Read Sharpe's Rifles for Free Online

argument. “At least the crapauds

have got surgeons, sir.”
    “In one hour,” Sharpe’s voice implied that he had not even heard Williams’s words, Til inspect

every man’s rifle. Make sure they’re ready.“
    Williams stared belligerently at the officer, but could not summon the courage necessary for

disobedience. He nodded curtly and turned away.
    Captain Murray was propped against a pile of packs inside the barn. He offered Sharpe a feeble

smile. “What will you do?”
    “Sergeant Williams thinks I should take you to a French surgeon.”
    Murray grimaced. “I asked what you wanted to do.”
    Sharpe sat beside the Captain. “Rejoin.”
    Murray nodded. He was cradling a mug of tea, a precious gift from one of the Riflemen who had

hoarded the leaves in the bottom of his ammunition pouch. “You can leave me here.”
    “I can’t…“
    “I’m dying.” Murray made a deprecatory shrug to show that he wanted no sympathy. His wound was

not bleeding overmuch, but the Captain’s belly was swelling blue to show that there was bleeding

inside. He nodded towards the other three badly wounded men, all of them with great sword cuts on

their faces or chests. “Leave them too. Where will you go? The coast?”
    Sharpe shook his head. “We’ll never catch the army now.”
    “Probably not.” Murray closed his eyes.
    Sharpe waited. It had started to rain again and a leak in the stone roof dripped insistently

into the fire. He was thinking of his options. The most inviting choice was to attempt to follow

Sir John Moore’s army, but they were retreating so fast, and the French now controlled the road

that Sharpe must take, and thus he knew he must resist that temptation for it would only lead

into captivity. Instead he must go south. Sir John had marched from Lisbon, and a few troops had

been left to protect the Portuguese capital, and perhaps that garrison still existed and Sharpe

could find it. “How far is Lisbon?” he asked Murray.
    The Captain opened his eyes and shrugged. “God knows. Four? Five hundred miles?” He flinched

from a stab of pain. “It’s probably nearer six hundred on these roads. D’you think we’ve still

got troops there?”
    “We can at least find a ship.”
    “If the French don’t get there first. What about Vigo?”
    “The French are more likely to be there than Lisbon.”
    “True.” The Light Division had been sent to Vigo on a more southerly road. Only a few light

troops, like these Riflemen, had been retained to protect Sir John Moore’s retreat. “Maybe Lisbon

would be best.” Murray looked past Sharpe and saw how the men were brushing and oiling their

rifle locks. He sighed. “Don’t be too hard on them.”
    “I’m not.” Sharpe was instantly defensive.
    Murray’s face flickered with a smile. “Were you ever commanded by an officer from the

ranks?”
    Sharpe, smelling criticism, bridled for an instant, then realized that Murray was trying to be

helpful. “No, sir, never.”
    “The men don’t like it. Stupid, really. They believe officers are born, not made.” Murray

paused to take a breath that made him shudder with pain. He saw Sharpe about to enjoin him to

silence, but shook his head. “I haven’t got much time. I might as well use what there is. Do you

think I’m being damnably rude?”
    “No, sir.”
    Murray paused to sip at his tea. “They’re good lads.”
    “Yes.”
    “But they have an odd sense of what’s proper. They expect officers to be different, you see.

They want them to be privileged. Officers are men who choose to fight, they aren’t forced to it

by poverty. Do you understand that?”
    “Yes.”
    “They think you’re really one of them; one of the damned, and they want their officers to be

touched by something more than that.” Murray shook his head sadly. “It isn’t very good advice, is

it?”
    “It’s very good,” Sharpe lied.
    The wind sighed at the corners of the stone