Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe’s Company, Sharpe’s Sword, Sharpe’s Enemy

‘The next battalion, sir?’

Collett stiffened, but Windham did not take offence. ‘I take your point, Sharpe, but I want them discouraged. Understand? I shall make an example of men caught brawling over women.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The Colonel obviously intended being busy.

‘Number two, Sharpe. Battalion’s wives are to parade for inspection each Sunday. Ten of the forenoon. You parade them, I’ll inspect them.’

‘A wives’ inspection, sir. Yes, sir.’ Sharpe kept his thoughts to himself. Such a parade was not unusual in England, but it was rare in Spain. Officially the wives were subject to army discipline, though very few of them accepted the fact, and Sharpe suspected that the coming Sundays would be amusing, if nothing else. But why him? Why not one of the Majors, or even the Sergeant Major?

‘Ten o’clock, Sharpe. And I don’t want any unmarried women on parade. Tell ’em that. I’ll demand papers. I want no one like that girl this morning!’

‘That was my wife, sir.’ Sharpe had no idea why he said it, unless it was to puncture Windham’s air of certainty, and it worked. The Colonel’s mouth dropped; he looked to Collett for help, received none, and stared back at Sharpe.

‘What?’

‘My wife, sir. Mrs Sharpe.’

‘Good God.’ The Colonel leafed through papers that were beside his own wife’s portrait. ‘There’s no note here of your marriage.’

‘It was private, sir.’

‘When? Who gave permission?’

‘Sixteen months ago, sir.’ He smiled at the Colonel. ‘We have a daughter, nearly eight months old.’

He could see the Colonel adding up the figures, receiving the wrong answer, and the discrepancy effectually stopped any more questioning. Windham was embarrassed. ‘Owe you an apology, Sharpe. No offence, I trust.’

‘None, sir.’ Sharpe smiled seraphically.

‘Lives with the Battalion, does she? Mrs Sharpe?’

‘No, sir. In Spain. She has employment there.’

‘Employment!’ Windham looked suspicious. ‘What does she do?’

‘Kills Frenchmen, sir. She’s a Partisan, known as “La Aguja”. The needle.’

‘Good God alive!’ Windham gave up. He had heard about Sharpe from Lawford and from a dozen other people, and he had construed the information as a kind of warning. Sharpe, he had been told, was an independent man, effective in battle, but liable to use irregular means to succeed. He had come up from the ranks, the Colonel knew, which had to be a liability. Windham had never known a man from the ranks to make a successful officer. Either the power went to their heads, or the drink did, and, whichever it was, the men usually resented them. They were good for one thing though; administration. They knew the system backwards, far better than other officers, and they made the best drill-masters in the army. It was true that Lawford had said Sharpe was an exception, but Windham was fifteen years older than Lawford and reckoned he knew the army better. He conceded that Sharpe’s record was magnificent, but it was also undeniably true that the man had been given uncommon freedom, and freedom, Windham knew, was a damned dangerous thing. It could give a man ideas well above his station, but he still found himself reluctant to cut him down, even though that was his duty. Windham liked to jump his fences straight, yet here he was, dithering like an old woman on a tubed nag searching for a gap in the hedge! ‘I’ve been lucky, Sharpe.’

‘Lucky, sir?’

‘In my establishment.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe felt like a man who has known execution was coming, but did not believe it, and now the barrels of the firing squad were being levelled.

‘Eleven Captains, it’s too much!’

‘Yes, sir.’

Windham glanced at Collett, but the Major had his eyes down, being no help at all. Damn it then! Straight at the fence! ‘Rymer has to have the Company, Sharpe. He’s purchased it, used his own money. You can see his rights, I’m sure.’

Sharpe said nothing. He kept his face expressionless. He had expected this, but it did not lessen the bitterness. So Rymer got the prize because Rymer had the money? The fact that Sharpe had captured an Eagle, had been described by Wellington as the finest leader of Light troops in the army, counted for nothing. Such things were meaningless matched against the purchase system. If Napoleon Bonaparte had joined the British Army, instead of the French, he would count himself lucky if he had achieved a Captaincy by now instead of being Emperor of half the world! Damn Rymer, and damn Windham, and damn the whole army! Sharpe felt like walking away, and shaking the whole unfair system from his back. There was a sudden, harsh rattle of rain on the window. Windham cocked his head, just as the foxhounds at his feet had done. ‘Rain!’ The Colonel turned to Collett. ‘My blankets are airing, Jack. Can I trouble you to rouse my servant?’

Collett obligingly left and Windham leaned back. ‘I’m sorry, Sharpe.’

‘Yes, sir. And the gazette?’

‘Refused.’ So there it was. The firing squad pulled their triggers and Lieutenant Richard Sharpe gave a mocking, sardonic laugh that made Windham frown. A Lieutenant again!

‘So what am I to do, sir?’ Sharpe let the bitterness edge his voice. ‘Am I to report to Captain Rymer?’

‘No, Mr Sharpe, you are not. Captain Rymer would find your presence an embarrassment, I’m sure you can understand that. He must be given time to settle in. I’ll keep you busy.’

‘I forgot, sir. I’m in charge of the women now.’

‘Don’t be impertinent, Sharpe!’ Windham snapped forward, startling the dogs. ‘You don’t understand, do you? There are rules, orders, regulations, Sharpe, by which our lives are conducted. If we ignore those rules, burdensome though they may be, then we open the gates to anarchy and tyranny; the very things against which we fight! Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe knew it would be pointless to mention that the rules, orders, and regulations were made by the privileged to protect the privileged. It had always been so, and always would. The only thing for him to do now was to get out with his shreds of dignity intact and then get stinking drunk. Show fellow Lieutenant Price how a real expert fell over.

Windham leaned back. ‘We’re going to Badajoz.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’re senior Lieutenant.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe’s replies were listless.

‘There’ll be vacancies, man! If we attack.’ That was true, and Sharpe nodded.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You can exchange.’ Windham looked expectantly at Sharpe.

‘No, sir.’ There were always officers who found their Regiments going to unpopular places such as the Fever Islands and who would offer to exchange with another officer in a battalion closer to the gaming tables and far from weird diseases. Usually they would offer a cash bribe to facilitate the exchange, but Sharpe dared not leave Spain, not while Teresa and Antonia were shut up in Badajoz. He listened to the rain on the window and thought of the girl riding. ‘I’ll stay, sir.’

‘Good!’ Windham sounded far from pleased. ‘There’s plenty of work. The mule train needs tidying up, I’ve seen that already, and, God knows, we’ll be swamped with pick-axes and spades. They all need counting.’

‘In charge of mules, pick-axes, and women, sir?’

Windham’s eyes met the challenge. ‘Yes, Mr Sharpe, if you insist.’

‘A suitable job, sir, for an ageing Lieutenant.’

‘It might, Lieutenant, engender humility.’

‘Yes, sir.’ An important quality to a soldier, humility, and Sharpe gave another sardonic laugh. Humility had not captured the gun at Ciudad Rodrigo, nor hacked a path through Fuentes de Oñoro’s tight streets, nor fetched the gold from Spain, nor taken an Eagle from the enemy, nor rescued a General, nor brought a group of starving Riflemen out of a rout nor killed the Sultan Tippoo, and Sharpe’s sardonic laugh became real. He was being arrogant to himself, and perhaps Windham was right. He needed humility. He would now be parading wives and counting shovels, neither of which activity called for much initiative or leadership, and mules were notoriously chary of quick, confident decisions, and humility was best. He would be humble. ‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’