“It will be, sir, so it will. But better than that damned cold last winter.”
Sharpe grinned. “You managed to keep warm enough.”
“We did what we could, sir, we did what we could. You remember the Holy Father in the Friary?” Sharpe nodded but there was no way to stop Patrick Harper once he was launched into a good story. “He told us there was no drink in the place! No drink, and we were as cold as the sea in winter! It was a terrible thing to hear a man of God lie so.”
“You taught him a lesson,” Sarge Pendleton, the baby of the company, just seventeen and a thief from the streets of Bristol, grinned over the road at the Irishman. Harper nodded. “We did, lad. You remember? No priest runs out of drink and we found it. My God, a barrel big enough to drown an army’s thirst and it did us that night. And we tipped the Holy Father head first into the wine to teach him that lying is a mortal sin.” He laughed at the memory. “I could do with a drop right now.” He looked innocently round the men resting on the verges. “Would anyone have a drop?”
There was silence. Sharpe leaned back and hid his smile. He knew what Harper was doing and he could guess what would happen next. The Rifles were one of the few Regiments that could pick and choose its recruits, rejecting all but the best, but even so it suffered from the besetting sin of the whole army: drunkenness. Sharpe guessed there were at least half a dozen bottles of wine within a few paces, and Harper was going to find them. He heard the Sergeant get to his feet. “Right! Inspection.”
“Sergeant!” That was Gataker, too fly for his own good. “You inspected the water bottles this morning! You know we haven’t got any.”
“I know you haven’t any in your water bottles but that’s not the same thing, is it?” There was still no response! ,Lay your ammunition out! Now!”
There were groans. Both the Portuguese and the Spanish would gladly sell wine to a man in exchange for a handful of cartridges made with the British gunpowder, the finest in the world, and it was a fair bet that if any man had less than his eighty rounds then Harper would find a bottle hid deep in that man’s pack. Sharpe heard the sound of rummaging and scuffling. He opened his eyes to see seven bottles had magically appeared. Harper stood over them triumphantly. “We share these out tonight. Well done, lads, I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” He turned to Sharpe. “Do you want a cartridge count, sir?”
“No, we’ll get on.” He knew the men could be trusted not to sell more than a handful of cartridges. He looked at the huge Irishman. “How many cartridges would you have, Sergeant.”
Harper’s face was sublimely honest. “Eighty, sir.”
“Show me your powder horn.”
Harper smiled. “I thought you might like a drop of something tonight, sir?”
“Let’s get on, then.” Sharpe grinned at Harper’s discom-fiture. In addition to the eighty rounds, twenty more than the rest of the army carried, Riflemen also carried a horn of fine powder that made for better shooting when there was time to use it. “All right, Sergeant. Ten minutes fast, then we’ll march easy.”
At midday they found Major Forrest with his small, mounted advance party waving to them from a stand of trees that grew between the road and the stream Harper had been hoping for. The Major led the Riflemen to the spot he had chosen for them. “I thought, Sharpe, that it might be best if you were some way from the Colonel?”
“Don’t worry, sir.” Sharpe grinned at the nervous Major. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
Forrest was still worried. He looked at Sharpe’s men, who were already hacking at the branches. “Sir Henry insists on fires being built in straight lines, Sharpe.”
Sharpe held up his hands. “Not a flame out of place, sir, I promise you.”
An hour later the Battalion arrived, and the men threw themselves onto the ground and rested their heads on their packs. Some went to the stream and sat with blistered, swollen feet in the cool water. Sentries were posted, weapons stacked, the smell of tobacco drifted through the trees, and a desultory game of football started far away from the pile of baggage that marked the temporary officers’ mess. Last to arrive were the wives and children, mixed with the Portuguese muleteers and their animals, Hogan and his mules, and the herd of cattle, driven by hired labour, that would provide the evening meals until the last beast was killed.