Sharpe's Battle Part 21

And thinking of mutiny.

CHAPTER 4.

Next morning, just after dawn, a delegation discovered Sharpe at the deserted northern end of the fort. The sun was slicing across the valley to gild the small mist that sifted above the stream where Sharpe was watching a harrier float effortlessly in the light wind with its gaze trained down on the hillside. The eight men of the delegation halted awkwardly behind Sharpe who, after one sour glance at their serious faces, looked back to the valley.

"There's some rabbits down there," Sharpe said to no one in particular, "and that daft bird keeps losing them in the mist."

"He won't go hungry for long though," Harper said, "I've never seen a hawk dafter than a rabbit." The greenjacket Sergeant was the only delegate from

Sharpe's company: the other men were all from the Real Compania Irlandesa.

"It's a nice morning," Harper said, sounding uncharacteristically nervous. He plainly believed that either Father Sarsfield, Captain Donaju or Captain Lacy should broach the delicate subject that had caused this delegation to seek

Sharpe out, but the chaplain and the two embarra.s.sed officers were silent. "A grand morning," Harper said, breaking the silence again.

"Is it?" Sharpe responded. He had been standing on a merlon beside a gun embrasure, but now he jumped down to the firing platform and from there into the bed of the dry ditch. Years of rainfall had eroded the glacis and filled the ditch, just as frost had degraded and crumbled the stonework of the ramparts. "I've seen hovels built better than this," Sharpe said. He kicked at the wall's base and one of the larger stones shifted perceptibly. "There's no b.l.o.o.d.y mortar there!" he said.

"There wasn't enough water in the mix," Harper explained. He took a deep breath, then, realizing that his companions would not speak up, took the plunge himself. "We wanted to see you, sir. It's important, sir."

Sharpe clambered back up to the ramparts and brushed his hands together. "Is it about the new muskets?"

"No, sir. The muskets are just grand, sir."

"The training?"

"No, sir."

"Then the man you want to see is Colonel Runciman," Sharpe said curtly. "Call him "General" and he'll give you anything." Sharpe was deliberately dissembling. He knew exactly why the delegation was here, but he had small appet.i.te for their worries. "Talk to Runciman after breakfast and he'll be in a good enough mood," he said.

"We've spoken to the Colonel," Captain Donaju spoke at last, "and the Colonel said we should speak with you."

Father Sarsfield smiled. "I think we knew he would say that, Captain, when we approached him. I don't think Colonel Runciman is particularly sympathetic to the problems of Ireland."

Sharpe looked from Sarsfield to Donaju, from Donaju to Lacy, then from Lacy to the sullen faces of the four rank and file guardsmen. "So it's about Ireland, is it?" Sharpe said. "Well, go on. I haven't got any other problems to solve today."

The chaplain ignored the sarcasm, offering Sharpe a folded newspaper instead.

"It is about that, Captain Sharpe," Sarsfield said respectfully.

Sharpe took the paper which, to his surprise, came from Philadelphia. The front page was a dense ma.s.s of black type: lists of ships arriving or departing from the city wharves; news from Europe; reports of Congress and tales of Indian atrocities suffered by settlers in the western territories.

"It's at the bottom of the page," Donaju offered.

" 'The Melancholy Effects of Intemperance'?" Sharpe read a headline aloud.

"No, Sharpe. Just before that," Donaju said, and Sharpe sighed as he read the words "New Ma.s.sacres in Ireland". What followed was a more lurid version of the tale Runciman had already told Sharpe: a catalogue of rape and slaughter, of innocent children cut down by English dragoons and of praying women dragged out of houses by drink-crazed grenadiers. The newspaper claimed that the ghosts of Cromwell's troopers had come back to life to turn Ireland into a blood-drenched misery again. Ireland, the English government had announced, would be pacified once and for all, and the newspaper commented that the

English were choosing to make that pacification when so many Irishmen were fighting against France in the King's army in Portugal. Sharpe read the piece through twice. "What did Lord Kiely say?" he asked Father Sarsfield, not because he cared one fig what Kiely thought, but the question bought him a few seconds while he thought how to respond. He also wanted to encourage Sarsfield to do the delegation's talking, for the Real Compania Irlandesa's chaplain had struck Sharpe as a friendly, sensible and cool-headed man and if he could get the priest on his side then he reckoned the rest of the company would follow.

"His Lordship hasn't seen the newspaper," Sarsfield said. "He has gone hunting with the Dona Juanita."

Sharpe handed the paper back to the priest. "Well, I've seen the newspaper," he said, "and I can tell you it's b.l.o.o.d.y rubbish." One of the guardsmen stirred indignantly, then stiffened when Sharpe gave him a threatening look.

"It's a fairy tale for idiots," Sharpe said provocatively, "pure b.l.o.o.d.y make- believe."

"How do you know?" Donaju asked resentfully.

"Because if there was trouble in Ireland, Captain, we'd have heard about it before the Americans. And since when did the Americans have a good word to say about the British?"

"But we have heard about it," Captain Lacy intervened. Lacy was a stocky young man with a pugnacious demeanour and scarred knuckles. "There've been rumours,"

Lacy insisted.

"There have too," Harper added loyally.

Sharpe looked at his friend. "Oh, Christ," he said as he realized just how hurt Harper was, though he also realized that Harper must have come to him hoping that the stories were not true. If Harper had wanted a fight he would not have chosen Sharpe, but some other representative of the enemy race. "Oh,

Christ," Sharpe swore again. He was plagued with more than enough problems already. The Real Compania Irlandesa had been promised pay and given none; every time it rained the old barracks ran with damp; the food in the fort was dreadful and the only well provided nothing but a trickle of bitter water.

Now, on top of those problems and the added threat of Loup's vengeance, there was this sudden menace of an Irish mutiny. "Give me back the newspaper,

Father," Sharpe said to the chaplain, then stabbed a dirty fingernail at the date printed at the top of the sheet. "When was this published?" He showed the date to Sarsfield.

"A month ago," the priest said.

"So?" Lacy asked belligerently.

"So how many b.l.o.o.d.y drafts have arrived from Ireland in the last month?"

Sharpe asked, his voice as scornful as it was forceful. "Ten? Fifteen? And not one of those men thought to tell us about his sister being raped or his mother being b.u.g.g.e.red witless by some dragoon? Yet suddenly some b.l.o.o.d.y American newspaper knows all about it?" Sharpe had addressed his words to Harper more than to the others, for Harper alone could be expected to know how frequently replacement drafts arrived from Ireland. "Come on, Pat! It doesn't make b.l.o.o.d.y sense, and if you don't believe me then I'll give you a pa.s.s and you can go down to the main camps and find some newly arrived Irishmen and ask them for news of home. Maybe you'll believe them if you don't believe me."

Harper looked at the date on the paper, thought about Sharpe's words, and nodded reluctantly. "It doesn't make sense, sir, you're right. But not everything in this world needs to make sense."

"Of course it b.l.o.o.d.y does," Sharpe snapped. "That's how you and I live. We're practical men, Pat, not b.l.o.o.d.y dreamers! We believe in the Baker rifle, the

Tower musket and twenty-three inches of bayonet. You can leave superst.i.tions to women and children, and these things"-he slapped the newspaper - "are worse than superst.i.tions. They're downright lies!" He looked at Donaju. "Your job,

Captain, is to go to your men and tell them that they're lies. And if you don't believe me then you ride down to the camps. Go to the Connaught Rangers and ask their new recruits. Go to the Inniskillings. Go wherever you like, but be back here by dusk. And in the meantime, Captain, tell your men they've got a full day of musket training. Loading and firing till their shoulders are raw meat. Is that clear?"

The men from the Real Compania Irlandesa nodded reluctantly. Sharpe had won the argument, at least until the evening when Donaju returned from his reconnaissance. Father Sarsfield took the paper from Sharpe. "Are you saying this is a forgery?" the priest asked.

"How would I know, Father? I'm just saying it isn't true. Where did you get it?"

Sarsfield shrugged. "They're scattered throughout the army, Sharpe."

"And when did you and I ever see a newspaper from America, Pat?" Sharpe asked

Harper. "And funny, isn't it, that the first one we ever see is all about