Read Online Sharpe 12 - Sharpe's Battle by Bernard Cornwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bernard Cornwell
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were well set on the inn bench while before him, on a plain wooden table, were the remnants of a huge meal. There were chicken bones, the straggling stalks of a bunch of grapes, orange peel, rabbit vertebrae, a piece of unidentifiable gristle and a collapsed wineskin.
The copious food had forced Colonel Runciman to unbutton his coat, waistcoat and shirt in order to loosen the strings of his corset and the subsequent distending of his belly had stretched a watch chain hung thick with seals tight across a strip of pale, drum-taut flesh. The Colonel belched prodigiously. "There's a hunchbacked girl somewhere about who serves the food,
Sharpe,“ Runciman said. ”If you see the lass, tell her I'll take some pie.
With some cheese, perhaps. But not if it's goat's cheese. Can't abide goat's cheese; it gives me spleen, d'you see?" Runciman's red coat had the yellow facings and silver lace of the 37th, a good line regiment from Hampshire that had not seen the Colonel's ample shadow in many a year. Recently Runciman had been the Wagon Master General in charge of the drivers and teams of the Royal
Wagon Train and their auxiliary Portuguese muleteers, but now he had been appointed liaison officer to the Real Companïa Irlandesa.
“It's an honour, of course,” he told Sharpe, “but neither unexpected nor undeserved. I told Wellington when he made me Wagon Master General that I'd do the job as a favour to him, but that I expected a reward for it. A fellow doesn't want to spend his life thumping sense into thick-witted wagon drivers, good God, no. There's the hunchback, Sharpe! There she is! Stop her, Sharpe, there's a kind fellow! Tell her I want pie and a proper cheese!”
The pie and cheese were arranged and another wineskin was fetched, along with a bowl of cherries, to satisfy the last possible vestiges of Runciman's appetite. A group of cavalry officers sitting at a table on the far side of the yard were making wagers on how much food Runciman could consume, but
Runciman was oblivious of their mockery. “It's a chance,” he said again when he was well tucked into his pie. “I can't tell what's in it for you, of course, because a chap like you probably doesn't expect too much out of life anyway, but I reckon I've got a chance at a Golden Fleece.” He peered up at
Sharpe. “You do know what real means, don't you?”
“Royal, sir.”
"So you're not completely uneducated then, eh? Royal indeed, Sharpe. The royal guard! These Irish fellows are royal! Not a pack of common carriers and mule- drivers. They've got royal connections, Sharpe, and that means royal rewards!
I've half an idea that the Spanish court might even give a pension with the
Order of the Golden Fleece. The thing comes with a nice star and a golden collar, but a pension would be very acceptable. A reward for a job well done, don't you see? And that's just from the Spanish! The good Lord alone knows what London might cough up. A knighthood? The Prince Regent will want to know we've done a good job, Sharpe, he'll take an interest, don't you see? He'll be expecting us to treat these fellows proper, as befits a royal guard. Order of the Bath at the very least, I should think. Maybe even a viscountcy? And why not? There's only one problem.“ Colonel Runciman belched again, then raised a buttock for a few seconds. ”My God, but that's better,“ he said. ”Let the effusions out, that's what my doctor says. There's no future in keeping noxious effusions in the body, he tells me, in case the body rots from within.
Now, Sharpe, the fly in our unguent is the fact these royal guards are all
Irish. Have you ever commanded the Irish?"
“A few, sir.”
"Well, I've commanded dozens of the rogues. Ever since they amalgamated the
Train with the Irish Corps of Wagoners, and there ain't much about the Irish that I don't know. Ever served in Ireland, Sharpe?"
“No, sir.”
"I was there once. Garrison duty at Dublin Castle. Six months of misery,
Sharpe, without
The copious food had forced Colonel Runciman to unbutton his coat, waistcoat and shirt in order to loosen the strings of his corset and the subsequent distending of his belly had stretched a watch chain hung thick with seals tight across a strip of pale, drum-taut flesh. The Colonel belched prodigiously. "There's a hunchbacked girl somewhere about who serves the food,
Sharpe,“ Runciman said. ”If you see the lass, tell her I'll take some pie.
With some cheese, perhaps. But not if it's goat's cheese. Can't abide goat's cheese; it gives me spleen, d'you see?" Runciman's red coat had the yellow facings and silver lace of the 37th, a good line regiment from Hampshire that had not seen the Colonel's ample shadow in many a year. Recently Runciman had been the Wagon Master General in charge of the drivers and teams of the Royal
Wagon Train and their auxiliary Portuguese muleteers, but now he had been appointed liaison officer to the Real Companïa Irlandesa.
“It's an honour, of course,” he told Sharpe, “but neither unexpected nor undeserved. I told Wellington when he made me Wagon Master General that I'd do the job as a favour to him, but that I expected a reward for it. A fellow doesn't want to spend his life thumping sense into thick-witted wagon drivers, good God, no. There's the hunchback, Sharpe! There she is! Stop her, Sharpe, there's a kind fellow! Tell her I want pie and a proper cheese!”
The pie and cheese were arranged and another wineskin was fetched, along with a bowl of cherries, to satisfy the last possible vestiges of Runciman's appetite. A group of cavalry officers sitting at a table on the far side of the yard were making wagers on how much food Runciman could consume, but
Runciman was oblivious of their mockery. “It's a chance,” he said again when he was well tucked into his pie. “I can't tell what's in it for you, of course, because a chap like you probably doesn't expect too much out of life anyway, but I reckon I've got a chance at a Golden Fleece.” He peered up at
Sharpe. “You do know what real means, don't you?”
“Royal, sir.”
"So you're not completely uneducated then, eh? Royal indeed, Sharpe. The royal guard! These Irish fellows are royal! Not a pack of common carriers and mule- drivers. They've got royal connections, Sharpe, and that means royal rewards!
I've half an idea that the Spanish court might even give a pension with the
Order of the Golden Fleece. The thing comes with a nice star and a golden collar, but a pension would be very acceptable. A reward for a job well done, don't you see? And that's just from the Spanish! The good Lord alone knows what London might cough up. A knighthood? The Prince Regent will want to know we've done a good job, Sharpe, he'll take an interest, don't you see? He'll be expecting us to treat these fellows proper, as befits a royal guard. Order of the Bath at the very least, I should think. Maybe even a viscountcy? And why not? There's only one problem.“ Colonel Runciman belched again, then raised a buttock for a few seconds. ”My God, but that's better,“ he said. ”Let the effusions out, that's what my doctor says. There's no future in keeping noxious effusions in the body, he tells me, in case the body rots from within.
Now, Sharpe, the fly in our unguent is the fact these royal guards are all
Irish. Have you ever commanded the Irish?"
“A few, sir.”
"Well, I've commanded dozens of the rogues. Ever since they amalgamated the
Train with the Irish Corps of Wagoners, and there ain't much about the Irish that I don't know. Ever served in Ireland, Sharpe?"
“No, sir.”
"I was there once. Garrison duty at Dublin Castle. Six months of misery,
Sharpe, without
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