tempted to turn, flee back across the stream, and take his freedom with Bias Vivar, but the British Captain shouted a question down the hillside and the old constraints of discipline made Sharpe answer it. “Sharpe, sir. Rifles.”
“Hogan, Engineers. From the Lisbon garrison.” Hogan scrambled down the last few feet. “Where have you come from?”
“We got separated from Moore’s army, sir.”
“You did well to get away!” Hogan’s admiration seemed genuine, and was spoken in an Irish accent. “Any French behind you?”
“We haven’t seen any in a week, sir. They’re having a hell of a time from the Spanish people.”
“Good! Splendid! Well, come on, man! We’ve got a war to fight!”
Sharpe did not move. “You mean we’re not running away, sir?”
“Running away?” Hogan seemed appalled by the question. “Of course we’re not running away. The idea is to make the French run away. They’re sending Wellesley back here. He’s a pompous bastard, but he knows how to fight. Of course we’re not running away!”
“We’re staying here?”
“Of course we’re staying! What do you think I’m doing? Mapping a country we intend to abandon? Good God, man, we’re going to stay and fight!” Hogan had an ebullient energy that reminded Sharpe of Bias Vivar. “If the bastard politicians in London don’t lose their nerve we’ll run the bloody French clear back to Paris!”
Sharpe turned to stare at Louisa. For a moment he was tempted to shout the good news, then he shrugged it off. She would learn soon enough, and it could change nothing. He laughed.
Hogan led the Riflemen back up the hill. “I suppose your Battalion went back to England?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“If it went to Corunna or Vigo, it did. But I don’t imagine you’ll join them.”
“No, sir?”
“We need all the Rifles we can get. If I know Wellesley he’ll want you to stay on. It won’t be official, of course, but we’ll find some cranny to hide you in. Does that worry you?”
“No, sir.” Sharpe felt a burst of hope that perhaps he would not be doomed to a Quartermaster’s drudgery again, but could stay and fight. “I want to stay, sir.”
“Good man!” Hogan stopped at the hilltop and watched the Spaniards ride away. “Helped you escape, did they?”
“Yes, sir. And they took a city from the French, not for long, but long enough.”
Hogan looked sharply at the Rifleman. “Santiago?”
“Yes, sir.” Sharpe sounded defensive. “I wasn’t sure we should help them, sir, but, well…“ He shrugged, too tired to explain everything.
“Good God, man! We heard about it! That was you?” It was plain that this Captain of Engineers would make no protest at Sharpe’s adventure. On the contrary, Hogan was clearly delighted. “You must tell me the story. I like a good story. Now! I suppose your lads would like a meal?”
“They’d prefer some rum, sir.”
Hogan laughed. “That, too.” He watched as the Riflemen walked past him. The greenjackets were ragged and dirty, but they grinned at the two officers as they passed, and Hogan noted that though these men might lack regulation shoes, and though some had French greatcoats rolled on French packs, and though they were unshaven, unwashed, and unkempt, they all had their weapons, and those weapons were in perfect condition. “Not many escaped,” Hogan said.
“Sir?”
“Of the men who were cut off from Moore’s retreat,” Hogan explained. “Most just gave up, you see.”
“It was cold,” Sharpe said, Very cold. But I was lucky in my Sergeant. The big fellow there. He’s an Irishman.“
“The best are,” Hogan said happily. “But they all look like good lads.”
“They are, sir.” Sharpe raised his voice so every tired man could hear the extravagant praise. “They’re drunken sods, sir, but they’re the best soldiers in the world. The very best.” And he meant it. They were the elite, the damned, the Rifles. They were the soldiers in green.
They were Sharpe’s Rifles.
HISTORICAL NOTE