Sharpe's Eagle

CHAPTER 11

The boots of the Coldstream Guards rang on the flagstones, echoing hollowly in the darkness, fading down the steep street to be replaced by the leading companies of the 3rd Guards. They were followed by the first Battalion of the 61st, the second of the 83rd, and then by four full Battalions of the crack King’s German Legion. Sharpe, standing in a church porch, watched the Germans march past.

“They’re good troops, sir.”

Forrest, shivering despite a greatcoat, peered into the darkness. “What are they?”

“King’s German Legion.”

Forrest thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. “I’ve not seen them before.”

“You wouldn’t have, sir.” The Germans were a foreign corps of the army, and the law said they were allowed no nearer the British mainland than the Isle of Wight. Overhead the church clock struck three times. Three o’clock on the morning of Monday, 17th July, 1809, and the British army was leaving Plasencia. A company of the 60th went past, another German unit, with the incongruous title of the Royal American Rifles. Forrest saw Sharpe staring ruefully at the marching Riflemen with their green jackets and black belts.

“Homesick, Sharpe?”

Sharpe grinned in the darkness. “I’d rather it was the other Rifle Regiment, sir.” He yearned for the sanity of the 95th rather than the worsening suspicion and moroseness that was infecting Simmerson’s Battalion.

Forrest shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sharpe.”

“Don’t be, sir. I’m a Captain at last.”

Forrest ignored the statement. “He showed me the letter, you know.” Sharpe knew. Forrest kept apologising and had mentioned the letter twice already. Dereliction of duty, gross disobedience, even the word ‘treason’ had found its place into Simmerson’s scathing account of Sharpe’s actions at Valdelacasa; but none of that was surprising. What had disturbed Sharpe was Simmerson’s final request: that Sharpe be posted, as a Lieutenant, to a Battalion in the West Indies. No one ever purchased a commission in one of those Battalions, even though promotion was quicker there than anywhere else in the army, and Sharpe had even known men resign rather than go to the sun-drenched islands with their lazy garrison duty.

“It may not happen, Sharpe.” Forrest’s tone betrayed that he thought Sharpe’s fate was sealed.

“No, sir.” Not if I can help it, thought Sharpe, and he imagined an Eagle in his hands. Only an Eagle could save him from the islands where fever reduced a man’s life expectancy to less than a year, from the dreadful, sweating disease that made Simmerson’s request into a virtual death warrant unless Sharpe resigned his hard-won commission.

Almost every unit marched before them. Five Regiments of Dragoons and the Hussars of the King’s German Legion, over three thousand cavalry in all, followed by an army of mules carrying fodder for the precious horses. The cumbersome artillery with their guns, limbers, and portable forges added even more mules, more supplies, but mostly it was infantry who disturbed the quiet streets. Twenty-five Battalions of unglamorous infantry, with stained uniforms and worn boots, the men who had to stand and face the world’s best artillerymen and cavalry; and with them marched even more mules mixed up with the Battalions’ women and children.

The Battalion finally took the road across the river well after sunrise, and if the previous days had been hot, it now seemed as if nature was intent on baking the landscape into one solid expanse of terracotta. The army crept across the vast, arid plain and stirred up a fine dust that hung in the air and lined the mouths and throats of the parched infantry. There was no trace of wind, just the dust, the heat and glare, the sweat that stung the eyes, and the endless sound of boots hitting the white road. In one village there was a pool that had been trampled into foul sticky mud by the cavalry, but even that was welcomed by the men, who had long before emptied their canteens and now skimmed the sour water from the surface of the glutinous mud.

There was not much else to be grateful for. The rest of the army shunned the new Battalion of Detachments as if the men were harbouring a repulsive disease. The loss of the colour had stained the reputation of the whole army, and when the Battalion bivouacked on the first night they were turned away from a capacious farm by a Colonel of Dragoons who wanted nothing to do with a Regiment which had failed so shamefully. The Battalion’s morale was not helped by a shortage of food. The herd of cattle which had left Portugal had long been slaughtered and eaten, the supplies promised by the Spanish had not appeared, and the men were hungry, sullen, and cowed by Simmerson’s brutality. He had found his own reasons for the loss of the colour, the behaviour of Sharpe and the actions of his own men, and if he could not punish the first it was well within his practised power to punish the second. Only the Light Company retained some vestiges of pride. The men were proud of their new Captain. Throughout the Battalion Sharpe was now believed to be a magic man, a lucky one, a man whom enemy swords and bullets could not touch. The Light Company believed, in the way of soldiers, that Sharpe would bring them luck in battle, would keep them alive, and pointed to the action at the bridge as proof. Sharpe’s Riflemen agreed, they had always known their officer was lucky, and they revelled in his new promotion. Sharpe had been embarrassed by their pleasure, blushed when they offered him drinks from hoarded bottles of Spanish brandy, and covered his confusion by pretending to have duties elsewhere. On the first night of the march from Plasencia he lay in a field, wrapped in his greatcoat, and thought of the boy who had fearfully joined the army sixteen years before. What would that terrified sixteen-year-old, running from justice, have thought if he knew he would one day be a Captain?

On the second night the Battalion was more fortunate. They bivouacked near another nameless village, and the woods were filled with soldiers hacking at branches to build the fires on which they could boil the tea-leaves they carried loose in their pockets. Provosts guarded the olive groves; nothing made the army so unpopular as the French habit of cutting down a village’s olive trees and denying them harvests for years to come, and Wellesley had issued strict orders that the olives were not to be touched. The officers of the South Essex—the Battalion still thought of itself as that—were billeted in the village inn. It was a large building, evidently a way station between Plasencia and Talavera, and behind it was a courtyard with big cypress trees beneath which were tables and benches. The three-sided yard opened onto a stream, and on the far bank the men of the Battalion made fires and beds in a grove of cork trees. There had been pigs in the grove, and as Sharpe stripped off his uniform to search the seams for lice he could smell pork cooking on the myriad small fires that showed through the foliage. Such looting was punishable by instant hanging, but nothing could stop it. The officers, the provosts, everyone was short of food, and the surreptitious offer of some stolen pork would ensure that the provosts would take no action.

The courtyard gradually filled with officers from the dozen Battalions bivouacked in the village. The heat of the day mellowed into a warm, clear evening, and the stars came out like the camp fires of a limitless army seen far away. From the main room of the inn came the sound of music and cheering as the officers egged on the Spanish dancers to twitch their skirts higher.

Sharpe pushed his way through the crowded room and glimpsed Simmerson and his cronies sitting playing cards at a corner table. Gibbons was there, he was now permanently attached to Simmerson’s staff, and the unpleasant Lieutenant Berry. For a second Sharpe thought about the girl. He had seen her once or twice since the return from the bridge and felt a surge of jealousy. He pushed the thought away; the officers of the Battalion were split enough as it was. There were Simmerson’s supporters, who toadied to the Colonel and assured him that the loss of the colour had been no fault of his, and there were those who had publicly supported Sharpe. It was an uncomfortable situation but there was nothing to be done about it. He passed out of the room into the courtyard and found Forrest, Leroy, and a group of Subalterns sitting beneath one of the cypress trees. Forrest made room for him on the bench.

“Don’t you ever take that rifle off?”

“And have it stolen?” Sharpe asked. “I’d be charged for it.”

Forrest smiled. “Have you paid for the stocks yet?”

“Not yet.” Sharpe grimaced. “But now I’m officially on the Battalion’s payroll, I suppose it will be deducted from my pay, whenever that arrives.”

Forrest pushed a wine bottle towards him. “Don’t let it worry you. Tonight the wine’s on me.”

There was an ironic cheer from the officers round the table. Unconsciously Sharpe felt the leather bag round his neck. It was heavier by six gold pieces, thanks to the dead on the field at Valdelacasa. He drank some wine.

“It’s filthy!”

“There’s a rumour,” Leroy said drily. “I hear that when they tread the grapes they don’t bother to get out of the wine-press to relieve themselves.”

There was a moment’s silence and then a chorus of disgusted voices. Forrest looked dubiously into his cup. “I don’t believe it.”

“In India,” Sharpe said, “some natives believe it very healthy to drink their own urine.”

Forrest looked owlishly at him. “That cannot be true.”

Leroy intervened. “Perfectly true, Major, I’ve seen them do it. A cupful a day. Cheers!”

Everyone round the table protested but Sharpe and Leroy stuck to their story. The conversation stayed with India, of battles and sieges, of strange animals, of the palaces that contained unimaginable wealth. More wine was ordered and food brought from the kitchens, not the pork that smelt so tantalisingly from the lines but a stew that seemed to consist mainly of vegetables. It still felt good to be sitting there. Sharpe stretched his legs under the table and leaned back against the cypress trunk letting the tiredness of the day flow through him. Over the sound of talk and laughter he could hear the thousands of insects that chattered and clicked through the Spanish night. Later he would walk over the stream and visit his company, and he let his thoughts wander, not too many miles away, to where he knew a group of French officers would be sitting just like this and where their men would be cooking on fires like the ones across the stream. And somewhere, perhaps propped in the corner of a room in an inn just like this one, would be the Eagle. A hand hit him on the back.

“So they’ve made you a Captain! This army has no standards!” It was Hogan. Sharpe had not seen him since the day they marched back from the bridge. He stood up and took the Engineer’s hand. Hogan beamed at him. “I’m delighted! Shocked, of course, but delighted. Congratulations!”

Sharpe blushed and shrugged. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, looking at things.” Sharpe knew that Hogan had been reconnoitring for Wellesley, coming back with news of which bridges could take the weight of heavy artillery, which roads were wide enough for the army to use. The Captain had obviously been forward to Oropesa and perhaps beyond. Forrest invited him to sit and asked for news.

“The French are up the valley. A lot of them.” Hogan poured himself some wine. “I reckon there’ll be a battle within a week.”

“A week!” Forrest sounded surprised.

“Aye, Major. They’re swarming all over a place called Talavera.” Hogan pronounced it ‘Tally-verra’, making it sound like some Irish hamlet. “But once you join with Cuesta’s army you’ll far outnumber them.”

“You’ve seen Cuesta’s troops?” Sharpe asked.

“Aye.” The Irishman grinned. “They’re no better than the Santa Maria. The cavalry may be better, but the infantry… „Hogan left the sentence unfinished. He turned back to Sharpe and beamed again. ”The last time I saw you, you were under arrest! Now look at you. How’s good Sir Henry?“ There was a laugh round the table. Hogan did not wait for an answer but dropped his voice. ”I saw Sir Arthur.“

“I know. Thank you.”

“For telling the truth? So what happens now?“

”I don’t know.“ Sharpe spoke quietly. Only Hogan could hear him. ”Simmerson has written home. I’m told that he has the power to stop the Horse Guards ratifying the gazette, so in six weeks I’ll be a Lieutenant again, probably for ever, and almost certainly transferred to the Fever Islands, or out of the army altogether.“ Hogan looked intently at him.

”You’re serious?“

“Yes. One of Sir Arthur’s staff virtually told me as much.”Because of Simmerson?“ Hogan frowned in disbelief. Sharpe sighed. ”It has to do with Simmerson keeping his credibility in Parliament with the people who oppose Wellesley. I’m the sacrifice. Don’t ask me, it’s way over my head. What about you? You were under arrest too.“

Hogan shrugged. “Sir Henry forgave me. He doesn’t take me seriously, I’m just an Engineer. No, it’s you he’s after. You’re an upstart, a Rifleman, you’re not a Gentleman but you’re a better soldier than he’ll ever be, so.” He squeezed his thumb and forefinger together. “He wants rid of you. Listen.” Hogan leaned even nearer. “There’ll be a battle soon, has to be. The idiot will probably make as big a mess as he did before. They can’t protect him for ever. It’s a terrible thing, God knows, but you should pray he makes as big a mistake again.”

Sharpe smiled. “I doubt if we need to pray.” From one of the upper windows that looked onto the balconies that ran round the courtyard there came a woman’s scream, terrifying and intense, stopping all conversation beneath the trees. Men froze with their cups half lifted to their mouths and stared at the dark doorways that led to the bedrooms. Sharpe got to his feet and reached instinctively for his rifle. Forrest put a hand on his arm. “It’s not our business, Sharpe.”

In the courtyard there was a moment’s silence, some nervous laughter, and then the conversation started again.

Sharpe felt uneasy. It could have been anything; one of the women who lived at the inn could be ill, possibly even a difficult childbirth, but he felt certain it was something else. A rape? He felt ashamed that he had done nothing. Forrest tugged at his arm again. “Sit down. It’s probably nothing.”

Before Sharpe could move there came another scream, this time a man’s, and it turned into a bellow of rage. A door burst open on the top floor spilling yellow candlelight onto the balcony, and a woman ran out of the room and darted towards the stairs. A voice shouted, “Stop her!”

The girl tore down the stairs as though the fiends of hell were after her. The officers in the courtyard cheered her on and shouted abuse at the two figures who emerged after her, Gibbons and Berry. They stood no chance of catching her; both men looked drunk, and as they burst from the room they lurched and blinked round the courtyard.

“It’s Josefina,” Forrest said. Sharpe watched the girl half run, half fall down the stairs until she reached the other side of the courtyard from their table. For a second she looked desperately round as though looking for help. She was carrying a bag, and Sharpe had a glimpse of what could have been a knife in her hand, and then she turned and ran into the darkness, over the stream, towards the lights of the Battalion’s fires. Gibbons stopped halfway down the stairs; he was dressed in trousers and shirt and one hand was clutching the unbuttoned shirt to his stomach; in the other hand was a pistol. “Come back, you lousy bitch!”

He jumped the last flight of steps and fumbled with the lock of his pistol.

“What’s the matter, Gibbons? Girl took your colours!” The voice came from one of the tables in the courtyard. Gibbons, his face furious, ignored the jibes and laughter and ran with Berry towards the stream.

“There’s going to be trouble.” Sharpe climbed from the bench. “I’m going.”

He threaded his way through the tables, Forrest and Hogan following him. He left the light of the courtyard and splashed through the stream; there was no sight of the girl or her pursuers, just the lights in the cork grove and the occasional silhouette of a man crossing in front of the flames. He paused to let his eyes become accustomed to the dark. Forrest caught up with him.

“Is there going to be trouble, Sharpe?”

“Not if I can help it, sir. But you saw him, he’s got a pistol.” There were shouts to the left, a commotion. “Come on!”

He outpaced the other two; he was running fast, keeping the silver track of the stream to his left, holding the rifle in his right hand.

“What’s going on? Who the hell’s that?” In the light of a fire he saw an angry private. The man looked surprised when he saw Sharpe and threw a hasty salute. “You after them two, sir?”

“Was a girl with them?”

“That way, sir.” He pointed downstream, away from the fires of the Battalion, out into the black grassland. Sharpe ran on, Forrest and Hogan now close behind. In front he heard a ‘view-halloo’, a scream, they had caught the girl. He ran faster, ignoring the rough ground, fearing the sound of a shot, his eyes adjusting to the night. They had not gone far. Suddenly he saw them, Berry standing with a bottle and watching Gibbons, who had forced the girl to her knees and was trying to force the bag out of her hands. Sharpe heard Gibbons shouting at Josefma. “Let go, you bitch!”

Sharpe kept running. Gibbons looked up, startled, and then Sharpe hit him full tilt. The Lieutenant was thrown backwards, the pistol flew from his hand and splashed into the stream, and Sharpe saw the bag fall from Josefina’s hand and spill bright gold onto the dark grass. Gibbons tried to struggle to his feet but Sharpe pushed him with the rifle butt. “Don’t move.” There was enough moonlight for the Lieutenant to see the look on Sharpe’s face, and he sank back onto his elbows. Sharpe turned to Berry. “What’s going on?”

Berry licked his fat lips and grinned foolishly. Sharpe stepped one pace closer and raised his voice. “What’s going on?”

“The girl ran away, sir. Came to get her back.” Berry’s natural drawl was accentuated by drink, and when he turned to see Forrest and Hogan arrive he staggered slightly.

“Is she all right?” Forrest asked.

Sharpe turned to look at Josefina. He realised, irrelevantly, that it was the first time he had seen her not dressed in riding breeches, and his pulse quickened at the sight of her bare shoulders and the shadowed promise of the low-cut dress. Her head was down; at first he thought she was sobbing, but then he saw her desperately picking up the scattered gold coins. His mind registered that there was a small fortune on the ground, and then Forrest blocked his view as the Major knelt at the girl’s side.

“Are you all right?” Forrest’s voice was paternal, kindly.

The girl nodded, then shook her head, and Sharpe saw her shoulders heave as she seemed to sob. Her hands still scrabbled at the grass, at the gold pieces. The Major stood up. “What’s all this about?” He was trying to sound authoritative. No-one spoke.

Sharpe moved his rifle to his left hand, stepped close to Berry, took the bottle from him, and threw it into the stream.

“I say! Steady on!” Berry’s voice was slurred.

“What happened?”

“Just an argument. Nothing to worry about.” Berry blinked happily at Sharpe and flapped a hand genially around the small group. The Rifleman hit him, hard in the stomach, and Berry’s mouth gaped like a fish. He doubled over and retched onto the grass.

Sharpe hauled him upright. “What happened?”

Berry stared at him, astonished. “You hit me!”

„I’ll bloody crucify you if you don’t talk.“

Berry spat something from his mouth, looked round as if for help, but none was coming. “We were playing cards. I won.”

“So?”

The plump Lieutenant shrugged. “There was an argument.” Berry pushed a lank piece of black hair from his forehead, as though trying to rescue a shred of dignity. “She refused to pay her debt.”

“It’s not true!” The girl was angry. “You cheated! I was winning!” She had stood up, taken two steps towards Berry.

Hogan saw her face and knew that she would scratch the Lieutenant’s eyes out, given half a chance. He took her elbow, restrained her. He, at least, knew that the truth of who won, who lost, or who cheated would probably never be known. “So what happened?” The Irish voice was soft.

Josefina gestured at Berry. “He wanted to rape me! Christian hit me!”

Sharpe turned towards Gibbons. The blond Lieutenant had scrambled to his feet and watched Sharpe walk towards him. There was a bloodstain on his white shirt, and Sharpe remembered the knife; Josefina had evidently cut at him but done little damage. “Is it true?” Sharpe asked.

“Is what true?” Gibbons’ voice was touched with contempt.

“That you hit her and that Lieutenant Berry tried to rape her?”

Gibbons laughed. “Trying to rape Josefina Lacosta is like forcing money onto a beggar. If you follow my meaning.”

Hogan knew he should step forward, that the tension was too much, but Sharpe broke the silence that followed Gibbons’ sneering remark. “Say that again.” Sharpe’s voice was menacing.

Gibbons looked scornfully at the Rifleman, and when he spoke his voice was invested with all the contempt he had for the lower classes. “Try and understand. We were playing cards. Miss Lacosta lost her money and staked her body instead. She refused to pay up and instead decamped with our money. That is all.”

“It’s not true!” Josefina was crying. She left Hogan’s side and came up to Sharpe, looked at him with her eyes wet with tears, and clasped the bag between her hands. “It is not true. We were playing cards. I won. They tried to steal it from me! I thought they were gentlemen!”

Gibbons laughed. Sharpe turned on him. “You hit her?” He had seen a bruise on her cheek.

“You wouldn’t understand.” Gibbons sounded bored.

“What wouldn’t I understand?” Sharpe stepped closer to the Lieutenant.

Gibbons negligently brushed a blade of grass from his sleeve. “How gentlemen behave, Sharpe. You’ll believe her, because she’s a whore, and you’re used to whores. You’re not used to gentlemen.”

“Call me ”sir“.”

Anger flared in Gibbons’ face. “Go to hell.”

Sharpe hit him in the solar plexus, and as Gibbons’ face came forward Sharpe lowered his own and butted him between the eyes. Gibbons reeled, blood dripping from his nose, and Sharpe dropped the rifle to hit him again. Once, twice, and a final massive punch into the stomach. Like Berry, Gibbons folded up and vomited. He dropped to his knees, clutching his belly, and Sharpe contemptuously pushed him with his boot and the Lieutenant keeled over into the mud.

“Lieutenant Berry?”

“Sir?”

“Mr Gibbons is a little the worse for drink. Get him out of here and clean him up.”

“Yes, sir.” Berry was not going to argue with Sharpe. He helped Gibbons uncertainly to his feet. The Colonel’s nephew was gasping for breath, heaving from his stomach, and he pushed Berry away and turned to stammer at Forrest, between gasps. “You saw him. He hit me!”

Hogan stepped forward, his voice crisp and authoritative. “Nonsense, Lieutenant. You were drunk and fell over. Go home to bed.”

The two Lieutenants stumbled into the darkness. Sharpe watched them go. “Bastards! You can’t play cards over a woman.”

Hogan smiled sadly. “You know why they made you into an officer, Richard?”

“Why?”

“You’re far too much of a gentleman to have stayed in the ranks. Men have been playing cards over women since cards were invented, or women for that matter.” He turned to the girl. “And what are you going to do now?”

“Do?” She looked at Hogan and then at Sharpe. “I cannot go back. They tried to rape me!”

“Did they now.” Hogan’s voice was flat. The girl nodded, still clutching the bag, and moved closer to Sharpe.

“My clothes,” she said. “I must get my clothes. All my things! They are in that room.”

Forrest stepped forward, a concerned expression on his face. “Your clothes?”

“All my things! They’ll kill me!”

Hogan’s shrewd eyes flicked from the girl to Forrest. “If you go round the front, Major, and hurry, then you’ll be there before those two. It’ll take ten minutes for them to throw up all that liquor.”

Forrest looked alarmed, but Hogan had taken charge and the Major did not know how to resist. Hogan took Josefina by the elbow and gave her to Forrest. “Go with Major Forrest and rescue your things. Hurry!”

She stepped to Forrest but turned back to Sharpe. “But where do I spend the night?”

Sharpe cleared his throat. “She can use my room. I can double up with Hogan.”

Forrest twitched at her elbow. “Come on, my dear, we must hurry.” The two of them splashed through the stream and hurried towards the lights of the inn. Hogan watched them go and turned to Sharpe. “Double up with me?”

“It would be best, wouldn’t it?”

“Hypocrite. You mean double up with her.”

Sharpe said nothing. He suspected that Hogan had pushed the girl away with the Major because he wanted to talk to Sharpe alone, but the Rifleman had no intention of making his friend’s life any easier by bringing up the subject. He leaned down and picked up his rifle and felt the lock to see if any dampness or mud had seeped into the pan. The lights of the Battalion fires smeared the hillside with a dying red glow.

“You know what you’re doing, Richard?” Hogan’s voice was non-committal.

“What do you mean?”

The Irishman smiled. “She’s beautiful. There aren’t many as good-looking as that one; at least, not outside Cork.” The small joke was made to lighten his tone, which was sad. “Well, you rescued her, so she’s yours for the moment. Will you be sending her home to Lisbon?” Sharpe started walking beside the stream and said nothing. Hogan caught up with him. “Are you in love with her?”

“For God’s sake!”

“And what’s wrong with that?” They walked in silence for a few yards until Hogan took a guinea out of his pocket and held it up. „I’ll bet you this against ten of yours that you’ll not double up with me tonight?“

Sharped smiled in the darkness. “I don’t gamble and I haven’t any money.”

“I know. But you’ll need it, Richard. Women don’t come free.” Hogan still spoke softly. He felt in his pocket and held out a handful of guineas. „I’ll wage you these, Richard, against one rifle bullet that you won’t double up with me tonight.“

Sharpe stared down at Hogan’s friendly, concerned face. It would be so easy to win the bet. All he had to do was put Josefina in his room and then walk to Hogan’s billet and collect the handful of gold. There were six months’ wages, there, just for staying clear of the girl. Sharpe pushed the money away. “I need all my bullets.”

Hogan laughed. “That’s true. But don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.” He put a hand on Sharpe’s belt, opened the ammunition pouch, and poured in the gold. Sharpe protested and pulled away but Hogan forced the money inside. “You’ll need it, Richard. She’ll expect a decent room in Oropesa, and in Talavera, and God knows how much it will all cost you. Don’t worry. There’ll be a battle soon and you’ll shoot a rich man and then give me the money back.”

They walked on in silence. Hogan could feel the excitement in Sharpe and knew that if he had offered him ten times ten guineas then he could not have stopped the Rifleman sleeping with the girl that night or, if Josefina said no, then Sharpe would have stayed in the room as her faithful protector, the Baker rifle across his knees. They skirted Berry and Gibbons, one of them doubled over and groaning, and splashed through the stream and back into the lights of the inn’s courtyard. Hogan looked up at Sharpe, at the eyes that were alive with anticipation, and cuffed him gently on the arm. “Sleep well, Richard.”

Sharpe grinned back. “Don’t worry.” He took the stairs three at a time, his boots squelching on the wooden steps, and Hogan watched him go. “Tis brief, my Lord.” He was speaking to himself. “As woman’s love.”

“What’s that, sir?” Lieutenant Knowles was standing beside him.

“Do you never read Shakespeare, lad?”

“Shakespeare, sir?”

“A famous Irish poet,” Hogan said.

Knowles laughed. “And what play was that from, sir?”

“Hamlet.”

“Oh him.” Knowles grinned. “The famous Irish Prince?”

Hogan grinned at him. “Oh no. Hamlet was no Irishman. He was a fool. Goodnight, Lieutenant. Time for bed.”

Hogan looked up at Sharpe’s room. He would trust Sharpe with his life, trust the Rifleman against almost any odds, but with a woman? He would be disarmed, defeated; one girl could do what a Battalion of French could never hope to achieve. Hogan muttered under his breath as he walked away, his voice quiet in the empty courtyard, repeating the line over and over as though, perhaps, repetition would rob it of truth. “Beauty provoketh fools sooner than gold.”