Sharpe’s Christmas. Bernard Cornwell
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shoot the poor beast first. It’s kinder.”
Sharpe walked closer to the animal. It had large brown sad eyes that watched Sharpe with an expression of gentle fatalism. Sharpe cocked the rifle and the bullock blinked at the strange noise. Sharpe began to raise the weapon, then lowered it again. “I can’t do it, Pat.”
“One shot, sir. Imagine it’s a Frenchman.”
Sharpe lifted the rifle, cocked it and aimed straight between the bullock’s eyes. The animal still gazed at him. “You do it,” Sharpe said to Harper, lowering the gun.
“With this?” Harper held up the volley gun. “I’ll blow its bloody head off!”
“We don’t want its head, do we?” Sharpe said. “Just its rumps and suet. So go on, do it.”
“It’s not very accurate, sir, not a volley gun. It’s grand for killing Frogs, so it is, but not for slaughtering cattle. And I like the brains, I do. My ma used to fry them in a bit of butter and it tasted lovely. I don’t want to spatter brains across half of Spain. Best use your rifle.”
“So have the rifle,” Sharpe said, offering the weapon.
Harper gazed at the rifle for a second, but did not take it. “The thing is, sir,” the huge Irishman said, “that I drank a drop too much last night. My hands are shaky, see? Best that you do it, sir.”
Sharpe hesitated. The Light Company had set their hearts on a proper Christmas dinner: bloody roast beef, gravy thick enough to choke a rat and a brandy-soaked pudding clogged with plums and suet. “It’s daft, isn’t it?” he said. “I wouldn’t think twice if it was a Frog. It’s only a bloody cow.”
“It’s a bullock, sir.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You can’t milk this one, sir.”
“Right,” Sharpe said, and aimed the rifle again. “Just hold still,” he ordered the bullock, then crept a half pace closer so that the gun’s blackened muzzle was only a few inches from the coarse black hair between the beast’s sad eyes. “I shot a tiger once,” he said.
“Did you now, sir?” Harper said, without showing much interest. “So just imagine that beast is a tiger and shoot it.”
Sharpe gazed into the beast’s eyes. He had put wounded horses out of their misery and had shot enough hares, rabbits and foxes in his time, but somehow he could not squeeze the trigger, and then he was saved from having to shoot at all because a small, high and eager voice bailed him from the field’s far side. “Mister Sharpe, sir! Mister Sharpe!”
Sharpe lowered the rifle’s cock, then turned to see Ensign Charles Nicholls running over the grass. Nicholls had only just arrived in Spain and went everywhere at a tumultuous pace as if he feared the war might get away from him. “Slow down, Mister Nicholls,” Sharpe said.
“Yes, sir, I will, sir,” Ensign Nicholls said, not slowing his pace at all. “It’s Colonel Hogan, sir,” he said as he reached Sharpe, “he wants you, sir. He says it’s the Frogs, sir, and he says we’ve got to stop some Frogs, sir, and it’s urgent.”
Sharpe slung the rifle on his shoulder. “We’ll do this later, Sergeant Major,” he said.
“Yes, sir, of course we will.”
The bullock watched the men go, then lowered its head to the grass. “Were you going to shoot it, sir?” Nicholls asked excitedly.
“What do you think I was going to do?” Sharpe asked the boy. “Strangle it?”
“I couldn’t shoot one, sir,” Nicholls admitted. “I’d feel too sorry for it.” He gazed at Sharpe and Harper in admiration, and no wonder, for there were no two men in Wellington’s army more admired or feared. It had been Sharpe and Harper who had taken the French Eagle at Talavera, who had stormed through the breach of blood at Badajoz and cut the great road at the rout of Vitoria, and Nicholls hardly dared believe he was in their batallion. “You think we’re going to fight, sir?” he asked eagerly.
“I hope not,” Sharpe said.
“No, sir?” Nicholls sounded disappointed.
“It’s Christmas in three days,” Sharpe said, “would you want to die at Christmas?”
“I don’t suppose I would, sir.” Nicholls admitted.
The Ensign was seventeen, but looked fourteen. He wore a second-hand uniform coat on which his mother had sewn loops of tarnished gold lace, then turned up the yellow-tipped sleeves so that they did not hang down over his hands. “I was worried,” Nicholls had explained to Sharpe when he arrived at the batallion just a week before, “that I would miss the war. Awful bad luck to miss a war.”
“Sounds like good luck to me.”
“No, sir! A fellow must do his duty,” Nicholls had said earnestly, and the Ensign did try very hard to do his duty and was never discouraged when the veterans of the regiment laughed at his eagerness. He was, Sharpe thought, like a puppy. Wet nose, tail up and raring to bare his milk teeth at the enemy. But not at Christmas, Sharpe thought, not at Christmas, and so he hoped Hogan was wrong and that the Frogs were not moving, for Christmas was no time to be killing.
“You probably won’t have to fight,” Colonel Hogan said, then sneezed violently. He pummelled his nose with a giant red handkerchief, then blew scraps of snuff from the map he had spread on the farmhouse table of his billet. “It could be rumour, Richard, nothing but rumour. Did you murder your bullock now?”
“Never got round to it, sir. And how did you know we were going to shoot one anyway?”
“I am the Peer’s Chief of Intelligence,” Hogan said grandly, “and I know everything. Or almost everything. What I don’t know, Richard, is whether these damned Frogs are going to use the east road or the west, so Wellington insists we have to cover both. Or rather the Spaniards will block the east road, and you and your merry men will guard the west. Here.” He stabbed a finger down and Sharpe peered at the map to see a tiny mark close to the French frontier and next to it, in Hogan’s extravagant handwriting, the name Irati. “You’ll like Irati,” Colonel Hogan said. “It’s a nothing place, Richard. Hovels and misery, that’s all it is and all it ever will be, but that’s where you’re going for Christmas.”
Because maybe the French were going there. Wellington’s victory at Vitoria had thrown their armies out of Spain, but a handful of French forts still remained south of the frontier and Hogan’s agents had learned that the garrison at Ochagavia was about to attempt an escape back into France. The garrison planned to march at Christmas in the hope that their enemies would be too bloated with beef and wine to fight, but Hogan had got wind of their plans and was now setting his snares on the only two routes that the escaping French could use. One, the eastern road, was by far the easier, for it entered France through a low pass, and Hogan guessed it was that route that the French would choose, but there was a second road, a tight, hard, steep road, and that had to be blocked as well and so the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers, Sharpe’s regiment, would climb into the hills and spend their Christmas at a place of hovels and misery called Irati.
“There’re over a thousand men in the fort at Ochagavia,” Hogan told Sharpe, “and we don’t want Boney to get those men back, Richard. You have to stop them.”
“If they use the western road, sir.”
“Which they probably won’t,” Hogan said comfortingly, “but if they do, Richard, stop them. Kill me some Frogs for Christmas. That’s why you joined the army, isn’t it? To kill Frogs? So go and do it. I want you out of here in an hour.”
In truth Richard Sharpe had not joined the army to kill Frogs. He had joined because he was hungry and on the run from the constables, and because once a man had taken the shilling and pulled on the King’s coat he was reckoned safe from the law.