have been just another useless mouth to feed.”
“And the woman, sir?” Braudel asked. She was bending over her dead husband and screaming at the French.
“She's yours, Paul,” Loup said. “But only after you have delivered a message to Madame Juanita de Elia. Give madame my undying compliments, tell her that her toy Irish soldiers have arrived and are conveniently close to us, and that tomorrow morning we shall mount a little drama for their amusement. Tell her also that she would do well to spend the night with us.”
Braudel smirked. “She'll be pleased, sir.”
“Which is more than your woman will be,” Loup said, glancing at the howling
Spanish girl. “Tell this widow, Paul, that if she does not shut up I will tear her tongue out and feed it to the Dona Juanita's hounds. Now come on.” He led his men down the hill to where the horses had been picketed. Tonight the Dona
Juanita de Elia would come to the wolf's stronghold, and tomorrow she would ride to the enemy like a plague rat sent to destroy them from within.
And somewhere, some time before victory was final, Sharpe would feel France's vengeance for two dead men. For Loup was a soldier, and he did not forget, did not forgive and never lost.
CHAPTER 3
Eleven men deserted during the Real Companïa Irlandesa's first night in the
San Isidro Fort and eight men, including four picquets set to stop such desertions, ran on the second night. The guardsmen were providing their own sentries and Colonel Runciman suggested Sharpe's riflemen took over the duty.
Sharpe argued against such a change. His riflemen were supposed to be training the Real Companïa Irlandesa and they could not work all day and stand guard all night. “I'm sure you're right, General,” Sharpe said tactfully, “but unless headquarters sends us more men we can't work round the clock.”
Colonel Runciman, Sharpe had discovered, was malleable so long as he was addressed as 'General'. He only wanted to be left alone to sleep, to eat and to grumble about the amount of work expected from him. “Even a general is only human,” he liked to inform Sharpe, then he would inquire how he was supposed to discharge the onerous duties of liaising with the Real Companïa Irlandesa while he was also expected to be responsible for the Royal Wagon Train. In truth the Colonel's deputy still ran the wagon train with the same efficiency he had always displayed, but until a new Wagon Master General was formally appointed Colonel Runciman's signature and seal were necessary on a handful of administrative documents.
“You could surrender the seals of office to your deputy, General?” Sharpe suggested.
“Never! Never let it be said that a Runciman evaded his duty, Sharpe. Never!”
The Colonel glanced anxiously out of his quarters to see how his cook was proceeding with a hare shot by Daniel Hagman. Runciman's lethargy meant that the Colonel was quite content to let Sharpe deal with the Real Companïa
Irlandesa, but even for a man of Runciman's idle nonchalance, nineteen deserters in two nights was cause to worry. “Damn it, man”-he leaned back after inspecting the cook's progress-“it reflects on our efficiency, don't you see? We must do something, Sharpe! In another fortnight we won't have a soul left!”
Which, Sharpe reflected silently, was exactly what Hogan wanted. The Real
Companïa Irlandesa was supposed to self-destruct, yet Richard Sharpe had been put in command of their training and there was a stubborn streak in Sharpe's soul that would not let him permit a unit for which he was responsible to slide into ruin. Damn it, he would make the guards into soldiers whether Hogan wanted him to or not.
Sharpe doubted he would get much help from Lord Kiely. Each morning his
Lordship woke in a foul ill-temper that lasted until his steady intake of alcohol gave him a burst of high spirits that would usually stretch into the evening, but then be replaced by a morose sullenness aggravated by his
“And the woman, sir?” Braudel asked. She was bending over her dead husband and screaming at the French.
“She's yours, Paul,” Loup said. “But only after you have delivered a message to Madame Juanita de Elia. Give madame my undying compliments, tell her that her toy Irish soldiers have arrived and are conveniently close to us, and that tomorrow morning we shall mount a little drama for their amusement. Tell her also that she would do well to spend the night with us.”
Braudel smirked. “She'll be pleased, sir.”
“Which is more than your woman will be,” Loup said, glancing at the howling
Spanish girl. “Tell this widow, Paul, that if she does not shut up I will tear her tongue out and feed it to the Dona Juanita's hounds. Now come on.” He led his men down the hill to where the horses had been picketed. Tonight the Dona
Juanita de Elia would come to the wolf's stronghold, and tomorrow she would ride to the enemy like a plague rat sent to destroy them from within.
And somewhere, some time before victory was final, Sharpe would feel France's vengeance for two dead men. For Loup was a soldier, and he did not forget, did not forgive and never lost.
CHAPTER 3
Eleven men deserted during the Real Companïa Irlandesa's first night in the
San Isidro Fort and eight men, including four picquets set to stop such desertions, ran on the second night. The guardsmen were providing their own sentries and Colonel Runciman suggested Sharpe's riflemen took over the duty.
Sharpe argued against such a change. His riflemen were supposed to be training the Real Companïa Irlandesa and they could not work all day and stand guard all night. “I'm sure you're right, General,” Sharpe said tactfully, “but unless headquarters sends us more men we can't work round the clock.”
Colonel Runciman, Sharpe had discovered, was malleable so long as he was addressed as 'General'. He only wanted to be left alone to sleep, to eat and to grumble about the amount of work expected from him. “Even a general is only human,” he liked to inform Sharpe, then he would inquire how he was supposed to discharge the onerous duties of liaising with the Real Companïa Irlandesa while he was also expected to be responsible for the Royal Wagon Train. In truth the Colonel's deputy still ran the wagon train with the same efficiency he had always displayed, but until a new Wagon Master General was formally appointed Colonel Runciman's signature and seal were necessary on a handful of administrative documents.
“You could surrender the seals of office to your deputy, General?” Sharpe suggested.
“Never! Never let it be said that a Runciman evaded his duty, Sharpe. Never!”
The Colonel glanced anxiously out of his quarters to see how his cook was proceeding with a hare shot by Daniel Hagman. Runciman's lethargy meant that the Colonel was quite content to let Sharpe deal with the Real Companïa
Irlandesa, but even for a man of Runciman's idle nonchalance, nineteen deserters in two nights was cause to worry. “Damn it, man”-he leaned back after inspecting the cook's progress-“it reflects on our efficiency, don't you see? We must do something, Sharpe! In another fortnight we won't have a soul left!”
Which, Sharpe reflected silently, was exactly what Hogan wanted. The Real
Companïa Irlandesa was supposed to self-destruct, yet Richard Sharpe had been put in command of their training and there was a stubborn streak in Sharpe's soul that would not let him permit a unit for which he was responsible to slide into ruin. Damn it, he would make the guards into soldiers whether Hogan wanted him to or not.
Sharpe doubted he would get much help from Lord Kiely. Each morning his
Lordship woke in a foul ill-temper that lasted until his steady intake of alcohol gave him a burst of high spirits that would usually stretch into the evening, but then be replaced by a morose sullenness aggravated by his
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