Sharpe's Gold Read Free

God knows where, but one day,

    Sharpe promised himself, he would find him. But for now it was this young puppy with more

    power than sense. 'Where, Lieutenant?'
    'Celorico, sir.'
    'Then have a good journey, Lieutenant.'
    Ayres nodded. 'I'll look round first, sir. If you don't mind.'
    Sharpe watched the three men ride down the street, the rain beading the wide, black rumps

    of the horses. 'I hope you're right, Sergeant.'
    'Right, sir?'
    'That there's nothing to loot.'
    The thought struck both together, a single instinct for trouble, and they began

    running. Sharpe pulled his whistle from the small holster on his crossbelt and blew the

    long blasts that were usually reserved for the battlefield when the Light Company was

    strung out in a loose skirmish line, the enemy was pressing close, and the officers and

    Sergeants whistled the men back to rally and re-form under the shelter of die Battalion.

    The provosts heard the whistle blasts, put spurs to their horses, and swerved between two

    low cottages to search the yards as Sharpe's men tumbled from doorways and grumbled into

    ranks.
    Harper pulled up in front of the Company. 'Packs on!'
    There was a shout from behind the cottages. Sharpe turned. Lieutenant Knowles was at his

    elbow.
    'What's happening, sir?'
    'Provost trouble. Bastards are throwing their weight around.'
    They were determined, he knew, to find something, and as Sharpe's eyes went down his

    ranks he had a sinking feeling that Lieutenant Ayres had succeeded. There should have been

    forty-eight men, three Sergeants, and the two officers, but one man was missing: Private

    Batten. Private bloody Batten, who was dragged by his hair from between the cottages by a

    triumphant provost.
    'A looter, sir. Caught in the act.' Ayres was smiling.
    Batten, who grumbled incessantly, who moaned if it rained and made a fuss when it

    stopped because the sun was in his eyes. Private Batten, a one-man destroyer of

    flintlocks, who thought the whole world was conspiring to annoy him, and who now stood

    flinching beneath the grasp of one of Ayres's men. If there were any one member of the

    Company whom Sharpe would gladly have hanged, it would be Batten, but he was damned if any

    provost was going to do it for him.
    Sharpe looked up at Ayres. 'What was he looting, Lieutenant?'
    'This.'
    Ayres held up a scrawny chicken as if it were the Crown of England. Its neck had been well

    wrung, but the legs still jerked and scrabbled at the air. Sharpe felt the anger come inside

    him, not at the provosts but at Batten.
    'I'll deal with him, Lieutenant.'
    Batten cringed away from his Captain.
    Ayres shook his head. 'You misunderstand, sir.' He was talking with silky

    condescension. 'Looters are hung, sir. On the spot, sir. As an example to others.'
    There was a muttering from the Company, broken by Harper's bellowed order for

    silence. Batten's eyes flicked left and right as if looking for an escape from this latest

    example of the world's injustice. Sharpe snapped at him. 'Batten!'
    'Sir?'
    'Where did you find the chicken?"
    'It was in the field, sir. Honest.' He winced as his hair was pulled. 'It was a wild

    chicken, sir.'
    There was a rustle of laughter from the ranks that Harper let go. Ayres snorted. 'A wild

    chicken. Dangerous beasts, eh, sir? He's lying. I found him in the cottage.'
    Sharpe believed him, but he was not going to give up. 'Who lives in the cottage,

    Lieutenant?'
    Ayres raised an eyebrow. 'Really, sir, I have not exchanged cards with every slum in

    Portugal.' He turned to his men. 'String him up.'
    'Lieutenant Ayres.' The tone of Sharpe's voice stopped any movement in the street. 'How do

    you know the cottage is inhabited?'
    'Look for yourself.'
    'Sir.'
    Ayres swallowed. 'Sir.'
    Sharpe raised his voice. 'Are there people there, Lieutenant?'
    'No, sir. But it's lived in.'
    'How do you know? The village is deserted. You can't steal a chicken from nobody.'
    Ayres thought about his reply. The village