Sharpe’s Rifles: The French Invasion of Galicia, January 1809. Bernard Cornwell

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      In the night, Lieutenant Sharpe took a patrol westwards along the high crest. He had hoped to determine whether the French held the place where the road crossed the ridge, but in the freezing darkness and among the jumble of rocks, he lost his bearings and grudgingly went back to the hollow where the Riflemen sheltered.

      The cloud lifted before dawn, letting the first wan light reveal the main body of the French pursuit in the valley which lay to the south. The enemy cavalry was already gone to the west, and Sharpe stared down at Marshal Soult’s infantry which marched in dogged pursuit of Sir John Moore’s army.

      ‘We’re bloody cut off.’ Sergeant Williams offered his pessimistic assessment to Sharpe who, instead of replying, went to squat beside the wounded men. Captain Murray slept fitfully, shivering beneath a half-dozen greatcoats. The Sergeant who had been slashed across the neck and shoulders had died in the night. Sharpe covered the man’s face with a shako.

      ‘He’s a jumped-up bit of nothing.’ Williams stared malevolently at Lieutenant Sharpe’s back. ‘He ain’t an officer, Harps. Not a real one.’

      Rifleman Harper was sharpening his sword-bayonet, doing the job with the obsessive concentration of a man who knows his life depends on his weapons.

      ‘Not a proper officer,’ Williams went on. ‘Not a gentleman. Just a jumped-up Sergeant, isn’t he?’

      ‘That’s all.’ Harper looked at the Lieutenant, seeing the scars on the officer’s face and the hard line of his jaw.

      ‘If he thinks he’s giving me orders, he’s a bugger. He ain’t no better than I am, is he?’

      Harper’s reply was a grunt, and not the agreement which would have given the Sergeant the encouragement he wanted. Williams waited for Harper’s support, but the Irishman merely squinted along the edge of his bayonet, then carefully sheathed the long blade.

      Williams spat. ‘Put a bloody sash and sword on them and they think they’re God Almighty. He’s not a real Rifle, just a bloody Quartermaster, Harps!’

      ‘Nothing else,’ Harper agreed.

      ‘Bloody jumped-up storekeeper, ain’t he?’

      Sharpe turned quickly and Williams, even though it was impossible, felt that he had been overheard. The Lieutenant’s eyes were hard as flint. ‘Sergeant Williams!’

      ‘Sir.’ Williams, despite his assertion of disobedience, stepped dutifully towards Lieutenant Sharpe.

      ‘Shelter.’ Sharpe pointed down into the northern valley where, far beneath them and slowly being revealed by a shredding mist, a stone farmstead could be seen. ‘Get the wounded down there.’

      Williams hissed a dubious breath between yellowed teeth. ‘I dunno as how they should be moved, sir. The Captain’s …’

      ‘I said get the wounded down there, Sergeant.’ Sharpe had stepped away, but now turned back. ‘I didn’t ask for a debate on the God-damned matter. Move.’

      It took the best part of the morning, but they succeeded in carrying the wounded down to the derelict farm. The dryest building was a stone barn, built on rock pillars that were meant to keep vermin at bay, and with a roof surmounted by crosses so that, from a distance, it looked like a small crude church. The ruined house and byres yielded damp and fungus-ridden timbers that, split and shredded with cartridge powder, were coaxed into a fire that slowly warmed the wounded men. Rifleman Hagman, a toothless, middle-aged Cheshireman, went to hunt for food, while the Lieutenant put picquets on the goat tracks that led east and west.

      ‘Captain Murray’s in a poorly way, sir.’ Sergeant Williams cornered Sharpe when the Lieutenant returned to the barn. ‘He needs a surgeon, sir.’

      ‘Hardly possible, is it?’

      ‘Unless we … that is …’ The Sergeant, a squat, red-faced man, could not say what was in his mind.

      ‘Unless we surrender to the French?’ Sharpe asked acidly.

      Williams looked into the Lieutenant’s eyes. They were curious eyes, almost reptilian in their present coldness. The Sergeant found a truculence to brace his 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, ‘I’ll 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 over-much, 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.’