Second day on the march

Stephen had picked up the foot, and was turning it over in his hands. "A broken navicular at some point; it did not heal correctly - that should help in-" He looked up at Harris. "Hmm? No, no longer; an hour will suit admirably. I will attempt to draw the officers away, but they seem remarkably inclined to linger," he finished with a disgruntled glance at Wellesley and Edrington.

Harris nodded and saluted. Then added: "Just invite them to examine your findings for themselves. That might work." He turned to walk out of the valley onto the track, and to jog down to the main road and the column.

Perkins was on his feet again, pacing back and forth. It was easier than sitting and thinking. He tried to whistle a tune.

"You all right, now, Carty? Um, ann will kyart go leeyore? I was sick. Was I the only one who lost his breakfast?"

Carty shook his head. "Weren't sick. Wanted to." His leg was jigging up and down; a nervous habit." He nodded to the Wellesley. "Is that really the General?"

Perkins gave him a wan smile. "Aye, that's him. Oh, thank God I wasn't sick in front of him!" He looked horror-struck at the very idea.

Carty crossed himself. "A Naomh Mhuire, a mháthair Dé. 'Cause of th- them?" A sudden new nervousness assailed him, and he welcomed it, relieved. He nudged Perkins. "I canna believe is the General."

"Oh aye, it's him all right. Maybe he'll come over and speak to you, tell you what a fine job you did," Perkins said with a bit of a grin. "Like Mister Sharpe said, eh?"

"Oh, no," Carty moaned. "Then I be sick. All over the General."

He realised with a shock that he was smiling, just a tiny bit. As long as he didn't look over at where the bodies were, he could stand without shaking or feeling dizzy at all. "Yeah. Mister Sharpe. He knows my name, Ben. He knows your name 'cause you are his. But my name. And he says 'well done'."

"Of course he does, mate. And of course it were well done. You made the discovery. And you weren't even sick like me - don't know how you managed that.

"But sick on the general?" Perkins actually laughed at the mental image. "Imagine the look on his face. Then HE'd know your name too, though he'd be less likely to tell you 'well done' after it."

"Not like a Chosen Man, like you or Harris. I fell over him." Carty blanched again, and then said quickly, "But sicking on the General, and his nice coat! Look at his coat, Ben. Know my name - take my name, right! Bet that is five thousand lashes, sicking on the General."

The phrase "sicking on the General" made Perkins laugh for some reason. And once he had started, he couldn't stop. He laughed till tears were rolling down his eyes, and he was relieved that the others were far enough away not to hear him.

Carty started to giggle at Ben's laughter, the laughter bubbling up inside him until he was crying with the catharsis of it. "Dun make me laugh, dun make me laugh, Ben!" he gasped, helpless. "I will be sick! Ain't no lashes for sicking on you, Ben Perkins!"

Sir Arthur turned his head and looked over, perplexed, at the sound of laugher to see one of the two of Sharpe's lads had started laughing hysterically. He must be taking it worse than they previously thought."

"Mister Sharpe," he said curtly. "I suggest you look to your men and detail a burial party as quickly as possible."

The hidden meaning in that comment being 'get these out of sight of those of a nervous disposition as quickly as possible'.

"Sir?" He turned to look at what Wellesley had seen. "Yes, sir."

He hefted his rifle and moved over to the two young lads. "Right, you two. You can head back to the column and find where Harris has got himself to. And tell Sergeant Harper to send Cooper, Hagman and Sims on patrol." He lowered his voice. "You've done well enough, lads, don't go spoilin' it now."

They sobered up immediately. "Yes sir." Perkins turned a bit red with shame, but it was better than the previous green-grey tinge to his skin.

Carty stopped laughing immedaitely, his cheeks wet, and he nodded, gaping. Then he remembered to pull himself up as straight as he could.

"Sorry, sir," Perkins added, shamefaced.

"S- s- so-" Carty gave up, and stared at Sharpe's boots. Now he felt sick.

"It were my fault. Don't know what came over me sir."

Of course they felt sick. He'd felt sick after Chasalgaon, and was not sure he would be able to eat much this evening, if anything. And he knew that if they weren't laughing they'd probably be crying, which would be worse.

"Good lads." Sharpe spoke mildly. He glanced at the sun before indicating the way back down to the road. "You go down there and follow the road if you can't see the column. Just fall back in after you've given Sergeant Harper my message."

And at least the way back down to the road didn't lead past their gruesome discovery.

Edrington heard the boys' laughter die away as Sharpe spoke to them. They were young, and this was a particularly nasty - you could almost think of it as a crime. It was not a battle. We all cope with such things in our own way, he thought, with a sideways glance at the General. The place could be cleared of its horrors, but they would remain in the mind. No need to spread that horror, though.

He walked across to Maturin. "You said you would speak to Captain des Sablières, to ask him if he can identify the men as being from his company. Will you need to give him the details of what we found here?"

Stephen was sitting cross-legged on the floor, dislodged limbs and a head in front of him, jotting notes down. He stood up, brushing the dust from his breeches. "I did." He looked at Edrington carefully - des Sablières had said he was a family friend. He allowed a little sympathy to pervade his expression. "If he has traveled from Porto then he will have some idea, but I will tell him as gently as I can. If he asks for more details... I will see. I would want to know. But..." He shook his head. "No, poor man. No one deserves to hear this of their men."

"He may want to know, but that does not mean that you cannot temper the wind. It is bound to grieve him, as well as sicken him. And to know that if he had surrendered on behalf of the whole company, they would have been spared this." Edrington kept his eyes on the doctor's face, to avoid looking at his collection. He wondered where the torso was.

"Sharpe has sent for a burial party. We cannot leave them here, like this."

Stephen kept his face carefully blank. Des Sablières had surrendered on behalf of the whole company, and these men were among those who had repaid that favour with mutiny, and, from one of them, attempted assassination, that may yet become murder. "It would grieve and sicken any man, Colonel. But I will be gentle, when I give the news; I am not entirely without tact."

He scribbled a final note, and then put his notebook into his pocket. "I would suggest that the General and yourself leave before the burial party arrives. This will be a difficult enough task for them without senior officers looking over their shoulders."

"Thank you. I am sure you will know the best way to tell him. It is part of the duty of a physician - to break the bad news." He looked across at the General. "I am ready to leave. I am not sure about the General - he makes up his own mind, and rarely tells anyone else what he thinks. Will you ride back with us?"