It was three days since the French had surrendered to them in the hills. They had marched north from the bridge, suddenly leaving the approaches to Salamanca and coming into an area of hills and bad tracks. Waiting for them was the bulk of the army, and a white-grey pile of god-damned tents. Sharpe scowled. `We’ll leave them in store.’
`And have them stolen, sir?’
Sharpe swore. What Harper meant, of course, was that the storekeeper would sell the tents to the Spanish, claim that they were stolen, and have them charged to the Battalion’s accounts. `You know the storekeeper?’
`Aye.’ Harper sounded dubious.
`How much?’
`Handful.’
Sharpe swore again. He could doubtless get five pounds out of the Battalion accounts to bribe the storekeeper, but the job would be a nuisance. `He’s no friend of yours, this storekeeper?’
`He’s from County Down.’ Harper said it meaningfully. `Sell his own bloody mother for a shilling.’
`You’ve got nothing on the bastard?’
`No.’ Harper shook his head. `He’s tighter than an Orangeman’s drum.’
`I’ll get you the handful.’ He could sell one of the mules that would arrive tomorrow, claim it died of glanders or God knows what, and see if anyone dared question,him. He shook his head in exasperation, then grinned at the big Sergeant. `How’s your woman?’
`Grand, sir!’ Harper beamed. `Blooming, so she is. I think she’d like to cook you one of those terrible meals.’
`I’ll come for one this week.’ Isabella was a small, dark Spanish girl whom Harper had rescued from the horror at Badajoz. Ever since that terrible night she had loyally followed the Battalion, along with the other wives, mistresses and whores who formed a clumsy tail to every marching army. Sharpe suspected that Harper would be marrying before the year’s end.
The huge Irishman pushed his shako back and scratched at his sandy hair. `Did your dago find you, sir?’
`Dago?’
`Officer; a real ribbon-merchant. He was sniffing about this morning, so he was. Looked as if he’d lost his purse. Grim as a bloody judge.’
`I was here.’
Harper shrugged. `Probably wasn’t important.’
But Sharpe was frowning. He did not know why, but his instinct, that kept him alive on. the battlefield, was suddenly warning him of trouble. The warning was sufficient to destroy the small moment of happiness that insulting the tents had given him. It was as if, on a day of hope and peace, he had suddenly smelt French cavalry. `What time was he here?’
`Sunrise.’ Harper sensed the sudden alertness. `He was just a young fellow.’
Sharpe could think of no reason why a Spanish officer should want to see him, and when something had no reason, it was liable to be dangerous. He gave the tents a parting kick. `Let me know if you see him again.’
`Aye, sir.’ Harper watched Sharpe walk towards the Battalion’s headquarters. He wondered why the mention of the gaudy-uniformed Spaniard had plunged Sharpe into such sudden tenseness. Perhaps, he thought, it was just more of Sharpe’s guilt and grief.
Harper could understand grief, but he sensed that Sharpe’s mood was not simple grief. It seemed to the big Irishman that his friend had begun to hate himself, perhaps blaming himself for his wife’s death and the abandonment of his child. Whatever it was, Harper thought, he hoped that soon the army would march against the French. By that bridge, when the infantrymen had not a shot between them, Harper had seen the old energy and enthusiasm. Whatever Sharpe’s sadness was, it had not stopped his ability to fight.
`He needs a good battle,’ he said to’Isabella that night.
She made a scornful sound. `He needs another wife.’
Harper laughed. `That’s all you women think about. Marriage, marriage, marriage!’ He had been drinking with the other Sergeants of the Battalion and had come back late to find the food she had cooked for him spoilt.
She pushed the burnt eggs about the pan as if hoping that by rearranging them she would improve their looks. `And what’s wrong with marriage?’
Harper, who could sense marriage on his own horizon, decided that discretion was the best part of valour. `Nothing at all. Have you got any bread?’