Sharpe's Gold Read Free Page A

was deserted, the inhabitants gone away

    from the French attack, but absence was not a relinquishing of ownership. He shook his

    head. 'The chicken is Portuguese property, sir.' He turned again. 'Hang him!'
    'Halt!' Sharpe bellowed and again movement stopped. 'You're not going to hang him, so

    just go your way.'
    Ayres swivelled back to Sharpe. 'He was caught red-handed and the bastard will hang.

    Your men are probably a pack of bloody thieves and they need an example and, by God, they

    will get one!' He raised himself in his stirrups and shouted at the Company. 'You will see

    him hang! And if you steal, then you will hang too!'
    A click interrupted him. He looked down and the anger in his face was replaced by

    astonishment. Sharpe held his Baker rifle, cocked, so that the barrel was pointing at

    Ayres.
    'Let him go, Lieutenant.'
    'Have you gone mad?'
    Ayres had gone white, had sagged back into his saddle.
    Sergeant Harper, instinctively, came and stood beside Sharpe and ignored the hand that

    waved him away. Ayres stared at the two men. Both tall, both with hard, fighters' faces, and a

    memory tickled at him. He looked at Sharpe, at the face that appeared to have a

    perpetually mocking expression, caused by the scar that ran down the right cheek, and he

    suddenly remembered. Wild chickens, bird-catchers! The South Essex Light Company.

    Were these the two men who had captured the Eagle? Who had hacked their way into a French

    regiment and come out with the standard? He could believe it.
    Sharpe watched the Lieutenant's eyes waver and knew that he had won, but it was a

    victory that would cost him dearly. The army did not look kindly on men who held rifles on

    provosts, even empty rifles.
    Ayres pushed Batten forward. 'Have your thief, Captain. We shall meet again.'
    Sharpe lowered the rifle. Ayres waited until Batten was clear of the horses, then

    wrenched the reins and led his men towards Celorico. 'You'll hear from me!' His words were

    flung back. Sharpe could sense the trouble like a boiling, black cloud on the horizon. He

    turned to Batten.
    'Did you steal that bloody hen?'
    'Yes, sir.' Batten flapped a hand after the provost. 'He took it, sir.' He made it sound

    unfair.
    'I wish he'd bloody taken you. I wish he'd bloody spread your guts across the bloody

    landscape.' Batten backed away from Sharpe's anger. 'What are the bloody rules, Batten?'
    The eyes blinked at Sharpe. 'Rules, sir?'
    'You know the bloody rules. Tell me.'
    The army issued regulations that were inches thick, but Sharpe gave his men three rules.

    They were simple, they worked, and if broken the men knew they could expect punishment.

    Batten cleared his throat.
    'To fight well, sir. Not to get drunk without permission, sir. And-'
    'Go on.'
    'Not to steal, sir, except from the enemy or when starving, sir.'
    'Were you starving?'
    Batten clearly wanted to say he was, but there were still two days' rations in every

    man's haversack. 'No, sir.'
    Sharpe hit him, all his frustration pouring into one fist that slammed Batten's chest,

    winded him, and knocked him gasping into the wet road. 'You're a bloody fool, Batten, a

    cringing, miserable, whoreson, slimy fool.' He turned away from the man, whose musket had

    fallen into the mud. 'Company! March!'
    They marched behind the tall Rifleman as Batten picked himself up, brushed

    ineffectively at the water that had flowed into the lock of his gun, and then shambled

    after the Company. He pushed himself into his file and muttered at his silent

    companions. 'He's not supposed to hit me.'
    'Shut your mouth, Batten!' Harper's voice was as harsh as his Captain's. 'You know the

    rules. Would you rather be kicking your useless heels now?'
    The Sergeant shouted at the Company to pick up their feet, bellowed the steps at them,

    and all the time he wondered what faced Sharpe now. A complaint from that bloody provost

    would mean an enquiry and probably a court-martial. And all for the miserable