his fingers. “Bugger shot me!” Harper staggered against the wall, but managed to keep his balance. “I went through the whole damned French wars, so I did, and never once did I take a bullet, and now a damned thief in a damned town at the end of the damned world hits me! Jesus sweet Christ!” He took his hand away and blood oozed from his sandy hair to trickle down his neck. “I'm feeling dizzy, so I am.”
Sharpe helped Harper to a chair, sat him down, then probed the blood-soaked hair. The damage was slight. The bullet had seared across the scalp, breaking the skin, but not doing any other damage. “The bullet just grazed you,” Sharpe said in relief.
“Grazed, indeed! I was hit, so I was!”
“Barely broke the skin.”
“Lucky to be alive, I am. Sweet mother of God, but I could have been dead by now.”
“Luckily you've got a skull like a bloody ox.” Sharpe rapped Harper's temple. “It would take a twelve pounder to dent that skull.”
“Would you listen to him! As near to death as a goose at Christmas, so I am, and all he can do is tap my skull!”
Sharpe went to the big water vat by the back door, soaked a piece of cloth, and tossed it to Harper. “Hold that against your head. It'll bring you back to life. I'm going to see what the bastards took.”
Apart from their weapons and the chest with Louisa's gold, all of which had been locked in Blair's strong room, the thieves appeared to have taken everything. Sharpe, disconsolate, went downstairs to where Harper was dabbing his bloody head with the wet rag. “The lot,” Sharpe said bitterly. “Your bag, my bags, our clothes, boots, razors. The lot.”
“The Emperor's thimble?” Harper asked in disbelief.
“Everything,” Sharpe said. “Bonaparte's portrait, and some stuff of Blair's as well. I can't tell what, but the candlesticks are gone and those small pictures that were on the shelf. Bastards!”
“What about your locket?”
“Around my neck.”
“The guns?”
Sharpe shook his head. “The strong-room padlock wasn't touched.” He picked up the thief s weapon. “The bastard tried to shoot me twice. It wouldn't fire.”
“He forgot to prime it?”
Sharpe opened the pan and saw a sludge of wet powder there, then saw that the trigger was loose. He scraped the priming out of the pan and tapped the gun's butt on the floor. His guess was that the carbine's mainspring had jammed because the wood of the stock had swollen in the damp weather. It was a common enough problem with cheap guns. He tapped harder and this time the trapped spring jarred itself free and the flint snapped down on the emptied pan.
“Swollen wood?” Harper asked.
“Saved my life, too. Bugger had me lined up at five paces.” He peered at the lockplate and saw the mark of the Cadiz Armory, which made this a Spanish army gun. There was nothing sinister in that. The world was awash with old army weapons; even Sharpe and Harper carried rifles with the British Government's Tower Armory mark on their plates.
Sharpe turned to the whimpering cook and accused her of letting the two thieves into the house, but the woman protested her innocence, claiming that the two men must have climbed across the church roof and jumped from there onto the half-roof at the side of Blair's house. “It has happened before, senar” she said resignedly, “which is why the master has his strong room.”
“What do we do now?” Harper still held the rag against his head.
“I'll make a formal complaint,” Sharpe said. “It won't help, but I'll make it anyway.” He went back to the Citadel where, in the guardroom, a surly clerk took down a list of the stolen property. Sharpe, as he dictated the missing items, knew that he wasted his time.
“You wasted your time,” Blair said when he came home. “Place is full of bloody thieves. That clerk will already have thrown your list away. You'll have to buy more clothes tomorrow.”
“Or look for the bloody thieves,” Harper, his head
Sharpe helped Harper to a chair, sat him down, then probed the blood-soaked hair. The damage was slight. The bullet had seared across the scalp, breaking the skin, but not doing any other damage. “The bullet just grazed you,” Sharpe said in relief.
“Grazed, indeed! I was hit, so I was!”
“Barely broke the skin.”
“Lucky to be alive, I am. Sweet mother of God, but I could have been dead by now.”
“Luckily you've got a skull like a bloody ox.” Sharpe rapped Harper's temple. “It would take a twelve pounder to dent that skull.”
“Would you listen to him! As near to death as a goose at Christmas, so I am, and all he can do is tap my skull!”
Sharpe went to the big water vat by the back door, soaked a piece of cloth, and tossed it to Harper. “Hold that against your head. It'll bring you back to life. I'm going to see what the bastards took.”
Apart from their weapons and the chest with Louisa's gold, all of which had been locked in Blair's strong room, the thieves appeared to have taken everything. Sharpe, disconsolate, went downstairs to where Harper was dabbing his bloody head with the wet rag. “The lot,” Sharpe said bitterly. “Your bag, my bags, our clothes, boots, razors. The lot.”
“The Emperor's thimble?” Harper asked in disbelief.
“Everything,” Sharpe said. “Bonaparte's portrait, and some stuff of Blair's as well. I can't tell what, but the candlesticks are gone and those small pictures that were on the shelf. Bastards!”
“What about your locket?”
“Around my neck.”
“The guns?”
Sharpe shook his head. “The strong-room padlock wasn't touched.” He picked up the thief s weapon. “The bastard tried to shoot me twice. It wouldn't fire.”
“He forgot to prime it?”
Sharpe opened the pan and saw a sludge of wet powder there, then saw that the trigger was loose. He scraped the priming out of the pan and tapped the gun's butt on the floor. His guess was that the carbine's mainspring had jammed because the wood of the stock had swollen in the damp weather. It was a common enough problem with cheap guns. He tapped harder and this time the trapped spring jarred itself free and the flint snapped down on the emptied pan.
“Swollen wood?” Harper asked.
“Saved my life, too. Bugger had me lined up at five paces.” He peered at the lockplate and saw the mark of the Cadiz Armory, which made this a Spanish army gun. There was nothing sinister in that. The world was awash with old army weapons; even Sharpe and Harper carried rifles with the British Government's Tower Armory mark on their plates.
Sharpe turned to the whimpering cook and accused her of letting the two thieves into the house, but the woman protested her innocence, claiming that the two men must have climbed across the church roof and jumped from there onto the half-roof at the side of Blair's house. “It has happened before, senar” she said resignedly, “which is why the master has his strong room.”
“What do we do now?” Harper still held the rag against his head.
“I'll make a formal complaint,” Sharpe said. “It won't help, but I'll make it anyway.” He went back to the Citadel where, in the guardroom, a surly clerk took down a list of the stolen property. Sharpe, as he dictated the missing items, knew that he wasted his time.
“You wasted your time,” Blair said when he came home. “Place is full of bloody thieves. That clerk will already have thrown your list away. You'll have to buy more clothes tomorrow.”
“Or look for the bloody thieves,” Harper, his head
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