CHAPTER 2
In the night, Lieutenant Sharpe took a patrol westwards along the high crest. He had hoped to determine whether the French held the place where the road crossed the ridge, but in the freezing darkness and among the jumble of rocks, he lost his bearings and grudgingly went back to the hollow where the Riflemen sheltered.
The cloud lifted before dawn, letting the first wan light reveal the main body of the French pursuit in the valley which lay to the south. The enemy cavalry was already gone to the west, and Sharpe stared down at Marshal Soult’s infantry which marched in dogged pursuit of Sir John Moore’s army.
“We’re bloody cut off.” Sergeant Williams offered his pessimistic assessment to Sharpe who, instead of replying, went to squat beside the wounded men. Captain Murray slept fitfully, shivering beneath a half-dozen greatcoats. The Sergeant who had been slashed across the neck and shoulders had died in the night. Sharpe covered the man’s face with a shako.
“He’s a jumped-up bit of nothing.” Williams stared malevolently at Lieutenant Sharpe’s back. “He ain’t an officer, Harps. Not a real one.”
Rifleman Harper was sharpening his sword-bayonet, doing the job with the obsessive concentration of a man who knows his life depends on his weapons.
“Not a proper officer,” Williams went on. “Not a gentleman. Just a jumped-up Sergeant, isn’t he?”
“That’s all.” Harper looked at the Lieutenant, seeing the scars on the officer’s face and the hard line of his jaw.
“If he thinks he’s giving me orders, he’s a bugger. He ain’t no better than I am, is he?”
Harper’s reply was a grunt, and not the agreement which would have given the Sergeant the encouragement he wanted. Williams waited for Harper’s support, but the Irishman merely squinted along the edge of his bayonet, then carefully sheathed the long blade.
Williams spat. “Put a bloody sash and sword on them and they think they’re God Almighty. He’s not a real Rifle, just a bloody Quartermaster, Harps!”
“Nothing else,” Harper agreed.
“Bloody jumped-up storekeeper, ain’t he?”
Sharpe turned quickly and Williams, even though it was impossible, felt that he had been overheard. The Lieutenant’s eyes were hard as flint. “Sergeant Williams!”
“Sir.” Williams, despite his assertion of disobedience, stepped dutifully towards Lieutenant Sharpe.
“Shelter.” Sharpe pointed down into the northern valley where, far beneath them and slowly being revealed by a shredding mist, a stone farmstead could be seen. “Get the wounded down there.”
Williams hissed a dubious breath between yellowed teeth. “I dunno as how they should be moved, sir. The Captain’s…“
“I said get the wounded down there, Sergeant.” Sharpe had stepped away, but now turned back. “I didn’t ask for a debate on the God-damned matter. Move.”
It took the best part of the morning, but they succeeded in carrying the wounded down to the derelict farm. The dryest building was a stone barn, built on rock pillars that were meant to keep vermin at bay, and with a roof surmounted by crosses so that, from a distance, it looked like a small crude church. The ruined house and byres yielded damp and fungus-ridden timbers that, split and shredded with cartridge Powder, were coaxed into a fire that slowly warmed the wounded men. Rifleman Hagman, a toothless, middle-aged Cheshire man, went to hunt for food, while the Lieutenant put picquets on the goat tracks that led east and west.
“Captain Murray’s in a poorly way, sir.” Sergeant Williams cornered Sharpe when the Lieutenant returned to the barn. “He needs a surgeon, sir.”
“Hardly possible, is it?”
“Unless we… that is…“ The Sergeant, a squat, red-faced man, could not say what was in his mind.
“Unless we surrender to the French?” Sharpe asked acidly.
Williams looked into the Lieutenant’s eyes. They were curious eyes, almost reptilian in their present coldness. The Sergeant found a truculence to brace his argument. “At least the crapauds have got surgeons, sir.”
“In one hour,” Sharpe’s voice implied that he had not even heard Williams’s words, Til inspect every man’s rifle. Make sure they’re ready.“
Williams stared belligerently at the officer, but could not summon the courage necessary for disobedience. He nodded curtly and turned away.