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.”