This novel is a work of fiction. The incidents and some of the characters portrayed in it, while based on real historical events and figures, are the work of the authorâs imagination.
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2004
Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 2004
Map © Ken Lewis
Bernard Cornwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780007120147
Ebook Edition © MARCH 2012 ISBN: 9780007338658 Version: 2017-05-06
Mister Sharpe was in a bad mood. A filthy mood. He was looking for trouble in Sergeant Harperâs opinion, and Harper was rarely wrong about Captain Sharpe, and Sergeant Harper knew well enough not to engage his Captain in conversation when Sharpe was in such a black temper, but on the other hand Harper liked to live dangerously. âI see your uniformâs been mended, sir,â he said cheerily.
Sharpe ignored the comment. He just marched on, climbing the bare Portuguese slope under the searing sun. It was September 1810, almost autumn, yet the heat of late summer hammered the landscape like a furnace. At the top of the hill, another mile or so ahead of Sharpe, stood a barn-like stone building next to a gaunt telegraph station. The station was a black timber scaffolding supporting a high mast from which signalling arms hung motionless in the afternoonâs heat.
âItâs a rare nice piece of stitching on that jacket,â Harper went on, sounding as though he did not have a care in the world, âand I can tell you didnât do it yourself. It looks like a womanâs work, so it does?â He inflected the last three words as a question.
Sharpe still said nothing. His long, straight-bladed cavalry sword banged against his left thigh as he climbed. He had a rifle slung on his shoulder. An officer was not supposed to carry a longarm like his men, but Sharpe had once been a private and he was used to carrying a proper gun to war.
âWas it someone you met in Lisbon, now?â Harper persisted.
Sharpe simmered, but pretended he had not heard. His uniform jacket, decently mended as Harper had noticed, was rifle green. He had been a rifleman. No, he still thought of himself as a rifleman, one of the elite men who carried the Baker rifle and wore the dark green instead of the red, but the tides of war had stranded him and a few of his men in a redcoat regiment and now he commanded the light company of the South Essex who were following him up the hill. Most wore the red jackets of the British infantry and carried smoothbore muskets, but a handful, like Sergeant Harper, still kept their old green jackets and fought with the rifle.
âSo who was she?â Harper finally asked.
âSergeant Harper,â Sharpe was finally goaded into speaking, âif you want bloody trouble then keep bloody talking.â
âYes, sir,â Harper said, grinning. He was an Ulsterman, a Catholic and a sergeant, and as such he was not supposed to be friends with an Englishman, a heathen and an officer, but he was. He liked Sharpe and knew Sharpe liked him, though he was wise enough not to say another word. Instead he whistled the opening bars of the song âI Would that the Wars Were all Doneâ.
Sharpe inevitably thought of the words that accompanied the tune; âIn the meadow one morning, all pearly with dew, a fair pretty maiden plucked violets so blueâ, and Harperâs delicate insolence forced him to laugh aloud. He then swore at the Sergeant, who was grinning with triumph. âIt was Josefina,â Sharpe admitted.