I’ll go and see if the pontoons are still there.”
“Of course they won’t be,” Moon said, implying that Sharpe was a fool to believe otherwise, “but I suppose you’d better look.”
Sharpe need not have bothered because, in the dusk, he saw the smoke rising above the river and when dark fell there was a glow across the side of the hill. He went north, taking Sergeant Noolan and two men of the 88th, and they saw that the French had failed to free the pontoons, so instead had ensured they were useless. The barges were burning. “That is a pity,” Sharpe said.
“The brigadier will not be happy, sir,” Sergeant Noolan said cheerfully.
“No, he won’t,” Sharpe agreed.
Noolan spoke to his men in Gaelic, presumably sharing his thoughts of the brigadier’s unhappiness. “Don’t they speak English?” Sharpe asked.
“Fergal doesn’t,” Noolan said, nodding at one of the men, “and Padraig will if you shout at him, sir, but if you don’t shout he won’t have a word of it.”
“Tell them I’m glad you’re with us,” Sharpe said.
“You are?” Noolan sounded surprised.
“We were next to you on the ridge at Bussaco,” Sharpe said.
Noolan grinned in the dark. “That was a fight, eh? They kept coming and we kept killing them.”
“And now, Sergeant,” Sharpe went on, “it seems that you and I are stuck with each other for a few days.”
“So it does, sir,” Noolan agreed.
“So you need to know my rules.”
“You have rules, do you, sir?” Noolan asked cautiously.
“You don’t steal from civilians unless you’re starving, you don’t get drunk without my permission, and you fight like the devil himself was at your back.”
Noolan thought about it. “What happens if we break the rules?” he asked.
“You don’t, Sergeant,” Sharpe said bleakly, “you just don’t.”
They went back to make the brigadier unhappy.
S OMETIME IN the night the brigadier sent Harris to wake Sharpe who was half awake anyway because he was cold. Sharpe had given his greatcoat to the brigadier who, being coatless, had demanded that one of the men yield him a covering. “Is there trouble?” Sharpe asked Harris.
“Don’t know, sir. His Excellency just wants you, sir.”
“I’ve been thinking, Sharpe,” the brigadier announced when Sharpe arrived.
“Yes, sir?”
“I don’t like those men speaking Irish. You’ll tell them to use English. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said, and paused. The brigadier had woken him to tell him that? “I’ll tell them, sir, but some of them don’t speak English, sir.”
“Then they can bloody well learn,” the brigadier snapped. He was sleepless through pain and now wanted to spread his misery. “You can’t trust them, Sharpe. They brew mischief.”
Sharpe paused, wondering how to put sense into Moon’s head, but before he could speak Rifleman Harris intervened. “You’ll forgive me, sir?” Harris said respectfully.
“Are you talking to me, rifleman?” the brigadier asked in astonishment.
“Begging your pardon, sir, I am. If I might, sir, with respect?”
“Go on, man.”
“It’s just, sir, as Mister Sharpe says, sir, that they don’t speak English, being benighted papists, sir, and they were only discussing whether it might be possible to build a boat or a raft, sir, and they do that best in their own language, sir, because they have the words, if you follow me, sir.”
The brigadier, thoroughly buttered by Harris, thought about it. “You speak their wretched language?” he asked.
“I do, sir,” Harris said, “and French, sir, and Portuguese and Spanish, sir, and some Latin.”
“Good God incarnate,” the brigadier said, after staring at Harris for a few heartbeats, “but you are English?”
“Oh yes, sir. And proud of it.”
“Quite right. Then I can depend on you to tell me if the teagues brew trouble?”
“The teagues, sir? Oh, the Irish! Yes, sir, of course, sir, a pleasure, sir,” Harris said
“Of course they won’t be,” Moon said, implying that Sharpe was a fool to believe otherwise, “but I suppose you’d better look.”
Sharpe need not have bothered because, in the dusk, he saw the smoke rising above the river and when dark fell there was a glow across the side of the hill. He went north, taking Sergeant Noolan and two men of the 88th, and they saw that the French had failed to free the pontoons, so instead had ensured they were useless. The barges were burning. “That is a pity,” Sharpe said.
“The brigadier will not be happy, sir,” Sergeant Noolan said cheerfully.
“No, he won’t,” Sharpe agreed.
Noolan spoke to his men in Gaelic, presumably sharing his thoughts of the brigadier’s unhappiness. “Don’t they speak English?” Sharpe asked.
“Fergal doesn’t,” Noolan said, nodding at one of the men, “and Padraig will if you shout at him, sir, but if you don’t shout he won’t have a word of it.”
“Tell them I’m glad you’re with us,” Sharpe said.
“You are?” Noolan sounded surprised.
“We were next to you on the ridge at Bussaco,” Sharpe said.
Noolan grinned in the dark. “That was a fight, eh? They kept coming and we kept killing them.”
“And now, Sergeant,” Sharpe went on, “it seems that you and I are stuck with each other for a few days.”
“So it does, sir,” Noolan agreed.
“So you need to know my rules.”
“You have rules, do you, sir?” Noolan asked cautiously.
“You don’t steal from civilians unless you’re starving, you don’t get drunk without my permission, and you fight like the devil himself was at your back.”
Noolan thought about it. “What happens if we break the rules?” he asked.
“You don’t, Sergeant,” Sharpe said bleakly, “you just don’t.”
They went back to make the brigadier unhappy.
S OMETIME IN the night the brigadier sent Harris to wake Sharpe who was half awake anyway because he was cold. Sharpe had given his greatcoat to the brigadier who, being coatless, had demanded that one of the men yield him a covering. “Is there trouble?” Sharpe asked Harris.
“Don’t know, sir. His Excellency just wants you, sir.”
“I’ve been thinking, Sharpe,” the brigadier announced when Sharpe arrived.
“Yes, sir?”
“I don’t like those men speaking Irish. You’ll tell them to use English. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Sharpe said, and paused. The brigadier had woken him to tell him that? “I’ll tell them, sir, but some of them don’t speak English, sir.”
“Then they can bloody well learn,” the brigadier snapped. He was sleepless through pain and now wanted to spread his misery. “You can’t trust them, Sharpe. They brew mischief.”
Sharpe paused, wondering how to put sense into Moon’s head, but before he could speak Rifleman Harris intervened. “You’ll forgive me, sir?” Harris said respectfully.
“Are you talking to me, rifleman?” the brigadier asked in astonishment.
“Begging your pardon, sir, I am. If I might, sir, with respect?”
“Go on, man.”
“It’s just, sir, as Mister Sharpe says, sir, that they don’t speak English, being benighted papists, sir, and they were only discussing whether it might be possible to build a boat or a raft, sir, and they do that best in their own language, sir, because they have the words, if you follow me, sir.”
The brigadier, thoroughly buttered by Harris, thought about it. “You speak their wretched language?” he asked.
“I do, sir,” Harris said, “and French, sir, and Portuguese and Spanish, sir, and some Latin.”
“Good God incarnate,” the brigadier said, after staring at Harris for a few heartbeats, “but you are English?”
“Oh yes, sir. And proud of it.”
“Quite right. Then I can depend on you to tell me if the teagues brew trouble?”
“The teagues, sir? Oh, the Irish! Yes, sir, of course, sir, a pleasure, sir,” Harris said
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