pretty.’
‘I suppose so.’
He tried to take the locket from her, but she closed strong fingers on it.
‘You suppose so! She is pretty, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, very.’
She nodded, satisfied. ‘You’ll marry her.’ He laughed, thinking of the impossibility of the idea, but she shook her head. ‘You will, I can tell. Otherwise why do you carry this?’
He shrugged. ‘Superstition? It keeps me alive.’
She frowned at him and crossed herself; forehead, belly, nipple to nipple, an extravagant cross to warn off a demon. ‘What’s she like?’
Sharpe pulled a blanket over Teresa; her only dress was drying by the small fire. ‘She’s slim, she smiles a lot. She’s very rich and she’ll marry a very rich man.’ He grinned at her. ‘She’s soft. Comfortable.’
Teresa dismissed the implied criticism; anyone who had the chance to live in soft comfort was a fool to refuse. ‘How did you meet her?’
Sharpe was feeling uncomfortable and tried to change the subject, but she insisted. ‘Tell me, how?’
‘She wanted to know how her brother died.’
Teresa laughed. ‘And you told her?’
‘Not the truth. I told her he was killed by the French, fighting bravely.’
She laughed again. She knew the story; how Lieutenant Gibbons had tried to kill Sharpe and how Patrick Harper had bayoneted the Lieutenant. Sharpe thought back to the small, dark church in Essex, the blonde girl listening to his stumbling story, and the white marble stone that mocked the truth about her vicious, selfish, and sadistic brother.
To the memory of Lieutenant Christian Gibbons, a Native of this Parish, who Volunteered 4 February, 1809, from the Militia of this County into the Regiment of the South Essex, then United with the British Army in the Wars against Tyranny in Spain. He Distinguished Himself on the Field of Talavera where, by Night and by Day, the Attacks of the Enemy were Routed. Such was his Intrepidity that, having Endured the Assault of the Outnumbering Enemy, He and His Company Attacked and Captured a Standard of the French, the First such Glory to be Gained by our Armies in Spain. While thus Confirming his Courage and Spirit, he met a Hero’s Death on the 28th Day of July, 1809, in the Twenty-Fifth Year of his Age. This Monument is erected as a Just Tribute to so much Heroism and Worth by Sir Henry Simmerson, Commander of the Victorious Regiment, and by His Fellow Parishioners. AD. 1810.
Sharpe had laughed to himself, not just because Sir Henry had managed to claim a marble credit for the capture of the Eagle, which had happened after Sir Henry had been relieved of command, but because the whole stone was a lie. Gibbons had been nowhere near the Eagle when Sharpe and Harper had fought their way through the enemy battalion, but the marble would still be there, surmounted by its carved pile of weapons, when the truth had long been forgotten. There was a knock on the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Price, sir.’
‘What is it?’
‘Someone to see you, sir. Downstairs.’
Sharpe swore. ‘Who?’
‘Major Hogan, sir?’ Price made it a question, as if Sharpe might not recognize the name.
‘Good God! I’m on my way down!’
Teresa watched as he pulled on long boots and buckled the sword. ‘Is this the Hogan we send papers to?’
‘Yes. You’ll like him.’ He felt her dress, it was still damp. ‘You’ll come down?’
She nodded. ‘Soon.’
The main room of the inn was noisy, good natured, and boisterous. Sharpe pushed his way through the officers and saw Hogan, dripping wet, by the serving hatch. The Irish Major held out a hand in welcome, but gestured first at the officers. ‘They’re in good spirits.’
‘They think Badajoz will be easy.’
‘Oh.’ Hogan raised his eyebrows, then made room for Sharpe on the bench. ‘I hear you’re a father.’
‘Does anybody not know?’
‘Don’t be ashamed. It’s a fine thing, so it is. Wine?’
Sharpe nodded. ‘How are you?’
‘Cold, wet, busy. Yourself?’
‘Dry, warm and lazy. What’s the news?’
Hogan poured wine and took out his snuffbox. ‘The French are dithering like wet hens. They’re not trying to retake Ciudad Rodrigo, and they’re not sending troops to the south, instead they’re all sending letters to each other, blaming each other.’ Hogan raised his glass. ‘Your health, Richard, your family’s health.’
Sharp blushed self-consciously, but raised his glass. He watched Hogan take a vast pinch of snuff. ‘What are you doing here?’
The Major’s eyes watered, his mouth opened, and he sneezed fit to extinguish a chandelier. ‘Mary, Moses and Martha, but that’s powerful muck! Badajoz, Richard, always Badajoz. I’m taking a wee look and then reporting back to the Peer.’ He wiped his moustache. ‘Mind you, I don’t expect it to have changed much from the last year.’
‘And?’ Sharpe knew Hogan had been present at both failures to take Badajoz in 1811.
Hogan shrugged. ‘It’s a bastard, Richard, a real bastard. The walls are like the Tower of London, so they are, and you can add Windsor Castle up on that hill over the river. They’ve got ditches that can swallow an army.’ The Irishman shook his head. ‘I would not be hopeful.’
‘As bad as that?’
‘Who knows?’ Hogan swallowed wine. ‘It’s a big place, so it is, and they can’t defend every inch of those walls. I suppose the Peer will put in several attacks at once, I don’t know.’
Wellington probably would attack the walls in several different places, just as he had put three attacks on to Ciudad Rodrigo in the one night, but several attacks at once did not guarantee success. Old soldiers, men who had fought with Wellington in India, knew that he did not like siege work. The Peer was frugal with his men in battles, fought for their health between campaigns, but would throw them like random grapeshot at the walls of a fortress to shorten a siege. Sharpe shrugged. ‘It has to be done.’
‘As the virgin said.’ Hogan grinned. ‘What news of you?’
‘Not much.’ Sharpe traced the letter ‘A’ in spilt wine on the table, then scrubbed it out. ‘Recruits are joining us at Elvas. Two hundred men and officers, so we’re told, but no news of a Colonel. Have you heard?’
Hogan spat out an olive pip. ‘Not a word. I’ll bet you two cases of wine to one, that you’ll get one before the siege.’
‘Which starts when?’
Hogan
