LITMIR.BIZ

      Richard Sharpe, Captain of the Light Company of the South Essex Regiment’s one and only Battalion, stood at the window and stared at the procession in the street below. It was cold outside, he knew that too well. He had just marched his shrunken company north from Castelo Branco, ordered to Army Headquarters by a mysterious summons for which he had still not been given an explanation. Not that Headquarters often explained itself to mere Captains, but it annoyed Sharpe that he had now been in Frenada two days and was still none the wiser about the urgent orders. The General, Viscount Wellington of Talavera, no by God, that was wrong! He was now the Marquess of Wellington, Grandee of Spain, Duque de Ciudad Rodrigo, Generalissimo of all the Spanish Armies, ‘Nosey’ to his men, ‘the Peer’ to his officers, and the man, Sharpe assumed, who had wanted him in Frenada, but the General was not here. He was in Cadiz, or Lisbon, or God only knew where, and the British army was huddling in its winter quarters while only Sharpe and his Company were out on the cold December roads. Major Michael Hogan, Sharpe’s friend, and the man who ran Wellington’s Intelligence department, had gone south with the General and Sharpe missed him. Hogan would not have kept him waiting.

      At least Sharpe was warm. He had given his name yet again to the clerk on the ground floor and then growled that he would wait upstairs in the Headquarters mess where there was a fire. He was not supposed to use the room, but few people wanted to argue with the tall, dark haired Rifleman with the scar that gave his face a slightly mocking look in repose.

      He stared down at the roadway. A priest sprinkled Holy Water. Acolytes rang bells and swung censers of burning incense. Banners followed the litter-borne statue of the Virgin Mary. Women knelt by the buildings and held clasped hands towards the statue. A weak sunlight lit the streets, winter sunlight, and Sharpe’s eyes automatically searched the sky for clouds. There were none.

      The mess was empty. With Wellington away most of the officers seemed to spend their mornings in bed, or else sitting in the inn next door where the landlord had been educated in the making of a proper breakfast. Pork chops, fried eggs, fried kidneys, bacon, toast, claret, more toast, butter, and tea so strong that it could scour a fouled howitzer barrel. Some officers had already gone to Lisbon for Christmas. If the French attacked now, Sharpe thought, they could stroll through Portugal to the sea.

      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,

Скачать книгу