Sharpe 12 - Sharpe's Battle by Bernard Cornwell Read Free Book Online

have put them in a place of danger as a compliment to their fighting reputation, despite which, my Lord, I think we must assume that the
    Real Companïa Irlandesa, while undoubtedly skilled at guarding palace gates, will prove less skilled at the more mundane task of fighting the French. We should therefore insist that they submit to a period of strict training under the supervision of someone who can be trusted to make their life a living misery."
    Wellington gave a grim smile. “Make these ceremonial soldiers stoop, eh? Make them chew on humble pie till it chokes them?”
    "Exactly, my Lord. I have no doubt that they expect to be treated with respect and even privilege, so we must disappoint them. We'll have to give them a liaison officer, someone senior enough to smooth Lord Kiely's feathers and allay General Valverde's suspicions, but why not give them a drillmaster too?
    A tyrant, but someone shrewd enough to smoke out their secrets."
    Wellington smiled, then turned his horse back towards his aides. He knew exactly who Hogan had in mind. "I doubt our Lord Kiely will much like Mister
    Sharpe," the General said.
    “I cannot think they'll take to each other, my Lord, no.”
    “Where is Sharpe?”
    “He should be on his way to Vilar Formoso today, my Lord. He's an unhappy recruit to the Town Major's staff.”
    “So he'll be glad to be cumbered with Kiely instead then, won't he? And who do we appoint as liaison officer?”
    “Any emollient fool will do for that post, my Lord.”
    “Very well, Hogan, I'll find the fool and you arrange the rest.” The General touched his heels to his horse's flank. His aides, seeing the General ready to move, gathered their reins, then Wellington paused. “What does a man want with a common milking stool, Hogan?”
    “It keeps his arse dry during wet nights of sentry duty, my Lord.”
    "Clever thought, Hogan. Can't think why I didn't come up with the idea myself.
    Well done." Wellington wheeled his horse and spurred west away from the battle's litter.
    Hogan watched the General go, then grimaced. The French, he was sure, had wished trouble on him and now, with God's good help, he would wish some evil back on them. He would welcome the Real Companïa Irlandesa with honeyed words and extravagant promises, then give the bastards Richard Sharpe.
    The girl clung to Rifleman Perkins. She was hurt inside, she was bleeding and limping, but she had insisted on coming out of the hovel to watch the two
    Frenchmen die. Indeed she taunted the two men, spitting and screaming at them, then laughed as one of the two captives dropped to his knees and lifted his bound hands towards Sharpe. “He says he wasn't raping the girl, sir,” Harris translated.
    “So why were the bastard's trousers round his ankles?” Sharpe asked, then looked at his eight-man firing squad. Usually it was hard to find men willing to serve on firing squads, but there had been no difficulty this time.
    “Present!” Sharpe called.
    “Non, Monsieur, je vous prie! Monsieur!” the kneeling Frenchman called. Tears ran down his face.
    Eight riflemen lined their sights on the two Frenchmen. The other captive spat his derision and kept his head high. He was a handsome man, though his face was bruised from Harris's ministrations. The first man, realizing that his begging was to go unanswered, dropped his head and sobbed uncontrollably.
    “Maman,” he called pathetically, “Maman!” Brigadier General Loup, back in his fur-edged saddle, watched the executions from fifty yards away.
    Sharpe knew he had no legal right to shoot prisoners. He knew he might even be endangering his career by this act, but then he thought of the small, blood- blackened bodies of the raped and murdered children. “Fire!” he called.
    The eight rifles snapped. Smoke gusted to form an acrid, filthy-smelling cloud that obscured the skeins of blood splashing high on the hovel's stone wall as the two bodies were thrown hard back, then recoiled forward to