Sharpe's Eagle (4 page)

"This officer will need a new uniform. Provide it, please, and arrange to have the money
deducted from his pay."

"No." Sharpe spoke flatly. Simmerson and Forrest turned to stare at him. For a moment Sir
Henry said nothing; he was not used to being contradicted, and Sharpe kept going. "I am an
officer of the 95th Rifles and I will wear their uniform so long as I have that
honour."

Simmerson began to go red and his fingers fluttered at his side. "Damn you, Sharpe! You're a
disgrace! You're not a soldier, you're a crossing sweeper! You're under my orders now and I'm
ordering you to be back here in fifteen minutes. "

"No, sir." This time Hogan had spoken. His words checked Simmerson in full flow but the
Captain gave the Colonel no time to recover. He unleashed all his Irish charm, starting with a
smile of such sweet reasonableness that it would have charmed a fish out of the water. "You see,
Sir Henry, Sharpe is under my orders. The General is quite specific. As I understand it, Sir
Henry, we accompa-ny each other to Valdelacasa but Sharpe is with me."

"But. " Hogan raised a hand to Simmerson's protest.

"You are right, sir, so right. But of course you would understand that conditions in the field
may not be all that we would want, and it may be as well, sir, I need hardly tell you, that I
should have the dispositions of the Riflemen."

Simmerson stared at Hogan. The Colonel had not understood a word of Hogan's nonsense but it
had all been stated in such a matter-of-fact way, and in such a soldier-to-soldier way, that
Simmerson was desperately trying to find an answer that did not make him sound foolish. He looked
at Hogan for a moment. "But that would be my decision!"

"How right you are, sir, how true!" Hogan spoke emphatically and warmly. "Normally, that is.
But I think the General had it in his mind, sir, that you would be so burdened with the problems
of our Spanish allies and then, sir, there are the exigencies of engineering that Lieutenant
Sharpe understands." He leaned forward con-spiratorially. "I need men to fetch and carry, sir.
You understand."

Simmerson smiled, then gave a bray of a laugh. Hogan had taken him off the hook. He pointed at
Sharpe. "He dresses like a common labourer, eh Forrest? A labourer!" He was delighted with his
joke and repeated it to himself as he pulled on his vast scarlet and yellow jacket. "A labourer!
Eh, Forrest?" The Major smiled dutifully. He resembled a long-suffering vicar continually
assailed by the sins of an unrepentant flock, and when Simmerson's back was turned he gave Sharpe
an apologetic look. Simmerson buckled his belt and turned back to Sharpe. "Done much soldiering
then, Sharpe? Apart from fetching and carrying?"

"A little, sir."

Simmerson chuckled. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-two, sir." Sharpe stared rigidly ahead.

"Thirty-two, eh? And still only a Lieutenant? What's the matter, Sharpe?
Incompetence?"

Sharpe saw Forrest signalling to the Colonel but he ignored the movements. "I joined in the
ranks, sir."

Forrest dropped his hand. The Colonel dropped his mouth. There were not many men who made the
jump from Sergeant to Ensign, and those who did could rarely be accused of incompetence. There
were only three qualifications that a common soldier needed to be given a commission. First he
must be able to read and write, and Sharpe had learned his letters in the Sultan Tippoo's prison
to the accompaniment of the screams of other British prisoners being tortured. Secondly the man
had to perform some act of suicidal bravery and Sharpe knew that Simmerson was wondering what he
had done. The third qualification was extraordinary luck, and Sharpe sometimes wondered whether
that was not a two-edged sword. Simmerson snorted.

"You're not a gentleman then, Sharpe?"

"No, sir."

"Well you could try to dress like one, eh? Just because you grew up in a pigsty that doesn't
mean you have to dress like a pig?"

"No, sir." There was nothing else to say.

Simmerson slung his sword over his vast belly. "Who commissioned you, Sharpe?"

"Sir Arthur Wellesley, sir."

Sir Henry gave a bray of triumph. "I knew it! No standards, no standards at all! I've seen
this army, its appearance is a disgrace! You can't say that of my men, eh? You cannot fight
without discipline!" He looked at Sharpe. "What makes a good soldier, Sharpe?"

"The ability to fire three rounds a minute in wet weather, sir." Sharpe invested his answer
with a tinge of insolence. He knew the reply would annoy Simmerson. The South Essex was a new
Battalion and he doubted whether musketry was up to the standard of other, older Battalions. Of
all the European armies only the British practised with live ammunition but it took weeks,
sometimes months, for a soldier to learn the complicated drill of loading and firing a musket
fast, ignoring the panic, just concentrating on out-shooting the enemy.

Sir Henry had not expected the answer and he stared thoughtfully at the scarred Rifleman. To
be honest, and Sir Henry did not enjoy being honest with himself, he was afraid of the army he
had encountered in Portugal. Until now Sir Henry had thought soldiering was a glorious affair of
obedient men in drill-straight lines, their scarlet coats shining in the sun, and instead he had
been met by casual, unkempt officers who mocked his Militia training. Sir Henry had dreamed of
leading his Battalion into battle, mounted on his charger, sword aloft, gaining undying glory.
But staring at Sharpe, typical of so many officers he had met in his brief time in Portugal, he
found himself wondering whether there were any French officers who looked like Sharpe. He had
imagined Napoleon's army, despite their conquest of Europe, as a herd of ignorant soldiers
shepherded by foppish officers and he shuddered inside at the thought that they might turn out to
be lean, hardened men like Sharpe who might chop him out of his saddle before he had the chance
to be painted in oils as a conquering hero. Sir Henry was already afraid and he had yet to see a
single enemy, but first he had to get a subtle revenge on this Rifleman who had baffled
him.

"Three rounds a minute?"

"Yes, sir."

"And how do you teach men to fire three rounds a minute?"

Sharpe shrugged. "Patience, sir. Practice. One battle does a world of good."

Simmerson scoffed at him. "Patience! Practice! They aren't children, Sharpe. They're drunkards
and thieves! Gutter scourings!" His voice was rising again. "Flog it into them, Sharpe, flog!
It's the only way! Give them a lesson they won't forget. Isn't that right?"

There was silence. Simmerson turned to Forrest. "Isn't that right, Major?"

"Yes, sir." Forrest's answer lacked conviction. Simmerson turned to Sharpe.
"Sharpe?"

"It's the last resort, sir."

"The last resort, sir." Simmerson mimicked Sharpe, but secretly he was pleased. It was the
answer he had wanted. "You're soft, Sharpe! Could you teach men to fire three rounds a
minute?"

Sharpe could feel the challenge in the air but there was no going back. "Yes, sir."

"Right!" Simmerson rubbed his hands together. "This afternoon. Forrest?"

"Sir?"

"Give Mr Sharpe a company. The Light will do. Mr Sharpe will improve their shooting!"
Simmerson turned and bowed to Hogan with a heavy irony. "That is if Captain Hogan agrees to lend
us Lieutenant Sharpe's services."

Hogan shrugged and looked at Sharpe. "Of course, sir."

Simmerson smiled. "Excellent! So, Mr Sharpe, you'll teach my Light Company to fire three shots
a minute?"

Sharpe looked out of the window. It was a hot, dry day and there was no reason why a good man
should not fire five shots a minute in this weather. It depended, of course, how bad the Light
Company were at the moment. If they could only manage two shots a minute now, then it was next to
impossible to make them experts in one afternoon, but trying would do no harm. He looked back to
Simmerson. "I'll try, sir."

"Oh you will, Mr Sharpe, you will. And you can tell them from me that if they fail then I'll
flog one out of every ten of them. Do you understand, Mr Sharpe? One out of every ten."

Sharpe understood well enough. He had been tricked by Simmerson into what was probably an
impossible job, and the outcome would be that the Colonel would have his orgy of flogging and he,
Sharpe, would be blamed. And if he succeeded? Then Simmerson could claim it was the threat of the
flogging that had done the trick. He saw triumph in Simmerson's small red eyes and he smiled at
the Colonel. "I won't tell them about the flogging, Colonel. You wouldn't want them distracted,
would you?"

Simmerson smiled back. "You use your own methods, Mr Sharpe. But I'll leave the triangle where
it is; I think I'm going to need it."

Sharpe clapped his misshapen shako onto his head and gave the Colonel a salute of
bone-cracking precision. "Don't bother, sir. You won't need a triangle. Good day, sir."

Now make it happen, he thought.

"I don't bloody believe it, sir. Tell me it's not true." Sergeant Patrick Harper shook his
head as he stood with Sharpe and watched the South Essex Light Company fire two volleys to the
orders of a Lieutenant. "Send this Battalion to Ireland, sir. We'd be a free country in two
weeks! They couldn't fight off a church choir!"

Sharpe gloomily agreed. It was not that the men did not know how to load and fire their
muskets; it was simply that they did it with a painful slowness and a dedication to the drill
book that was rigorously imposed by the Sergeants. There were officially twenty drill movements
for the loading and firing of a musket; five of them alone applied to how the steel ramrod should
be used to thrust ball and charge down the barrel, and the Battalion's insistence on doing it by
the book meant that Sharpe had timed their two demonstration shots at more than thirty seconds
each. He had three hours, at the most, to speed them up to twenty seconds a shot and he could
understand Harper's reaction to the task. The Sergeant was openly scornful.

"God help us if we ever have to skirmish alongside this lot! The French will eat them for
breakfast!" He was right. The company was not even trained well enough to stand in the
battle-line, let alone skirmish with the Light troops out in front of the enemy. Sharpe hushed
Harper as a mounted Captain trotted across to them. It was Lennox, Captain of the Light Company,
and he grinned down on Sharpe.

"Terrifying, isn't it?"

Sharpe was not sure how to reply. To agree might seem to be criticising the grizzled Scot, who
seemed friendly enough. Sharpe gave a non-committal answer and Lennox swung himself out of the
saddle to stand beside him.

"Don't worry, Sharpe. I know how bad they are, but his Eminence insists on doing it this way.
If he left it to me I'd have the bastards doing it properly, but if we break one little
regulation then it's three hours' drill with full packs." He looked quizzically at Sharpe. "You
were at Assaye?" Sharpe nodded and Lennox grinned again. "Aye, I remember you. You made a name
for yourself that day. I was with the 78th."

"They made a name for themselves too."

Lennox was pleased with the compliment. Sharpe re-membered the Indian field and sight of the
Highland Regiment marching in perfect order to assault the Mahratta lines. Great gaps were blown
in the kilted ranks as they calmly marched into the artillery storm but the Scotsmen had done
their job, slaughtered the gunners, and daringly reloaded in the face of a huge mass of enemy
infantry that did not have the courage to counter-attack the seemingly invincible Regiment.
Lennox shook his head.

"I know what you're thinking, Sharpe. What the devil am I doing here with this lot?" He did
not wait for an answer. "I'm an old man, I was retired, but the wife died, the half pay wasn't
stretching, and they needed officers for Sir Henry bloody Simmerson. So here I am. Do you know
Leroy?"

"Leroy?"

"Thomas Leroy. He's a Captain here, too. He's good. Forrest is a decent fellow. But the rest!
Just because they put on a fancy uniform they think they're warriors. Look at that
one!"

He pointed to Christian Gibbons who was riding his black horse onto the field. "Lieutenant
Gibbons?" Sharpe asked.

"You've met then?" Lennox laughed. ,I'll say nothing about Mr Gibbons, then, except that he's
Simmerson's nephew, he's interested in nothing but women, and he's an arrogant little bastard.
Bloody English! Begging your pardon, Sharpe."

Sharpe laughed. "We're not all that bad." He watched as Gibbons walked his horse delicately to
within a dozen paces and stopped. The Lieutenant stared superciliously at the two officers. So
this, Sharpe thought, is Simmerson's nephew? "Are we needed here, sir?"

Lennox shook his head. "No, Mr Gibbons, we are not. I'll leave Knowles and Denny with
Lieutenant Sharpe while he works his miracles." Gibbons touched his hat and spurred his horse
away. Lennox watched him go. "Can't do any wrong, that one. Apple of the Colonel's bloodshot
eye." He turned and waved at the company. "I'll leave you Lieutenant Knowles and Ensign Denny,
they're both good lads but they've learned wrong from Simmerson. You've got a sprinkling of old
soldiers, that'll help, and good luck to you, Sharpe, you'll need it!" He grunted as he heaved
himself into the saddle. "Welcome to the madhouse, Sharpe!"

Sharpe was left with the company, its junior officers, and the ranks of dumb faces that stared
at him as though fearful of some new torment devised by their Colonel. He walked to the front of
the company, watching the red faces that bulged over the constricting stocks and glistened with
sweat in the relentless heat, and faced them. His own jacket was unbuttoned, shirt open, and he
wore no hat. To the men of the South Essex he was like a visitor from another continent. "You're
in a war now. When you meet the French a lot of you are going to die. Most of you." They were
appalled by his words. ,I'll tell you why."