Bernard Cornwell - Sharpe’s Eagle

‘My mistake, Sharpe.’

‘My pleasure, Lieutenant.’

Hogan watched Gibbons retrieve his horse and disappear from the alleyway. ‘You’re not very gracious at receiving an apology.’

‘It wasn’t very graciously given.’ Sharpe rubbed his cheek. ‘Anyway, the bastard hit me.’

Hogan laughed incredulously. ‘He what?’

‘Hit me, with his whip. Why do you think I dumped him in the manure?’

Hogan shook his head. ‘There’s nothing so satisfying as a friendly and professional relationship with your fellow officers, my dear Sharpe. I can see this job will be a pleasure. What did he want?’

‘Wanted me to salute him. Thought I was a private.’

Hogan laughed again. ‘God knows what Simmerson will think of you. Let’s go and find out.’

They were ushered into Simmerson’s room to find the Colonel of the South Essex sitting on his bed wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. A doctor knelt beside him who looked up nervously as the two officers came into the room; the movement prompted an impatient flap of Simmerson’s hand. ‘Come on, man, I haven’t all day!’

In his hand the doctor was holding what appeared to be a metal box with a trigger mounted on the top. He hovered it over Sir Henry’s arm and Sharpe saw he was trying to find a patch of skin that was not already scarred with strangely regular marks.

‘Scarification!’ Sir Henry barked to Hogan. ‘Do you bleed, Captain?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You should. Keeps a man healthy. All soldiers should bleed.’ He turned back to the doctor who was still hesitating over the scarred forearm. ‘Come on, you idiot!’

In his nervousness the doctor pressed the trigger by mistake and there was a sharp click. From the bottom of the box Sharpe saw a group of wicked little blades leap out like steel tongues. The doctor flinched back. ‘I’m sorry, Sir Henry. A moment.’

The doctor forced the blades back into the box and Sharpe suddenly realised that it was a bleeding machine. Instead of the old-fashioned lancet in the vein Sir Henry preferred the modern scarifier that was supposed to be faster and more effective. The doctor placed the box on the Colonel’s arm, glanced nervously at his patient, then pressed the trigger.

‘Ah! That’s better!’ Sir Henry closed his eyes and smiled momentarily. A trickle of blood ran down his arm and escaped the towel that the doctor was dabbing at the flow.

‘Again, Parton, again!’

The doctor shook his head. ‘But, Sir Henry …’

Simmerson cuffed the doctor with his free hand. ‘Don’t argue with me! Damn it, man, bleed me!’ He looked at Hogan. ‘Always too much spleen after a flogging, Captain.’

‘That’s very understandable, sir,’ Hogan said in his Irish brogue and Simmerson looked at him suspiciously. The box clicked again, the blades gouged into the plump arm, and more blood trickled on to the sheets. Hogan caught Sharpe’s eye and there was the glimmer of a smile that could too easily turn into laughter. Sharpe looked back to Sir Henry Simmerson who was pulling on his shirt.

‘You must be Captain Hogan?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Hogan nodded amiably.

Simmerson turned to Sharpe. ‘And who the devil are you?’

‘Lieutenant Sharpe, sir. 95th Rifles.’

‘No, you’re not. You’re a damned disgrace, that’s what you are!’

Sharpe said nothing. He stared over the Colonel’s shoulder, through the window, at the far blue hills where the French were gathering their strength.

‘Forrest!’ Simmerson had stood up. ‘Forrest!’

The door opened and the Major, who must have been waiting for the summons, came in. He smiled timorously at Sharpe and Hogan and then turned to Simmerson. ‘Colonel?’

‘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 accompany 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 conspiratorially. ‘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.