Bernard Cornwell - Sharpe’s Escape - The Bussaco Campaign, 1810

‘A tumble?’ Major Leroy echoed the Colonel’s question.

‘Treacherous path down there, sir.’

‘You’ve got a black eye too,’ Lawford said.

‘If you’re not up to scratch,’ Slingsby said, ‘then I’ll happily command the company tomorrow, Sharpe.’ Slingsby was high-coloured and sweating, as if he had drunk too much. He looked to Colonel Lawford and, because he was nervous, gave a snort of laughter. ‘Be honoured to command, sir,’ he added quickly.

Sharpe gave the Lieutenant a look that would have killed. ‘I was hurt worse than this,’ he said icily, ‘when Sergeant Harper and I took that damned Eagle on your badge.’

Slingsby stiffened, appalled at Sharpe’s tone, and the other officers looked embarrassed.

‘Have some brandy, Sharpe,’ Lawford said emolliently, pouring it from a decanter and pushing the glass across the trestle table. ‘How was Major Hogan?’

Sharpe was hurting. His ribs were like strips of fire and it took him a moment to comprehend the question and find an answer. ‘He’s confident, sir.’

‘I should hope so,’ Lawford said. ‘Aren’t we all? Did you see the Peer?’

‘The Peer?’ Slingsby asked. He stumbled slightly on the word, then tossed down the rest of his brandy and helped himself to more.

‘Lord Wellington,’ Lawford explained. ‘So did you see him, Sharpe?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I hope you remembered me to him?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Sharpe told the required lie and forced himself to add another. ‘And he asked me to present his regards.’

‘Very civil of him,’ Lawford said, plainly pleased. ‘And does he think the French will come up and dance tomorrow?’

‘He didn’t say, sir.’

‘Perhaps this fog will deter them,’ Major Leroy said, peering out of the tent where the haze was perceptibly thickening.

‘Or it will encourage them,’ Forrest said. ‘Our gunners can’t aim into fog.’

Leroy was watching Sharpe. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

‘No, sir,’ Sharpe lied. His ribs hurt, his skull was throbbing and one of his upper teeth was loose. His belly was a mass of pain, his thigh hurt and he was angry. ‘Major Hogan,’ he forced himself to change the subject, ‘thinks the French will attack.’

‘Then we’d best keep a keen eye in the morning,’ Lawford said, hinting that the evening was over. The officers took the hint, standing and thanking the Colonel, who held out a hand to Sharpe. ‘Stay a moment, if you will, Sharpe.’

Slingsby, who looked the worse for drink, drained his glass, banged it down and clicked his heels. ‘Thank you, William,’ he said to Lawford, presuming on their relationship to use the Colonel’s Christian name.

‘Good night, Cornelius,’ Lawford said, and waited until the three officers had gone from the tent and were lost in the mist. ‘He drank rather a lot. Still, I suppose on the eve of a man’s first battle a little fortification isn’t out of order. Sit, Sharpe, sit. Drink some brandy.’ He took a glass himself. ‘Was it really a tumble? You look as if you’ve been in the wars.’

‘Dark in the trees, sir,’ Sharpe said woodenly, ‘and I missed my footing on some steps.’

‘You must take more care, Sharpe,’ Lawford said, leaning forward to light a cigar from one of the candles. ‘It’s gone damned cold, hasn’t it?’ He waited for a response, but Sharpe said nothing and the Colonel sighed. ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ he went on between puffs, ‘about your new fellows. Young Iliffe shaping up well, is he?’

‘He’s an ensign, sir. If he survives a year he might have a chance of growing up.’

‘We were all ensigns once,’ Lawford said, ‘and mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow, eh?’

‘He’s still a bloody small acorn,’ Sharpe said.

‘But his father’s a friend of mine, Sharpe. He farms a few acres near Benfleet and he wanted me to look after his son.’

‘I’ll look after him,’ Sharpe said.

‘I’m sure you will,’ Lawford said, ‘and what about Cornelius?’

‘Cornelius?’ Sharpe asked, wanting time to think. He swilled his bloody mouth out with brandy, spat it onto the ground, then drank some and fancied it took away some of the hurt.

‘How’s Cornelius doing?’ Lawford asked pleasantly. ‘Being useful, is he?’

‘He has to learn our ways,’ Sharpe said warily.

‘Of course he must, of course. But I particularly wanted him to be with you.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘Why?’ The Colonel seemed taken aback by the direct question, but then waved the cigar as if to say the answer was obvious. ‘I think he’s a capital fellow, and I’ll be honest with you, Sharpe, I’m not sure young Knowles possesses the right verve for skirmishing.’

‘He’s a good officer,’ Sharpe said indignantly, and then wished he had not spoken so forcibly for the pain in his ribs seemed to stab right to his heart.

‘Oh, none finer!’ Lawford agreed hastily. ‘And an admirable character, but you skirmishers aren’t dull fellows, are you? You’re the whippers-in! I need my light company to be audacious! Aggressive! Astute!’ Each quality was accompanied by a thump that rattled the glass and silverware on the table, but the Colonel paused after the third, evidently realizing that astuteness lacked the force of audacity and aggression. He thought for a few seconds, trying to find a more impressive word, then carried on without thinking of it. ‘I believe Cornelius has those qualities and I look to you, Sharpe, to bring him on.’ Lawford paused again, as if expecting Sharpe to respond, but when the rifleman said nothing the Colonel looked acutely embarrassed. ‘The nub of the matter is, Sharpe, that Cornelius seems to think you don’t like him.’

‘Most people think that, sir,’ Sharpe said woodenly.

‘Do they?’ Lawford looked surprised. ‘I suppose they might. Not everyone knows you as well as I do.’ He paused to draw on his cigar. ‘Do you ever miss India, Sharpe?’

‘India,’ Sharpe responded cautiously. He and Lawford had served there together when Lawford had been a lieutenant and Sharpe a private. ‘I liked it well enough.’

‘There are regiments in India that could use an experienced officer,’ Lawford said casually and Sharpe felt a stab of betrayal because the words suggested the Colonel did want to be rid of him. He said nothing, and Lawford seemed unaware of having given any offence. ‘So I can reassure Cornelius that all is well?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sharpe said, then stood. ‘I must go and inspect the picquets, sir.’

‘Of course you must,’ Lawford said, not hiding his frustration with the conversation. ‘We should talk more often, Sharpe.’

Sharpe took his battered shako and walked out into the fog-shrouded night. He picked his way through the thick darkness, going across the ridge’s wide crest and then some short way down the eastern slope until he could just see the mist-blurred string of enemy fires in the valley’s deep darkness. Let them come, he thought, let them come. If he could not murder Ferragus then he would take out his anger on the French. He heard footsteps behind him, but did not turn round. ‘Evening, Pat,’ he said.

‘What happened to you?’ Harper must have seen Sharpe inside the Colonel’s tent and had followed him down the slope.

‘That bloody Ferragus and two of his coves.’

‘Tried to kill you?’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘Bloody nearly succeeded. Would have done, except three provosts came along.’

‘Provosts! Never thought they’d be useful. And how is Mister Ferragus?’

‘I hurt him, but not enough. He beat me, Pat. Beat me bloody.’

Harper thought about that. ‘And what did you tell the Colonel?’

‘That I had a tumble.’