Bernard Cornwell's Richard Sharpe's Series 1 to 5 Books Set by Cornwell Bernard

Author:Cornwell, Bernard [Cornwell, Bernard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9789123670710
Amazon: 9123670711
Goodreads: 44049332
Publisher: Harper Collin
Published: 2011-11-14T23:00:00+00:00

Colonel Pohlmann’s bodyguard carried McCandless to a small house that lay at the edge of the encampment. A widow and three children lived there, and the woman shrank away from the Mahratta soldiers who had raped her, stolen all her food and fouled her well with their sewage. The Swiss doctor left Sharpe with strict instructions that the dressing on the Colonel’s leg was to be kept damp. “I’d give you some medicine for his fever, but I have none,” the doctor said, “so if the fever gets worse just keep him warm and make him sweat.” The doctor shrugged. “It might help.”

Pohlmann left food and a leather bag of silver coins. “Tell McCandless that’s for his horses,” he told Sharpe.

“Yes, sir.”

“The widow will look after you,” Pohlmann said, “and when the Colonel’s well enough you can move him to Aurungabad. And if you change your mind, Sharpe, you know I’ll welcome you.” The Colonel shook Sharpe’s hand, then mounted the silver steps to his howdah. A horseman unfurled his banner of the white horse of Hanover. “I’ll spread word that you’re not to be molested,” Pohlmann called back, then his mahout tapped the elephant’s skull and the great beast set off northwards.

Simone Joubert was the last to say farewell. “I wish you were staying with us,” she said unhappily.

“I can’t.”

“I know, and maybe it’s for the best.” She looked left and right to make certain no one was watching, then leaned swiftly forward and kissed Sharpe on the cheek. “Au revoir, Richard.”

He watched her ride away, then went back into the hovel which was nothing but a palm thatch roof set above walls made of decayed reed mats. The interior of the hut was blackened by years of smoke, and its only furniture was the rope cot on which McCandless lay. “She’s an outcast,” the Colonel told Sharpe, indicating the woman. “She refused to jump onto her husband’s funeral fire, so her family sent her away.” The Colonel flinched as a stab of pain scythed through his thigh. “Give her the food, Sergeant, and some cash out of that bag. How much did Pohlmann leave us?”

The coins in Pohlmann’s bag were of silver and copper, and Sharpe sorted and counted each different denomination, and McCandless then translated their rough worth into pounds. “Sixty!” He announced the total bitterly. “That might just buy one cavalry hack, but it won’t buy a horse that can stay over country for days on end.”

“How much did your gelding cost, sir?” Sharpe asked.

“Five hundred and twenty guineas,” McCandless said ruefully. “I bought him four years ago, when you and I were released from Seringapatam, and I prayed he’d be the last horse I’d ever buy. Except for the mare, of course, but she was just a remount. Even so she cost me a hundred and forty guineas. A bargain, too! I bought her in Madras, fresh off the boat and she was just skin and bones then, but two months of pasture put some muscle on her.

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