Free Sharpe 12 - Sharpe's Battle by Bernard Cornwell

a single properly cooked meal. God knows, Sharpe, I strive to be a good Christian and to love my fellow man, but the Irish do sometimes make it difficult. Not that some of them ain't the nicest fellows you could ever meet, but they can be obtuse! Dear me, Sharpe, I sometimes wondered if they were gulling me. Pretending not to understand the simplest orders. Do you find that? And there's something else, Sharpe. We'll have to be politic, you and I.
    The Irish“-and here Runciman leaned awkwardly forward as though confiding something important to Sharpe-”are very largely Romish, Sharpe. Papists! We shall have to watch our theological discourse if we're not to unsettle their tempers! You and I might know that the Pope is the reincarnation of the
    Scarlet Whore of Babylon, but it won't help our cause if we say it out loud.
    Know what I mean?"
    “You mean there'll be no Golden Fleece, sir?”
    "Good fellow, knew you'd comprehend. Exactly. We have to be diplomatic,
    Sharpe. We have to be understanding. We have to treat these fellows as if they were Englishmen.“ Runciman thought about that statement, then frowned. ”Or almost English, anyway. You came up from the ranks, ain't that right? So these things might not be obvious to you, but if you just remember to keep silent about the Pope you can't go far wrong. And tell your chaps the same," he added hastily.
    “A fair number of my fellows are Catholics themselves, sir,” Sharpe said. "And
    Irish."
    “They would be, they would be. A third of this army is Irish! If there was ever a mutiny, Sharpe... ” Colonel Runciman shuddered at the prospect of the papist redcoats running wild. “Well, it doesn't bear thinking about, does it?” he went on. "So ignore their infamous heresies, Sharpe, just ignore them.
    Ignorance is the only possible cause for papism, my dear father always said, and a burning at the stake the only known cure. He was a bishop, so he understood these matters. Oh, and one other thing, Sharpe, I'd be obliged if you didn't call me Colonel Runciman. They haven't replaced me yet, so I'm still the Wagon Master General, so it ought to be General Runciman."
    “Of course, General,” Sharpe said, hiding a smile. After nineteen years in the army he knew Colonel Runciman's type. The man had purchased his promotions all the way to lieutenant colonel and there got stuck because promotion above that rank depended entirely on seniority and merit, but if Runciman wanted to be called General then Sharpe would play along for a while. He also sensed that
    Runciman was hardly likely to prove a difficult man so there was small point in antagonizing him.
    “Good fellow! Ah! You see that scrawny chap who's just going?” Runciman pointed to a man leaving the inn through its arched entrance. “I swear he's left half a skin of wine on his table. See it? Go and snaffle it, Sharpe, there's a stout fellow, before that hunchbacked girl gets her paws on it. I'd go myself, but the damn gout is pinching me something hard today. Off you go, man, I'm thirsty!”
    Sharpe was saved the indignity of scavenging the tables like a beggar by the arrival of Major Michael Hogan who waved Sharpe back towards the wreckage of
    Runciman's luncheon. “Good afternoon to you, Colonel,” Hogan said, “and it's a grand day too, is it not?” Hogan, Sharpe noticed, was deliberately exaggerating his Irish accent.
    “Hot,” Runciman said, dabbing with his napkin at the perspiration that dripped down his plump cheeks and then, suddenly conscious of his naked belly, he vainly tried to tug the edges of his corset together. “Damnably hot,” he said.
    “It's the sun, Colonel,” Hogan said very earnestly. “I've noticed that the sun seems to heat up the day. Have you noticed that?”
    “Well, of course it's the sun!” Runciman said, confused.
    “So I'm right! Isn't that amazing? But what about winter, Colonel?”
    Runciman threw an anguished glance towards the abandoned wineskin. He was about to order