Sharpe's Eagle

CHAPTER 2

The drumbeats were distant and muffled, sometimes blending with the other sounds of the city, but insistent and sinister, and Sharpe was glad when the sound stopped. He was also glad they had reached Castelo Branco, twenty-four hours after the South Essex, after a tiresome journey that had consisted of forcing Hogan’s mules along a road cut with deep, jagged ruts showing where the field artillery had gone before them. Now the mules, laden with powder kegs, oilskin packets of match-fuse, picks, crowbars, spades, all the equipment Hogan needed for Valdelacasa, followed patiently behind the Riflemen and Hogan’s artificers as they pushed their way through the crowded streets towards the main square. As they spilled into the bright sunlight Sharpe’s suspicions about the drumbeats were confirmed.

Someone had been flogged. It was over now. The victim had gone and Sharpe, watching the hollow square formation of the South Essex, remembered his own flogging, years before, and the struggle to keep the agony shut up, not to show to the officers that the lash had hurt. Sharpe would carry the scars of his flogging to his grave but he doubted whether Simmerson knew how savage was the punishment he had just meted to his men.

Hogan reined in his horse in the shade of the Bishop’s palace. “This doesn’t seem to be the best moment to talk to the good Colonel.” Soldiers were taking down four wooden triangles that were propped against the far wall of the square. Four men flogged. Dear God, thought Sharpe, four men. Hogan turned his horse so that his back was to the Battalion. “I must lock up the powder, Richard. Otherwise every bloody grain will be stolen. I’ll meet you back here.“

Sharpe nodded. “I need water anyway. Ten minutes?”

Sharpe’s men collapsed at the foot of the wall, their packs and rifles discarded, their mood soured by the reminder before them of a discipline the Rifle Regiments had virtually discarded. Sir Henry rode his horse delicately to the centre of the square and his voice carried clearly to Sharpe and his men.

“I have flogged four men because four men deserted.” Sharpe looked up, startled. Deserters already? He looked at the Battalion, their faces expressionless, and wondered how many others were tempted to escape from Simmerson’s ranks. The Colonel was half standing in his saddle. “Some of you know how those men planned their crime. Some of you helped them. But you preferred silence so I have flogged four men to remind you of your duty.” His voice was curiously high pitched; it would have been funny if the man’s presence was not so big. He had been speaking in a controlled manner, almost conversationally, but suddenly Sir Henry turned left and right and waved an arm as if to point at every man in his command. “You will be the best!” The loudness was so sudden that pigeons burst startled from the ledges of the convent. Sharpe waited for more, but there was none, and the Colonel turned his horse and rode away, leaving the battle cry lingering as a menacing echo.

Sharpe caught Harper’s eye and the Sergeant shrugged. There was nothing to be said, the faces of the South Essex proclaimed Simmerson’s failure; they simply did not know how to be the best. Sharpe watched as the companies marched from the plaza and saw only sullenness and resentment in their expressions. Sharpe believed in discipline. Desertion to the enemy deserved death, some offences deserved a flogging, and if a man was hung for blatant looting then it was his fault because the rules were simple. And for Sharpe, that was the key; keep the rules simple. He asked three things of his men. That they fought, as he did, with a ruthless professionalism. That they stole only from the enemy and the dead unless they were starving. And that they never got drunk without his permission. It was a simple code, understandable by men who had mostly joined the army because they had failed elsewhere, and it worked. It was backed by punishment, and Sharpe knew, for all that his men liked him and followed him willingly, that they feared his anger when they broke his trust. Sharpe was a soldier.

He crossed the square towards an alleyway, looking for a water fountain, and noticed a Lieutenant of the South Essex’s Light Company riding his horse towards the same shadowed gap between the buildings.

It was the man who had waved to the black-dressed girl, and Sharpe felt a stab of irritation as he entered the alley first. It was an irrational jealousy. The Lieutenant’s uniform was elegantly tailored, the Light Infantry curved sabre was expensive, and the black horse he rode was probably worth a Lieutenant’s commission by itself. Sharpe resented the man’s wealth, his privilege, the easy superiority of a man born to the landed gentry, and it annoyed Sharpe because he knew that resentment was based on envy. He squeezed into the side of the alley to let the horseman pass, looked up and nodded affably, and had an impression of a thin, handsome face fringed with blond hair. He hoped the Lieutenant would ignore him; Sharpe was bad at small talk and he had no wish to make stilted conversation in a foetid alley when he would doubtless be introduced to the Battalion’s officers later in the day.

Sharpe was disappointed. The Lieutenant stopped and stared down at the Rifleman. “Don’t they teach you to salute in the Rifles?” The Lieutenant’s voice was as smooth and rich as his uniform. Sharpe said nothing. His epaulette was missing, torn off in the winter’s fighting, and he realised that the blond Lieutenant had mistaken him for a private. It was hardly surprising. The alleyway was deeply shadowed, Sharpe’s profile, with slung rifle, all helped to explain the Lieutenant’s mistake. Sharpe glanced up to the thin, blue-eyed face and was about to explain when the Lieutenant flicked his whip so that it slapped Sharpe’s face.

“Damn you, man, answer me!”

Sharpe felt the anger rise in him, but stayed still and waited for his moment. The Lieutenant drew the whip back.

“What Battalion? What Company?”

“Second Battalion, Fourth Company.” Sharpe spoke with deliberate insolence and remembered the days when he had no protection against officers like this. The Lieutenant smiled again, no more pleasantly.

“You will call me ”sir“, you know. I shall make you. Who’s your officer?”

“Lieutenant Sharpe.”

“Ah!” The Lieutenant kept his whip raised. “Lieutenant Sharpe whom we’ve all been told about. Came up from the ranks, didn’t he?”

Sharpe nodded and the Lieutenant drew the whip back further.

“Is that why you don’t say ”sir“? Has Mr Sharpe strange ideas on discipline? Well, I will have to see Lieutenant Sharpe, won’t I, and arrange to have you punished for insolence.” He brought the whip slashing down towards Sharpe’s head. There was no room for Sharpe to step back, but there was no need; instead he put both hands under the man’s stirrup and heaved upwards with all his strength. The whip stopped somewhere in mid stroke, the man started to cry out, and the next instant he was flat on his back on the far side of his horse where another horse had dunged earlier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My mistake, Sharpe.”

“My pleasure, Lieutenant.”

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

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

Hogan laughed incredulously. “He what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Again, Parton, again!”

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

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

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

“You must be Captain Hogan?”

“Yes, sir.” Hogan nodded amiably.

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

“Lieutenant Sharpe, sir. 95th Rifles.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A little, sir.”

Simmerson chuckled. “How old are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, sir.”

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

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

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

“Sir Arthur Wellesley, sir.”

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

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

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

“Three rounds a minute?”

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s the last resort, sir.”

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

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

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

“Sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now make it happen, he thought.