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

the snow. They watched,

and their stillness was evidence that Harper was their emissary and spokesman this morning.

Williams did not move. “Sergeant Williams!”
    “He’s not coming,” Harper said. “It’s very simple, sir. We’re not going south. We’ll go north

to the coast. We talked about it, so we did, and that’s where we’re going. You can come or stay.

It’s all the same to us.”
    Sharpe stood very still, disguising the fear that pricked his skin cold and churned in his

hungry belly. If he went north then he tacitly agreed with this mutiny, he accepted it, and with

that acceptance he lost every shred of his authority. Yet if he insisted on going south he was

inviting his own murder. “We’re going south.”
    “You don’t understand, sir.”
    “Oh, I do. I understand very well. You’ve decided to go north, but you’re scared to death that

I might go south on my own and reach the Lisbon garrison. Then I report you for disobedience and

mutiny. They’ll stand you by your own grave, Harper, and shoot you.”
    “You’ll never make it to the south, sir.”
    “What you mean, Harper, is that you’ve been sent here to make sure I don’t survive. A dead

officer can’t betray a mutiny, isn’t that right?”
    Sharpe could see from the Irishman’s expression that his words had been accurate. Harper

shifted uneasily. He was a huge man, four inches taller than Sharpe’s six feet, and with a broad

body that betrayed a massive strength. Doubtless the other Riflemen were content to let Harper do

their dirty work, and perhaps only he had the guts to do it. Or perhaps his nation’s hatred of

the English would make this murder into a pleasure.
    “Well?” Sharpe insisted. “Am I right?”
    Harper licked his lips, then put his hand to the braids hilt of his bayonet. “You can come

with us, sir.”
    Sharpe let the silence drag out, then, as though surrendering to the inevitable, he nodded

wearily. “I don’t seem to have much choice, do I?”
    “No, sir.” Harper’s voice betrayed relief that he would not have to kill the

officer.
    “Bring those things.” Sharpe nodded at his haversack and weapons.
    Harper, somewhat astonished to receive the peremptory order, nevertheless bent over to pick up

the haversack. He was still bending when he saw he had been tricked. Harper began to twist away

but, before he could protect himself, Sharpe had kicked him in the belly. It was a massive kick,

thumping deep into the hard flesh, and Sharpe followed it with a two-handed blow that slammed

down onto the back of Harper’s neck.
    Sharpe was amazed that the Irishman could even stand. Another man would have been winded and

stunned, but not him. He shook his head like a cornered boar, staggered backwards, then succeeded

in straightening himself to receive Sharpe’s next blows. The officer’s right fist slammed into

the big man’s belly, then his left followed.
    It was like hitting teak, but the blows hurt Harper. Not enough. The Irishman grunted, then

lurched forward. Sharpe ducked, hit again, then his head seemed to explode like a cannon firing

as a huge fist slammed into the side of his skull. He butted his head forward and felt it smash

on the other man’s face, then his arms and chest were being hugged in a great, rib-cracking

embrace.
    Sharpe raised his right foot and raked his heel down Harper’s shin. It must have hurt, but the

grip did not lessen and Sharpe had no weapon left but his teeth. He bit the Irishman’s cheek,

clamping his teeth down, tasting the blood, and the pain was enough to force Harper to release

his huge embrace to hit at the officer’s head.
    Sharpe was faster. He had grown up in a rookery where he had learned every trick of cheating

and brutality. He punched Harper’s throat, then slammed a boot into his groin. Any other man

would have been blubbing by now, shrivelling away from the pain, but Harper just seemed to