Sharpes Gold   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

'And where are you going, Lieutenant Ayres?

Sharpe was annoyed by the man's suspicions, by the pointless display of his power, and he edged his questions with a touch of venom. Sharpe carried on his back the scars of a flogging that had been caused by just such an officer as this: Captain Morris, a supercilious bully, with his flattering familiar, Sergeant Hakeswill. Sharpe carried the memory along with the scars and a promise that one day he would revenge himself on both men. Morris, he knew, was stationed in Dublin; Hakeswill was God knows where, but one day, Sharpe promised himself, he would find him. But for now it was this young puppy with more power than sense. 'Where, Lieutenant?

'Celorico, sir.

'Then have a good journey, Lieutenant.

Ayres nodded. 'I'll look round first, sir. If you don't mind.

Sharpe watched the three men ride down the street, the rain beading the wide, black rumps of the horses. 'I hope you're right, Sergeant.

'Right, sir?

'That there's nothing to loot.

The thought struck both together, a single instinct for trouble, and they began running. Sharpe pulled his whistle from the small holster on his crossbelt and blew the long blasts that were usually reserved for the battlefield when the Light Company was strung out in a loose skirmish line, the enemy was pressing close, and the officers and Sergeants whistled the men back to rally and re-form under the shelter of die Battalion. The provosts heard the whistle blasts, put spurs to their horses, and swerved between two low cottages to search the yards as Sharpe's men tumbled from doorways and grumbled into ranks.

Harper pulled up in front of the Company. 'Packs on!

There was a shout from behind the cottages. Sharpe turned. Lieutenant Knowles was at his elbow.

'What's happening, sir?

'Provost trouble. Bastards are throwing their weight around.

They were determined, he knew, to find something, and as Sharpe's eyes went down his ranks he had a sinking feeling that Lieutenant Ayres had succeeded. There should have been forty-eight men, three Sergeants, and the two officers, but one man was missing: Private Batten. Private bloody Batten, who was dragged by his hair from between the cottages by a triumphant provost.

'A looter, sir. Caught in the act. Ayres was smiling.

Batten, who grumbled incessantly, who moaned if it rained and made a fuss when it stopped because the sun was in his eyes. Private Batten, a one-man destroyer of flintlocks, who thought the whole world was conspiring to annoy him, and who now stood flinching beneath the grasp of one of Ayres's men.