“He was a cousin of my father’s, a very distant cousin indeed. I’m told he was not a good Admiral. He believed Nelson was a mere adventurer.” She froze, alerted by a sudden noise, but it was only the fall of a log in the smouldering fire. “But he became a very rich Admiral,” Louisa went on, “and the family benefited from all that prize money.”
“So you’re rich?” Sharpe could not help asking.
“Not I. But my aunt received a sufficiency to create trouble in the world.” Louisa spoke very gravely. “Have you any idea, Mr Sharpe, just how embarrassing it is to be spreading Protestantism in Spain?”
Sharpe shrugged. “You volunteered, miss.”
“True. And the embarrassment is the price I pay for seeing Granada and Seville.” Her eyes lit up, or perhaps it was just the reflected flare of glowing embers. “I would like to see more!”
“But you’re returning to England?”
“My aunt thinks that is wise.” Louisa’s voice was carefully mocking. “The Spanish, you see, are not welcoming her attempts to free them from Rome’s shackles.”
“But you’d like to stay?”
“It’s scarcely possible, is it? Young women, Mr Sharpe, do not have the freedom of this world. I must return to Godalming where a Mr Bufford awaits me.”
Sharpe had to smile at her tone. “Mr Bufford?”
“He’s entirely respectable,” Louisa said, as though Sharpe had intimidated otherwise, “and, of course, a Methodist. His money comes from the manufacture of ink, a trade of such profitability that the future Mrs Bufford may look forward to a large house and a life of great, if tedious, comfort. Certainly it will never be discoloured by the ink, which is manufactured in faraway Deptford.”
Sharpe had never before talked with a girl of Louisa’s evident education, nor heard the monied class spoken of with such deprecation. He had always believed that anyone born to great, if tedious, comfort would be eternally grateful for the gift. “You’re the future Mrs Bufford?”
“That is the intention, yes.”
“But you don’t want to be married?”
“I do desire that, I think.” Louisa frowned. “Are you married?”
“I’m not rich enough to marry.”
“That’s rarely stopped others, I think. No, Mr Sharpe, I simply do not desire to marry Mr Bufford, though my reluctance is doubtless very selfish of me.” Louisa shrugged away her indiscretions. “But I did not hope to find you awakejust to impose my small unhappiness on you. I wished to ask of you, Lieutenant, whether our presence makes it more likely that you and your men will be captured by the French?”
The answer was clearly yes, but equally clearly Sharpe could not say so. “No, miss. So long as we keep going at a fair clip, we should keep ahead of the bast—of them.”
“I was going to enjoin you, should you have answered me truthfully, to abandon us to the bast—to them.” Louisa smiled her gravely mischievous smile.
“I wouldn’t abandon you, miss,” Sharpe said clumsily, glad that the gloom hid his blush.
“My aunt does provoke great loyalty.”
“Exactly.” Sharpe smiled, and the smile turned into a laugh which Louisa hushed by holding a finger to her lips.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” She stood. “I hope you do not feel badly about our encumbering you?”
“Not now, miss.”
Louisa crept to her door. “Sleep well, Lieutenant.”
“And you, miss.” Sharpe watched as she slipped through the door, and held his breath until he heard the bolt slide safely shut on its far side. His sleep would be turbulent now, for all his thoughts and desires and dreams had been turned inside out and upside down by a gentle, mocking smile. Richard Sharpe was far from home, endangered by a conquering enemy and, just to make things worse, he had fallen in love.
At four in the morning Sharpe was woken by the tinkling alarm of Louisa’s silver watch. He hammered on the Parkers’ door until a groan assured him the family was awake. Then he went to the stable and found that his men had not absconded in the night. They were all present, and they were nearly all drunk.
They were not as drunk as the men who had been abandoned to the French during the retreat, but they had come close. All but a handful of them were insensible, soused, unconscious. The wineskins which Sharpe had purchased lay empty on the floor, but among the bedding straw were also numerous empty bottles of aguardiente and he knew that the Cistercian monks, when they had brought out the sacks of bread, had secreted the brandy as part of their gift. Sharpe swore.
Sergeant Williams was groggy, but managed to stagger to his feet. “It was the lads, sir,” he said helplessly. “They was upset, sir.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the brandy?”
“Tell you, sir?” Williams was astonished that he should expect such a thing.
“God damn them.” Sharpe’s head was thick, his own belly sore, but his hangover was as nothing compared to the state of the greenjackets. “Get the bastards up!”
Williams hiccupped. The lantern revealed just how hopeless was the task of rousing the Riflemen but, scared by Sharpe’s demeanour, he made some feeble attempts to stir the nearest man.
Sharpe brushed Williams aside. He shouted at the men. He kicked them awake, dragged them up from stupor, and he punched tender bellies so that suffering men vomited on the stable floor. “Up! Up! Up!”
The men reeled in dazed confusion. This was ever the danger in this army. The men joined for drink. They could only be kept in the ranks by the daily issue of rum. They took every opportunity to drown themselves in liquor. Sharpe had done it himself as a redcoat, but now he was an officer and his authority once again had been flouted. He primed his loaded rifle with dry powder, and cocked the flint. Sergeant Williams flinched from the expected noise, Sharpe pulled the trigger, and the explosion hammered about the stable. “Up, you bastards! Up, up!” Sharpe kicked out again, his anger made worse by his own incompetence in not knowing about the brandy. He was also keenly and miserably aware of how badly this behaviour would appear to Miss Louisa Parker.
By a quarter past five, in a drizzle that promised to persist all day, Sharpe finally paraded the men on the road. The Parkers’ carriage was being manoeuvred out of the tavern yard as Sharpe, in the light of a lantern carried by Sergeant Williams, inspected weapons and equipment. He smelt each canteen and poured what was left of the brandy onto the road.
“Sergeant Williams?”
“Sir?”
“We’ll go at the quick!” The quick march of the Rifles was immensely fast and, anticipating the pain to come, the men groaned. “Silence!” Sharpe bellowed. “Rifles will turn to the right! Right turn!” The men’s unshaven faces were bleary, their eyes reddened, their drill sloppy. “Quick march!”
They marched into a grey and dispiriting dawn. Sharpe forced the pace so hard that some men had to drop out to vomit into the flooded ditches. He kicked them back into line. At this moment he thought he probably hated these men, and almost wanted them to defy him so that he could swear and lash out at the ill-disciplined bastards. He forced them so fast that the Parkers’ carriage fell behind.
Sharpe ignored its slow progress. Instead he made the Riflemen’s pace still quicker until Sergeant Williams, fearing the men’s mutinous mood, fell back to his side. At this point the road twisted down a long slope towards a wide stream that was crossed by a stone bridge. “They can’t do it, sir.”
“They can get drunk, though, can’t they? So let them bloody suffer now.”
Sergeant Williams was clearly suffering. He was pale and breathless, dragging his feet, seemingly on the point of being sick. Other men were in a far worse state. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said feebly.
“I should have abandoned you to the French. All of you.” Sharpe’s anger was made worse by remorse. He knew it was his own fault. He should have had the courage to inspect the stables in the night, but instead he had tried to hide from the men’s dislike by staying in the inn. He remembered the drunks who had been abandoned during Sir John Moore’s retreat; hopeless men left to the untender mercies of the pursuing French and, though he had just threatened them with the same fate, Sharpe knew he would not abandon these men. It was a matter of pride now. He would bring this group of Riflemen out of disaster. They might not thank him for it, they might not like him for it, but he would take them through hell if it led to safety. Vivar had said it could not be done, but Sharpe would do it.