SHARPE’S REGIMENT by Bernard Cornwell

Somewhere in that land of fogs and rains and lightning and night-howling cold, they had crossed into France. No one was certain exactly where. One moment they were in Spain, and the next the word went through the ranks that they had entered the land of the enemy. No one cheered. They were in an army that had fought and struggled since 1793 to cross this frontier, but they were too tired to raise a cheer. The straps of their packs had chafed through the wet uniforms, their boots were filled with water, and the sergeants had threatened to crucify any man who let his powder get wet.

‘Remember one thing, Charlie.’ Harper tossed the dregs of his tea away. ‘Get yourself a French pack soon as you bloody can. More comfortable.’ It was possible to tell the veterans of the Regiment, not just by their faded uniforms that were patched with brown Spanish cloth, but by their good French packs. Weller grinned. His red coat, which had been so bright in Chelmsford, had turned a strange pink, the cheap dye washed by the rain to drip onto his grey trousers which were now reddened about the thighs. ‘Will we fight today?’

‘That’s what we’re here for.’ Harper stared down at the French-held hills. The British held the higher ground, but between them and the southern plains of France was this last range of enemy-held hills, hills protected by fortifications, trenches, and marshy, treacherous ground in the valleys. Wellington, whose men had prised the French from the higher peaks in weeks of hard, confused fighting, wanted to be out of these hills before the snows came. No army could winter here. If the forts that had been hacked out of the rocks on the last foothills were not taken, then the British would have to slink back into Spain. Harper turned round. ‘Private Clayton!’

‘Sarge?’

‘Look after this little bugger.’ Harper cuffed Weller. ‘Don’t want him dying in his first battle. And, Charlie?’

‘Sarge?’

‘Keep your bloody dog away from the Portuguese. They eat them when they get hungry.’

Weller, landing at Pasajes in early October, had adopted the first stray dog that he found. It was a mongrel of startling ugliness, with one ear missing and a tail shortened by a fight. It proved to be a coward against all other dogs, but devoted to its new master, who had tried to christen it Buttons. The name did not stick. The rest of the Light Company, because of its ugliness and cowardice, called the dog Boney.

Major Richard Sharpe had let it be known throughout the Battalion that dogs would make suitable pets for soldiers. As a result of Sharpe’s encouragement, the Prince of Wales’ Own Volunteers looked, at times, as if they had collected every stray mongrel and flighty bitch in Europe.

Major General Nairn had greeted Sharpe like a long lost friend. During the three weeks that the Battalion was given to re-order its Companies and train the new men to fight in the way of the veterans, Nairn often rode over to share an evening meal with Sharpe and listen to the stories brought from England. He met Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood briefly. ‘Is he mad, Sharpe?’ They were sitting in the wine-shop that was the officers’ Mess.

‘He just keeps himself to himself, sir.’

‘He’s mad!’ Nairn stared reverently into his glass of whisky. Sharpe had brought two cases from London and presented them to the General. ‘Mad!’ Nairn said. ‘Reminds me of a Minister I knew in Kirkcaldy. The Reverend Robert MacTeague. Ate nothing but vegetables! Can you credit that? Thought his wife was pregnant of a moonbeam. She probably was, I doubt if he knew his business in that area, and all those cabbages? Must sap a man, Sharpe. He didn’t drink, either, not a drop! Said it was the devil’s brew.’ He turned and stared towards the door of Girdwood’s room. Light showed beneath the door which had remained closed all evening. ‘What does he do in there?’

‘Writes poetry, sir.’

‘Christ!’ Nairn stared at Sharpe, then drank a good swallow of whisky. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘I am, sir.’

The old Scotsman shook his head sadly. ‘Why doesn’t the bugger resign?’