Farthingdale had approved of all Sharpe’s efforts to prepare a defence of the Gateway of God, but his motive, Sharpe knew, was not because he feared an attack. Sir Augustus had sententiously quoted from his own book. ‘Busy troops, Sharpe, are troops not liable to make mischief.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Now, riding back to the Castle, Sharpe wondered if again he was letting his imagination run wild. He was convinced that tomorrow he might have to fight, yet there were no real reasons for thinking that. The French had reason to be in the valley, just as the British did, and within minutes the job both sides had come to do would be finished and there would seem no reason why either side should stay in the Gateway of God. Except. Except instinct. Farthingdale had mocked that instinct, accusing Sharpe of wanting a fight, and refusing to allow a Fusilier Lieutenant to be sent with a message across the border. ‘Making an alarm over a handful of cavalry and a small battalion! Don’t be ridiculous, Sharpe!’ Farthingdale had withdrawn to his rooms, the same ones that Pot-au-Feu had inhabited, and Sharpe had seen Josefina appear on a balcony that some late owner of the Castle had built high on the keep and facing west. The room and balcony would have a magnificent view.
Back in the Castle yard Sharpe relinquished the horse and asked a Rifleman to fetch him hot water. He stripped off his uniform jacket, peeled the overalls to his waist, then pulled off the dirty shirt. Daniel Hagman gave Sharpe a toothless smile and picked up the jacket. ‘Want me to brush it, sir?’
‘I’ll do it, Dan.’
‘God help us, but you’re a bloody awful Major, sir.’ Hagman was the oldest man in Sharpe’s Company, nearing fifty, and his age and loyalty gave him a freedom with Sharpe. ‘You have to learn to have things done for you, sir, like the nobs.’ Hagman began scraping at a bloodstain. ‘You’re eating with the quality, sir, and you can’t go looking like a tinker.’
Sharpe laughed. He took his razor from the pocket in his overalls, unfolded it, and looked with displeasure at its thin blade. He must get a new one. He stropped it half-heartedly on his boot, splashed water on his face, then, not bothering to find any soap, began shaving. ‘You still got my rifle, Dan?’
‘I have, sir. Do you want it?’
‘Not if I’m eating with the quality.’
‘You’ll probably get a knife and fork, sir.’
‘Probably, Dan.’
‘Squire used to eat with a fork.’ Hagman was from Cheshire, only in the army because he had finally lost his lifelong battle with the Squire’s gamekeepers. He spat on Sharpe’s jacket and rubbed vigorously. ‘Can’t see the call for a fork, sir, I can’t. Not after the good Lord gave us fingers.’
The Fusiliers lit a fire in the courtyard, the flame catching on straw fetched from the stable, the sudden flames accentuating the dusk. Sharpe wiped his face on his shirt, pulled it back on, and slowly did up the straps of his captured French overalls. Hagman beat the jacket on the ground to rid it of the last scraps of dust and held it out. ‘Smart as a whip, sir.’
‘That’ll be the day, Dan.’
Belt, crossbelt, ammunition pouch, sash, and sword completed Major Sharpe. He bashed out a dent in his shako as Hagman nodded towards the keep. ‘Here comes his Lordship, sir. Had us running up and down the bleeding stairs all afternoon with timber for his bleeding fire, food for his lady. She the lady you knew at Talavera, sir?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Does he know he’s not the first one to fire that musket?’
Sharpe smiled. ‘No.’
‘What you don’t know, don’t fret you.’ Hagman hurried away as Sir Augustus headed for Sharpe.
‘Sharpe!’ That indignantly voiced syllable was becoming the bane of Sharpe’s life.
‘Sir?’
‘I expect our party to be ready to leave in one hour. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Her Ladyship is accompanying me. Will you tell all officers that I expect them to remain sober and dignified. There are appearances to be kept up.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe suspected the admonition was aimed at him. Farthingdale did not believe Sharpe to be a gentleman, and therefore that he was prone to drunkenness.