court. It was a knowing face, lined with experience, and Sharpe guessed this man could set a plough blade as handily as he quelled a riot. 'I assume you are Mr. Sharpe?

'Yes, sir.

'Report to me at half-past twelve, Sharpe. The eyes flicked round the group, from Sharpe to the Irish Sergeant, then to the girl with the bayonet. The Lieutenant Colonel's crop flicked at the horse, it stepped obediently away and the dogs forsook Hakeswill and followed. The horseman had not introduced himself, nor had he needed to. Across a puddle of urine, in the middle of a brawl over a woman, Sharpe had just met his new Colonel.

CHAPTER 10

'Soon, Richard?

'Soon.

'You know where to find me?

He nodded. 'In the house of Moreno, in a narrow street behind the Cathedral.

She smiled, bent down to pat her horse's neck. 'And there are two orange trees in the court in front of the house. It's easy to find.

'Will you be all right?

'Of course. She glanced at the Portuguese sentries who held open the main gate. 'I must go, Richard. Be happy.’

'I will. And you. He found it difficult to smile, and the next words sounded awkward. 'Give the baby my love.’

She smiled down at him. 'I will. You'll see her soon.’

'I know. And then she was gone, her horse's hooves echoing in the dark, curving tunnel of the gateway, and he watched as the Portuguese soldiers wound down the portcullis and slammed the inner gates. He was alone; no, not really alone, for Harper waited for him up the street, but he felt alone. At least he believed that Teresa would be safe. Merchants were still trading from Badajoz, their convoys still going north, east and south, and Teresa would circle the city, find such a convoy, and ride safely back to the house with the two orange trees. It was just eleven miles away, an easy walk, but he felt as if it were on the far side of the world.

Harper fell into step beside him, his face long. 'I'm sorry, sir.

'It doesn't matter.

The Sergeant sighed. 'I know you wanted to make a good impression on the Colonel. I'm sorry.

'It's not your fault. I should have killed that bastard in the stable.

Harper grinned. 'Aye, you should. Do you want me to?

'No. He's mine, and in public. They edged past ox carts loaded high with spades, gabions and great timber baulks that would become gun platforms. Elvas was filling with material for the siege; only the guns were missing, still being dragged on the roads from the River Tagus and bringing with them the promise of another breach, another Forlorn Hope.

'Sir? Harper was embarrassed.

'Yes?

'Is it true, sir?

'Is what true?

The Irishman looked down on Sharpe from his huge height. 'That you're losing the Company? I hear there's a new Captain, some youngster from the 51st?

'I don't know.

'The lads won't like it, sir, nor will they.’

'The lads will just have to bloody put up with it.

'God save Ireland. They climbed a few paces in silence, up towards the town's centre. 'So it is true?

'Probably.

Harper shook his head, massively and slowly. 'God save Ireland. I would never have believed it. Will you talk to the General?

Sharpe shook his head. He had thought of it, but instantly dismissed the thought. He had once saved Wellington's life, but the debt had long been repaid and the General had already promoted him Captain once. It was not Wellington's fault that the gazette had been refused, if it had, or that a lawyer had sold a commission illegally. It happened all the time. 'I can't run to him every time there's trouble. He shrugged. 'Something'll turn up, Patrick, it always does.

Harper, unappeased, slammed a fist against a wall, startling a sleeping dog. 'I don't believe it! They can't do it!

'They can.

Then they're fools. Harper thought for a second. 'Would you be thinking of moving on?

'Where?

'Back to the Rifles?

'I don't know. Nothing's certain yet. Anyway, the Rifles have all the officers they need, and then more.

'So you have thought about it. Harper nodded to himself. 'Would you promise me something?"

Sharpe smiled. 'I know, and the answer's yes.

'By God, I'll not stay on here without you. I'll go back to the Rifles with you. You need someone sensible near you.

They parted at the officers' house, just as the great cloud bank engulfed Elvas in shadow and a promise of rain. Sharpe paused in the archway. ‘I’ll see you at four.

'Aye, sir, I hope it's you. There was to be a parade at four at which Colonel Windham would inspect his new battalion.

Sharpe nodded. 'So do I. Make it a good turn-out.

He did not know where Windham would be, so he paused in the hallway and saw the array of clean, new shakoes on the table. He could not face the big room, the Mess, the pitying glances of his fellow-officers and the inevitable confrontation with Rymer, so he stayed in the hall and stared at a huge, gloomy painting of a white-cassocked priest who was being burned at a stake. The soldiers who stoked the faggots were mean-faced, weaselly, and obviously intended to be the English, while the suffering priest had an ethereal look of forgiveness and martyrdom. Sharpe hoped the bastard had hurt.

'Captain Sharpe? He turned. A small Major with a clipped moustache was looking at him from a doorway.

'Sir?

'Collett. Major Collett. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sharpe. Heard of you, of course. This way.

Sharpe was regretting his lack of charity to the long burned priest, wondering if the evil wish would bring him bad luck, so he looked up at the painting and winked at the man. 'Sorry.

'What's that, Sharpe?

'Nothing, sir, nothing. He followed Collett into the parlor of the house; a room hung with more gloomy, religious pictures and with vast, brown curtains that seemed to enclose the room in premature night. Colonel Windham was at a low table, feeding scraps of meat to his dogs, and he did not look up as Collett led Sharpe into the room.

'Sir! This is Sharpe, sir! Collett could have been Windham's twin; the same bowed, horseman's legs, the same leathery skin, and the same cropped grey hair, but, as the Colonel looked up, Sharpe saw shrewd lines on Windham's face that were lacking on the Major. The Colonel nodded affably. 'You like dogs, Sharpe?

'Yes, sir.

'Faithful beasts, Sharpe. Feed 'em regular, kick 'em often, and they'll do anything for you. Just like soldiers, yes?

'Yes, sir. He was standing awkwardly, shako in hand, and Windham waved him towards a chair.

'Brought the beasts with me. I hear there's some decent sport to be had. Do you hunt, Sharpe?

'No, sir.

'Fine sport! Fine sport! He was holding a scrap of beef high, teasing a hound with it so that the dog jumped vainly, higher and higher, until Windham dropped the food and the dog snapped it in mid air, and took it, growling, beneath the table. 'Shouldn't spoil 'em, of course. Bad for them. That's Jessica, my wife. He was pointing to the table.

'Your what, sir?

'Wife, Sharpe, wife. Wife's called Jessica. Colonel's Lady, and that sort of thing. Mrs. Windham. He offered the various categories of his wife in a rapid voice and Sharpe understood that he was not referring to the dog beneath the table, but to an oval portrait, about six inches high, that stood above the dog. The portrait was mounted in a superb filigree silver frame and it showed a woman with dark, severe hair, a receding chin, and an expression of terrifying disapproval. Sharpe had the distinct feeling that the chewing dog would be a better companion, but the Colonel's face softened as he looked at the painting. 'A good woman, Sharpe, a good woman. A force for the good in society.

'Yes, sir. Sharpe was beginning to feel slightly confused. He had come to the meeting expecting to be told about the Company, about Rymer, even to be reprimanded for the fracas at the stable yard, but, instead, the new Colonel of the Battalion was extolling the virtues of a good wife.

'She takes a keen interest, Sharpe, very keen. Knows about you. Wrote to me when I said I was getting the Battalion and sent me a scrap from a newspaper. She thinks you've done well, Sharpe.’

'Yes, sir.

'She's eager to see people better themselves. Isn't that true, Jack?

'Indeed, sir. Collett rapped the words out with an alacrity that made Sharpe wonder if Collett's role in life was to agree with everything the Colonel said. Windham put the portrait back on the table. He had been holding it, cradling it between his hands.

'What was that business about this morning, Sharpe?

'A private argument, sir. It's been dealt with. He felt a stab of satisfaction at the memory of punching Hakeswill.

Windham was not satisfied. 'What was the argument about?

'The girl was insulted, sir.

'I see. The expression was one of profound disapproval. 'Local girl?

'Spanish, sir.

'Following the troops, no doubt. I want the women cleared out, Sharpe. Proper wives can stay, of course, but there are too many whores. Looks bad. Clear them out!

'I'm sorry, sir?

'The whores, Sharpe. You're to clear them out. Windham nodded as if, the command being given, the deed was as well as done. Sharpe saw him glance, very quickly, at the portrait of the stern Jessica and the Rifleman suspected that Mrs. Windham's keen interest in the Battalion extended, by letter, to its moral welfare.

'Where do I clear them to, sir?

'What do you mean?

'The next battalion, sir?"

Collett stiffened, but Windham did not take offence. 'I take your point, Sharpe, but I want them discouraged. Understand? I shall make an example of men caught brawling over women.

'Yes, sir. The Colonel obviously intended being busy.

'Number two, Sharpe. Battalion's wives are to parade for inspection each Sunday. Ten of the forenoon. You parade them, I'll inspect them.

'A wives' inspection, sir. Yes, sir. Sharpe kept his thoughts to himself. Such a parade was not unusual in England, but it was rare in Spain. Officially the wives were subject to army discipline, though very few of them accepted the fact, and Sharpe suspected that the coming Sundays would be amusing, if nothing else. But why him? Why not one of the Majors, or even the Sergeant Major?

'Ten o'clock, Sharpe. And I don't want any unmarried women on parade. Tell 'em that. I'll demand papers. I want no one like that girl this morning!

'That was my wife, sir. Sharpe had no idea why he said it, unless it was to puncture Windham's air of certainty, and it worked. The Colonel's mouth dropped; he looked to Collett for help, received none, and stared back at Sharpe.

'What?

'My wife, sir. Mrs. Sharpe.

'Good God. The Colonel leafed through papers that were beside his own wife's portrait. 'There's no note here of your marriage.’

'It was private, sir.

'When? Who gave permission?"

'Sixteen months ago, sir. He smiled at the Colonel. 'We have a daughter, nearly eight months old.

He could see the Colonel adding up the figures, receiving the wrong answer, and the discrepancy effectually stopped any more questioning. Windham was embarrassed. 'Owe you an apology, Sharpe. No offence, I trust.

'None, sir. Sharpe smiled seraphically.

'Lives with the Battalion, does she? Mrs. Sharpe?

'No, sir. In Spain. She has employment there.

'Employment! Windham looked suspicious. 'What does she do?

'Kills Frenchmen, sir. She's a Partisan, known as "La Aguja". The needle.

'Good God alive! Windham gave up. He had heard about Sharpe from Lawford and from a dozen other people, and he had construed the information as a kind of warning. Sharpe, he had been told, was an independent man, effective in battle, but liable to use irregular means to succeed. He had come up from the ranks, the Colonel knew, which had to be a liability. Windham had never known a man from the ranks to make a successful officer. Either the power went to their heads, or the drink did, and, whichever it was, the men usually resented them. They were good for one thing though; administration. They knew the system backwards, far better than other officers, and they made the best drill-masters in the army. It was true that Lawford had said Sharpe was an exception, but Windham was fifteen years older than Lawford and reckoned he knew the army better. He conceded that Sharpe's record was magnificent, but it was also undeniably true that the man had been given uncommon freedom, and freedom, Windham knew, was a damned dangerous thing. It could give a man ideas well above his station, but he still found himself reluctant to cut him down, even though that was his duty. Windham liked to jump his fences straight, yet here he was, dithering like an old woman on a tubed nag searching for a gap in the hedge! "I've been lucky, Sharpe.

'Lucky, sir?

'In my establishment.

'Yes, sir. Sharpe felt like a man who has known execution was coming, but did not believe it, and now the barrels of the firing squad were being leveled.

'Eleven Captains, it's too much!

'Yes, sir.

Windham glanced at Collett, but the Major had his eyes down, being no help at all. Damn it then! Straight at the fence! 'Rymer has to have the Company, Sharpe. He's purchased it, used his own money. You can see his rights, I'm sure.

Sharpe said nothing. He kept his face expressionless. He had expected this, but it did not lessen the bitterness. So Rymer got the prize because Rymer had the money? The fact that Sharpe had captured an Eagle, had been described by Wellington as the finest leader of Light troops in the army, counted for nothing. Such things were meaningless matched against the purchase system. If Napoleon Bonaparte had joined the British Army, instead of the French, he would count himself lucky if he had achieved a Captaincy by now instead of being Emperor of half the world! Damn Rymer, and damn Windham, and damn the whole army! Sharpe felt like walking away, and shaking the whole unfair system from his back. There was a sudden, harsh rattle of rain on the window. Windham cocked his head, just as the foxhounds at his feet had done. 'Rain! The Colonel turned to Collett. 'My blankets are airing, Jack. Can I trouble you to rouse my servant-"

Collett obligingly left and Windham leaned back. 'I'm sorry, Sharpe.

'Yes, sir. And the gazette?

'Refused. So there it was. The firing squad pulled their triggers and Lieutenant Richard Sharpe gave a mocking, sardonic laugh that made Windham frown. A Lieutenant again!

'So what am I to do, sir? Sharpe let the bitterness edge his voice. 'Am I to report to Captain Rymer?

'No, Mr. Sharpe, you are not. Captain Rymer would find your presence an embarrassment, I'm sure you can understand that. He must be given time to settle in. I'll keep you busy.

'I forgot, sir. I'm in charge of the women now.

'Don't be impertinent, Sharpe! Windham snapped forward, startling the dogs.

'You don't understand, do you?’

‘There are rules, orders, regulations, Sharpe, by which our lives are conducted. If we ignore those rules, burdensome though they may be, then we open the gates to anarchy and tyranny; the very things against which we fight! Do you understand?

'Yes, sir. Sharpe knew it would be pointless to mention that the rules, orders, and regulations were made by the privileged to protect the privileged. It had always been so, and always would. The only thing for him to do now was to get out with his shreds of dignity intact and then get stinking drunk. Show fellow Lieutenant Price how a real expert fell over.

Windham leaned back. 'We're going to Badajoz.

'Yes, sir.

'You're senior Lieutenant.

'Yes, sir. Sharpe's replies were listless.

'There'll be vacancies, man! If we attack. That was true, and Sharpe nodded.

'Yes, sir.

'You can exchange. Windham looked expectantly at Sharpe.

'No, sir. There were always officers who found their Regiments going to unpopular places such as the Fever Islands and who would offer to exchange with another officer in a battalion closer to the gaming tables and far from weird diseases. Usually they would offer a cash bribe to facilitate the exchange, but Sharpe dared not leave Spain, not while Teresa and Antonia were shut up in Badajoz. He listened to the rain on the window and thought of the girl riding. ‘I’ll stay, sir.

'Good! Windham sounded far from pleased. 'There's plenty of work. The mule train needs tidying up, I've seen that already, and, God knows, we'll be swamped with pickaxes and spades. They all need counting

'In charge of mules, pick-axes, and women, sir?

Windham's eyes met the challenge. 'Yes, Mr. Sharpe, if you insist.

'A suitable job, sir, for an ageing Lieutenant.

'It might, Lieutenant, engender humility.

'Yes, sir. An important quality to a soldier, humility, and Sharpe gave another sardonic laugh. Humility had not captured the gun at Ciudad Rodrigo, nor hacked a path through Fuentes de Onoro's tight streets, nor fetched the gold from Spain, nor taken an Eagle from the enemy, nor rescued a General, nor brought a group of starving Riflemen out of a rout nor killed the Sultan Tippoo, and Sharpe's sardonic laugh became real. He was being arrogant to himself, and perhaps Windham was right. He needed humility. He would now be parading wives and counting shovels, neither of which activity called for much initiative or leadership, and mules were notoriously chary of quick, confident decisions, and humility was best. He would be humble. 'Sir?

'Yes?

'A request.

'Go on, man.

'I want to lead a Forlorn Hope at Badajoz, sir. I'd like you to forward my name now. I know it's early, but I would be grateful if you would do so.

Windham stared at him. 'You're unbalanced, man.

Sharpe shook his head. He was not going to explain that he wanted a promotion that no man could take from him, and that he wanted to test himself in a breach because he had never done it. And if he died, as he surely would, and never saw his daughter? Then she would know that her father had died trying to reach her, leading an attack, and she could be proud. 'I want it, sir.

'You don't need it, Sharpe. There will be promotion at Badajoz.

'Will you forward my name, sir?

Windham stood up. 'Think about it, Sharpe, think about it. He gestured towards the door. 'Report to Major Collett in the morning. The interview had been far worse than he had feared and the Colonel shook his head. 'You don't need it, Sharpe, you don't. Now good day to you.

Sharpe did not notice the rain. He stood and stared across the valley at the fortress. He thought of Teresa closing on the huge walls, and knew that he must go into the breach, whatever happened. The restitution of his rank, and hopefully the command of his Company, demanded it, but, most of all, because he was a soldier, it was pride.

The meek, he had been told, would inherit the earth, but only when the last soldier left it to them in his will.

CHAPTER 11

'Sergeant Hakeswill, sir! Reporting to Lieutenant Sharpe, sir, as ordered, sir! The right boot crashed into the attention, the arm quivered at the salute, the face twitched, but was full of amusement.

Sharpe returned the salute. It had been more than three weeks since his demotion, yet it still hurt. The Battalion, embarrassed, called him 'sir' or 'Mr. Sharpe'. Only Hakeswill twisted the knife. Sharpe pointed to the mess on the ground. That's it. Sort it out.

'Sir! Hakeswill turned to the working party from the Light Company. 'You heard the Lieutenant! Sort it out and get a bloody move on! The Captain wants us back.

Hagman, the old Rifleman, the best shot in the Company, who had served with Sharpe for seven years, gave his old Captain a sad smile. 'Nasty day, sir.

Sharpe nodded. The rain had stopped, but it looked as if it would start again soon. 'How are things, Dan?

The Rifleman grinned, shrugged, and looked round to see if Hakeswill was listening. 'Bloody terrible, sir.

'Hagman! Hakeswill bellowed. 'Just because you're bloody old doesn't mean you can't work. Get your bloody self here, fast! The Sergeant grinned at Sharpe. 'Sorry, Lieutenant, sir. Can't stop to chat, can we? Work to do. The teeth ground together, the blue eyes blinked rapidly. 'How's your lady, sir. Well? I was hoping to renew the acquaintance. In Baddy-joss is she? He cackled and turned away, back to the working party that was rescuing the fallen shovels from the broken-axled cart.

Sharpe ignored the gibes because to react was to give Hakeswill the satisfaction of having unsettled him, and he looked away from the cart and stared over the grey, swollen river. Badajoz. Just four miles away; a city built on a corner of land formed by the River Guadiana and the Rivillas stream. The city was dominated by the sprawling castle high on the rock hill which stood where the stream flowed into the river. The army had marched from Elvas that morning and now they waited as the Engineers put the last touches to the pontoon bridge that would take the British to the southern bank on which Badajoz stood. Each tin pontoon, strengthened by wooden braces, weighed two tons, and the clumsy, oblong boats, dragged here by oxen, had been floated in a line across the Guadiana. They were all moored now, anchored against the rain-heightened river, and across their top surfaces the Engineers had laid massive thirteen-inch cables. The water foamed dirty between the tin boats as, on top of the cables, planks were slapped into place with a speed that spoke of the frequent practice the Engineers had made in crossing Spain's rivers. Almost before the last planks were in place the first carts were crossing and men shoveled sand and earth on to the planks to make a crude roadway.

'Forward! The first troops began to cross, unmounted men of the newly arrived Heavy Cavalry Brigade leading their horses. The animals were nervous on the thrumming bridge, but they crossed, and Badajoz was about to be ringed with troops.

On the far bank the cavalry mounted, sorted themselves into squadrons, and, as the first infantry began to cross, the horsemen put spurs to their mounts and trotted towards the city. There was little they could do against the massive walls; they were a demonstration, a flaunting of intent, and a discouragement to the handful of French cavalry inside Badajoz who might be tempted to ride against the bridgehead.

It began to rain, pitting the swirling, dark water, and soaking the already damp troops as they crossed the river and turned left towards the city. Once there was a cheer from the infantry as a cannon's shot was heard from Badajoz. A squadron of the Heavy Cavalry had ridden too close to the walls, a French gun had fired, and the British riders galloped ignominiously out of range. The cheer was ironic. The infantry might die soon at the hands of the guns, but it was still good to see the fancy cavalry taught a lesson. No cavalryman would have to go into Badajoz's breaches.

The South Essex had become pack mules. The Engineers had over a hundred carts waiting to cross the river and two had snapped their axles. The South Essex would have to carry the loads across the water. Windham reined in beside Sharpe. 'All ready, Mr. Sharpe?

'Yes, sir.

'Keep the baggage close when we cross!

'Yes, sir. No, sir, three bags full, sir. 'Sir?

'Mr. Sharpe? Windham was eager to be away.

'Have you forwarded my request, sir?

'No, Mr. Sharpe, much too early My compliments! The Colonel touched the tassel on his bicorne and wheeled his horse away.

Sharpe hitched his sword up, useless to him for counting spades and pick-axes, and trudged over the mud towards the Battalion's baggage. Each company kept a mule that carried the books, the endless paperwork that went with a Captaincy, a few paltry supplies and, quite illegally, some officers' baggage as well. Other mules carried the Battalion supplies; the spare arms chest, uniforms, more paperwork, and the surgeon's grim load. Mixed with the mules were the officers' servants, leading spare horses and packhorses, and, mingled among them all, the children. They shrieked and played round the animals' legs, watched by their mothers who crouched beneath makeshift shelters waiting for the order to march. By regulation there should be just sixty wives with the Battalion, but inevitably, after three years at war, the South Essex had collected far more. There were nearer three hundred women marching with the Battalion, the same number of children, and they were a mixture of English, Irish, Scottish, Welsh, Spanish and Portuguese; there was even a Frenchwoman, left behind in the fighting at Fuentes de Onoro, who had chosen to stay with her captors and had married a Sergeant in Sterritt's Company. Some were whores, following the army's meager pennies, some were proper wives with papers to prove it, while some called themselves wives and did not need the ceremony. All were tough. Many had married twice or three times in the war, having lost their husbands to a French bullet or a Spanish fever.

The previous morning Windham had cancelled the wives' parade. In barracks the parade made some sense; it kept a Colonel in touch with the families and gave a good officer a chance to detect brutality, but the women of the South Essex did not like the parade, were not used to it, and had showed their discontent. The very first time that Sharpe had lined them for Windham's inspection Private Clayton's wife, a pretty girl, had been suckling her baby. The Colonel had stopped, glanced down, and frowned at her. 'This is hardly the time, woman!

She had grinned, lifted her breasts towards him. 'When 'e's 'ungry, 'e's 'ungry, just like 'is father. There was a chorus of laughter from the wives, jeers from the men, and Windham had strode away. Jessica would have known what to do, but not he.

Now, as Sharpe approached the rain-swept baggage, the women grinned at him from beneath their blankets. Lily Grimes, a tiny woman of irrepressible cheerfulness, and a voice with the piercing quality of a well-honed bayonet, gave him a mock salute. 'Given up parading us, Cap'n? The women always called him Captain.

'That's right, Lily.

She sniffed. 'He's mad.

'Who?

'Bloody Colonel. What did he want us to parade for, anyway?

Sharpe grinned. 'He worries about you, Lily. He likes to keep an eye on you.

She shook her head. 'He wants to look at Sally Clayton's tits more like. She laughed and peered up at Sharpe. 'You didn't look away either, Cap'n. I watched you.»

'I was just wishing it had been you, Lily.»

She shrieked with laughter. 'Any time, Cap'n, you just ask.

Sharpe laughed, walked away from her. He admired the wives, and he liked them. They endured all the discomforts of the campaign; the nights under pouring rain, the hard rations, the long marches, yet they never gave up. They watched their men go into battle and afterwards they searched the field for a corpse or a wounded husband, and all the while they brought up their children and looked after their men. Sharpe had seen Lily carrying two of her children up a hard road, her husband's musket, and the family's few belongings as well. They were tough.

And they were not ladies; three years in the Peninsula had made sure of that. Some dressed in old uniforms, most were garbed in voluminous, filthy skirts with tattered shawls and scarves around their heads. They were tanned dark brown, with calloused hands and feet, and most could strip a corpse bare in ten seconds, a house in thirty. They were foul-mouthed, loud, and utterly immodest. No women could live with a battalion and be anything else. They slept with their men, often enough, in open fields with nothing but a tree or hedge to give an illusion of privacy. The women washed themselves, relieved themselves, made love, gave birth, and all in plain sight of a thousand eyes. To a fastidious observer they were a fearful sight, yet Sharpe liked them. They were tough, loyal, kind and uncomplaining.

Major Collett bawled an order for the Battalion to make ready, and Sharpe turned to his command; the baggage. It was chaos. Two children had succeeded in cutting the pannier from one of the Sutler's mules, and the Sutler, a Spaniard who was a kind of traveling shop-keeper with the Battalion, was screaming at the children, but not daring to let go of the straw halter that tethered his other mules.

Sharpe yelled at them. 'Make ready! They took no notice. The Sutler's assistants caught the children, snatched back the bottles, but then the mothers, sensing loot, attacked the assistants for beating the children. It was pandemonium, his new command.

'Richard! Sharpe twisted back. Major Hogan was behind him.

'Sir.

Hogan grinned down from his horse. 'We're very formal today.

'We're very responsible. Look. Sharpe waved at the baggage train. 'My new Company.

'I heard. Hogan slipped from his horse, stretched, and then turned as there were sudden shouts from the bridge. An officer's horse had become frightened by the sliding, grey water. It was nervously backing in short, jerking steps towards the infantry company behind. The Captain, panicking, was whipping the beast, increasing its terror, and the horse began to rear fitfully.

'Get off! Hogan shouted. He had a surprisingly loud voice. Tool! Get off! Dismount!

The officer lashed down at the horse, wrenched the reins, and the horse put all its force into bucking the rider off its back. It succeeded. The horse slammed up, screaming, and the officer tumbled from the saddle, bounced once on the roadway's edge, and disappeared downstream into the river. 'Stupid bastard! Hogan was angry. A Sergeant threw a length of timber into the water, but it fell short, and Sharpe could see the Captain flailing the river, struggling against the freezing current that took him away from the bridge. 'He's had it.

No one dived in to save the officer. By the time a man had stripped himself of pack, haversack, ammunition pouch, weapons and boots the Captain would be long gone. The horse, free of its burden, stood shivering on the bridge and a Private soothed it, then led it calmly to the southern bank. The Captain had disappeared.

'There's a vacancy. Sharpe laughed.

'Bitter?

'Bitter, sir? No, sir. Being a Lieutenant is very satisfying.’

Hogan gave a sad smile. 'I hear you were drunk.

'No. He had been drunk three times since the day Teresa left, the day he had lost the Company. Sharpe shrugged. 'You know that gazette was refused in January? No one dared tell me. Then the new man arrives so someone has to tell me. So I look after the baggage while some half-cooked youngster destroys my Company.

'Is he that bad?

'I don't know. I'm sorry. Sharpe's anger had taken himself by surprise.

'Do you want me to talk to the General?

'No! Pride would stop Sharpe bleating for help, but then he turned back. 'Yes, you can talk to the General. Tell him I'll lead the Forlorn Hope for him at Badajoz.

Hogan paused with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. He put it back in the box, carefully, and snapped the lid shut. 'Are you serious?

'I'm serious.

Hogan shook his head. 'You don't need it, Richard. God! There'll be promotion by the grave load! Don't you understand? You'll be a Captain within a month.

Sharpe shook his head. He understood, but his pride was hurt. 'I want the Hope, sir, I want it. Ask for me.

Hogan took Sharpe's elbow and turned him so they were both looking eastwards along the river towards the city. 'Do you know what it's like, Richard? It's bloody impossible! He pointed to the great stone bridge that carried the road to the city. 'We can't attack there. Anyone trying to cross that bridge will be shredded. So, try the east wall. They've damned the stream and it's one bloody great lake. We'd need the navy to cross that, unless we can blow up the dam and they've built a fort to stop us doing that. There's the castle, of course. Hogan's words were urgent, almost bitter. 'If you feel like climbing a hundred feet of rock and then scaling a forty foot wall, and all the time dodging the grapeshot, you're welcome. He pointed again. 'So there's the west wall. Looks easy enough, doesn't it? It did not look easy. Even at four miles Sharpe could see the huge bastions, jutting like miniature castles, that protected the wall. Hogan's accent was becoming more pronounced as it always did when the Engineer spoke with passion. 'It looks too easy! They want us to attack there. Why? My guess is that it's mined. There's more bloody powder under that glacis than Guy Fawkes dreamed of. We attack there and we give St Peter his busiest day since Agincourt! He was really angry now, seeing with his Engineer's eye the problems, turning the problems into blood. 'That leaves the south wall. We have to take at least one outlying fort, perhaps two, and then get through the walls. Do you know how thick they are? What was the distance from the brink of the ditch to the back of the walls at Ciudad Rodrigo?

Sharpe thought back. "Thirty yards? Fifty in some places.

'Aye. Hogan pointed back to Badajoz. 'A hundred yards, at least, and more in some places. And that ditch is a bastard, Richard, a real bastard. It'll take a minute to cross it, at least, and they have all the flank fire they'll ever need, and more. That wall, Richard, is big. Big! You could put Ciudad Rodrigo's wall in that ditch and you wouldn't even see it. Don't you understand? It is a killer. He said the words distinctly, trying to convince Sharpe. Hogan sighed, 'Jesus! We can starve them out. We can hope they die laughing, we can hope they get the plague, but I tell you, Richard, I don't know if we can get through a breach.

Sharpe stared at the great fortress in the slanting, hissing rain. 'We'll have to.

'And do you know how? By throwing so many poor bastards into the fight that the French simply can't kill them all. It's the only way and I don't like it.

Sharpe turned back. 'The poor bastards will still need a Forlorn Hope.

'And there has to be a bloody fool to lead it, I suppose, and you're proving a fool! For God's sake, Richard, why do you want the Hope?

Sharpe's anger flared. 'Because it's better than this humiliation! I'm a soldier, not a bloody clerk! I fetch bloody, forage, count bloody shovels, and take punishment drills. It's yes, sir, no, sir, can I dig your latrine, sir, and it's not bloody soldiering!

Hogan glared at him. 'It is bloody soldiering! What the hell else do you think soldiering is?" The two men were facing each other across the mud. 'Do you think we can win a war without forage? Or without shovels? Or, God help us, without latrines? That is soldiering! Just because you've been allowed to swan about like a bloody pirate for years doesn't mean you shouldn't take your turn at the real work.

'Listen, sir. Sharpe was close to shouting. 'When they tell us to climb those bloody walls, you'll be glad there are some bloody pirates in the ditch and not just bloody clerks!

'And what will you do when there are no more wars to fight?

'Start another bloody one. Sharpe began to laugh. 'Sir.

'If you survive this one. Hogan shook his head, his anger dying as quickly as it had flared. 'Good God, man! Your woman's inside. And your child.

'I know. Sharpe shrugged. 'But I want the Hope.

'You'll die.

'Ask Wellington for me.

The Irishman frowned. 'You're just hurting in your pride, that's all. In two months, it will be a bad dream, I promise.

'Maybe. I still want the Hope.

'You're a stubborn, bloody fool.

Sharpe laughed again. 'I know. Colonel Windham says I need humility.

'He's right. It's a wonder any of us like you at all, but we do. He shrugged. ‘I’ll talk to the General for you, but I'm making no promises. He gathered the reins into his hand. 'Would you give me a leg up? If it's not beneath your dignity.

Sharpe grinned, heaved the Major on to his horse. 'You'll ask him for me?

'I said I'd talk to him, didn't I? It's not his decision, you know that. It belongs to the General of the attacking Division.

'But they listen to Wellington.

'Aye, that's true. Hogan pulled on the reins, and then checked himself. 'You know what tomorrow is?

'No.

'Tuesday, March the seventeenth.

'So? Sharpe shrugged.

Hogan laughed. 'You're a heathen; an unrepentant, doomed heathen, so you are. St Patrick's Day. Ireland's day. Give Sergeant Harper a bottle of rum for being a good Catholic.

Sharpe grinned. 'I will.

Hogan watched the South Essex break up step as they marched over the bridge, followed by Sharpe and his raggle-taggle of women, children, servants, and mules. Hogan was saddened. He counted the tall Rifleman as a friend. Perhaps Sharpe was arrogant, but Hogan, along with all the engineering in his head, kept more than a little of Shakespeare. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility. But this was not peace, this was a horrid campaign and tomorrow, St Patrick's Day, the army would start digging towards Badajoz. Hogan knew that stillness and humility would not capture the fortress. Time might, but Wellington would not give them time. The General was worried that the French field armies, bigger than the British, might march to the rescue. Badajoz must be taken swiftly, paid for in blood, and the assault would come soon, too soon, perhaps even before Lent was over. Hogan did not relish the prospect. The wall could be closed up with the English dead. He had promised he would talk to Wellington, and so he would, but not as Sharpe had hoped. Hogan would do a friend's duty. He would ask the General, if it were possible, that Sharpe's request should be refused. He would save Sharpe's life. It was, after all, the very least he could do for a friend.