Бернард Корнуэлл: Sharpe's Regiment

'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?

'I really couldn't say, sir. Sharpe did not know whether his request to Lawford had borne fruit and that the threat of court-martial and disgrace had forced Girdwood to Spain, or whether the man, from his tortuous dreams of glory, simply wanted to fight his battle against the French. 'He's here, sir, that's all I know.

'While you, a finger stabbed at Sharpe, 'are commanding this Battalion, yes? You're a clever bastard, Mr Sharpe, and when you've driven that poor fool mad I'll make sure you get a real bastard of a colonel to run you ragged.

Major General Nairn was right in his surmise that Sharpe had arranged for Girdwood to command the Battalion because it enabled Sharpe to be the real commander. Girdwood, shamed and humbled by Sharpe in England, could not compete with him in Spain. The Lieutenant Colonel had tried. On their first formal parade, when the Battalion, strengthened and filled by the men from Foulness, had formed up before the storehouses of Pasajes, Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood had publicly reprimanded Major Sharpe. It was his attempt to assert his authority, to make, as he had said in private to Sharpe, a new beginning with old things forgotten.

The parade had been a formal affair, the Companies lined in their proper order, with Captains in front and Sergeants behind. Before the hoisted Colours, facing the whole parade, Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood sat his horse. Four paces behind the Colours, in the allotted place of the senior major, Sharpe stood.

'Major Sharpe! Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood, surveying his command, shouted over the heads of the Colour party.

'Sir!

'Retire two paces, if you please! The manual of drill did, indeed, stipulate that the senior major should be six paces behind the rear ranks.

Every man in the Battalion, not just those from Foulness, but the veterans too, recognised this as a trial of strength. A small thing, no doubt; but if Major Sharpe, so publicly reprimanded for his lack of military precision, took the two backward paces then Girdwood would have succeeded in asserting his formal authority over all these men. The Colonel, recognising the moment, chose to speak in a clipped, loud voice. 'Now, if you please, Major!

'Sir! Major Sharpe said. He filled his lungs. "Talion! 'Talion will march two paces forward on my word of command! 'Talion, move!

Since that moment, which had brought smiles to every face in the Battalion, Sharpe had commanded. From that moment on he paraded beside Girdwood, in the front of the Battalion, and, though he was careful to be seen consulting with the Lieutenant Colonel, and though Girdwood still presided silently in the Mess, there was not a man in the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers who did not know who truly gave the Battalion its orders.

Major General Nairn, on his last visit to Sharpe before the Battalion was ordered forward through the mountains, had stared astonished at the still closed door. 'You're not being a bit hard on him, Sharpe?

'Yes, sir. I am. Sharpe admitted. 'At Foulness, sir, that bugger gave orders that deserters were to be shot out of hand. I saw one killed. Guessing from the books I'd say he had about a dozen others shot. No trial, no nothing. Just bang. He also hunted men in the marshland as if they were rats. He stole a lot of money. Sharpe frowned. 'So have I, in my time, but only from the enemy. I don't steal from my men. Besides, he wants to see a battle, so I'm doing him a favour.

'A favour?

‘I’ll fight his bloody battle for him, which means we stand a chance of winning. Sharpe laughed at his own immodesty.

'Any other enemies here, Major Sharpe? Nairn asked with mock innocence.

Sharpe smiled, thought of Sergeant Lynch, and lied. 'No, sir.

'Doesn't look any different to Spain, does it? Harper, with a fresh mug of tea, stood beside Sharpe on the great hill and looked down on the enemy's last fortresses before the open country.

Sharpe propped a broken mirror above a bowl of water and stropped his razor on the side of his right boot. 'Buggers didn't have trenches in Spain. He had searched the French positions with his telescope. He did not much like what he saw. The French had made the great hump of hill beneath him into a remarkable fortress. They had built dry stone walls that connected their small forts, dug trenches, and at the very end of the hill, that lay like a ridge among lesser hills, there was a series of concentric walls that surrounded a pinnacle of rock. The rock was crowned with embrasures, packed, doubtless, with muskets that could not be reached by British cannon, for no cannon could be placed in a position to reach the pinnacle. This, Sharpe knew, would be an infantryman's job. An attack uphill, against stone and trenches, against an enemy fanatical to protect their homeland.

The Battalion's orders, given to Girdwood, but taken by Sharpe, instructed the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers to attack behind two other Battalions. The first two Battalions would take the outworks, clear the first trenches, and let the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers go through them for the task of finishing the job. Sharpe's men were to scour the last defences and take the pinnacle, the last fortress. To the right and left of the enemy hill were others, crowned by similar works, to be screened or attacked by other Battalions. By nightfall, if all went well, the road out of the mountains would be cleared and France, with its full barns and winter pastures, would be at Wellington's disposal.

Sharpe scraped the razor over his skin without benefit of hot water. He flinched, then stolidly scraped on. 'I'm giving you a special squad, Patrick.

'Special, sir?

Sharpe dipped the blade into the icy, dirty water that had already been used by nine other officers. 'We can't make a formal bloody assault on that place. Too many god-damn rocks. It would be like threading through a maze of ditches and walls that would tear a tight formation into ruin. 'We're going in two columns, Light and Grenadier Companies leading, but I'm giving you your own squad. Go in the centre, and if you see either column in trouble, go in on their flank. Don't wait for my orders, just keep going.

'Yes, sir, Harper grinned happily. He liked such independence. 'Can I pick my men, sir?

'I've already done it. Sharpe wiped his face on his officer's sash. 'O'Grady, Kelleher, Rourke, Callaghan, Joyce, Donnell, the Pearce brothers, O'Toole, Fitzpatrick, and Halloran. He looked at Harper's wide grin. 'And I thought perhaps you ought to take an extra sergeant. Just to help you.

'And who might that be, sir?

'I don't know. Sharpe pulled on his old jacket and began to button it. 'Lynch, perhaps?

'I think the boys would be happy with that, sir.

Sharpe gave an atrocious imitation of Harper's Donegal accent. 'Grand, Patrick, just grand. And would you be minding if I finished your tea?

'Whatever you want, sir. Harper laughed. 'Christ, but it's good to be back.

At eight o'clock the Battalion was ordered down to the valley. They left the thin sunshine, going into shadow. The tracks, made by goats, forced the Companies to go in single file. Servants led their officers' horses. Sharpe, like most of the veteran officers, had left his horse with the baggage.

He had bought himself a fine seven year old mare in England, replacing the cheap saddle horse he had bought on his second journey to Foulness. Jane Gibbons had named the mare Sycorax.

'I can't even spell it!" Sharpe had growled,

'I suppose you'd call her Florence, or Peggotty. Jane stroked the mare's nose. 'Sycorax she is.

'Why Sycorax?

'She was a nasty witch with a pretty name. She was Caliban's mother, and this is your horse. She laughed at him. 'And it is a pretty name, Richard.