hope it’s you.’ There was to be a parade at four at which Colonel Windham would inspect his new battalion.
Sharpe nodded. ‘So do I. Make it a good turn-out.’
He did not know where Windham would be, so he paused in the hallway and saw the array of clean, new shakoes on the table. He could not face the big room, the Mess, the pitying glances of his fellow-officers and the inevitable confrontation with Rymer, so he stayed in the hall and stared at a huge, gloomy painting of a white-cassocked priest who was being burned at a stake. The soldiers who stoked the faggots were mean-faced, weaselly, and obviously intended to be the English, while the suffering priest had an ethereal look of forgiveness and martyrdom. Sharpe hoped the bastard had hurt.
‘Captain Sharpe?’ He turned. A small Major with a clipped moustache was looking at him from a doorway.
‘Sir?’
‘Collett. Major Collett. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sharpe. Heard of you, of course. This way.’
Sharpe was regretting his lack of charity to the long burned priest, wondering if the evil wish would bring him bad luck, so he looked up at the painting and winked at the man. ‘Sorry.’
‘What’s that, Sharpe?’
‘Nothing, sir, nothing.’ He followed Collett into the parlour of the house; a room hung with more gloomy, religious pictures and with vast, brown curtains that seemed to enclose the room in premature night. Colonel Windham was at a low table, feeding scraps of meat to his dogs, and he did not look up as Collett led Sharpe into the room.
‘Sir! This is Sharpe, sir!’ Collett could have been Windham’s twin; the same bowed, horseman’s legs, the same leathery skin, and the same cropped grey hair, but, as the Colonel looked up, Sharpe saw shrewd lines on Windham’s face that were lacking on the Major. The Colonel nodded affably. ‘You like dogs, Sharpe?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Faithful beasts, Sharpe. Feed ’em regular, kick ’em often, and they’ll do anything for you. Just like soldiers, yes?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He was standing awkwardly, shako in hand, and Windham waved him towards a chair.
‘Brought the beasts with me. I hear there’s some decent sport to be had. Do you hunt, Sharpe?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Fine sport! Fine sport!’ He was holding a scrap of beef high, teasing a hound with it so that the dog jumped vainly, higher and higher, until Windham dropped the food and the dog snapped it in mid air, and took it, growling, beneath the table. ‘Shouldn’t spoil ’em, of course. Bad for them. That’s Jessica, my wife.’ He was pointing to the table.
‘Your what, sir?’
‘Wife, Sharpe, wife. Wife’s called Jessica. Colonel’s Lady, and that sort of thing. Mrs Windham.’ He offered the various categories of his wife in a rapid voice and Sharpe understood that he was not referring to the dog beneath the table, but to an oval portrait, about six inches high, that stood above the dog. The portrait was mounted in a superb filigree silver frame and it showed a woman with dark, severe hair, a receding chin, and an expression of terrifying disapproval. Sharpe had the distinct feeling that the chewing dog would be a better companion, but the Colonel’s face softened as he looked at the painting. ‘A good woman, Sharpe, a good woman. A force for the good in society.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe was beginning to feel slightly confused. He had come to the meeting expecting to be told about the Company, about Rymer, even to be reprimanded for the fracas at the stable yard, but, instead, the new Colonel of the Battalion was extolling the virtues of a good wife.
‘She takes a keen interest, Sharpe, very keen. Knows about you. Wrote to me when I said I was getting the Battalion and sent me a scrap from a newspaper. She thinks you’ve done well, Sharpe.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘She’s eager to see people better themselves. Isn’t that true, Jack?’
‘Indeed, sir.’ Collett rapped the words out with an alacrity that made Sharpe wonder if Collett’s role in life was to agree with everything the Colonel said. Windham put the portrait back on the table. He had been holding it, cradling it between his hands.
‘What was that business about this morning, Sharpe?’
‘A private argument, sir. It’s been dealt with.’ He felt a stab of satisfaction at the memory of punching Hakeswill.
Windham was not satisfied. ‘What was the argument about?’
‘The girl was insulted, sir.’
‘I see.’ The expression was one of profound disapproval. ‘Local girl?’
‘Spanish, sir.’
‘Following the troops, no doubt. I want the women cleared out, Sharpe. Proper wives can stay, of course, but there are too many whores. Looks bad. Clear them out!’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘The whores, Sharpe. You’re to clear them out.’ Windham nodded as if, the command being given, the deed was as well as done. Sharpe saw him glance, very quickly, at the portrait of the stern Jessica and the Rifleman suspected that Mrs Windham’s keen interest in the Battalion extended, by letter, to its moral welfare.
‘Where do I clear them to, sir?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The next battalion, sir?’
Collett stiffened, but Windham did not take offence. ‘I take your point, Sharpe, but I want them discouraged. Understand? I shall make an example of men caught brawling over women.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The Colonel obviously intended being busy.
‘Number two, Sharpe. Battalion’s wives are to parade for inspection each Sunday. Ten of the forenoon. You parade them, I’ll inspect them.’
‘A wives’ inspection, sir. Yes, sir.’ Sharpe kept his thoughts to himself. Such a parade was not unusual in England, but it was rare in Spain. Officially the wives were subject to army discipline, though very few of them accepted the fact, and Sharpe suspected that the coming Sundays would be amusing, if nothing else. But why him? Why not one of the Majors, or even the Sergeant Major?
‘Ten o’clock, Sharpe. And I don’t want any unmarried women on parade. Tell ’em that. I’ll demand papers. I want no one like that girl this morning!’
‘That was my wife, sir.’ Sharpe had no idea why he said it, unless it was to puncture Windham’s air of certainty, and it worked. The Colonel’s mouth dropped; he looked to Collett for help, received none, and stared back at Sharpe.
‘What?’
‘My wife, sir. Mrs Sharpe.’
‘Good God.’ The Colonel leafed through papers that were beside his own wife’s portrait. ‘There’s no note here of your marriage.’
‘It was private, sir.’
‘When? Who gave permission?’
‘Sixteen months ago, sir.’ He smiled at the Colonel. ‘We have a daughter, nearly eight months old.’
He could see the Colonel adding up the figures, receiving the wrong answer, and the discrepancy effectually stopped any more questioning. Windham was embarrassed. ‘Owe you an apology, Sharpe. No offence, I trust.’
‘None, sir.’ Sharpe smiled seraphically.
‘Lives with the Battalion, does she? Mrs Sharpe?’
‘No, sir. In Spain. She has employment there.’
‘Employment!’ Windham looked suspicious. ‘What does she do?’
‘Kills Frenchmen, sir. She’s a Partisan, known as “La Aguja”. The needle.’
‘Good