Free Sharpe's Rifles by Bernard Cornwell Page B

zigzagged perilously up the steep slope. They passed a wayside shrine where Vivar crossed

himself. His men followed his example, as did the Irishmen among his greenjackets. There were

fifteen of them; fifteen troublemakers who would hate Sharpe because of Rifleman

Harper.
    Sergeant Williams must have had much the same thoughts, for he caught up with Sharpe and, with

a sheepish expression, fell into step with him. “It wasn’t Harps’s fault, sir.”
    “What wasn’t?”
    “What happened yesterday, sir.”
    Sharpe knew the Sergeant was trying to make peace, but his embarrassment at his loss of

dignity made his response harsh. “You mean you were all agreed?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You all agreed to murder an officer?”
    Williams flinched from the accusation. “It wasn’t like that, sir.”
    “Don’t tell me what it was like, you bastard! If you were all agreed, Sergeant, then you all

deserve a flogging, even if none of you had the guts to help Harper.”
    Williams did not like the charge of cowardice. “Harps insisted on doing it alone, sir. He said

it should be a fair fight or none at all.”
    Sharpe was too angry to be affected by this curious revelation of a mutineer’s honour. “You

want me to weep for him?” He knew he had handled these men wrongly, utterly wrongly, but he did

not know how else he could have behaved. Perhaps Captain Murray had been right. Perhaps officers

were born to it, perhaps you needed privileged birth to have Vivar’s easy authority, and Sharpe’s

resentment made him snap at the greenjackets who shambled past him on the wet road. “Stop

straggling! You’re bloody soldiers, not prinking choirboys. Pick your bloody feet up! Move

it!”
    They moved. One of the greenjackets muttered a word of command and the rest fell into step,

shouldered arms, and began to march as only the Light Infantry could march. They were showing the

Lieutenant that they were still the best. They were showing their derision for him by displaying

their skill and Major Vivar’s good humour was restored by the arrogant demonstration. He watched

the greenjackets scatter his own men aside, then called for them to slow down and resume their

place at the rear of the column. He was still laughing when Sharpe caught up with him.

j
    “You sounded like a Sergeant, Lieutenant,” Vivar said.
    “I was a Sergeant once. I was the best God-damned bloody Sergeant in the God-damned bloody

army.”
    The Spaniard was astonished. “You were a Sergeant?”
    “Do you think the son of a whore would be allowed to join as an officer? I was a Sergeant, and

a private before that.”
    Vivar stared at the Englishman as though he had suddenly sprouted horns. “I didn’t know your

army promoted from the ranks?” Whatever anger he had felt with Sharpe an hour or so before

evaporated into a fascinated curiosity.
    “It’s rare. But men like me don’t become real officers, Major. It’s a reward, you see, for

being a fool. For being stupidly brave. And then they make us into Drillmasters or

Quartermasters. They think we can manage those tasks. We’re not given fighting commands.”

Sharpe’s bitterness was rank in the cold morning, and he supposed he was making the self-pitying

confession because it explained his failures to this competent Spanish officer. “They think we

all take to drink, and perhaps we do. Who wants to be an officer, anyway?”
    But Vivar was not interested in Sharpe’s misery. “So you’ve seen much fighting?”
    Tn India. And in Portugal last year.“
    Vivar’s opinion of Sharpe was changing. Till now he had seen the Englishman as an ageing,

unsuccessful Lieutenant who had failed to either buy or win promotion. Now he saw that Sharpe’s

promotion had been extraordinary, far beyond the dreams of a common man. “Do you like

battle?”
    It seemed an odd question to Sharpe, but he answered it as best he could. “I have no other