“I can manage Harper.” Sharpe said the words with a false conviction. In the short time that he had been with this Battalion, Sharpe had often noticed the Irishman, and he had seen for himself the truth of Captain Murray’s assertion that he was a natural leader. Men crowded to Harper’s campfire, partly to relish his stories, and partly because they wanted his approval. To the officers he liked the Irishman offered a humorous allegiance, while to those he disliked he offered nothing but scorn. And there was something very intimidating about Rifleman Harper; not just because of his size, but because of his air of knowing self-reliance.
“I’ve no doubt Harper thinks he can manage you. He’s a hard man,” Murray paused, then smiled, “but he’s filled with sentimentality.”
“So he has a weakness,” Sharpe said harshly.
“Is that a weakness?” Murray shrugged. “I doubt it. But now you’ll think I’m weak. When I’m dead, you see,” and again he had to shake his head to stop Sharpe interjecting, “when I’m dead,” he repeated, “I want you take my sword. I’ll tell Williams you’re to have it.”
Sharpe looked at the Heavy Cavalry sword that was propped in its metal scabbard against the wall. It looked an awkward and clumsy weapon, but Sharpe could not make any such objection to the gift now. “Thank you.” He said it awkwardly. He was not used to receiving personal favours, nor had he learned to be gracious in accepting them.
“It isn’t much of a sword,” Murray said, “but it’ll replace the one you lost. And if the men see you carrying it…“ he was unable to finish the sentence.
“They’ll think I’m a real officer?” The words betrayed Sharpe’s resentment.
“They’ll think I liked you,” Murray spoke in gentle correction, “and that will help.”
Sharpe, reproved by the tone in the dying man’s voice, again muttered his thanks.
Murray shrugged. “I watched you yesterday. You’re good in a fight, aren’t you?”
“For a Quartermaster?”
Murray ignored the self-pity. “You’ve seen a lot of battles?”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t very tactful of you,” Murray smiled, “new Lieutenants aren’t supposed to be more experienced than their seniors.” The Captain looked up at the broken roof. “Bloody silly place to die, isn’t it?”
“I’m going to keep you alive.”
“I suspect you can do many things, Lieutenant Sharpe, but you’re not a miracle worker.”
Murray slept after that. All the Riflemen rested that day. The rain was insistent and, in mid-afternoon, turned to a heavy, wet snow which, by nightfall, was settling on the shoulders of the closest hills. Hagman had snared two rabbits, thin fare, but something to flavour the few beans and scraps of bread that the men had hoarded in their knapsacks. There were no cooking cauldrons, but the men used tin mugs as saucepans.
Sharpe left the barn at dusk and went to the cold shelter of the ruined farmhouse to watch the night fall. It was not much of a house, merely four broken stone walls that had once held up a timber and sod roof. One door faced east, another west, and from the eastern door Sharpe could see far down a valley that now whirled and bellied with snow. Once, when the driving snow was lifted by the wind, he thought he saw the grey smear of smoke at the valley’s end; evidence, perhaps, of a tiny village where they could find shelter, then the snow blanketed the view again. He shivered, and it seemed impossible that this was Spain.
Footsteps made him turn. Rifleman Harper ducked under the western door of the small house, saw Sharpe, and checked. He waved a hand at some fallen roof beams that were embedded in stones and turf. “Timber, sir,” he explained his errand, “for the fire.”
“Carry on.” Sharpe watched as the Irishman took hold of the rotted timbers and snapped them clear of their obstructions. Harper seemed to resent being watched, for he straightened up and stared at the Lieutenant. “So what are we doing, sir?”
For a second Sharpe took offence at the surly tone, then realized that Harper was only asking what every man in the company wanted to know. “We’re going home.”