Sharpes Escape   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

"Lord Wellington," Lawford explained. "So did you see him, Sharpe?"

"Yes, sir."

"I hope you remembered me to him?"

"Of course, sir." Sharpe told the required lie and forced himself to add another. "And he asked me to present his regards."

"Very civil of him," Lawford said, plainly pleased. "And does he think the French will come up and dance tomorrow?"

"He didn't say, sir."

"Perhaps this fog will deter them," Major Leroy said, peering out of the tent where the haze was perceptibly thickening.

"Or it will encourage them," Forrest said. "Our gunners can't aim into fog."

Leroy was watching Sharpe. "Do you need a doctor?"

"No, sir," Sharpe lied. His ribs hurt, his skull was throbbing and one of his upper teeth was loose. His belly was a mass of pain, his thigh hurt and he was angry. "Major Hogan," he forced himself to change the subject, "thinks the French will attack."

"Then we'd best keep a keen eye in the morning," Lawford said, hinting that the evening was over. The officers took the hint, standing and thanking the Colonel, who held out a hand to Sharpe. "Stay a moment, if you will, Sharpe."

Slingsby, who looked the worse for drink, drained his glass, banged it down and clicked his heels. "Thank you, William," he said to Lawford, presuming on their relationship to use the Colonel's Christian name.

"Good night, Cornelius," Lawford said, and waited until the three officers had gone from the tent and were lost in the mist. "He drank rather a lot. Still, I suppose on the eve of a man's first battle a little fortification isn't out of order. Sit, Sharpe, sit. Drink some brandy." He took a glass himself. "Was it really a tumble? You look as if you've been in the wars."

"Dark in the trees, sir," Sharpe said woodenly, "and I missed my footing on some steps."

"You must take more care, Sharpe," Lawford said, leaning forward to light a cigar from one of the candles. "It's gone damned cold, hasn't it?" He waited for a response, but Sharpe said nothing and the Colonel sighed. "I wanted to talk to you," he went on between puffs, "about your new fellows. Young Iliffe shaping up well, is he?"

"He's an ensign, sir. If he survives a year he might have a chance of growing up."

"We were all ensigns once," Lawford said, "and mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow, eh?"

"He's still a bloody small acorn," Sharpe said.

"But his father's a friend of mine, Sharpe. He farms a few acres near Benfleet and he wanted me to look after his son."

"I'll look after him," Sharpe said.