Sharpes Siege   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

“Maybe, sir, but it’s the truth so help me God.” Patrick Harper, delighted with both his exploit and explanation, grinned at his officer. The grin spoke the real truth; that the two of them always fought together and Harper was determined that it should stay that way. The grin also implied that Major Richard Sharpe would somehow avert the righteous wrath of the Army from Harper’s innocent head.

“So your tooth still isn’t pulled?” Sharpe asked.

“That’s right, sir.”

“Then I’ll damn well pull it now,” Sharpe said.

Harper took a step backwards. He was four inches taller than Sharpe’s six feet, with muscles to match his size, while on his shoulders were slung a rifle and his fearful seven-barrelled gun, but over his broad, swollen face there suddenly appeared a look of sheer terror. “You’ll not pull the tooth, sir.”

“I damn well will.” Sharpe turned to Frederickson. “Find me some pincers, Captain.”

Frederickson’s hand instinctively went to the pouch at his belt, then checked. “I’ll ask the men, sir.”

Harper blanched. “Mr Sharpe! Sir! Please!”

“Quiet!” Sharpe stared at the huge Ulsterman. In truth he was relieved that Harper was here, but the Army was the Army and the relief could not be betrayed. “You’re a damned fool, RSM. What about your son?”

“He’s a bit too young to fight yet, sir.” Harper grinned, and Sharpe had to look away so that he did not return the grin.

“No pincers, sir!” Frederickson sounded disappointed, though Sharpe suspected Sweet William had made no kind of real search for the implement. “You’ll want us under way, sir?”

“Inland. Sergeant Harper!”

“Sir?”

“Attach yourself to Captain Frederickson’s Company and assume whatever rank he sees fit to give you.”

“Sir!”

Like beasts of burden the Riflemen shouldered packs, canteens, weapons, greatcoats and supplies. They went eastwards into the trees, then northwards on the country road that straggled between the few marsh hamlets of this barren coast.

It was not much of a road, merely a rutted cart track that wound between brush and pine and edged past great swamps where long-legged wading birds flapped slowly into the winter air as the Riflemen passed. The Green Jackets marched fast, as they were trained to march, and always, a quarter mile ahead, the picquets signalled back towards Sharpe that the road was clear.

It seemed strange to be this deep in France.