Two musicians, doing their battlefield job offending the wounded, came and crouched by the injured Dale. They lifted him clumsily onto a stretcher. Sharpe stopped one of them as they were about to go. “Where’s the Hospital?”
“Irish College, sir,”
“Look after him.”
The man shrugged. “Yes, sir.”
Poor bloody Dale, Sharpe thought, to be betrayed in his first battle. If he survived he would be invalided out of the army. His broken body, good for nothing, would be sent to Lisbon and there he would have to rot on the quays until the bureaucrats made sure he had accounted for all his equipment. Anything missing would be charged to the balance of his miserable wages and only when the account was balanced would he be put onto a foul transport and shipped to an English quayside. There he was left, the army’s obligation discharged, though if he was lucky he might be given a travel document that promised to reimburse any parish overseer who fed him while he travelled to his home. Usually the overseers ignored the paper and kicked the invalid out of their jurisdiction with an order to go and beg somewhere else. Dale might be better offdead than face all that.
Lieutenant Price, wary of Sharpe’s anger, saluted. “Dismiss, sir?”
“Dismiss and get drunk, Lieutenant.”
Price grinned with relief. “Yes, sir. Morning parade?”
“Late one. Nine o’clock.”
Harper could still hear the suppressed rage in Sharpe, but he was one man who did not fear the Captain’s anger. He nodded at Sharpe’s uniform. “Not planning on any formal dinner tonight, sir?”
The uniform was soaked with Dale’s blood, dark against the green, and Sharpe cursed. He brushed at it uselessly. He had planned on going to the Palacio Casares and then he thought how La Marquesa had wanted a battle, and had been given one, and now she could see how a real soldier looked instead of the dripping confections of gold and silver who called themselves fighting men. Harper’s uniform was bloody, too, but Harper had Isabella waiting for him and suddenly Sharpe was tired of being alone and he wanted the golden haired woman and his anger was such that he would use it to take him into her palace and see what happened. He looked at the Irish Sergeant. „I’ll see you in the morning.“
“Yes, sir.”
Harper watched Sharpe walk away and let out a deep breath. “Someone’s in for trouble.”
Lieutenant Price glanced at the huge Sergeant. “Should we go with him?”
“No, sir. I think he fancies a fight. That Lieutenant didn’t give him one so he’s going to look for another one.” Harper grinned. “He’ll be back in a couple of hours, sir. Just let him cool off.” Harper raised his canteen to Price and shrugged. “Here’s to a happy night, sir. A happy, bloody night.”
CHAPTER 8
Sharpe’s resolution to go to La Marquesa waned as he neared the Palacio Casares. Yet he had said to Harper that he would not be back until morning and he could not face slinking back early with his tail between his legs and so he walked on. Yet with every step he worried more about the state of his uniform.
The streets were still filled with men from the Light Companies who waited for dismissal while the final rosters were taken. The wounded, on stretchers and carts, were being carried to the surgeons’ knives and many of the dead were still on the wasteland. The unwounded living stood with bitter, angry expression and the citizens of Salamanca hurried by in the shadows, averting their eyes, hoping the soldiers would not vent their anger on helpless civilians.
The arch gates of the Palacio Casares were wide open, flickering with lights cast by resin torches and Sharpe, like the fearful citizens, kept to the shadows on the far side of the street. He leaned against the wall and pulled his blood-soaked jacket straight. He did up the top buttons and tried to force the high collar, that had long lost its stiffness, into a decent shape round his neck. He wanted to see her.
Candles showed in the hallway. Their light was splintered by the fountain in the courtyard centre. The raised pool was surrounded by the silhouettes of British uniforms, officers’ uniforms, and while most seemed to be taking the air, or smoking a cigar in the night’s coolness, others were puking helplessly on the flagstones. The defeat, it seemed, had not affected the celebration. The courtyard was surrounded by light, the once masked windows ablaze with candles, and music came gently across the street. It was not the spirited thump of martial music, nor the full-bellied sound of soldiers’ taverns, but the thin, precious tinkle of rich peoples’ music. Music as expensive as a crystal chandelier, and Sharpe knew that if he walked over the street, through the tall arch, and over to the hallway he would feel as foreign and strange as if he had been plunged into the court of the King of Tartary. The house was lit like a festival, the rich were at play, and the dead who lay shredded by the canister just a quarter mile away might never have existed.
“Richard! By the moving bowels of the living saints! Is that you?” Lord Spears was in the gateway. In one hand was a cigar that beckoned to him. “Richard Sharpe! Come here, you dog!”
Sharpe smiled, despite his mood, and crossed the street. “My lord.”
“Will you stop ”my lording“ me? You sound like a damned shop-keeper! My friends call me Jack, my enemies what they like. Are you coming in? You’re invited. Not that it makes any difference, every damned mother’s son in town is here.”
Sharpe gestured at his uniform. “I’m hardly in a fit state.”
“Christ! What’s a fit state? I’m drunk as an Archbishop, wits gone to the four winds.” Spears was, Sharpe could see, slightly unsteady. The cavalryman linked his free arm, the cigar clenched between his teeth, into Sharpe’s and steered the Rifleman into the courtyard. “Let’s have a look at you.” He stopped Sharpe in the light, turned him, and looked him up and down. “You should change your tailor, Richard, the man’s robbing you blind!” He grinned. “Bit of blood, that’s all. Come here!” He tossed the cigar into the pool and scooped water with his good hand, throwing it on Sharpe’s uniform and rubbing it down. “How was it out there?”
“Bloody.”
“So I see!” He was on one knee, slapping at Sharpe’s overalls. “It cost me a heavy purse.”
“How?”
Spears looked up and grinned. “I had a hundred on you getting into the fort before midnight. Lost it.”
“Dollars?”
Spears stood up and inspected his handiwork. “Spanish dollars, Richard? I’m a gentleman. Guineas, you fool.”
“You haven’t got a hundred guineas.”
Lord Spears shrugged. “Fellow has to keep up a decent appearance. If they knew I was as broke as a virgin whore they’d cut me dead.”
“Are you?”
Spears nodded. “I am, I am. And I don’t even have her remedy for making good the loss.” He cocked his head to one side, still inspecting Sharpe. “Not bad, Richard, not bad. The weapons add a touch of roughness to the ensemble, but I think we can improve you.” He looked round the courtyard and saw Sir Robin Callard, blind drunk, collapsed against a flower tub. Spears grinned. “Robin bloody Callard, ’pon my soul. He never could take his drink.“ He led the way towards the collapsed staff officer. ”I was at school with this poxy little swine. He used to wet his bed.“ Spears bent down and tugged at Callard. ”Robin? Sweet Robin?“
Callard gagged, threw himself forward, and Spears pushed his head down between his knees. Once he had him bent double he plucked the fur-trimmed cavalry pelisse from the shoulders, then tugged at the cravat. It was pinned. Callard’s head jerked and lolled, he made a drunken protest, but Spears banged the head down again, tugged harder, and the cravat came free. Spears came back to Sharpe. “Here. Wear these.”