‘Horrible.’
Knowles paused, face half lathered, razor poised by his cheek, and stared at Sharpe. ‘You look horrible. You’re to go in, Richard, the Colonel’s expecting you.’
Sharpe thought of borrowing the razor, but his jaw was still tender where he had been kicked and he reckoned he could go a day without a shave, though at the end of it his chin would be black as powder. He ducked into the tent to find Lawford sitting at a trestle table covered with fine linen and expensive porcelain. ‘Boiled eggs,’ the Colonel greeted him warmly. ‘I do so relish a properly boiled egg. Sit yourself down, Sharpe. The bread’s not too hard. How are your wounds?’
‘Hardly notice them, sir,’ Sharpe lied.
‘Good man.’ The Colonel spooned some runny egg into his mouth, then gestured through the canvas towards the east. ‘Fog’s lifting. You think the French will come?’
‘Major Hogan seemed sure of it, sir.’
‘Then we shall do our duty,’ Lawford said, ‘and it will be good practice for the battalion, eh? Real targets! That’s coffee, very good coffee as well. Do help yourself.’
It seemed that Sharpe was to be Lawford’s only guest, for there were no plates or silverware for another man. He poured himself coffee, helped himself to an egg and a slice of bread, and ate in silence. He felt uncomfortable. He had known Lawford for over ten years, yet he could think of nothing to say. Some men, like Hogan or Major Forrest, were never short of conversation. Put them down among a group of strangers and they could chatter away like magpies, but Sharpe was always struck dumb except with those he knew really well. The Colonel did not seem to mind the silence. He ate steadily, reading a four-week-old copy of The Times. ‘Good Lord,’ he said at one point.
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘Tom Dyton’s dead. Poor old chap. Of an advanced age, it says here. He must have been seventy if he was a day!’
‘I didn’t know him, sir.’
‘Had land in Surrey. Fine old fellow, married a Calloway, which is always a sensible thing to do. Consols are holding steady, I see.’ He folded the paper and pushed it across the table. ‘Like to read it, Sharpe?’
‘I would, sir.’
‘All yours, then.’
Sharpe would not read it, but the paper would be useful anyway. He cracked the top off another egg and wondered what Consols were. He knew they had something to do with money, but just what he had no idea.
‘So you think the French will come?’ Lawford asked, forcing a heartiness into his voice and apparently unaware that he had voiced the identical question just minutes before.
Sharpe sensed a nervousness in the Colonel and wondered what caused it. ‘I think we have to assume they’ll come, sir.’
‘Quite so, quite so. Prepare for the worst, eh, and hope for the best? Very wise that, Sharpe.’ Lawford buttered a slice of bread. ‘So let’s assume there’s going to be a scrap, shall we? Wellington and Masséna playing King of the Castle, eh? But it shouldn’t be a difficult day, should it?’
Was Lawford nervous of a battle? It seemed unlikely, for the Colonel had been in enough actions to know what must be coming, but Sharpe attempted to reassure him anyway. ‘It never does to understimate the Crapauds, sir,’ he said carefully, ‘and they’ll keep coming whatever we chuck at them, but no, it shouldn’t be difficult. That hill will slow them and we’ll kill them.’
‘That’s rather what I thought, Sharpe,’ Lawford said, offering a dazzling smile. ‘The hill will slow them and then we’ll kill them. So, all in all, the fox is running, the scent’s high, we’re mounted on a damned fine horse and the going’s firm.’
‘We should win, sir,’ Sharpe said, ‘if that’s what you mean. And if the Portuguese fight well.’
‘Ah yes, the Portuguese. Hadn’t thought of them, but they seem fine fellows. Do have that last egg.’
‘I’m full, sir.’
‘You’re sure? Very kind. I never say no to a well-boiled egg. My father, God rest him, always believed he would be met at the gates of heaven by an angel carrying two decently boiled eggs on a silver salver. I do hope it turned out that way for him.’ Sharpe decided there was nothing to say to that so stayed silent as the Colonel sliced off the egg’s top, sprinkled it with salt and dug in his spoon. ‘The thing is, Sharpe,’ Lawford went on, but hesitantly now, ‘if the going is firm and we don’t need to be over-anxious, then I’d like to spread some experience through the battalion. Know what I mean?’
‘The French do that, sir,’ Sharpe said.
‘Do they?’ Lawford seemed surprised.
‘Every time they fight us, sir, they shovel experience all over us.’
‘Ah, I see your drift!’ Lawford ate some egg, then dabbed his lips with a napkin. ‘I mean real experience, Sharpe, the kind that will serve the regiment well. Fellows don’t learn their duties by watching, do they? But by doing. Don’t you agree?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘So I’ve decided, Sharpe,’ Lawford was not looking at Sharpe any more, but concentrating on his egg, ‘that Cornelius ought to command the light company today. He’s not taking it over, don’t think that for a moment, but I do want him to stretch his wings. Want to see how he does, eh? And if it ain’t going to be a tricky business, then today will blood him gently.’ He spooned more egg into his mouth and dared to give Sharpe a quizzical look. Sharpe said nothing. He was furious, humiliated and helpless. He wanted to protest, but to what end? Lawford had plainly made up his mind and to fight the decision would only make the Colonel dig in his heels. ‘And you, Sharpe,’ Lawford smiled now he felt the worst was over, ‘I think you probably need a rest. That tumble you took did some damage, eh? You look battered. So let Cornelius show us his stuff, eh? And you can use his horse and serve as my eyes. Advise me.’
‘My advice, sir,’ Sharpe could not help saying, ‘is to let your best man command the light company.’
‘And if I do that,’ Lawford said, ‘I’ll never know what potential Cornelius has. No, Sharpe, let him have his canter, eh? You’ve already proved yourself.’ Lawford stared at Sharpe, wanting his approval of the suggestion, but again Sharpe said nothing. He felt as though the bottom had dropped from his world.
And just then a gun fired from the valley.
The shell screamed through the fog, burst into sunlight above the ridge where, showing as a black ball against a clear sky, it arched over the troops to fall close beside the newly made road which linked the British and Portuguese troops along the ridge. It exploded after its first bounce, doing no harm, but a scrap of shell casing, almost spent, rapped against Lawford’s tent, making the taut grey canvas shudder. ‘Time to go, Sharpe,’ Lawford said, throwing down his egg-stained napkin.
Because the French were coming.
Thirty-three French battalions formed into four columns were launched across the stream and up the far slope that was thickly obscured by fog. This was only the first attack. The second attack was still assembling,
