British light infantry officers wore curved sabres. “Sharpe,” he said aloud as he collapsed the telescope.
A scuffle behind made him turn round. Four of his wolf-grey men were guarding a pair of prisoners. One captive was in a gaudily trimmed red coat while the other was presumably the man's wife or lover. “Found them hiding in the rocks down there,” said the Sergeant who was holding one of the soldier's arms.
“He says he's a deserter, sir,” Captain Braudel added, “and that's his wife.”
Braudel spat a stream of tobacco juice onto a rock.
Loup scrambled down from the ridge. The soldier's uniform, he now saw, was not
British. The waistcoat and sash, the half boots and the plumed bicorne were all too fancy for British taste, indeed they were so fancy that for a second
Loup wondered if the captive was an officer, then he realized that Braudel would never have treated a captured officer with such disdain. Braudel clearly liked the woman who now raised shy eyes to stare at Loup. She was dark-haired, attractive and probably, Loup guessed, about fifteen or sixteen. Loup had heard that the Spanish and Portuguese peasants sold such daughters as wives to allied soldiers for a hundred francs apiece, the cost of a good meal in Paris.
The French army, on the other hand, just took their girls for nothing. “What's your name?” Loup asked the deserter in Spanish.
“Grogan, sir. Sean Grogan.”
“Your unit, Grogan?”
“Real Companïa Irlandesa, señor.” Guardsman Grogan was plainly willing to cooperate with his captors and so Loup signalled the Sergeant to release him.
Loup questioned Grogan for ten minutes, hearing how the Real Companïa
Irlandesa had travelled by sea from Valencia, and how the men had been happy enough with the idea of joining the rest of the Spanish army at Cadiz, but how they resented being forced to serve with the British. Many of the men, the fugitive claimed, had fled from British servitude, and they had not enlisted with the King of Spain just to return to King George's tyranny.
Loup cut short the protests. “When did you run?” he asked.
“Last night, sir. Half a dozen of us did. And a good many ran the night before.”
“There is an Englishman in the fort, a rifle officer. You know him?”
Grogan frowned, as though he found the question odd, but then he nodded.
“Captain Sharpe, sir. He's supposed to be training us.”
“To do what?”
“To fight, sir,” Grogan said nervously. He found this one-eyed, calm-spoken
Frenchman very disconcerting. “But we know how to fight already,” he added defiantly.
“I'm sure you do,” Loup said sympathetically. He poked at his teeth for a second, then spat the makeshift toothpick away. “So you ran away, soldier, because you didn't want to serve King George, is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you'd certainly fight for His Majesty the Emperor?”
Grogan hesitated. “I would, sir,” he finally said, but without any conviction.
“Is that why you deserted?” Loup asked. “To fight for the Emperor? Or were you hoping to get back to your comfortable barracks in the Escorial?”
Grogan shrugged. “We were going to her family's house in Madrid, sir.” He jerked his head towards his wife. “Her father's a cobbler, and I'm not such a bad hand with a needle and thread myself. I thought I'd learn the trade.”
“It's always good to have a trade, soldier,” Loup said with a smile. He took a pistol from his belt and toyed with it for a moment before he pulled back the heavy cock. “My trade is killing,” he added in the same pleasant voice and then, without showing a trace of emotion, he lifted the gun, aimed it at
Grogan's forehead and pulled the trigger.
The woman screamed as her husband's blood splashed across her face. Grogan was thrown violently back, blood spraying and misting the air, then his body thumped and slid backwards down the hill. “He didn't really want to fight for us at all,” Loup said. “He'd
A scuffle behind made him turn round. Four of his wolf-grey men were guarding a pair of prisoners. One captive was in a gaudily trimmed red coat while the other was presumably the man's wife or lover. “Found them hiding in the rocks down there,” said the Sergeant who was holding one of the soldier's arms.
“He says he's a deserter, sir,” Captain Braudel added, “and that's his wife.”
Braudel spat a stream of tobacco juice onto a rock.
Loup scrambled down from the ridge. The soldier's uniform, he now saw, was not
British. The waistcoat and sash, the half boots and the plumed bicorne were all too fancy for British taste, indeed they were so fancy that for a second
Loup wondered if the captive was an officer, then he realized that Braudel would never have treated a captured officer with such disdain. Braudel clearly liked the woman who now raised shy eyes to stare at Loup. She was dark-haired, attractive and probably, Loup guessed, about fifteen or sixteen. Loup had heard that the Spanish and Portuguese peasants sold such daughters as wives to allied soldiers for a hundred francs apiece, the cost of a good meal in Paris.
The French army, on the other hand, just took their girls for nothing. “What's your name?” Loup asked the deserter in Spanish.
“Grogan, sir. Sean Grogan.”
“Your unit, Grogan?”
“Real Companïa Irlandesa, señor.” Guardsman Grogan was plainly willing to cooperate with his captors and so Loup signalled the Sergeant to release him.
Loup questioned Grogan for ten minutes, hearing how the Real Companïa
Irlandesa had travelled by sea from Valencia, and how the men had been happy enough with the idea of joining the rest of the Spanish army at Cadiz, but how they resented being forced to serve with the British. Many of the men, the fugitive claimed, had fled from British servitude, and they had not enlisted with the King of Spain just to return to King George's tyranny.
Loup cut short the protests. “When did you run?” he asked.
“Last night, sir. Half a dozen of us did. And a good many ran the night before.”
“There is an Englishman in the fort, a rifle officer. You know him?”
Grogan frowned, as though he found the question odd, but then he nodded.
“Captain Sharpe, sir. He's supposed to be training us.”
“To do what?”
“To fight, sir,” Grogan said nervously. He found this one-eyed, calm-spoken
Frenchman very disconcerting. “But we know how to fight already,” he added defiantly.
“I'm sure you do,” Loup said sympathetically. He poked at his teeth for a second, then spat the makeshift toothpick away. “So you ran away, soldier, because you didn't want to serve King George, is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you'd certainly fight for His Majesty the Emperor?”
Grogan hesitated. “I would, sir,” he finally said, but without any conviction.
“Is that why you deserted?” Loup asked. “To fight for the Emperor? Or were you hoping to get back to your comfortable barracks in the Escorial?”
Grogan shrugged. “We were going to her family's house in Madrid, sir.” He jerked his head towards his wife. “Her father's a cobbler, and I'm not such a bad hand with a needle and thread myself. I thought I'd learn the trade.”
“It's always good to have a trade, soldier,” Loup said with a smile. He took a pistol from his belt and toyed with it for a moment before he pulled back the heavy cock. “My trade is killing,” he added in the same pleasant voice and then, without showing a trace of emotion, he lifted the gun, aimed it at
Grogan's forehead and pulled the trigger.
The woman screamed as her husband's blood splashed across her face. Grogan was thrown violently back, blood spraying and misting the air, then his body thumped and slid backwards down the hill. “He didn't really want to fight for us at all,” Loup said. “He'd
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