He enjoyed being a soldier, even in the army of the nation that had taken his family’s land and trampled on their religion. He had been reared on the tales of the great Irish heroes, he could recite by heart the story of Cuchulain single-handedly defeating the forces of Connaught, and who did the English have to put beside the great hero? But Ireland was Ireland and hunger drove men to strange places. If Harper had followed his heart he would be fighting against the English, not for them, but like so many of his countrymen he had found a refuge from poverty and persecution in the ranks of the enemy. He never forgot home. He carried in his head a picture of Donegal, a county of twisted rock and thin soil, of mountains, lakes, wide bogs and the small holdings where families scratched a thin living. And what families! Harper was the fourth of his mother’s eleven children who survived infancy and she always said that she never knew how she had come to bear such `a big wee one’. “To feed Patrick is like feeding three of the others’ she would say, and he would more often than not go hungry. Then came the day when he left to seek his own fortune. He had walked from the Blue Stack moun-tains to the walled streets of Derry and there got drunk, and found himself enlisted. Now, eight years later and twenty-four years old, he was a Sergeant. They would never believe that in Tangaveane!
It was hard now to think of the English as enemies. Familiarity had bred too many friendships. The army was one place where strong men could do well, and Patrick Harper liked the responsibility he had earned and enjoyed the respect of other tough men, like Sharpe. He remem-bered the stories of his countrymen who had fought the redcoats in the hills and fields of Ireland, and sometimes he wondered what his future would be if he were to go back and live in Donegal again. That problem of loyalty was too difficult, and he kept it in the back of his mind, hidden away with the vestiges of his religion. Perhaps the war would go on for ever, or perhaps St Patrick would return and convert the English to the true faith? Who could tell? But for the moment he was content to be a soldier and took his pleasure where it could be found. Yesterday he had seen a peregrine falcon, high over the road, and Patrick Harper’s soul had soared to meet it. He knew every bird in Ulster, loved them, and as he walked he searched the land and sky for new birds because the Sergeant never tired of watching them. In the hills north of Oporto he had caught a quick glimpse of a strange magpie with a long blue tail, unlike anything he had seen before, and he wanted to see another. The expectation and the waiting were part of his content and his pleasure.
A hare started up in a field next to the road. A voice shouted ,Mine,” and they all paused while the man knelt, took quick aim, and fired. He missed and Riflemen jeered as the hare twisted and disappeared in the rocks. Daniel Hagman did not miss often, he had learned to shoot from his poacher father, and all the Riflemen were secretly proud of the Cheshire-man’s ability with the rifle. As he reloaded he shook his head sorrowfully. “Sorry, sir. Getting too old.”
Sharpe laughed. Hagman was forty but he could still out-shoot the rest of the company. The hare had been running at two hundred yards, and it would have been a miracle if it had ended up in the evening’s cooking pots.
“We’ll take a rest,” Sharpe said. “Ten minutes.” He set two men as sentries. The French were miles away, there were British cavalry ahead of them on the road, but soldiers stayed alive by taking precautions and this was strange country, so Sharpe kept a watch and the men marched with loaded weapons. He took off his pack and pouches, glad to be rid of the eighty pounds of weight, and sat beside Harper, who was leaning back and staring into the clear sky. “A hot day for a march, Sergeant.”