Sharpe's Eagle (3 page)

Hogan shrugged. "He doesn't know. The Spanish say that the French have a whole Regiment of
cavalry on the south bank, with horse artillery, who've been chasing Gu?rilleros up and down the
river since spring. Who knows? He thinks they may try to stop us blowing the bridge."

"I still don't understand why you need us."

Hogan smiled. "Perhaps I don't. But there won't be any action for a month; the French will let
us go deep into Spain before they fight, so Valdelacasa will at least be the chance of a
scramble. And I want someone with me I can trust. Perhaps I just want you along as a
favour?"

Sharpe smiled. Some favour, wet-nursing a Militia Colonel who thought he knew it all, but he
hid his feelings. "For you, sir, it will be a pleasure."

Hogan smiled back. "Who knows? It might be. She's going along." Sharpe followed Hogan's gaze
out of the window and saw the black-dressed girl raise a hand to an officer of the South Essex.
Sharpe had an impression of a blond man, immaculately uniformed, mounted on a horse that had
probably cost more than the rider's commission. The girl spurred her mare forward and, followed
by the servant and his mule, joined the rear of the Battalion that was marching down the road
that led to Castelo Branco. The square became empty again, the dust settling in the fierce heat,
and Sharpe leaned back and began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Hogan asked.

Sharpe pointed with his cup of brandy at Harper's tattered jacket and gaping trousers. "Sir
Henry's not exactly going to be fond of his new allies."

The Sergeant's face stayed gloomy. "God save Ireland."

Hogan raised his cup. "Amen to that."

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 forma-tion 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 disci-pline. 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 uni-form 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?"