Sharpe's Eagle by Bernard Cornwell Read Free Book Online Page B

Sergeant."
    "It will be, sir, so it will. But better than that damned cold last winter."
    Sharpe grinned. "You managed to keep warm enough."
    "We did what we could, sir, we did what we could. You remember the Holy Father in the Friary?"

Sharpe nodded but there was no way to stop Patrick Harper once he was launched into a good story.

"He told us there was no drink in the place! No drink, and we were as cold as the sea in winter!

It was a terrible thing to hear a man of God lie so."
    "You taught him a lesson," Sarge Pendleton, the baby of the company, just seventeen and a

thief from the streets of Bristol, grinned over the road at the Irishman. Harper nodded. "We did,

lad. You remember? No priest runs out of drink and we found it. My God, a barrel big enough to

drown an army's thirst and it did us that night. And we tipped the Holy Father head first into

the wine to teach him that lying is a mortal sin." He laughed at the memory. "I could do with a

drop right now." He looked innocently round the men resting on the verges. "Would anyone have a

drop?"
    There was silence. Sharpe leaned back and hid his smile. He knew what Harper was doing and he

could guess what would happen next. The Rifles were one of the few Regiments that could pick and

choose its recruits, rejecting all but the best, but even so it suffered from the besetting sin

of the whole army: drunkenness. Sharpe guessed there were at least half a dozen bottles of wine

within a few paces, and Harper was going to find them. He heard the Sergeant get to his feet.

"Right! Inspection."
    "Sergeant!" That was Gataker, too fly for his own good. "You inspected the water bottles this

morning! You know we haven't got any."
    "I know you haven't any in your water bottles but that's not the same thing, is it?" There was

still no response! ,Lay your ammunition out! Now!"
    There were groans. Both the Portuguese and the Spanish would gladly sell wine to a man in

exchange for a handful of cartridges made with the British gunpowder, the finest in the world,

and it was a fair bet that if any man had less than his eighty rounds then Harper would find a

bottle hid deep in that man's pack. Sharpe heard the sound of rummaging and scuffling. He opened

his eyes to see seven bottles had magically appeared. Harper stood over them triumphantly. "We

share these out tonight. Well done, lads, I knew you wouldn't let me down." He turned to Sharpe.

"Do you want a cartridge count, sir?"
    "No, we'll get on." He knew the men could be trusted not to sell more than a handful of

cartridges. He looked at the huge Irishman. "How many cartridges would you have,

Sergeant."
    Harper's face was sublimely honest. "Eighty, sir."
    "Show me your powder horn."
    Harper smiled. "I thought you might like a drop of something tonight, sir?"
    "Let's get on, then." Sharpe grinned at Harper's discom-fiture. In addition to the eighty

rounds, twenty more than the rest of the army carried, Riflemen also carried a horn of fine

powder that made for better shooting when there was time to use it. "All right, Sergeant. Ten

minutes fast, then we'll march easy."
    At midday they found Major Forrest with his small, mounted advance party waving to them from a

stand of trees that grew between the road and the stream Harper had been hoping for. The Major

led the Riflemen to the spot he had chosen for them. "I thought, Sharpe, that it might be best if

you were some way from the Colonel?"
    "Don't worry, sir." Sharpe grinned at the nervous Major. "I think that's an excellent

idea."
    Forrest was still worried. He looked at Sharpe's men, who were already hacking at the

branches. "Sir Henry insists on fires being built in straight lines, Sharpe."
    Sharpe held up his hands. "Not a flame out of place, sir, I promise you."
    An hour later the Battalion arrived, and the men threw themselves onto the ground and rested

their heads on their packs. Some went to the stream and sat with