Second day on the march

A winter spent cooped up in one place - especially a city - tended to make a fellow soft. Soft in mind and in body, as Tim Grogan was finding out to his great discomfort. His feet were aching fit to bust in his comparatively new shoes and it felt as though there was a knot in his left thigh. It was only the second day to boot. Still, he and his regiment were on the move again and there was little that could take away from that.

"Mind your step, all you bleary-eyed layabouts!" The encouragement came from near the middle of the 27th's column, where one of the sergeants had been prowling. Grogan rolled his eyes as much as he dared. As a corporal, he was expected to be alert for shortcomings and offences, but a man being less than half a step too slow was not something he cared to notice, unless it was a formal parade. Some things were meant to be overlooked.

"Keep pace lads," Grogan called out, a careful minute or two after the sergeant's gruffer bark. The battalion was moving along at a respectable pace even without the snaps and corrections from the ever-watchful sergeants. That alone was something to be proud of.

Williams grinned. Sergeants had to make their presence felt as if they were afraid that the men would forget what they were for, if they didn't bark at regular interval. Some hope of that. Grogan too, of course, though his bark was softer, he could still bite, when he had to.

Yesterday's stiffness was beginning to wear off, as the regular pace became as familiar as the weight on his back. Now and again there would be a stumble - the road was not always even, with ruts where storm water had drained across the packed surface - but the rhythm was resumed. Normally without requiring any yelping sergeant. At least those who had drunk too much on their last night in Lisbon were now getting back to normal.

Williams picked up the tune, and hissed gently as they marched.

Cotton reckoned he was going to have a blister by the end of today's march. It couldn't be helped, though. He looked up at the hills, remembering home. These hills were harder, rockier, though, and he wondered how long it would be before he'd see home again.

"You idiot, can't go through life regrettin' what might've been," he said. The road wasn't helping his feet, but he'd soon get used to that.

There was a couple of carrion birds and he frowned at them, much preferring the hawks that did their own killing.

It was easy to walk in step and being Riflemen, they didn't have to keep their eyes rigidly on the road ahead of them. He trailed his rifle and began whistling tunelessly.

Somebody started singing, quietly at first. Grogan listened to the tune as other men picked it up and in a moment it seemed most of the column was either singing or humming along. The men knew enough to keep their voices low enough to avoid being an excessive nuisance to the other regiments in the column, but of course several hundred men singing was not a racket that was easily kept to a minimum. It was only an issue of time before another regiment's officer - or perhaps even one of their own - gave the order to be silent.

It couldn't hurt the lads' spirits over-much though, Grogan figured. He spat some dust from his mouth and joined the rough chorus.

Bethany trotted down the hill, and Stephen extracted the papers from the cingulum around his chest. He had found the army, sure, but by definition an army was generally a large body of men. He ought to find Hogan, but were he to ask someone, a doctor looking for an engineer was far more unusual than a physician looking for his patient. As soon as he caught up with the rearguard, he directed the horse over to a young, bleary-eyed officer, ramrod straight in his saddle, and asked where he might find Sir Arthur Wellesley.

They had to make a detour up towards the head of a sheer sided valley, carved out years earlier and already overgrown with bushes and stunted trees, clinging to the sides. Beyond that, now out of sight of the column, the three Riflemen climbed the low saddle between two hills into the next valley.

From up here, the track along the valley bottom was easily spotted. Harris looked up into the hills, but it disappeared round a clump of trees, and he could not see where it came from. Or went. Closer too, it was clear that the path was used. By goats most recently, but horses - several horses - from the look of it within the last few days. Heading away from the road.

Mícheál pointed down at the road, Jenny beginning to leave the forefront of his mind at last. "Is they horses', Harris?"

"Horses." Harris looked more closely. "Cavalry shod, I think." Other riflemen might have dismissed it as being almost certainly British cavalry, scouting in advance of the Second Division. But Harris and Perkins had reason to be more wary than that. "We'll check it out," he said softly. "Carefully, and staying out of sight." It would anyway be good practice for them and for young Carty.

Mícheál ducked in behind Harris. Staying out of sight... "In the trees?"

"That's why we wear green," Harris grinned. "And keep your rifle ready. We really don't know if there's anything around there." If the tracks had been more recent, he would have sent back to the Lieutenant already, but this was an old trail. If it was the French, then they would not have lingered around here, but have been heading away from the cultivated area before turning north.

Mícheál grinned back, checked the flint and doghead of his rifle, and followed the older man into the wooded area. Some birds flew off at their appearance, and a rabbit disappeared into the undergrowth - he stopped and looked around carefully, before concluding that they were alone, and it was only they who had scared the animals.

"What about this?" Perkins asked, looking at the ground. There was horse excrement with a few flies buzzing around, but it was already becoming dry. "Can you tell how old it is, Harris?"

[I am not benton Fraser - I will not taste it to tell you what the horses had been eating]

"Two days or more," Harris hazarded. But that did not mean that they - whoever they were - were not camped round that bend. He caught Perkins' eye and gestured towards Carty. Hopefully Perkins would remember that they were not to talk of the earlier events, even with the other members of their Company. Sharpe's Chosen Men could keep secrets, it was hoped.

He moved forward to the line of trees, then beckoned the others.

The corner of Perkins' mouth twitched and he nodded.

Carty ran over to join Harris, making sure to look around him, checking for any anomalies in the area. For all his inexperience, he was a conscientious soul, and he felt a little glow of pride at his being a rifleman, scouting ahead instead of marching in the dust, and he wanted to do his green jacket proud. He felt absolutely no jealousy of his friend's special status as a chosen man - only a desire to join him one day. And to have any chance of doing that, he would have to learn everything he could from the older men in the company, like Harris.

Harris levelled his rifle at the bend in the track, where it skirted an outcrop of rock, and dropped down into another valley or something. He gestured to the two young men to go forward while he covered them.

They stopped as they heard a shriek and squawk of squabbling birds, the vultures they had seen earlier.

"Hsst," Perkins whispered, tilting his head towards the direction of the sound. He could see the movement of flapping wings on the ground as the large birds argued over a prize. A considerable prize, something very large.

Carty was half skipping down into the valley when he heard Perkins hiss, having stopped behind him and spotting the birds. He looked over his shoulder and then into the forest. "What are they-" In his haste he skidded on the ground and tripped, falling into a clump of brambles. "Ah! Loscadh is dó ort!" He swore, brushing some of the thorns off his jacket, and then stopped, looking up and going pale. He had tripped over a foot.

Perkins covered his nose and mouth with his hand - the smell was nauseating now that they were close - but he reached down to help Carty without letting go his rifle.

First he was directed to the front of the column, and then to the back again - working from a law of averages, Wellesley should be in the middle. But when there, Stephen saw only clumps of horsemen, all laughing and chatting, and feeling raw, tired, hungry, impatient and distinctly unshaven, he decided to search elsewhere.

He went back to the front of the column, led by men in green and men in red. He had to talk to Richard about Padstowe anyway, and he bent down in the saddle with a forced smile to some of the green-jacketed men. "Good morning! Would you know where Lieutenant Sharpe is at all? Is he with you?"

The noise of Carty's fall caused Harris to stop, and look around, but the oath, recognisable as such despite the language, indicated that it was not enemy action. He trotted to catch up with the youngsters and stopped, staring at the scene before him.

Sharpe was marching easily. He had three good men - well, one good man and two young lads eager to learn - scouting ahead in the hills, ensuring that the column would not suddenly come upon a French army massed in force to prevent their progress.

It was a nice day again and they were marching ahead of the Division's artillery, so they even had a good road for once.

But his instincts were making him jumpy, and he had no idea why. This was Portugal, he was not on his own with only half-a-dozen men; he had his own men, a company from the 60th and three full redcoat regiments. It was probably nothing.

"Gettin' old, Sharpie," he said to himself, but checked the edge of his rifle's flint anyway.

Carty felt himself being picked up, and pointed at the foot. It was naked, and streaked with blood. "Tá- tá-" The words would not even come in Irish, let alone English. Despite himself, his eyes followed the foot to the ankle, and then to the leg, the knee, the scored thigh, and the gaping, bloody hole where the dead man's genitals should have been, even more monstrous when cast against the brambles. "A Mháthair Dé," he moaned in horror, not even able to take a step backwards.

Perkins followed Carty's gaze and started at the sight, exhaling heavily as his eyes took it in. "Harris!" he hissed, "You'd better get over here."

Harris held the boy by the arm, following the line of the body. Beyond - further into the valley - the birds flapped around something else. And Perkins had found something, he realized as the other man called to him.

He felt sickened, but patted at Carty's arm. "Just hang on a minute. Don't go further." He crossed over to see what Perkins had found, although it was clearly not going to be pleasant.