Sharpe 18 - Sharpe's Siege by Bernard Cornwell Read Free Book Online Page A

French coast, often stopped the fishing boats that worked close inshore. Today then, and every day for the next week, only those fishermen whom Henri Lassan trusted would be allowed past the guns of the Teste de Buch. They would be encouraged to take English gold, and encouraged to drink a glass of dark rum in English cabins, and encouraged to sell lobsters to blue-coated Englishmen, and in return they would tell a plausible lie or two on behalf of Henri Lassan.
    Then, with a roar from these great, passive guns that waited for employment, Henri Lassan would strike a blow for France.
    He smiled, pleased with his notion, and went to breakfast.
    Before dinner Sharpe faced a miserable and unhappy few moments. “The answer,” he repeated, “is no.”
    Regimental Sergeant Major Patrick Harper stood in the small parlour of Jane's lodgings and twisted his wet shako in thick, strong fingers. “I talked with Mr d'Alembord, sir, so I did, and he said I could come. I mean we're only sitting around like washer-women in a bloody drought, so we are.”
    “There's a new colonel coming, Patrick. He needs his RSM.”
    Harper frowned. “Needs his major, too.”
    “He can't lose both of us.” Sharpe did not have the power to deny the Prince of Wales's Own Volunteers the services of this massive Irishman. “And if you come, Patrick, the new man will only appoint a new RSM. You wouldn't want that.”
    Harper frowned. “I'd rather be in a scrap if one's going, sir, and Mr Frederickson wouldn't take me amiss, nor would he.”
    Sharpe could not be persuaded. “No.”
    The huge man, four inches taller than Sharpe's six feet, grinned. “I could take sick leave, sir, so I could.”
    “You have to be sick first.”
    “But I am!” Harper pointed to his mouth. “I've got a toothache something desperate, sir. Here!” He opened his mouth, jabbed with his finger, and Sharpe saw that Harper did indeed have a reddened and swollen upper gum.
    “Does it hurt?”
    “It's dreadful, so it is!” Harper, sensing a chink in Sharpe's armour, became enthusiastic about his pain. “It's more of a throb, sir. On and off, on and off, like a great drumbeat in your skull. Desperate, it is!”
    “Then see a surgeon tonight,” Sharpe said unsympathetically, “and have it pulled. Then get back to Battalion where you belong.”
    Harper's face dropped. “Truly, sir? I can't come?”
    Sharpe sighed. “I'd rather have you along, RSM, than any dozen other men.” That was true a thousand times over. Sharpe knew of no man he would rather fight beside, but it could not be at Arcachon. “I'm sorry, Patrick. Besides you're a father now. You should take care.” Harper's Spanish wife, just a month before, had given birth to a son that had been christened Richard Patricio Augustine Harper. Sharpe had found the choice of Richard an embarrassment, but Jane had been delighted when Harper sought permission to use the name. “And I'm doing you a favour, RSM,” Sharpe went on.
    “How would that be, sir?”
    “Because your son will still have a father in two weeks.” Sharpe was seeing that black, sheer, wet wall and the image of it made his voice savage. Then he turned as the door opened. “My dear.”
    Jane, beautiful in a blue silken dress, smiled delightedly at Harper. “Sergeant Major! How's the baby?”
    “Just grand, ma'am!” Harper had formed a firm alliance with Mrs Sharpe that seemed aimed at subverting Major Sharpe's authority. “And Isabella thanks you for the linen.”
    “You've got toothache!” Jane frowned with concern. “Your cheek's swollen.”
    Harper blushed. “It's only a wee ache, ma'am, nothing at all!”
    “You must have oil of cloves! There's some in the kitchen. Come along!”
    The oil of cloves was discovered and Harper sent, disconsolate, into the night.
    “He can't come,” Sharpe said after dinner, when he and Jane walked back alone through the town.
    “Poor Patrick.” Jane insisted on stopping at Hogan's lodgings, but there