Free Sharpe's Fury - 11 by Bernard Cornwell Page B

his forties, and he held the old gun confidently. He ordered Sharpe out of the boathouse again and Sharpe meekly obeyed. The man was reprimanding him, but so fast that Sharpe could hardly understand one word in ten, but he understood well enough when the man emphasized his words by poking his gun barrel into Sharpe’s waist. Sharpe seized the gun with his left hand and hit the man with his right. Then he kicked him between the legs and took the fowling piece away. “You don’t poke guns at British officers,” Sharpe said, though he doubted the man understood him, or even heard him for that matter, for he was crouching in agony and making a mewing sound. Sharpe blew the last remnants of powder from the gun’s pan so it could not fire, then he banged the muzzle against a stone until the shot and powder came tumbling out. He scuffed the powder into the earth and then, just to make sure the weapon could not fire, he wrenched the doghead away from the lock and threw it into the river. “You’re lucky to be alive,” he told the man. He tossed the fowling piece onto the man’s belly and resisted the urge to kick him again. He had not realized how angry he was. The second gardener backed away, bowing.
    Sharpe found the brigadier propped up on the couch with a towel wrapped about his neck. A young manservant was shaving him. “There you are, Sharpe,” Moon greeted him. “You’ll be pleased to know I’ve discovered the secret of a good shave.”
    “You have, sir?”
    “Add some lime juice to the shaving water. Very clever, don’t you think?”
    Sharpe was not sure what to say to that. “We’ve posted sentries, sir. The men are cleaning themselves up and I’ve found a boat.”
    “What use is a boat now?” Moon asked.
    “Cross the river, sir. We can make a horse swim behind sir, if we’ve got the cash to buy one, and if you ride, sir, we’ve a chance to catch up with our lads.” Sharpe doubted there was any chance of catching the six light companies who retreated from Fort Joseph, but he had to give the brigadier hope.
    Moon paused as the manservant rinsed his face, then patted it dry with a hot towel. “We’re not going anywhere, Sharpe,” the brigadier said, “until a doctor has seen this leg. The Marquesa says the fellow in the town is perfectly adequate for broken bones. She’s a damned bitter old hag, but she’s being helpful enough, and I assume her physician is better than some teague soldier, don’t you think?”
    “I think, sir, that the sooner we’re away from here, the better.”
    “Not before a proper doctor has seen this leg,” the brigadier said firmly. “The fellow’s been summoned and should be here soon. We can go after that. Have the men ready.”
    Sharpe sent Noolan and his men down to the boathouse. “Guard the damn boat,” he told them, then he climbed the tower and joined Harper, Hagman, and Slattery, who kept watch from the tower’s top. Harper told Sharpe that nothing moved on the road leading eastward. “Be ready to go, Pat,” Sharpe said. “I’ve got a boat. We’re just waiting for the brigadier now.”
    “You’ve found a boat? Easy as that?”
    “Easy as that.”
    “So what do we do with it?”
    Sharpe thought for a second. “I doubt we can catch the others,” he said, “so probably the best thing is to go downriver. Find a British ship on the coast. We’ll be in Lisbon in five days, and back with the battalion in six.”
    “Now that would be nice,” Harper said fervently.
    Sharpe smiled. “Joana?” he asked. Joana was a Portuguese girl whom Harper had rescued in Coimbra and who now shared the sergeant’s quarters.
    “I’m fond of the girl,” Harper admitted airily. “And she’s a good lass. She can cook, mend, works hard.”
    “Is that all she does?” Sharpe asked.
    “She’s a good girl,” Harper insisted.
    “You should marry her then,” Sharpe said.
    “There’s no call for that, sir,” Harper said, sounding alarmed.
    “I’ll ask