Sharpe’s Company: The Siege of Badajoz, January to April 1812

The Lieutenant smiled vaguely, turned away, and vomited. ‘Oh, Christ!’ The Lieutenant seemed to be having trouble in breathing, but he stood upright again, painfully, and turned back to the Ensign. ‘My dear fellow, frightfully sorry. Bloody Portuguese put garlic in everything. I’m Harold Price.’ Price took off his shako and rubbed his head. ‘I missed your name. Frightfully sorry.’

‘Matthews, sir.’

‘Matthews. Matthews.’ Price said the name as if it might mean something, and then held his breath as his stomach heaved and, when the spasm had passed, breathed out slowly. ‘Forgive me, my dear Matthews. I think my stomach’s delicate this morning. You wouldn’t, I suppose, do me the honour of lending me five pounds? Just for a day or two? Guineas would be better.’

His father had warned him of this, too, but Matthews felt it would be unwise to begin his acquaintance with his new Company by a churlish refusal. He was aware of the soldiers in the yard listening and he wondered if he was an innocent in some kind of private joke, but what else could he do?

‘Of course, sir.’

Lieutenant Price looked astonished. ‘My dear fellow, how kind! Splendid! I’ll give you my note, of course.’

‘And hope the Ensign gets killed at Badajoz?’

Matthews spun round. The tall soldier, the one whose back was so horribly scarred, had spoken. The man’s face was scarred, too, and it gave him a knowing, even mocking expression, that was belied by his voice. He grinned at Matthews. ‘He’s doing it to everyone. Borrowing in the hope that they die. He should make a tidy enough profit.’

Matthews did not know what to say. The soldier had spoken in a kindly way, but he had not used the word ‘sir’, which was disconcerting, and Matthews had the feeling that what little authority his lowly rank endowed was already being dissipated. He hoped the Lieutenant would intervene, but Price’s expression was sheepish as he put the shako on his head and grinned at the scarred man. ‘This is Ensign Matthews, sir. He’s brought the replacements.’

The tall, scarred man nodded at the Ensign. ‘Glad you’re here, Matthews. I’m Sharpe, Captain Sharpe. What’s your name?’

‘Matthews, sir.’ The Ensign gaped at Sharpe. An officer who had been flogged? He realized his answer had been inadequate. ‘William, sir.’

‘Good morning and welcome.’ Sharpe was making an effort to be pleasant. He hated mornings and this morning, in particular, was unpleasant. Today Teresa was going from Elvas and riding the few miles, across the border, to Badajoz. Another parting. ‘Where did you leave the men?’

Matthews had not left them anywhere; the Sergeant had made all the decisions, but he pointed through the gate. ‘Outside, sir.’

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