The door banged open and a middle-aged man wearing a voluminous dressing-gown over his uniform trousers walked in. He scowled at the Rifleman. ‘Sharpe?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The ‘sir’ seemed judicious. The man had an air of authority despite a streaming cold.
‘Major General Nairn.’ The Major General dropped papers on a low table, next to the back numbers of the Times and the Courier from London, then crossed to the other tall window. He scowled at the street. ‘Damned Papists.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Another judicious reply.
‘Damned Papists! The Nairns, Sharpe, are all Scottish Presbyterians! We may be boring, but by God we are Godly!’ He grinned, then sneezed violently before vigorously wiping his nose with a huge grey handkerchief. He gestured with the handkerchief at the procession. Another god-damned feast-day, Sharpe, can’t think why they’re all so bloody thin.’ He laughed, then looked with shrewd eyes at the Rifleman. ‘So you’re Sharpe?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well don’t come near me, I’ve got a bloody cold.’ He walked towards the fire. ‘Heard about you, Sharpe. Bloody impressive! Scottish, are you?’
‘No, sir.’ Sharpe grinned.
‘Not your fault, Sharpe, not your fault. Can’t help our damned parents which is why we have to thrash our damned children.’ He glanced quickly at Sharpe, making sure he was being appreciated. ‘Came up from the ranks, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’ve done bloody well, Sharpe, bloody well.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ It was amazing how few words were usually needed to get by with senior officers.
Major General Nairn bent down and damaged the fire by bashing its logs with a poker. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here. That right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re here because this is the warmest damned room in Frenada and you’re obviously no fool.’ Nairn laughed, dropped the poker, and worried his nose with his handkerchief. ‘Bloody awful place, Frenada.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Nairn looked accusingly at Sharpe. ‘Do you know why the Peer chose Frenada as his winter Headquarters?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Some people will tell you,’ and here the Major General broke off to collapse with a satisfied sigh into a vast horsehair armchair, ‘that it was chosen because it is near the Spanish border.’ He wagged a finger at Sharpe. ‘That bears some truth, but not the whole truth. Some people will tell you that the Peer chose this benighted town because it is bloody miles from Lisbon and no snivelling place-seekers and bum-lickers will bother to make the journey up here to annoy him. Now that, too, might contain a grain of the eternal truth, except that the Peer’s down there half the time which makes life bloody easy for the sycophantic bastards. No, Sharpe, we must look for the real reason elsewhere.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Nairn groaned as he stretched himself out. ‘The real reason, Sharpe, the immaculately conceived reason, is that this God-damned excuse for a bloody miserable little hovel of a crippled town being chosen is that it is right in the centre of the best God-damned fox-hunting in Portugal.’
Sharpe grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the Peer, Sharpe, likes to chase foxes. Thus are the rest of us consigned to the eternal torments of this bloody place. Sit down, man!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And stop saying `yes, sir’, `no, sir’ like a bloody bumlicker.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe sat in the chair opposite Major General Nairn. The Scotsman had huge grey eyebrows that seemed to be trying to grow upwards to meet his shock of grey hair. The face was good and strong, shrewd-eyed and humorous, spoilt only by his cold-reddened nose. Nairn returned the gaze, looking Sharpe up and down from the French cavalry boots to the Rifleman’s black hair, then he twisted round in the armchair.
‘Chatsworth! You scum! You varlet! Chatsworth! Heel! You hear me? Heel!’
An orderly appeared who grinned happily at Nairn. ‘Sir?’
‘Tea, Chatsworth, tea! Bring me strong tea! Something that will rekindle my military ardour. And kindly try to bring it before the New Year.’
‘I’ve already wet it, sir. Something to eat, sir?’
‘Eat? I’ve got a cold, Chatsworth. I’m nigh unto death and you blather at me about eating! What have you got?’
‘I’ve some ham, sir, that you liked. Mustard. Bread and fresh butter?’ Chatsworth was solicitous, obviously liking Nairn.