Sharpe's Rifles by Bernard Cornwell Read Free Book Online

of the shadow of death. “And who made that

decision, Sergeant?”
    “We all did, sir.”
    “Since when, Sergeant, has this army been a…“ Sharpe paused, trying to remember the word he

had once heard at a mess dinner. ”A democracy?“
    Williams had never heard the word. “A what, sir?”
    Sharpe could not explain what it meant, so tried a different approach. “Since when did

Sergeants outrank Lieutenants?”
    “It isn’t that, sir.” Williams was embarrassed.
    “Then what is it?”
    The Sergeant hesitated, but he was being watched by men who clustered in the barn’s gaping

entrance, and under their critical gaze he found courage and volubility. “It’s madness, sir.

That’s what it is. We can’t go south in this weather! We’ll starve! And we don’t even know if

there’s still a garrison at Lisbon.”
    “That’s true, we don’t.”
    “So we’ll go north, sir.” Williams said it confidingly, as though he did Sharpe a great favour

by the suggestion.
    “There are ports up there, sir, and we’ll find a boat. I mean the Navy’s still off the coast,

sir. They’ll find us.”
    “How do you know the Navy’s there?”
    Williams shrugged modestly. “It isn’t me who knows, sir.”
    “Harper?” Sharpe guessed.
    “Harps! Lord no, sir. He’s just a bog-Paddy, isn’t he? He wouldn’t know nothing, sir. No, it’s

Rifleman Tongue, sir. He’s a clever man. He can read. It was the drink that did him in, sir, you

see. Only the drink. But he’s an educated man, sir, and he told us, see, how the Navy’s off the

coast, sir, and how we can go north and find a boat.” Williams, encouraged by Sharpe’s silence,

gestured towards the steep northern hills. “It can’t be far, sir, not to the coast. Maybe three

days? Four?”
    Sharpe walked a few paces further from the barn. The snow was about four inches thick, though

it had drifted into deeper tracts where the ground was hollowed. It was not too deep for

marching, which was all Sharpe cared about this morning. The clouds were beginning to mist the

sun as Sharpe glanced into the Sergeant’s face. “Has it occurred to you, Sergeant, that the

French are invading this country from the north and east?”
    “Are they, sir?”
    “And that if we go north, we’re likely to march straight into them? Or is that what you want?

You were quite ready to surrender yesterday.”
    “We might have to be a bit clever, sir. Dodge about a bit.” Williams made the matter of

avoiding the French sound like a child’s game of hide and seek.
    Sharpe raised his voice so that every man could hear him. “We’re going south, Sergeant. We’ll

head down this valley today and find shelter tonight. After that we turn south. We leave in one

hour.”
    “Sir…“
    “One hour, Sergeant! So if you wish to dig a grave for Captain Murray, start now. And if you

wish to disobey me, Sergeant Williams, then make the grave large enough for yourself as well. Do

you understand me?”
    Williams paused, wanting to offer defiance, but he quailed before Sharpe’s gaze. There was a

moment of tension when authority trembled in the balance, then he nodded acceptance. “Yes,

sir.”
    “Then get on with it.”
    Sharpe turned away. He was shaking inside. He had sounded calm enough giving Williams his

parting orders, but he was not at all certain those orders would be obeyed. These men had no

habit of obeying Lieutenant Sharpe. They were cold, far from home, surrounded by the enemy, and

convinced that a journey north would take them to safety far faster than a journey to the south.

They knew their own army had been outmanoeuvred and driven into retreat, and they had seen the

remnants of the Spanish armies that had been similarly broken and scattered. The French spread

victorious across the land, and these Riflemen were bereft and frightened.
    Sharpe was also frightened. These men could call the bluff of his tenuous authority with a