Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy (13 page)

‘Take them back, Sergeant.’

‘Sir.’ Harper grinned at him. ‘And thank you, sir.’

‘For nothing.’ He was left alone. Small groups wandered the area of fighting and picked up the wounded and stacked the dead. There were a lot of bodies, more, he guessed, than had been in the breach at Ciudad Rodrigo. A spade brought down on a man’s head is a vicious instrument and the British troops had been frustrated and ready for a fight, for a savage brawl in the mud. A dead Frenchman was curled at Sharpe’s feet and the Rifleman crouched and ran his hands through the corpse’s pockets and pouches. There was nothing worth taking. A letter folded into quarters which smeared as soon as Sharpe pulled it into the rain, a copper coin, and a loose musket ball that may have been the dead man’s talisman. Round the neck, thick with blood, was a cheap metal crucifix. He had tried to grow a moustache, to look like a veteran, but the hairs were wispy and thin. He was hardly more than a boy. One of his boot soles had come loose, was hanging free and vibrating fitfully as the rain struck it. Had that killed him? Had the sole come loose in the fight and, as his comrades ran, had he limped, or stumbled, and had a British bayonet sliced into his neck? The ink washed off the letter, ran into the mud, but Sharpe could see the last word on the page that was written larger than the rest. ‘
Maman
.’

He looked at the city, now fringed again with the long flames as the guns hammered the threnody that would not cease till the siege was over. Teresa was there. He looked at the Cathedral tower, squat and arched with bell windows, and thought how close the bell must sound to her. The Cathedral only seemed to have the one bell, a harsh bell whose note died almost as soon as it was struck on the hour and its quarters. He wondered, quite suddenly, if she ever sang to the child? And what was mother in Spanish?
Maman
? Like the French?

‘Sir! Sir!’ It was Ensign Matthews, blinking through the rain. ‘Sir? Is that you, sir? Captain Sharpe?’

‘It’s me.’ Sharpe did not correct the Captain to Lieutenant.

‘You’d better come, sir.’

‘What is it?’

‘The officers’ baggage, sir. It’s been rifled.’

‘Rifled?’ He was scrambling out of the trench.

‘The Colonel’s lost some silver, sir. Everyone’s lost something, sir.’

Sharpe swore. He had been in charge of the baggage and, instead of guarding it, he had been brawling in the mud. He swore again and began to run.

‘God damn it!’ Colonel Windham paced up and down in the tiny sheepfold. He was carrying a riding crop and he cut with it in his fury, slashing at the pile of baggage. When he bent his head to look at the rifled baggage, water cascaded from his bicorne hat. ‘God damn it!’

‘When did it happen?’ Sharpe asked Major Forrest.

‘We don’t know.’ Forrest smiled nervously at the Rifleman.

Windham swivelled. ‘Happen? When? This God-damned afternoon, Sharpe, when you were supposed to be in God-damned command!’ There were another dozen officers crowded back against the walls of the sheepfold and they looked to Sharpe with accusing faces. They were all wary of the Colonel’s anger.

‘Do we know it was this afternoon?’ Sharpe insisted.

Windham looked as if he would like to whip Sharpe with his riding crop. Instead he swore again, and turned away. It was not the officers’ day-to-day baggage that had been burgled, but their valuables which had been stored in leather mule-bags. None of the baggage, as far as Sharpe knew, had been touched for three days. It contained the kind of things that a man would only unpack if he were in comfortable quarters for a long period; silverware, crystal, the luxuries that reminded them of home comforts. Windham growled at Major Collett. ‘What’s missing?’

It was not a long list. Forrest had lost a money draft, but it had been found screwed up and thrown away in the mud. Whoever had slit the bags had not known what to do with the paper. There was a pair of snuffboxes gone, a gold chain that Sharpe suspected had been looted from Ciudad Rodrigo; certainly the officer who reported that loss had been voluble about his poverty before the siege and remarkably silent afterwards. There was a set of gold scabbard furniture, too valuable to wear in battle, a pair of silver spurs and a pair of jewelled ear-rings that an embarrassed Lieutenant claimed was a present for his mother. Major Collett had lost a shaving mirror with a silver lid and a watch that he said was worth a small fortune. Most important of all was the Colonel’s loss; the silver-filigree-framed portrait of his wife, the chinless, stern Jessica. The Colonel, rumour had it, was particularly fond of his wife; she had brought him a small fortune and the hunting rights for half of Leicestershire, and Colonel Windham was furious at the loss. Sharpe remembered the portrait sitting on the low table in Elvas.

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

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

‘Where’s your pack?’

‘With the others, sir.’

‘Is it marked?’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Fetch it, Sharpe.’

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

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

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

‘Telescope? Anything special about it?’

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

‘Proves? What, sir?’

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

Sharpe tried to protest. ‘Sir?’

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

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

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

‘I meant about the telescope.’

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

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

‘Sir?’

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

‘Did you, sir?’

‘Good Lord, no! Are you?’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘But he said you told him you were.’

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

‘For God’s sake, why?’

‘Don’t know, sir. It just came out.’

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

‘I quite like the idea, sir.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Not really, sir.’

‘What do you mean?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It was refused, sir.’

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

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

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

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

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

Forrest sighed. ‘A man called Rymer.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sir?’ The Sergeant Major was straightening up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Happening, Robert? Nothing.’

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

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