Sharpe's Rifles (16 page)

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.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Williams still tried to assuage-him.

Sharpe said nothing. He was thinking how much easier this ordeal would be if he had a Sergeant
who could keep the men to order. Williams cared too much about being liked, but there was no one
else he could see taking the stripes. Gataker was too fly and too eager for the good opinion of
his fellow Riflemen. Tongue was educated, but the worst drunkard in the company. Parry Jenkins,
the Welshman, could have made a Sergeant, but Sharpe suspected he lacked the necessary
ruthlessness. Hagman was too lazy. Dodd, the quiet man, was too slow and diffident. There was
only Harper, and he, Sharpe knew, would do nothing to help the despised Quartermaster. Sharpe was
stuck with Williams, just as Williams and the company were stuck with Lieutenant Sharpe who, when
he reached the stone bridge, ordered the men to halt.

They halted. There was relief on their faces. The coach was out of sight, still negotiating
the boulders beyond the hill’s crest.

“Company!” Sharpe’s loud voice made some of the men wince. “Ground arms!”

There was more relief as they grounded their heavy weapons, then as they unbuckled their
bayonets and pouches. Sharpe separated the handful of men who had been sober that morning and
ordered the rest to take off their packs, greatcoats, and boots.

The men thought he was mad, but all soldiers were used to humouring eccentric officers and so
they removed their boots under the Lieutenant’s sour gaze. The coach appeared at the top of the
slope and Sharpe snapped at the men to look to their front and not gape at it. The squeal of the
carriage’s brake-blocks was like a nail scratching on slate. “You did not have my permission to
get drunk.” Sharpe’s voice was flat now, no longer angry. “I hope, as a result, that you feel
God-damned awful.”

It was apparent to the men that Sharpe’s rage had passed and some of them grinned to show that
they did indeed feel dreadful.

He smiled. “Good. So now jump in the stream. All of you.”

They stared at him. The thunder and squeal of the carnage wheels grew louder.

Sharpe loaded his rifle with the swift movements of a man long trained to the army. The men
stared in disbelief as he brought the brass butt into his shoulder and aimed the weapon at their
front file. “I said jump in the stream! Go!”

He cocked the rifle.

The men jumped.

The drop from the bridge parapet was perhaps eight feet and the stream, swollen by melting
snow and winter rains, was four feet deep. The water was icy cold, but Sharpe stood on the
parapet and ordered each man to soak himself in the bitter flood. He used the rifle as an
encouragement. “You! Get your bloody head under! Harper! Duck, man, duck!” Only the sober, the
wounded and, in deference to his flimsy authority, Sergeant Williams, were spared the ordeal.
“Sergeant! Form threes on the bank. Hurry now!”

The shivering men waded from the stream and formed three miserable ranks on the grass. The
coach lumbered to a halt and George Parker, his face nervous, was ejected from the door.
“Lieutenant? My dear wife is concerned that you might abandon us by your swift pace.” Parker then
saw the soaked parade and his jaw fell.

“They’re drunk.” Sharpe said it loudly enough for the men to hear. “Pickled. Stewed. God-damn
useless! I’ve been sweating the bloody liquor out of the bastards.”

Parker flapped a hand in protest at the blasphemy but Sharpe ignored him. Instead he shouted
at his men. “Strip!”

There was a pause of disbelief. “Strip!”

They stripped themselves naked. Forty freezing men, pale and miserable, stood in the
drizzle.

Sharpe stared down at them. “I don’t care if you all bloody die.” That got their attention.
“At any moment now, you bastards, the bloody French could be coming down that road,” he jerked
his thumb back up the hill, “and I’ve a good mind to leave you here for them. You’re good for
nothing! I thought you were Rifles! I thought you were the best! I’ve seen bloody militia
Battalions that were better than you! I’ve seen bloody cavalrymen who looked more like soldiers!”
That was a difficult insult to beat, but Sharpe tried. “I’ve seen bloody Methodists who were
tougher than you bastards!”

Mrs Parker ripped back the leather curtain to demand an end to the cursing, saw the naked men,
and screamed. The curtain closed.

Sharpe stared his men down. He did not blame them for being frightened, for any soldier could
be forgiven terror when defeat and chaos destroyed an army. These men were stranded, far from
home, and bereft of the commissary that clothed and fed them, but they were still soldiers, under
discipline, and that word reminded Sharpe of Major Vivar’s simple commandments. With one simple
change, those three rules would suit him well.

Sharpe made his voice less harsh. “From now on we have three rules. Just three rules. Break
one of them and I’ll break you. None of you will steal anything unless you have my permission to
do so. None of you will get drunk without my permission. And you will fight like bastards when
the enemy appears. Is that understood?”

Silence.

“I said, is that understood? Louder! Louder! Louder!”

The naked men were shouting their assent; shouting frantically, shouting to get this madman
off their freezing backs. They looked a good deal more sober now.

“Sergeant Williams!”

“Sir?”

“Greatcoats on! You have two hours. Light fires, dry the clothes, then form up in threes
again. I’ll stand guard.”

“Yes, sir.”

The carriage stood immobile, its Spanish coachman expressionless on his high box. Only when
the Riflemen were in their dry greatcoats did the door fly open and a furious Mrs Parker appear.
“Lieutenant!”

Sharpe knew what that voice portended. He whipped round. “Madam! You will keep
silent!”

“I will…“

“Silence, God damn you!” Sharpe strode towards the coach and Mrs Parker, fearing violence,
slammed the door.

But Sharpe went instead to the luggage box’from which he took a handful of the Spanish
testaments. “Sergeant Williams? Kindling for the fires!” He threw the books down to the meadow
while George Parker, who thought the world had gone mad, kept a politic silence.

Two hours later, in a very chastened silence, the Riflemen marched south.

At midday it stopped raining. The road joined a larger road, wider and muddier, which slowed
the coach’s lumbering progress. Yet, as if in promise of better things to come, Sharpe could see
a stretch of water far to his right. It was too wide to be a river, and thus was either a lake or
an arm of the ocean which, like a Scottish sea-loch, stretched deep inland. George Parker opined
that it was indeed a ria, a valley flooded by the sea, which could therefore lead to the
patrolling ships of the Royal Navy.

That thought brought optimism, as did the country they now traversed. The road led through
pastureland interspersed with stands of trees, stone walls, and small streams. The slopes were
gentle and the few farms looked prosperous. Sharpe, trying to remember the map that Vivar had
destroyed, knew they must be well south of Santiago de Com-postela. His despair of the night
before was being eroded by the hopes of this southern road, and by the subdued look on his men’s
faces. The glimpse of the sea had helped. Perhaps, in the very next town, there might be
fishermen who could take these refugees out to where the Navy’s ships patrolled. George Parker,
walking with Sharpe, agreed. “And if not, Lieutenant, then we certainly won’t need to go as far
as Lisbon.”

“No, sir?”

“There’ll be English ships loading with wine at Oporto. And we can’t be more than a week from
Oporto.”

One week to safety! Sharpe rejoiced in the thought. One week of hard marching on his broken
boots. One week to prove that he could survive without Bias Vivar. One week of whipping these
Riflemen into a disciplined unit. One week with Louisa Parker, and then at least two more weeks
at sea as their ship beat north against the Biscay winds.

Two hours after midday, Sharpe called a halt. The sea was still invisible, yet its salt odour
was thin among the straggly pine trees beneath which the carriage horses were given a feed of
dried maize and hay. The Riflemen, after breaking apart the last of the monastery’s loaves, lay
exhausted. They had just crossed a stretch of flooded meadows where the road had proved a morass
from which the men had had to push the great carriage free. Now the road led gently upwards
between mossy walls towards a stone farmhouse which lay, perhaps a mile to the south, on the next
crest.

The Parkers sat on rugs beside their carriage. Mrs Parker would not look at Sharpe since his
outburst beside the stream, but Louisa gave him a happy and conspiratorial smile that caused
Sharpe instant embarrassment for he feared his men would see it and jump to the correct and
unavoidable conclusion that the Lieutenant was smitten. To avoid betraying his feelings, Sharpe
walked from beneath the stand of pines to where a single picquet squatted beside the road.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Nothing, sir.” It was Hagman, the oldest Rifleman, and one of the very few not to have drunk
himself insensible during the night. He was chewing tobacco and his eyes never left the northern
skyline. “It’s going to rain again.”