Sharpe's Rifles by Bernard Cornwell Read Free Book Online Page A

terrifying ease. Worse, if they perceived him as a threat to their survival, then he could only

expect a blade in the back. His name would be recorded as an officer who had died in the debacle

of Sir John Moore’s retreat, or perhaps his death would not even be noticed by anyone for he had

no family. He was not even sure he had friends any more, for when a man was lifted from the ranks

into the officers’ mess he left his friends far behind.
    Sharpe supposed he should turn back to impose his will on the makeshift company, but he was

too shaken, and unwilling to face their resentment. He persuaded himself that he had a useful

task to perform in the ruined farmhouse where, with a horrid feeling that he evaded his real

duty, he took out his telescope.
    Lieutenant Richard Sharpe was not a wealthy man. His uniform was no better than those of the

men he led, except that his threadbare officer’s trousers had silver buttons down their seams.

His boots were as ragged, his rations as poor, and his weapons as battered as any of the other

Riflemen’s equipment. Yet he possessed one object of value and beauty.
    It was the telescope; a beautiful instrument made by Matthew Burge in London and presented to

Sergeant Richard Sharpe by General Sir Arthur Wellesley. There was a brass plate recording the

date of the battle in India where Sharpe, a redcoat then, had saved the General’s life. That act

had also brought a battlefield commission and, staring through the glass, he now resented that

commission. It had made him a man apart, an enemy to his own kind. There had been a time when men

crowded about Richard Sharpe’s campfire, and sought Richard Sharpe’s approval, but no

longer.
    Sharpe gazed down the valley to where, in the dusk’s snowstorm, he thought he had seen the

grey smear of smoke from a village’s fires. Now, through the finely ground lenses, he saw the

stone buildings and small high arch of a church’s bell tower. So there was a village just a few

hours’ march away and, however poor, it would have some hoarded food; grain and beans would be

buried in wax-sealed pots and hams hanging in chimneys. The thought of food was suddenly poignant

and overwhelming.
    He edged the telescope right, scanning the glaring brilliance of the snow. A tree hung with

icicles skidded across the lens. A sudden movement made Sharpe stop the slewing glass, but it was

only a raven flapping black against a white hillside. Behind the raven a churned line of

footsteps showed where men had slithered down the hill into dead ground.
    Sharpe stared. The tracks were fresh. Why had the picquets not raised an alarm? He moved the

glass to look at the shallow trench in the snow that marked the line of the goat track and he saw

that the picquets were gone. He swore silently. The men were already in mutiny. God damn them! He

slammed the tubes of the spyglass shut, stood, and turned.
    He turned to see Rifleman Harper standing in the hovel’s western doorway. He must have

approached with a catlike stealth, for Sharpe had heard nothing. “We’re not going south,” the

Irishman said flatly. He seemed somewhat startled that Sharpe had moved so suddenly but his voice

was implacable.
    “I don’t give a damn what you think. Just get out and get ready.”
    “No.”
    Sharpe laid the telescope on his haversack that he had placed with his new sword and battered

rifle on the window-sill of the ruined house. There was a choice now. He could reason and cajole,

persuade and plead, or he could exercise the authority of his rank. He was too cold and too

hungry to adopt the laborious course, and so he fell back on rank. “You’re under arrest,

Rifleman.”
    Harper ignored the words. “We’re not going, sir, and that’s that.”
    “Sergeant Williams!” Sharpe shouted through the door of the hovel that faced towards the barn.

The Riflemen stood in an arc about the shallow grave they had scooped in