Sharpe's Havoc Read Free

them?” Sharpe asked.
    “Those were the names of the virgins, sir,” Tongue said.
    “Bloody hell,” Sharpe said.
    “Charity’s mine,” Hagman said. “Pull your collar down, sir, that’s the way.” He snipped at

the black hair. “He sounds like he was a tedious old man, Mister Savage, if it was him what

named the house.” Hagman stooped to maneuver the scissors over Sharpe’s high collar. “So why

did the Captain leave us here, sir?” he asked.
    “He wants us to look after Colonel Christopher,” Sharpe said.
    “To look after Colonel Christopher,” Hagman repeated, making his disapproval evident

by the slowness with which he said the words. Hagman was the oldest man in Sharpe’s troop of

riflemen, a poacher from Cheshire who was a deadly shot with his Baker rifle. “So Colonel

Christopher can’t look after himself now?”
    “Captain Hogan left us here, Dan,” Sharpe said, “so he must think the Colonel needs us.”
    “And the Captain’s a good man, sir,” Hagman said. “You can let the collar go. Almost

done.”
    But why had Captain Hogan left Sharpe and his riflemen behind? Sharpe wondered about that

as Hagman tidied up his work. And had there been any significance in Hogan’s final

injunction to keep a close eye on the Colonel? Sharpe had only met the Colonel once. Hogan had

been mapping the upper reaches of the River Cavado and the Colonel and his servant had

ridden out of the hills and shared a bivouac with the riflemen. Sharpe had not liked

Christopher who had been supercilious and even scornful of Hogan’s work. “You map the

country, Hogan,” the Colonel had said, “but I map their minds. A very complicated thing, the

human mind, not simple like hills and rivers and bridges.” Beyond that statement he had not

explained his presence, but just ridden on next morning. He had revealed that he was based

in Oporto which, presumably, was how he had met Mrs. Savage and her daughter, and Sharpe

wondered why Colonel Christopher had not persuaded the widow to leave Oporto much

sooner.
    “You’re done, sir,” Hagman said, wrapping his scissors in a piece of calfskin, “and you’ll

be feeling the cold wind now, sir, like a newly shorn sheep.”
    “You should get your own hair cut, Dan,” Sharpe said.
    “Weakens a man, sir, weakens him something dreadful.” Hagman frowned up the hill as two

round shots bounced on the crest of the road, one of them taking off the leg of a Portuguese

gunner. Sharpe’s men watched expressionless as the round shot bounded on, spraying blood

like a Catherine wheel, to finally bang and stop against a garden wall across the road.

Hagman chuckled. “Fancy calling a girl Discretion! It ain’t a natural name, sir. Ain’t

kind to call a girl Discretion.”
    It’s in a book, Dan,” Sharpe said, “so it isn’t supposed to be natural.” He climbed to the

porch and shoved hard on the front door, but found it locked. So where the hell was Colonel

Christopher? More Portuguese retreated down the slope and these men were so frightened that

they did not pause when they saw the British troops, but just kept running. The Portuguese

cannon was being attached to its limber and spent musket balls were tearing at the cedars

and rattling against the tiles, shutters and stones of the House Beautiful. Sharpe hammered

on the locked door, but there was no answer.
    “Sir?” Sergeant Patrick Harper called a warning to him. “Sir?” Harper jerked his head

toward the side of the house and Sharpe backed away from the door to see Lieutenant Colonel

Christopher riding from the stable yard. The Colonel, who was armed with a saber and a brace

of pistols, was cleaning his teeth with a wooden pick, something he did frequently,

evidently because he was proud of his even white smile. He was accompanied by his

Portuguese servant who, mounted on his master’s spare horse, was carrying an enormous

valise that was so