Sharpe smiled. ‘So that’s why I was chosen?’
‘Good! You’re not a fool. Of course that’s why you were chosen, and as a punishment, of course.’
‘Punishment?’
‘For being promoted before your time. If you’d have had the grace to wait for one of your own Majors to die in the South Essex you’d have landed Regimental rank. It’ll come, Sharpe, it’ll come. If 1813 is anything like this year we’ll all be Field Marshals by next Christmas.’ He pulled the dressing gown tight round his chest. ‘If we live to see next Christmas, which I doubt.’ Nairn stood up. ‘Off you go, Sharpe! You’ll find Gilliland playing fireworks on the Guarda road. Here’s your orders. He knows you’re coming, poor lamb. Pack him back to Prinny, Sharpe, but keep the bloody horses!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe stood up, took the proffered orders, and felt the elation again. A Major!
Bells suddenly clanged from the church, jangling the still air, frightening birds into hurried flight. Nairn flinched at the sound and crossed to the window. ‘Get rid of Gilliland, then we can all have a quiet Christmas!’ Nairn rubbed his hands together. ‘Except for those bloody bells, Major, there’s nothing, thank the Good Lord, that is disturbing His Majesty’s Army in Portugal and Spain.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ God! The ‘Major’ sounded good in his ears.
The bells rang on, marking the feastday, while, fifty miles north and east, the first English soldiers, red coats untidy, filed into the quiet village of Adrados.
CHAPTER 2
The rumour reached Frenada soon enough, yet in its passing through the Portuguese countryside the story twisted and curled in the same manner that Congreve’s rockets tangled their smoke trails above the shallow valley where Sharpe tested them.
Sergeant Patrick Harper was the first man of Sharpe’s Company to hear the story. He heard it from his woman, Isabella, who had heard it from the pulpit of Frenada’s Church. Indignation in the town flared, an indignation that Harper shared. English troops, not just English, but Protestants to boot, had gone to a remote village which they had looted, killed, raped, and defiled on a holy day.
Patrick Harper told Sharpe. They were sitting with Lieutenant Price and the Company’s two other Sergeants in the winter sunlight of the valley. Sharpe heard his Sergeant out, then shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Swear to God, sir. The priest talked of it, so he did, right there in the church!’
‘You heard it?’
‘Isabella heard it!’ Harper’s eyes, beneath the sandy-brown eyebrows, were belligerent. His indignation had thickened the Ulster accent. ‘Your man is hardly going to lie in his own pulpit! What’s the point of that?’
Sharpe shook his head. He had fought with Harper on a dozen battlefields, he would count the Sergeant as a friend, yet he was not used to this bitterness. Harper had the calm confidence of a strong man. He had an unconquerable humour that saw him through battlefields, bivouacs, and the malevolent fate that had forced him, an Irishman, into England’s army. Yet Donegal was never far from Harper’s mind and there was something in this rumour that had touched the patriotic nerve that smarted whenever Harper thought of how England had treated Ireland. Protestants raping and killing Catholics, a holy place defiled, the ingredients were seething in Harper’s head. Sharpe grinned. ‘Do you really believe, Sergeant, that some of our lads went to a village and killed a Spanish garrison and raped all the women? Truly! Does that sound right to you?’
Harper shrugged, thought reluctantly. ‘I give you it’s the first time, I give you that. But it happened!’
‘For God’s sake why would they do it?’
‘Because they’re Protestant, sir! Go a hundred miles just to kill a Catholic, so they will. It’s in the blood!’
Sergeant Huckfield, a Protestant from the English shires, spat a blade of grass from his lips. ‘Harps! And what about your bloody lot? The Inquisition? You never heard of the Inquisition in your country? Christ! You talk about killing! We learned it all from bloody Rome!’
‘Enough!’ Sharpe had endured this argument too often and certainly did not want it aired when Harper was filled with anger. He saw the huge Irishman about to utter again and he stopped it before tempers flared. ‘I said enough!’ He twisted round to see if Gilliland’s troop had finished their seemingly interminable preparations and vented his anger on their slowness.