Fourth Night in Camp

"Carty does not drink. Incoherent he may have been, but he is Irish, and is still learning English. He was probably so shaken he apologised in Irish by mistake."

Carty shook his head, his cheeks wet. He drew a shaking hand across his eyes - flogged, like Gabriel Cotton, flogged. He had not been drunk - as Harris had said, he never drunk - and besides, that was one of the rules, the three Golden Rules. Never get drunk unless Mister Sharpe says you can, and Carty lived by the rules. But you could not talk while officers were talking - that was one of the rules too.

He did not need to though, for Mister Sharpe was defending him. He heard Mister Sharpe say just that, and looked at Waldegrave pleadingly, nodding.

"Irish?" he said, as if the word was synonymous with 'scum'. He had of course known that from the start - his previous regiment, as well as the 62nd, had had its share of Irishmen. "Then I think you are wrong. Drink might excuse his actions, young as he is. To answer back to an officer in an incomprehensible tongue is as lacking in proper respect." He smiled at Sharpe. There might be some doubt as to the actual charge, but somewhere between assault, drunkenness and disrespect, he could make Sharpe beg for his man. The Colonel would support him on this, surely. Or just the threat of him. "I think his lordship - the Colonel will agree that drunkenness is the only excuse for such an offence."

A bully. Nothing but a bully, who delighted in hurting people.

"He was not drinking owt stronger than tea. And strong as smouch is, I doubt very much anyone can get pissed on it."

And the only offensive thing around here was the Lieutenant in front of him.

As his terror heightened, Carty's eyes darted between Mister Sharpe and the smiling Lieutenant, and the English words grew more and more incomprehensible, the Lieutenant's unfamiliar accent and smooth, confident voice sending chills up his spine. He heard one word though, as clear as the day: Colonel. He was being brought before the Colonel, and he was going to be flogged.

"I am sure that the Colonel would be interested to hear your evidence, and to weigh it against mine." Waldegrave stared back at Sharpe, and then said: "We ought to be able to get this settled tonight. There is no good reason to delay."

"Do you really think the Colonel hasn't got better things to do with his time than hold yet another court-martial? And do you really think so little of your regiment that you want to give it the reputation of holding a court-martial every couple of days?"

Sharpe sighed. He was starting to get angry, but no good would come of him losing his temper.

"He will apologise to you for getting in your way, and that will be the end of it."

"C-court-martial?" Carty whispered, trembling like a leaf.

We did not do so before we had a hundred or more ill-disciplined Riflemen attached to us, Waldegrave thought smugly, as he watched Sharpe with satisfaction.

He beckoned two of the men of his company over. "I want you to escort this man to Colonel Edrington," he said, and to Sharpe, "I assume you will come and put this suggestion to his lordship."

Sharpe turned, to meet the terrified eyes of the young Irish Rifleman.

"No. No court-martial. No flogging. No."

He turned back to Waldegrave. "Seems a sad state of affairs for a regiment when one of its officers is bloodthirsty as to threaten a lad with a flogging for no good reason, the day everyone's been on parade to witness a punishment. This man is going nowhere. Unless your commission predates mine, I am senior here, and we are not going to disturb the Colonel simply because you couldn't be bothered to watch where you were going."

Waldegrave controlled his own anger. Sharpe might be able to remove the boy, but he could not prevent Waldegrave from reporting it to the Colonel, who would then be able to order a court-martial whether the Rifleman wanted it or not. But perhaps not at this time. "What is the date of your commission?" he asked. "Not that I agree with your assessment of the situation in any respect - punishment is essential if the men are to be taught their duty. Riflemen or line."

"September 23rd, 1803," Sharpe replied. Not that he expected that date to mean anything to the arrogant young whippersnapper, of course.

As good as it was to be free of the column and able to move as he wished during the day, it was comforting to be back with the rest of the army at night. Newbury had left his pack with Jacklin and gone to find some water for stew, taking the company's pot with him. They'd managed to shoot a couple rabbits during their scouting, with the single goal of providing a decent meal once the column camped for the night.

There were, naturally, a fair mess of other soldiers wandering about, many with similar ideas as Newbury. Navigating through the throngs wasn't easy and the Rifleman found himself obliged to drift around a bit more than he liked before getting near to water. He was returning from his errand with the pot suitably filled when he noticed the small knot of men standing close together. Three were in green - Riflemen, like himself. The fourth was a red-coat. That alone warranted a closer look. Newbury wandered closer, his brow furrowing as his ears tuned in to the conversation. This was interesting...

Carty watched the exchange, no longer understanding the words. There was a man on either side of him, like a guard, but Mister Sharpe had said that there would be no court-martial and no flogging, and he trusted the Almighty himself less than he trusted Mister Sharpe. He sniffed and wiped at his face again, trying to do his officer proud and be brave and not cry, not in front of this horrible wretched vicious lieutenant.

"Eighteen oh three!" Waldegrave said, with amused contempt. "No lieutenant, I have not had my lieutenant's commission nearly that long. Nor do I intend to. Clearly, you beat me in seniority." He paused, to allow the jibe to sink in.

"I do not of course speak for his lordship, but he did say such disagreements should be settled by him, not between ourselves. If you take the man away, I shall speak to him myself." The two soldiers he had summoned were watching this with interest, as were several others, including some riflemen and a couple of dragoons. Waldegrave, aware of this, glanced at Carty, and then back to Sharpe, his anger well in check.

The downside of having to locate the riflemen at night was easily revealed when searching for them. The green uniforms were well to blend when the red were quicker to notice. But it wasn't quite the reason that he was caught in the region, presently. The river was close and his horse needed watering. He was about to take the easier path to the water when he heard a conversation and saw a crowd beginning to gather.

Some dragoons, a few riflemen , three in conversation with the red coat. Two at the side of the rifleman which looked somewhat familiar.

He couldn't see more. His curiosity peaked he turned his horse, at the protest of the later, and approached the gathering. Halting it after a few paces, he had to steady and tighten the reins, as his animal hardly wanted to satisfy it's own curiosity on any man, when the river was heard quite close.

Oh, there was he. The boy of the 95th. Micheal Carty. But he looked positively shaken, pale as chalk, so that his uniform actually made him look like a white head floating above the rest, blended. Along side he noticed Joe Newbury, remembering his face as well.

The trouble was, Sharpe did not know how Edrington would take this fresh accusation against a Rifleman. He did know that were Carty to stand before the redcoat Colonel, the resentment simmering among the Riflemen after this morning would be fully justified and the 'them and us' feeling would be even more noticeable. Which wasn't what Edrington wanted.

"There would be no disagreement if you hadn't created one. And do you really intend going to the Colonel over every little thing that isn't to your complete satisfaction?"

That was just pathetic. A mummy's boy who needed adult approval for everything. Sharpe could finally put a name to the feeling he had for Waldegrave: contempt.

He decided that he didn't care for that red-coat officer at all. Even hearing the man's voice spoke volumes about his personality. Newbury glanced around the growing crowd of onlookers and wondered if he should run for Captain Vickery. Then he looked closer at the other three Riflemen and realised they were men of the 95th - Vickery could do little, even if Newbury managed to find him and return before the confrontation was over.

What a load of rubbish this all was, he thought sourly. There had to be a way to help, somehow. Newbury scowled, mostly to himself. So far, this was turning out to be an unpleasant march.

He walked his horse to stop at Newbury's side and slowly leaned to him:"..Do you know what goes here?"He asked, for it didn't seem a pleasant gathering at all. As earlier noted, a boy that trembled as if he had seen a ghost, the ol' Lieutenant's own harsh words that surprised the Hussar, and the red coat's somewhat arrogant demanour, all pointed to a disagreement.

His horse jerked its head upwards and stretched its neck, stomping a foot impatiently. Water, that what what they came here for. Could his new master decide to fetch it already! He was thirsty and these men did not look like the pleasant clear liquid at all.

Perkins had come to see what was taking the lads so long. Everyone wanted their tea (on the double!) including himself. Had they caught a whale in the kettle and needed help dragging it home?

He stopped when he saw a cluster of people that included several riflemen. He sauntered over to investigate and was horrified to see a wretched looking Carty stood between two recoats who seemed to have a proprietary air over him. And there was Mister Sharpe arguing with that... lobster.

Harris was standing next to the water pot abandoned on the ground. Perkins sidled up to him quietly so as not to attract the attention of the lieutenants. "Harris?"

No one took any notice of Private Abernethy as he carried his water back from the river. He saw the group and recognized the situation for what it was, and two of the participants. Sharpe, a lieutenant in the 95th, and the other one, the annoying arrogant pudding-head of a lieutenant that had acted as prosecutor the previous night. His voice had a carrying quality, unlike Sharpe's softer growl, but this would soon get nasty - the two were no more likely to form a friendship than snakes and mongooses.

He hurried away, his pot swinging.

"Looks like some red-coat tryin' to stir up trouble," Newbury replied, looking over at the speaker. It was the fellow Cotton had found on the road, the hussar. Newbury shrugged slightly. "Gonna be a common thing with this army, seems."

Perkins' arrival seemed to even out the numbers, so that Waldegrave and his two redcoats were now matched by Sharpe and two riflemen, if one thought of Carty as the prize over which they would be fighting. "Keep still, Perkins," he said. "Mr Sharpe's handling this one for now. That's a nasty piece of work, all right, but no one's going to thank us for turning it into a full-scale brawl in the middle of camp."

Sharpe said nothing more for a moment, waiting to see what Waldegrave's response would be. That he had never had to get two distinct groups of men working together was obvious, or he would not be trying to sour that that already troubled working relationship.

The earlier jibe had not gone unnoticed, of course. Sharpe had clenched his fist by his side in an effort to keep his temper and not lash out at the arrogant so-called 'gentleman' in front of him.

He glanced over at Carty, who was shaking, and was now flanked by two redcoats. He frowned at them.

Perkins nodded and swallowed, looking anxiously at Carty. For pity's sake! What did Waldegrave want? Was this about the night confrontation Carty had mentioned? Didn't redcoat officers have more important things to worry about?