a work of fan-fiction by The Mardy Bum, 23rd October, 2006
ONE
He opened his eyes. He saw
spindly, dry grass, felt the heat on his back, and realised he was
lying out on his front. Everything seemed misty, or foggy, perhaps. He
felt a stabbing pain in his head and decided it must be the worst
headache he’d ever felt. He groaned and lifted a hand to his
head, rubbing. It felt wet.
He lifted his head on his chin,
sniffing and smelling something burning. He looked around quickly,
unsure. Patches of the dry grass were smoking, blackened, and he pushed
himself to his knees, sitting back on his heels and looking around.
Where the buggerin’ hell is this place? he asked himself.
He looked around, seeing men
dressed in red shouting and laughing between them. He watched them,
confused, as they bent and rifled through the pockets of a dead body,
dressed in blue. He rubbed his throbbing head again and looked around,
finding these red men everywhere, and most of them similarly attending
to blue-coated dead men. He leaned and looked behind him, finding more
dead men. Some were in red and some were in blue, but the majority were
in the same blue jackets with white fronts. He realised the fog was
smoke from fires and who-knew-what-else. He felt a growing sense of
unease.
Am I with them? He looked down hastily, making sure he wasn’t wearing blue. Green? I’m in green? He looked around quickly, noticing he couldn’t see anyone else in green. He had a bad feeling.
He looked back down, this time at
his hands, blackened and dirtied with some kind of powder. He followed
his arms up, then put his hands to his chest, finding a crossbelt with
a whistle and chain on it. He pulled the whistle free, looking at it
curiously before tucking it in again. He heard a shout and followed the
sound, looking to his left.
“Sir! Oh sir, there you are!” a large
man shouted, apparently directly at him. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
but you gave me a fright when you weren’t with the Men, so you
did,” he continued, striding up to him. He was very tall, with
short black hair, a green jacket, and a huge great seven-barrelled gun
on his arm. He stopped in front of him, grinning. “Are we going
to collect souvenirs now?” he asked eagerly. He just looked up at
the big man, lost. “Only you promised we’d look for a wee
something for little Patrick, so you did,” he added with a large,
proud grin.
He studied this large man’s face for a long moment, thinking
carefully. “Do I know you?” he asked him cautiously. The
big man stared back at him, then grinned wider.
“Oh yes, you nearly had me
there, so you did, sir,” he laughed. “Come on then,
let’s be getting on to the winnings,” he said, putting a
hand out to his shoulder. He flinched and pushed it off. The big man
hesitated.
“Are you with them red-coated men?” he asked the large man
carefully. “Or the blue ones?”
The big man stared, his grin
fading to be replaced with a look of shock and fear. It was silent for
a long moment. He watched the tall man and then wet dry lips, wondering
just what could be upsetting him so much. The tall man seemed to shake
himself and sniffed at him.
“What?” he asked him dangerously.
He looked around, hoping to find
something large and blunt. Something told him he was good at doing that
and using it to make a fast getaway. He saw another man walking up
behind the tall, dark man. He was also dressed in green, but was quite
short and scrawny in comparison.
“Harps?” the little
one asked. The tall one turned and looked at him.
“Taylor, find Harris and
tell him to get his sorry arse over here right now,” the tall
man, who he assumed to be ‘Harps’, said. The other, little
man, peered at the still-kneeling man, and then turned and hurried off.
‘Harps’ watched him go, then looked back at the man on his
knees, staring at him fearfully. “Jesus wept,” he
whispered, putting his hands to his head and wiping them over his face
repeatedly.
Still on his knees, the man in green just watched
him, trying to figure out why he kept staring at him, his eyes darting
from one of his to the other worriedly. He huffed and cleared his
throat.
“Ah, sir?” the man asked him, more quietly. He looked back
at him, then realised he was talking to him now.
“Me?” he asked carefully.
“Aye, sir, you, sir,”
he said patiently. “You’ve got a wee bit of blood on your
face, so you have. I’m getting a friend to have a look at it,
would that be alright with you?” ‘Harps’ asked
carefully.
He looked at him, his eyes narrowing.
“Why?” he asked cautiously. ‘Harps’ appeared to
sigh wearily.
“Because sir, you’re my commanding
officer, and you’re also my friend, so you are,” he said
sadly. “You may not believe it now, but trust me.”
He looked him up and down, his eyes still narrowed. So…
I don’t remember me name. That’s a worry. Or in fact what
I’m doing here, and why we’re all dressed in colours
different to everyone else. He looked around, noticed there were no dead men wearing green, and then back at the man. Looks
like it’s a good thing, though. He seems to want to help me.
Perhaps I should let him, might learn a few details. Like who I am. He thought for a long moment. He nodded.
“It’s Harper, sir,” the big man said warmly.
“Me, or you?” he
asked, aware perhaps he was giving something away, when perhaps it had
been a habit not to. Never show
weakness to an enemy. But is he my enemy? He dunt seem to be…
but something tells me I’ve had enemies who’ve been
friendly before, he realised. He huffed with indecision.
“Aye sir, that’s me.
Patrick Harper,” he said. “Do you remember your
name, sir?” he asked. He pulled his feet out from underneath
himself and stood slowly, brushing dirt and grass from his green
uniform. He looked at the taller man.
“You Irish?” he asked suddenly, just realising.
“Yes, sir. And you? Do you
know where you’re from, sir?” Harper asked.
He thought about it. He put a
hand to his head, finding hair in his fringe and pulling a clump
forwards to try and see it clearly. It looked a decidedly light blond
colour, nothing like this large man’s black curls.
“Don’t know,”
he admitted. He let his hair drop through his fingers and looked back
at Harper, feeling suddenly stupid and lost. He bit his lower lip,
looked around nervously, Harper noticed.
“If you’re looking
for the Colonel, sir, we’ll see him later, don’t you
worry,” he said.
“Was there a fight here, then?” he
asked. “I mean, I hope there was, or all these
people…” He looked around, then noticed a few red-coated
men lifting arms and waving at him. He didn’t know what to do, so
did nothing.
“God save Ireland,” Harper sighed,
wiping his face over with his big hands. “Yes, sir, there was an
almighty battle here. You’re the Major, so you are, I’m the
Sergeant Major, and later we’ll have to talk to the Colonel and
tell him –“
“Major?” he interrupted. “Like, in
an army or summat?” he asked. Harper stared at him.
“Yes.”
“Ah, right,” he
nodded, relieved, “that explains the colours.” He stopped
and looked around uneasily. “Dunt feel right, though,” he
mused, “me taking orders from someone else.” He thought
about it for a long moment. “No, dunt seem right at all,
that,” he said, then looked down at his left hand, currently
looking for a pocket or something similarly useful to do. He looked
back up at Harper, who was staring. “Did I have
summat…” He flexed his left hand, looking at it. He felt
round his trousers but couldn’t find a pocket, just a long chain
with an empty scabbard on it. He thought about it, then looked around
the ground where he’d been lying. “’Ey look, do you
think that’s mine?” he asked, spying a large sword. He
crossed to it and picked it up. “Bugger me, but it’s
heavy,” he said. “Summat reassuring about that,” he
added with some satisfaction, finding the scabbard swinging by his left
side and sliding the sword home. “Fits an’ all,” he
said cheerfully. That’s better,
he thought, feeling more secure knowing he had a huge weapon with him.
He looked up as another man ran up and stopped by Harper.
“Harps?” he said
breathlessly. “Taylor said Mister Sharpe had lost his
marbles,” he rushed out. Harper just looked at him, and the man
looked round him. “Oh. Hello, sir,” he said suddenly.
“You’d best find this
Mister Sharpe and get him sorted then, eh,” he said helpfully.
“’Course, happen it’s no business o’
mine,” he shrugged. He hesitated, watching the new
arrival’s mouth drop open in shock. He sniffed. “Or is
it?” he asked carefully. He looked at the man, taking in his
curly ginger hair and small round glasses. He noticed his green jacket
was only half-done up, and something prompted him to open his mouth.
“No buttons?” he asked disapprovingly. The man stood to
attention, clearing his throat.
“Sorry sir, lost a
few… in taverns,” the man admitted. He just looked back at
him, confused. The new man looked at Harper, a patent look of disbelief
on his face. Harper nodded back at him meaningfully.
“Is that where we’re
going now?” he asked the two of them innocently. “Think I
could do wi’ a keg or two. How about you two?” he asked
cheerfully. I think I’m
alright wi’ these two. I have no idea why, but somehow I think
I’ll be alright if they’re around.
“Er, well, perhaps
–“ Harper began, but he interrupted him.
“Well come on then Murphy,
and you, Ginger,” he said, about to walk off.
“Harper,” the Irishman said quickly.
“Harris,” the new arrival said. He looked back at them.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said
dismissively. “Well come on then,” he added, walking off.
Harper and Harris just watched him go. After a few moments he realised
he was walking in the wrong direction and veered right, carrying on
back toward redcoats busily packing things onto small mules and their
carts.
Harper looked at Harris. “We’re in the shite, so we
are,” he admitted.
“Up to our eyeballs, Harps,” Harris agreed.
*
“Major! Major Sharpe! Will
you stop there, man!” Colonel Lawford shouted. He watched Sharpe
simply ignore him, walking on past as if he hadn’t a care in the
world. Lawford had to admit he couldn’t remember a time when
he’d looked so cheerful. He caught sight of Harper and Harris
running after him and just watched, confused, as they grabbed his arms
and dragged the Major to a stop.
He slid off his horse and strode over, stopping just behind Harper.
“Sergeant Major!” he
called out, and Harper and Harris both stopped their hurried babbling
and turned and looked at him.
“Sir,” Harper said, and Harris stood to
attention. Lawford ignored them.
“Richard!” he
admonished. “When I call you, you’ll stop, my man!”
Sharpe looked at him, as if
suddenly aware that someone was talking. He put his finger to his chest.
“Me?” he asked innocently. Lawford fumed.
“Look, don’t you go
playing the strutting little egotist just because you saw that lot off!
Yes, I know it was six men to one, but still, Richard, you
needn’t be –“
“Ah, sir,” Harper
said carefully, with just the right touch of obsequiousness. Lawford
looked at him.
“And don’t you stick up for him!” he countered.
“Sir, he’s a wee bit –“
“Sergeant Major, stand
down,” he bit out. Harper closed his mouth. “You,”
Lawford said, pointing his finger directly at Sharpe, “will be in
my tent in five minutes. Understand, Richard?” he demanded.
“Er… yeah,
alright,” he shrugged helplessly. Lawford eyed him, then just
tutted and walked away. The three of them watched him disappear. Harper
turned finally and looked at Sharpe. “Richard?” Sharpe
echoed. “Is that me? Like…” He turned away, thinking
as he walked. “… James Richard. No wait, don’t think I’m a James. Edward Richard? No, that’s just mean. Me parents would have to have been complete –“
“Sir?” Harper said
hurriedly, catching him up. Harris appeared at his opposite elbow.
“What?” he asked
irritably. “Harry! Yeah, that sounds good: Harry,” he said
to himself, but then frowned suddenly. “No wait, Harrys are
piss-heads,” he stated, then looked instantly confused.
“Why did I say that?”
“Sir, your name is Richard Sharpe, sir,” he said.
“Sharp? As in, the pointy end?” he asked dubiously.
“Yes sir, as in the pointy
end,” Harper sighed. Sharpe seemed to think about it.
“Bugger. Were hoping for a
more heroic name, really,” he said. “And I’m a
Major?” he asked curiously.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“So who were that pompous little prick?” he asked.
“Colonel Lawford, sir.
He’s also your friend, sir,” he said. Sharpe stopped him.
“Him? Me friend? Bloody
hell,” he said, shaking his head and walking off. Harper and
Harris followed him. “I mean, you two, I can understand,”
he said to himself. “Couple o’ normal blokes, you know. But
him? Probably paid fer his commission and never did a day’s
work.” He stopped walking abruptly. “What’s a
commission?” he asked innocently. Harris caught up with him.
“Look, sir, I really think
we should make up an excuse and not go to his tent in five
minutes.”
“Look, Ginger, I appreciate yer idea, but he
does seem to be in charge, even if he is a twat,” he added.
“Harris.”
“I thought you said his name were Laughton?”
“Lawford,” Harris said. “I’m Harris,” he added. “Look, sir –“
“Put it like this,
sir,” Harper said quickly. “Do you want to stand there and
talk to that man, or get some drinks in?” he asked with a knowing
grin. Sharpe didn’t even think.
“Yer right. Let’s
go,” he said, clapping the Irishman on the arm and walking round
him. Harris looked at him.
“What are you doing? If he doesn’t go –“
“And if he does?”
Harper countered. “He can’t ever remember his own name or
rank, never mind ours,” he hissed. “Do you know
what’s going to happen if he has to talk about battle plans with
Lawford this afternoon?”
“No,” Harris admitted.
“Neither do I. But
it’ll go down in history as one of those Shite Afternoons,”
he said with trepidation.
“Up there with the time he was arrested and hung?”
“Oh yes,” Harper agreed.
“So what do we do?” he asked.
“Get him what he wants
– a large couple of jars,” he said.
“And then?”
“And then some more until
he falls over. That way he’s no trouble to anyone, and we can
keep him out of harm’s way. And you never know, he might wake up
right as rain,” Harper grinned.
“We should be so
lucky,” Harris muttered, following the Irishman as he jogged to
catch up with Sharpe.
*
“Colonel Lawford,
sir,” the private said politely. Lawford looked up from his desk,
which was currently swathed in reams of paper and maps. He huffed at
the interruption.
“Yes?”
“An officer to see you,
sir,” the private said. Lawford nodded.
“Yes, yes, tell him to get
in here right now,” he snapped. The private bowed out of the tent
and Lawford began to roll up the maps quickly. He heard the tent flaps
open and the unmistakeable sound of boots on the canvas and his anger
returned. “Look here, man, I don’t see how you going around
winning battles against the odds lets you off the basic order of
things, do you see?” he demanded angrily, looking up.
A robust-looking man in red looked back at him.
“Well, good afternoon to
you too, Colonel Lawford,” he said guardedly. Lawford stared.
“Oh. I do apologise,
I’m sure,” he said quickly, still angry. “I was
expecting someone else,” he added by way of explanation. The man
smiled slightly.
“I assumed as much, Colonel,” he said
tightly. “However, I am here on business and would appreciate it
if we could get started,” he said. Lawford cleared his throat.
“Of course, Colonel,”
he said, eyeing the uniform and epaulettes. The man nodded curtly.
“My name is Lieutenant
Colonel Morton,” he said. “I have been sent here by the
General Wellesley to put your regiment in order, sir,” he said
smartly.
“In order? Is there something amiss?” he asked, confused.
“There is, sir, your men, sir,” he said tersely.
“My men?”
“The South Essex is a fine
regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Lawford,” he allowed, as if that
admission hurt, “but you have more than just the South Essex
here, and not all of them pull their weight,” he added, walking
to the chair in front of Lawford’s desk and dropping his cocked
hat into it. He put his hands behind his back, turning and walking
round the tent slowly, stopping to look at the personal affects.
“And who might that
be?” Lawford asked, although he already had a very good idea.
“That bunch of miscreants
in green, sir,” he said loudly. “Call themselves the Chosen
Men, do they? Well, I’ve been looking at the usefulness of such a
motley crew, and have to say, they’re not really worth having
here, are they?” he asked, turning and looking at him.
“Really? I though they gave
us the advantage, sir,” he said stiffly. “It’s rare
that they don’t turn the tide of a face-off,” he pointed
out. “Why, just this morning they picked off half the French
strength before our eyes, narrowing the odds from six men to one to
just –“
“And what if your regiment carried rifles
instead of muskets, Colonel?” he demanded, staring at him.
“What difference do you think that would make?”
“Well, it’s a grand
idea, sir, but rifles take longer to load. We’d lose volleys hand
over fist!” he protested. “The South Essex is proud to say
they can manage nearly four rounds in one minute – and
that’s just one man,” he said loudly.
“Yes, but that’s no
good if the target gets missed five times out of ten, is it?”
Morton responded quickly.
“But we have a good system of laying down
volleys, sir,” he pointed out. “We have numerous battles
that attest to the –“
“I’ve seen the
evidence, thank you Colonel,” he said testily. “I’m
here to judge whether we shouldn’t give half the South Essex some
rifles and proper training, and re-assign the Chosen Men to where
they’d be put to good use,” he said.
“Re-assign?” Lawford echoed.
“And it’s time we
moved that Major on too, he’s not doing any good here,” he
said curtly.
“The Major? But – but he commanded the
field this morning, handed me a victory I –“
“Then it’s time you
got off your arse and did it yourself, Colonel. Not to be indelicate,
but we are a tad overstretched, and you having some jumped-up
shoe-shiner doing your thinking and fighting for you while you sit in
here all day does nothing for the state of the war,” he snapped.
“Now look here!”
Lawford snapped, enraged. “Just remember we hold an equal rank,
Mister Morton, and you cannot simply barge in here and take what you
want! How dare you come in here and tell me how to run my regiment! How
dare you step into my tent and insult me like some filthy private! I
believe gentlemen should have manners, sir! If you really had read
those reports, you’d know that I command the field but give the
Major free rein to accomplish a victory by any means necessary,
something he’s very good at!”
“Yes, suspiciously
so,” Morton interrupted. “Could it be he’s used to
doing whatever he likes, and is lucky that it all works out in the
end?”
“Could it be that you need some lessons in manners and
leadership?” Lawford shot back. The two men stared at each other,
and there was a long moment of silence.
“There’s something
you should see,” Morton said quietly. He put his hand inside his
red jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Lawford eyed it and
his heart started to sink. Morton handed it to him slowly. Lawford
opened it and read it. He swallowed, his last vestige of hope gone.
‘You will extend all help and services to Colonel Morton in his task. He must not be refused any order or request.’
He read the names at the bottom. ‘Gen. A. Wellesley. Maj. Nairn.’
“Bugger,” he snapped to himself.
“Yes,” Morton said
suavely, reaching out and taking the paper back again. “So
I’ll be having a look around this camp, and the men bunked in the
village, and divining just what good these green-coated ruffians
actually do. I will, of course, call on you if I need any help.”
He turned and picked up his hat, tucking it under his arm. He turned
and then looked Lawford up and down, snorting without mirth.
“Good day,” he said curtly, ducking out of the tent.
“Damn his eyes,”
Lawford hissed to himself. He turned and looked at the timepiece on his
desk. “And where is Sharpe, anyway?”
TWO
“I get the feeling
we’re friends, you know,” Sharpe said, starting on his
third mug.
“That we are, sir,” Harper agreed.
“So… you shouldn’t call me ‘sir,” he pointed out. Harris chuckled into his mug of ale.
“Oh? And why’s that, sir?” Harper asked.
“Well, that Colonel –
who you say is me friend from way back – calls me Richard,”
he pointed out. “So if we’re friends from way back, you
should call me Richard too.”
“Er… Be a wee bit
difficult, sir,” he admitted. “See, the men are…
well, used to you being… more for the formal, sir,” he
said.
“Come again?” Sharpe asked, tipping up the mug and making a
good dent in a half-pint.
“Well, you like a bit of order, sir.
Like… keeping a slight difference between you and the men, so
you do.” He looked at Harris, who was just grinning. “You
keep us in order with… shouting, mostly,” he shrugged.
Sharpe’s face twisted with
abject confusion. “And when I’m happy with you lot? You
know, like… when we’ve won summat?”
“Well… mostly the
same, sir. You don’t like to let us get complacent, sir,”
he said happily.
“Bloody hell, I sound like a right mardy
bugger,” he huffed, his face a picture of disgust.
“Alright, if you say so. I don’t know why, but I think I
should trust you,” he said thoughtfully.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Except yer crap at getting
the drinks in,” he said, sitting up straight from the table and
looking over toward the bar area of the tavern. He tipped a finger at
the girl refilling ale mugs, then put up three fingers. “Over
here, love!”
The girl looked up, saw him and nodded, hastily
loading a tray with three mugs and carrying it over their table,
noticing the three army lads sat behind it.
“You are army boys?”
she asked with a huge grin. Sharpe upended the mug still in his hand,
draining it effortlessly.
“Apparently,” he said, mirroring her
grin. She pushed the tray over on the table, sliding onto the bench
seat next to him and making sure she leaned on him.
“Why green?” she
asked. He let his arm fall round her shoulder, leaning into her with a
disarming smile, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.
“So we can’t be seen
in the grass,” he replied smoothly.
“Really?” she asked,
looking round and finding the other two men just watching him, their
mouths half-open in astonishment. She looked back at him, putting a
warm hand to his face and deciding it was very agreeable. Perhaps I not ask this one for money, she heard herself think.
“Absolutely,” he said.
“Tell me,” she said, pulling his face in and kissing him.
Harper and Harris looked at each
other. Harper shrugged, lost. Harris spread his hands, and they shared
a long look of helplessness.
“I can do better than that, love,”
Sharpe said, putting his hands to her sides and helping her get to her
feet. “I’ll show you.” He got up and she giggled,
grabbing his elbow and dragging him toward the back door.
“Sir!” Harper said, a warning in his drone.
“’Ey, it’s
alright is this army life,” he grinned, clicking his tongue as he
winked at the Irishman. They crossed the room and disappeared out the
back door, the girl giggling all the way. Harper turned and looked at
Harris.
“His powder's not mixed right,” Harris stated flatly.
Harper picked up his new mug of ale and downed it in one go. Harris
took a good pull from his mug.
“You’re not wrong there. We could be in trouble.”
“So… how do we get
him to… remember who is?” Harris asked at length.
“You’re asking me? You’re supposed to be the learned man, so you are!” Harper pointed out indignantly. Harris sagged.
“Oh.” They sat and
thought for a long few minutes, Harper pulling over Sharpe’s
untouched ale and downing that, too. “We could try just hitting
him over the head really hard,” Harris added quietly.
“Oh yes, I’m
sure!” Harper scoffed. “And I’ll stand back and watch
him get up and brain you for your trouble, so I will!”
“You would, too,”
Harris said quietly. He looked back at Harper. “Do you think
it’s wise to let him go off and help himself, when he’s not
really… himself?” Harris asked.
“Don’t see why not.
He’s not doing any harm,” he shrugged. There was a scream
and a shout from outside, and the two men looked at each other. They
jumped to their feet and ran to the back door.
The Spanish waitress was
plastered against the wall of the tavern, one hand to her mouth. Two
men were struggling and fighting in the dirt, grunting and swearing at
each other. They flew apart, the man in red landing on his back.
Harris hurried to the girl,
taking her arm and pulling her safely further from the fighting men.
“What happened?” he
cried. She looked at him and starting babbling in Spanish. Harris
listened as best he could, nodding and trying to calm her down. Harper
stepped round the men, rolling around in the mud caused by the rubbish
dump out the back of a well-used pub. He crossed to Harris and the girl.
“What’s she
saying?” he demanded. Harris looked at him.
“I’m not sure of all
of it, sir, but it seems she and the Major were – er –
enjoying themselves when the officer appeared and tried to – er
– separate them. The Major told him to leave, and the man
refused. Apparently, the man in red slapped him with a glove,” he
said tightly. Harper slapped his hands over his face, moaning all kinds
of oaths.
They heard laughing and looked over. The man in red was out for the
count, spread-eagled on his back in the mud. Sharpe was standing over
him, bedraggled and breathing hard, but there was no denying the
satisfaction on his face. He whistled through his teeth at Harper,
lifting his fists in the air in triumph.
“That’s
telling the bastard!” he cried cheerfully. He stepped back,
wiping his mouth and looking down at his once-green uniform, now muddy.
Harper looked back at the girl.
“Miss, who is the man?” he asked, pointing at the ground.
She looked over, spat, then looked back at Harper.
“Coronel del ejército,” she shrugged. Harris and Harper swore.
“His name? Did he say his
name?” Harper pressed. She thought about it, then smiled over his
shoulder as Sharpe appeared behind him.
“Here now, get yer
own,” he said, shouldering Harper out of the way and leaning
against the girl. She put her hands to his arms, grinning.
“Sir, who was that?” Harper demanded angrily.
“Don’t know. Some
bloke as needs to learn some manners,” he said off-hand, then
kissed the girl with conviction. Harper grabbed his elbow, pulling him
off-balance and separating him from the girl. “’Ey!”
Sharpe snapped angrily. “We’re supposed to be mates, but
don’t push it,” he growled. Harper huffed.
“What was his name, sir?
It’s really important! You could be shot for hitting him!”
he shouted. Sharpe stopped short, thinking about it.
“Really?” he
swallowed. “Er… He did say his name,” he said,
running his tongue over his lip and trying to think. The girl ran her
hand up his whistle chain and pulled on the open buttons of his tunic
slowly. “I’ll er… I’ll think about it in a
bit,” he said, turning back toward her. Harris shouldered in
between them and bundled the girl off to the left, saying something
soothing in Spanish. “Oi!” Sharpe protested. Harper yanked
on his arm and spun him round.
“Sir? His name?” he demanded.
“Oh yeah, er… He
said he were… a Colonel. Yeah, a Colonel,” he said,
looking over at Harris and the girl. “Does he speak Spanish
then?” he asked.
“Yes. His name?” he pressed.
“Oh, er… Morley?
Morris? ‘Mor’ summat, I’m sure of it,” he
nodded.
“Morton,” the girl called over.
“Yeah! That were it:
Morton,” he said. “Can I go now?”
“Sir, we have to get back
to camp and work out what we’re going to do. We have to make sure
this Morton doesn’t shoot you for striking a superior
officer!” he hissed.
“Could we do all that in half an hour?”
he asked hopefully. Harper huffed. “Twenty minutes?”
“Sir, we really don’t have time for –“
“Fifteen minutes? Go on,
just fifteen minutes?” Sharpe asked, his eyes not unlike those of
a sad and friendless puppy.
“Sir, we can –“
“Ta!” he cried
happily, clapping him on the shoulder and turning to go. Harper just
let him walk off toward the girl, shaking his head.
*
“Here, give over,”
Sharpe hissed, slapping the backside of the girl over his shoulder. She
stopped wriggling but giggled and spouted something in Spanish, until
he stopped at the flaps to his tent and deposited her on the ground.
“Now get in there, alright?” he whispered.
“I wait for you,” she
whispered, winking and lifting her skirts, swishing inside the tent
flaps. Harper appeared, looking round.
“Right sir. I’ll get
all of the Men to swear you were here all evening, sir,” he said.
“I paid this wench here, she’s promised to forget
everything she saw. She’s going to back up your story that you
were here an hour ago and never fought at the tavern. Got it?” he
whispered.
“Got it,” Sharpe nodded. Harper turned to go, but Sharpe
caught his arm. “Harper,” he whispered hoarsely. He turned
and looked at him. “Well… thanks. I’m… Look,
I’m not really sure what’s going on, but… but it
looks like yer saving me arse here. I think there aren’t many
people as would do that fer me. Thank you,” he added. Harper
grinned.
“Anytime, sir. You just think of a way you can remember
everything from before you woke up this afternoon,” he replied.
Sharpe nodded uncomfortably and released his arm. Harper turned and
stalked off into the night, to create alibis from nothing.
Sharpe turned and ducked into his
tent. The girl had already deposited every last bit of her clothing on
the rough army blankets, and was squirming down under them comfortably.
Sharpe hardly glanced at her but walked in, looking around slowly. He
walked to the pack on the floor in the far corner, crouching down to
open it and look through it. He found an expensive-looking telescope
and pulled it out to look at it.
“What’s this?”
he said to himself, turning it over in his hands. He smoothed his
fingers over what looked like kinks in the metal that had been
straightened and beaten out. He noticed a plaque on the right side and
turned it over. “In gratitude, A.W. September 23rd, ’03.” He turned it over, finding it heavy, and then suddenly a picture popped into his head.
Horses, mud, a cannon, a tall man
with a big nose. He pushed him toward the cannon, the man staggered
back and stayed under, bleeding from his head. Sharpe had a large,
heavy sword. He swung it and half a dozen men attacked him at once.
They had strange, silken uniforms, not like the red, blue or even green
jackets he’d seen recently.
He blinked and the scene was
gone. He closed his eyes, thinking, trying to call it back. That was me, I know it was. Who was the man with the nose? He opened his eyes and looked at the telescope again. A.W. Who is A.W.? he asked himself. He sighed and then put it aside. He put his hand back in the bag.
“Señor Richard,” the girl sang from the cot, watching him.
“Give us a minute, Jacinda,
lass,” he said, not even looking up. He found a small metal flask
and pulled it from the bag, running his fingers over it. It
didn’t seem to carry an inscription, but something about it felt
familiar. A woman? A woman gave me this, he realised. If I could just remember who she was…
He shook his head, putting his
hands back in the pack and delving around, finding shirts rumpled and
tossed in any which way. Jacinda sighed and wrapped the top blanket
round her, getting up off the bed and walking over. She crouched next
to him and watched him.
“What are you doing?” she asked lazily,
picking up the telescope curiously. It was cold and she rubbed the
metal, trying to warm it up.
“Trying to remember who I am,” he
admitted miserably, taking the telescope from her and pulling it out
for her. She grinned, taking it from him and putting it to her eye,
waving it round till she saw him at the end, a huge green blur.
“You are funny, Richard,” she giggled. He looked at her.
“Yeah well. How much did me
friend pay you to say you’d been here all evening?” he
asked curiously.
“Too much. He like you very much, he even buy
me drink!” she said delightedly, closing the telescope and
handing it back to him. He snorted with amusement.
“Aye well, I get the
feeling if I get caught, he will an’ all,” he said to
himself. He stopped and thought about it, then put the telescope and
flask back in his pack. She put her hand on his shoulder, rubbing the
material of his tunic.
“This is dirty,” she grumbled. “You must take
it off at once.”
He looked at her. “If you insist,” he grinned.
*
“Richard, I go, get
food,” someone said. He opened his eyes and saw long, thick dark
hair framing a warm, smiling Spanish face.
“Yeah alright,
Teresa,” he muttered, and the face moved out of his line of
sight. He turned on his side and settled back down to sleep. He heard
the tent flaps move and slap together again and got comfortable. He saw
a woman’s face in his head and it made him jolt awake.
Teresa? She’s here?
He exploded off the cot, not even
stopping to find clothes, and ran out of the tent and into the spindly
grass, looking round wildly.
“Teresa!” he bellowed. “Teresa! Don’t go!”
“Sir?” Harper called.
Sharpe turned to find a group of men dressed in green, huddled round a
fire, eating from tin cans.
“Find her, Harper!” he shouted, his face
torn. Harper dropped his tin can and jumped to his feet, racing after
Sharpe as he looked around wildly and tore off across the grass.
The big Irishman caught him up
and grabbed his arm. “Sir! Wait, sir!” he shouted. Sharpe
struggled but couldn’t get free. Harper grabbed his other arm and
hauled him round to look at him. “Sir! She’s not Miss
Teresa, sir!” he shouted into his face.
Sharpe stopped struggling to be
free and looked at him as if he’d been slapped. The was a long
silence. “She’s not?” he asked timidly. Harper shook
his head, letting go of his arms slowly. Sharpe just stared at him.
“This Teresa… She’s important, I know that. To me.
Where is she?” he demanded. “Why have I got this girl in me
tent if this Teresa’s so important? Tell me where she is!”
he pleaded.
Harper swallowed, looking at his feet. “She’s not here,
sir,” he said quietly. Sharpe grabbed the lapel of his uniform
jacket and yanked him closer to him.
“Then where? I have to find
her!” he shouted. Harper’s big hand closed on
Sharpe’s, squeezing and pulling him off slowly.
“She’s no longer with
us, sir,” he managed. “Jesus sir, I’m sorry,
but… she died, sir,” he said bitterly. “Do you
remember?” he asked.
Sharpe let his hand drop, stepping back one slowly.
“I remember… her.
She were… vicious and… fierce, like an
animal…” He stopped as a picture of her stole into his
head. “She were everything I had. And… and I never saw her
enough. Never.”
There was a long, awkward silence.
“Mornin’! Uniform int
tub, is it sir?” a thin voice trilled, and they turned to see
Robinson nodding cheerfully at them as he walked past, carrying rifles.
Sharpe stared at him, then looked down at himself and his regulation
white shorts. Bloody good job it’s so cold this morning, or this could have been really embarrassing, he realised. He looked around suddenly, shivering and putting his hands to his bare arms in the frosty chill of the morning.
“Summat funny,
rifleman?” he demanded harshly. “Get yer arse over there
and detail them Bakers ‘fore I give you the kicking yer asking
fer!”
Robinson swallowed and ran off, the rifles banging about on his
shoulder and in his hand. Sharpe turned and looked at Harper.
“He is
the troublesome one, int he?” he asked gingerly. Harper grinned
and nodded. Sharpe let his shoulders sag. “Oh, bugger this.
I’m freezing,” he said, and stalked off past Harper, back
toward his tent slowly. Harper shook his head and turned, following
him.
Sharpe walked into the tent and looked around. He walked to his pile of
uniform and picked it up slowly, feeling the material. He looked the
trousers over, finding them patched in places, and ran his fingers over
the small repairs, trying to remember what might have caused them. He
shook his head and then yanked the heavy cavalry trousers on. He picked
up the shirt, smelt it suspiciously, then turned to his pack and pulled
out the clean one he’d found the night before. He shook it out
and pulled it on over his head.
He tucked it into his trousers,
buttoning them up with the ease of the practised, he noticed. He
reached for the green jacket and noticed a huge rent that had been sewn
up in the shoulder. He ran his fingers over it, then thought for a
second. He let it go and put his right hand inside his shirt, sliding
it up toward his left shoulder and finding a line of welted, healed
skin.
“Bloody hell!” he said, surprised. “Bet that
hurt.” He pulled his hand out but hesitated. It did hurt. Cold water… cold water and a new sword, he remembered. And Harper gave it me. He concentrated, but nothing else seemed forthcoming.
He looked around, taking in his
tent and wondering why he didn’t have more personal effects he
could use to help himself remember. He huffed, then just pulled on the
tunic slowly. He pulled it straight, his hands going to the buttons
automatically. He stopped himself and looked at his hands, curious.
I wonder, if Harper gave me one of them rifles, could I load and fire it without thinking? He pushed that thought away, shaking his head. I
know I’m in real trouble. Something tells me that Colonel int to
know I’m not sure who I am. Summat tells me I’m going to
get me arse kicked if I can’t work out who I am, and quickly. He sighed, then walked to the tent flaps.
“Harper?” he
shouted, thinking perhaps he needed his expertise in evading authority.
He had a feeling the Irishman was good at it.
“There he is,”
someone called loudly. Sharpe looked over and saw a tall, red-coated
man pointing at him. Six Provost officers in their dark capes turned
and looked at Sharpe. “Arrest him!” Colonel Morton snarled.
THREE
“Well sir, can I just talk
to him?” Harper said desperately.
“The man is under arrest,
Sergeant! Of course you can’t talk to him!” Lawford shouted
angrily. “And for brawling with a Colonel, indeed! He deserves
everything he gets!”
“But surely the Colonel must have been
brawling as well then,” Harper replied petulantly. Lawford
stopped short and eyed him.
“Look, I don’t have time for this. I
have a rider waiting for me outside with important news.” He
huffed. “You are not permitted to enter his wagon, nor are you
permitted to hand him anything,” he said, then dropped his voice.
“However, if you were careful and happened to be standing between
the wagon and the bushes, no-one would see you talk through the slits.
Now be off with you,” he hissed.
“Yes sir! Bless you,
sir,” he grinned, turning and hurrying out of the tent. He bumped
shoulders with a man hastily removing his shako, turning to apologise.
The man simply ignored him in his haste, barrelling in. Harper slowed
and stopped outside the tent flaps, listening.
“Right then, what are we
about?” Lawford asked imperiously, inside the tent.
“Sir, Lord Wellington sends
his compliments, and commands you to muster all strength. You must be
at the village of Rodilla by noon, the day after tomorrow. If not, the
French forces there will be able to march on through the river Trampa
and take the partisans on the other side. The General wants to make it
clear we are to stop the French and leave the partisans in
control,” he rattled off as fast as he could. He stopped to take
a breath, and Lawford nodded.
“Understood, sir. Please,
water your horse and see to your needs. You have orders for me?”
he asked.
Outside, Harper cast a wary eye at the guards to the tent flaps, then
smiled genially and sauntered off.
Inside, the rider unbuttoned his
jacket and felt inside for the papers. He handed them to Lawford. The
Colonel unfolded them and read them quickly, nodding.
“Very good, sir, I have all
I need, thank you,” he said, without looking up. The rider nodded
and bowed out of the tent.
*
He walked up to the side of the
prison wagon, standing on the grass not three feet from the bushes. He
slid between the bushes and the side of the wagon.
“Sir? Sir!” Harper hissed at the wooden slats.
“Harper?” Sharpe hissed back.
“Jesus sir, it’s a
right bloody mess we’re in, so it is,” Harper hissed.
“Try swapping places, it
gets worse,” Sharpe replied. Harper leaned on the side of the
wagon, the guards on the opposite side to him, at the front lock-up,
ignoring him admirably. “At least you know who yer supposed to be and who’s after you,” he pointed out.
“Look sir, there’s
going to be a court martial but they’ve no evidence,” he
whispered.
“You sure?”
“I’d swear on the Bible, sir,” he replied.
“You’d swear on a
paper-weight if there were rum involved,” Sharpe pointed out. He
paused. “Hey! I remembered –“
“That’s as may be,
sir, but they’ve no witnesses, and only that Morton’s word
against yours, and those of the Chosen Men, and the girl, Jacinda, from
your tent, sir.”
There was a long silence, and Harper waited.
“Well, if this all goes
tits-up, thanks fer trying, Harper,” Sharpe allowed quietly.
“I don’t understand why yer putting yerself out fer me, but
you are. I think if you didn’t I’d be in a lot more
trouble.”
“Bloody hell, sir, if you lose your
commission, I lose everything,” Harper joked. “My wife
would kill me too, for letting you go down.”
“Then thank her an’
all, and I hope she’s good-looking,” Sharpe replied, a grin
in his voice.
“Once the trial’s over sir, you’ll
have to get the Chosen Men back to you, sir. We’ve got another
fight coming, and we have to be at the river next to some village
called Rodilla at noon, the day after tomorrow,” he added.
“Do I want to know how you
found that out?” Sharpe asked quietly.
“No.”
“Then you’d best get
back from there ‘fore the guards see you,” Sharpe hissed.
“Oh don’t worry sir,
they won’t be seeing anything, not with the half pint of rum
they’ve both just gratefully accepted,” Harper grinned.
“A half pint each? Bloody
hell, I hope I’m worth it,” Sharpe laughed.
“Oh sir, just seeing the
look on that worthless English arse’s face will repay me in
full,” he hissed with conviction. “You know he’s here
to break up the Chosen Men sir, and send you off to some colony? One
with rifles, so I hear,” he added.
“Who?” he asked, lost.
“The Colonel you hit,
sir,” Harper reminded him, shaking his head. “We
can’t have anyone knowing you’re… you’re not
sure of yourself, sir, understand?” he whispered.
“Only too well,” Sharpe hissed.
“Good. Now when Colonel
Lawford comes, remember he’s your friend since India, a long time
ago, sir,” he whispered. “He’s probably going to
represent you at the court martial. Just make sure he doesn’t
catch on to your memory loss,” he said.
“Easier said than done,” Sharpe replied.
“I know, sir, but
you’ve got to try. And don’t for God’s sake let that
other bastard Colonel make you angry. We don’t want you beating
his lights out in front of witnesses, now do we?” he asked.
“Apparently not,” Sharpe allowed.
“Well, I have to pack up my
family and get us ready to march,” he added.
“Thanks Harper,” Sharpe said quietly.
“Sure there’s nothing
to it, sir,” Harper said. There was a long silence.
“Yeah well. Let’s
just try and get through this court martial without smacking anyone,
eh,” he replied quietly.
“Oh yes sir, good idea, sir,” Harper
grinned, tapping on the side of the wooden slat twice before turning
and disappearing into the warming morning.
*
Sharpe heard a smart rapping at
the wooden lock-up and pushed himself to sit up on the bench seat. The
door opened and he watched Colonel Lawford walk in.
“Well, well, well,”
he said coldly, looking Sharpe up and down. “I’m getting
tired of telling you to behave, Richard,” he said harshly.
“I didn’t do owt,
sir, honest,” Sharpe said, trying his best innocent expression.
Lawford stared at him.
“Honestly?” he asked, walking over and
sitting on the bench seat across from him, leaning over and resting his
hand on his own knee. “Can you honestly look me in the eye
Richard, after all I’ve ever done to help you, and tell me
you’ve done nothing of which I’d disapprove?” he
asked sternly.
Sharpe leaned forward, stared him straight in the
eye, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Lawford searched his eyes for a
long moment. Then he sat back. “Well, that’s just as well,
because I’m your advocate this afternoon,” he said
cheerfully. Sharpe let himself lean back against the side of the wagon
comfortably.
“Thank God fer that,” he sighed. Lawford grinned.
“I expect you’re
wondering what all this is about then, eh?” he asked. Sharpe
nodded.
“I’m a bit angry, to tell you the truth,” he said
earnestly, and Lawford nodded. “I mean, I’m marched in
here, told to sit and then no bugger’ll tell me anything.
What’s going on?” he demanded.
“It seems Colonel Morton
has accused you of fighting with him in the town,” he said.
“Now Richard, did you go into the town at all?”
Here we go, he thought, I hope I’m as good a liar as he is a fop. “Aye I did, but I didn’t stay. We found this nice lass and I brought her back,” he shrugged.
“The girl sat in my tent,
crying?” Lawford asked, surprised. Sharpe looked surprised too.
“Well I wouldn’t
know. I’ve been in here,” he pointed out clearly.
“Ah yes. Well that would
explain it. What’s the name of this girl?” he asked. Sharpe
thought for a long second. “Richard?” Lawford prompted, his
face dropping.
“Er… hang on, hang on,” he said to himself.
“Richard!” he cried,
aghast. “You don’t even know her name?” he demanded.
“Well, I were a bit pissed,
you know how it is,” he shrugged helplessly.
“No, I thank the Lord every day, I most certainly do not know how it is!” he countered. “Honestly! And you an officer!”
“Well… Tall girl,
long hair, got an old knife scar right on her left-“
“Yes, well, that sounds
like her,” Lawford said quickly. “And she was with you all
evening? When did she leave?” he asked.
“Well she didn’t, if
she’s in your tent,” Sharpe said. He snapped his fingers
suddenly and Lawford waited. “Jacinda,” he said, nodding.
“Her name’s Jacinda.”
“I see,” Lawford
allowed. “And did anyone see you get back from the town? Can
anyone give us a time?” he asked hopefully.
“You’d have to ask
the men, sir. When we rolled up, the lot of ‘em were talking over
the tea boiling,” he said.
“All of them?” Lawford beamed.
“I think so, sir.”
Lawford slapped his hands
together, rubbing and grinning. “Then we’ve got him,
sir!” he cried happily.
“Got who, sir?” Sharpe asked innocently.
“Colonel Morton,”
Lawford grinned, then leaned closer and dropped his voice. “He
came here with orders to suss the lot of you out, Richard. I think he
wants to see you sent to America, and Chosen Men scattered over the
home isles,” he added. “Disgraceful man! Almost wish you
had been the one that had given him that pulped face,” he said
resentfully. Sharpe raised his eyebrows at him.
“Dunt seem like you, Bill,” he guessed.
“Oh I know! But he’s
treated me in the most indecent manner, ever since he arrived,”
he spat. “I’d like nothing more than for him to get a good
hiding and have to crawl back to Wellington, telling him he was all
wrong and his Lordship was right to keep the Chosen Men around and you
on the strength of the South Essex,” he snapped. Sharpe grinned.
“Well then, we’d best
get our stories straight, ready fer the big battle,” he said.
Lawford’s face fell.
“You may be more right than you know,”
he allowed. “We’re to march north of here as soon as
we’re done. We have to put a stop to some French troops currently
trying to cross a river and grind some good partisans under. Well,
can’t have that, can we?” he asked. Sharpe’s head
suddenly filled with an image of Teresa, and a band of marauders.
He remembered her smile, remembered her fearless devotion to her cause.
Suddenly he missed her so badly he could taste it.
He cleared his throat. “No
sir, we cannot,” he said clearly.
FOUR
“Mister Sharpe, you may
sit,” Colonel Lawford said loudly. They were sat in the
Colonel’s tent, Sharpe in the middle on a rickety old wooden
chair with a gammy rear left leg. Colonels Lawford and Morton were
standing behind Lawford’s desk, Morton looking as regal and
dignified as possible with a red cheek and purple eye. “We await
one more officer, whom Colonel Morton has asked to join the
proceedings,” he said reluctantly.
Sharpe just nodded. Lawford and
Morton sat, and Lawford opened his mouth to say something further. He
noticed something at the tent flaps and stood again.
“I say! What’s going
on!” he called. A private, one of the guards on duty, pushed into
the tent.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” he whined, “this
man wanted entrance, sir. Told ‘im he couldn’t come or
nuffink, but he wouldn’t listen,” he protested. Lawford
looked at the man and sighed.
“Mister Harper?” he said wearily.
“Yes sir, sorry sir,”
he said politely. “But you see, I’m Mister Sharpe’s
Sergeant Major, so I am, and I just thought maybe I could –“
“You are not welcome
here!” Colonel Morton interrupted. “This meeting is for
senior officers only, and your kind is not conducive to smooth
proceedings!” he snapped. Harper just looked at him, then let his
face melt and inclined his head slightly. But his eyes never left
Morton’s.
“Manners, sir!” crowed a voice from the
tent flaps, and a man ducked in and stopped, dusting off his arms.
“How are you, Sergeant? Failing to keep him out of trouble,
eh?” Colonel Bane asked cheerfully. Harper grinned, turning and
nodding to him respectfully.
“Well, actually I am, sir, but others seem to
have him mixed up with someone else, so they have,” he said.
“Ah. I’m sure we can
have it worked out in short order, don’t you fret,” he
said, waving Harper aside. The big Irishman nodded to all three
Colonels before disappearing from the tent, grinning.
“You know that ruffian?” Morton said curiously.
“I do, sir, that I
do,” Bane said cheerfully, striding over to Sharpe. He had turned
in his seat to see him, and made himself smile politely. “Now
then, what’s to do, eh?” Bane asked, dropping a heavy hand
on Sharpe’s shoulder.
“If I may speak, sir?” Sharpe said
respectfully, looking at Morton. He scoffed openly.
“No you may not, sir! You
may wait for the proceedings to begin,” Morton cried indignantly.
Bane looked at him before patting Sharpe’s shoulder and then
walking toward the desk.
“Dear me, Andrew, you really should take a
deep breath and try to calm yourself,” he said, shaking his head
as he spied a chair and dropped himself into it. “Now can I
trouble you two to scurry this along a bit? We’re supposed to be
joining forces to go kick some Frogs’ arses, not ripping our own
ranks apart,” he said distastefully. Lawford smiled, then wiped
it off.
“Of course, sir,” he said, then looked at Morton.
“Well sir, your case, I believe,” he said genially. Morton
nodded, then walked out from behind the desk and looked at Sharpe.
“State your name, please,” he said warily.
“Major Richard Sharpe, sir,
of the South Essex,” he said politely.
“Major Sharpe, you are
charged with the assault of a superior officer – namely, myself,
Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Morton, lately of the 43rd Regiment of Foot
– last evening. Do you understand the charges and what happens if
you are found guilty?” he smiled. Sharpe met his gaze calmly.
“It’s been explained
to me by my advocate sir, thank you,” he said pleasantly.
Morton’s eyes narrowed at his display of manners, but he simply
took a deep breath and looked back at Bane.
“This gentleman was in the
town last night, sirs. I made my way into the town to seek out the
Green Jackets and find out if they had any uses, other than making the
local whores richer,” he sniffed.
“And I take it you
didn’t find any wench that would take you, is that why
you’re sore?” Bane said, deadpan. Morton cleared his throat.
“I was walking through the
backyard of a tavern, sir, when I came across this officer,” he
said, flicking his disgusted gaze at Sharpe briefly, “in flagrante
with a local serving girl.” He paused to walk past Sharpe and
then backed away to look at him. “When I challenged him to seek
accommodation in which to conduct his lewd behaviour, he summoned me to
take my leave in a shockingly base manner,” he continued.
“And what do you have to
say about this, Sharpe?” Bane asked, amused. Sharpe cleared his
throat delicately.
“I would venture to say sir, that whoever that
man were as did that, really weren’t a gentleman at all.
I’m sorry Colonel Morton were subjected to such rude behaviour,
but I can’t say as I think it’ll be the last time,”
he said pleasantly.
“Excuse me?” Morton demanded angrily.
“Being that we’re in
a foreign country, sir, and many of the locals aren’t used to our
ranks and that. They might have mistaken you fer a man of lower
rank,” he said apologetically. Bane grinned, then cleared his
throat.
“How dare you! Do you deny it was you, sir?” Morton
demanded.
“I do, sir,” Sharpe said cheerfully. “I think I can
attest to me whereabouts, if you’d kindly tell me the time this
happened?” he said.
“I can sir, and I will sir!” Morton
cried angrily, folding his arms over his chest. “Approximately
half the hour of ten, Mister Sharpe. What say you now, eh?” He
waited. Sharpe appeared to think about it, his eyes sliding up sideways
to the ceiling of the tent, his tongue wetting his lower lip slowly.
“Half ten? I don’t
carry a timepiece sir, but I’m pretty sure I was – er
– retired fer the night before ten,” he said.
“Retired for the night? Where, sir?” he demanded.
“In me tent, sir,” he
replied helpfully. Morton just stared at him, incredulous.
“It’s the one wi’ the grass stains on the left flap,
sir. Bastard things to get out, grass stains,” he added
helpfully. He cleared his throat. “I mean, er, right difficult to
remove, they are,” he said apologetically.
Morton stared at him, then
smiled. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going
on here, Major,” he said suavely. “Do you have anyone who
can prove your claim?” he asked.
“I do, sir,” he said
cheerfully. Morton’s face fell slightly.
“Who?” he demanded.
“Jacinda, sir,” he
said. “A lass we met earlier in the evening.”
“And you took her back to
your tent, sometime before ten?” Morton asked sceptically.
“Aye, sir. She were,
er… interested in me uniform, sir,” he said politely.
Morton scoffed.
“Oh really! I saw you, sir! I heard your voice insult me, I scuffled with you outside the tavern in the middle of the town! How dare you call me a liar, sir!” he shouted.
“I did no such thing,
sir,” Sharpe said calmly. “It should be pretty dark after
ten at night, I think, and what with it being outside a tavern, perhaps
the drink had led you to believe that –“
“I do not drink,
sir!” Morton roared. Sharpe ‘oh’ed and nodded,
unfazed.
“Er, you don’t?” Lawford asked quietly. Bane turned
round and looked across the desk at the seated Lawford. Lawford looked
back at him. “It’s just that… we have a statement
from a private, sir, who says you had a rather distinct smell about you
as you were carried from the place you’d fallen, sir,” he
added reluctantly. Bane looked at Morton, then back at Lawford.
“You mean he reeked of
liquor?” he said, then looked at Morton. “Oh dear! Well,
this won’t do!” he said. “You accuse this man of
assaulting you, in the dark, outside of a pub, and you smell like
drink? And this man has a girl who says she was in the tent with him
all at that time? You really should think about your facts, man!”
Bane sniffed. “I don’t appreciate people wasting my
time!”
“Then – then find this Jacinda,”
Morton said quickly. “We’ll soon get to the heart of
it!”
“That we will, sir,” Bane said, getting up and going to the
tent flaps. He stuck his head out and talked with the guard for a
moment, then walked back inside. He crossed to his chair and sat.
“Anything else you’d like cleared up before we let Mister
Sharpe off that chair?” he asked politely.
“Yes sir – if you
were never at that tavern, and we never fought, sir, then why do you
have a scratch on your face?” he sneered. Sharpe put a hand to
his face, feeling the slight line down his cheek. He smiled
apologetically at Morton, his tongue running over his lip as he thought
quickly.
“Well sir, it may be indelicate to say in polite company,”
he managed, clearing his throat. Bane looked at him, nodded and then
looked at Lawford, but he looked as mystified as Morton.
“Explain. You do realise the depth of your troubles, sir?”
“I do, sir. It was…
Well, the local girls, sir? They’re not as delicate as English
lasses,” he said carefully. “Some of them get a bit…
carried away,” he said, his face a picture of embarrassment for
Lawford’s benefit. Morton looked horrified.
“Sir?” the guard at
the tent flaps called, and entered with a tall, buxom Spanish girl on
his arm. Her face lit up as she spied Sharpe’s back, and she let
go of the private’s arm to walk over. She put her hand on
Sharpe’s shoulder and patted it firmly.
“Señor Richard,” she grinned, and he stood respectfully.
“Miss Jacinda,” he
said, grinning. She ran her hand to his elbow but he lifted it off
gently. “Not now, lass. You have to sit down here and answer some
questions,” he said slowly. She nodded.
“Ok, what questions?”
she asked. Sharpe looked over at Morton, who was staring at the girl as
if he’d never seen one before.
“Sir?” Sharpe
prompted. Morton cleared his throat hurriedly, then waved at him
dismissively.
“Yes sir, you may stand. Miss Jacinda may
sit,” he said. Sharpe nodded to her, and she winked at him before
sitting delicately. She tossed her long skirts about her long, shapely
legs, getting comfortable. Sharpe walked over and stood by the tent
wall, his hands behind his back. He slid his eyes over to Lawford, who
nodded ever so slightly. “Now then, Miss Jacinda, tell us what
happened last night between you and this fellow,” Morton said,
waving a hand at Sharpe. She grinned.
“Well, I in the tavern, I
work, you see. This man, he come in and he is very – very –
oh, like caballero. He buy drink for me, talk to me like real girl, I want to play with his shiny knobs,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Morton put in.
“The knobs,” she
said, pointing at Sharpe. “They very small, very shiny,”
she went on, waving her hand up and down his jacket area.
“Buttons, sir,”
Sharpe said helpfully. Morton turned and looked at him, then back at
the girl.
“And what time did you leave the tavern?” he asked.
“We go, maybe nine,”
she said. “We walk – is very far!” she protested.
“We get to army place, lots of strong men,” she smiled.
“Richard, he say I can sleep, but I no want to sleep,” she
said. Morton lifted his hands to stop her, trying to interrupt.
“How can any woman sleep in his tent?” she rattled on,
Morton waving his hands now, “He is army boy, is smell like
– like nalgas del burro,”
she said wrinkling her nose. Morton lifted his eyebrows. “So I
tell him, take off the smelly green, I wash it,” she said
reasonably, shrugging and lifting her hands. “I do wrong?”
she asked innocently.
Morton just stared at her, unable to make his mouth
work. He collected himself and cleared his throat, fingering his collar
slightly.
“And madam, assuming you did arrive at his tent sometime before
ten o’clock, what time did you leave it?” he asked.
“I leave for finding
breakfast,” she said indignantly. “He sleeping, but I hungry,” she shrugged. “If you cogida like the conejos
all night, you need good, strong food,” she stated seriously.
Morton thought for a second, then paled and turned to look at Bane.
Sharpe put his hand to his eyes and looked at his feet, shaking his
head.
“Did anyone see you enter his tent, miss?” Bane asked, when
Morton just stared at the tent wall, composing himself.
“Si – the green men, they see me. They very nice, they whistle and wave to me, so friendly!” she smiled brightly.
“Green men?” Bane
asked. “What green men?” he asked, glancing at Lawford as
Morton turned around to look at her again.
“They like him,” she
said, waving a hand at Sharpe casually, “they wear the green and
have the big guns.”
“Chosen Men?” Bane asked out loud, deliberately.
“They have the tea, the
singing songs,” she nodded helpfully. Bane turned and looked at
Sharpe, who was fighting to keep a straight face.
“Right well, I’ve
heard enough. This is a monkey business, Colonel Morton, a right monkey
business, and I’ll have no more of my time wasted, thank
you,” he said. He stood, but Morton crossed to him quickly.
“But sir! We haven’t
even checked with the privates!” he protested.
“Colonel Morton, are you
accusing this lovely creature of lying?” Bane asked genially.
“Or Mister Sharpe, perhaps?” he asked.
“That is yet to be determined,” Morton snapped. Bane stared at him with venom.
“Fine!” He huffed and
stalked to the tent flaps. “Grab the first man you see wearing a
rifleman’s jacket, get him in here as quickly as possible,”
he snapped at one of the tent guards. He nodded and dashed off. Bane
walked back in and sat in his chair. “These… green men,
madam,” he said politely, “how many did you see?”
“I not count,” she
shrugged. “Many. Drinking the tea and cheering at Señor Richard. They very happy he is back early to his tent, yes?” she asked, then turned and looked over at Sharpe.
“Couldn’t say,
miss,” he said helpfully. She grinned at him meaningfully, and
Bane cleared his throat.
“Yes, well,” he said, then looked at
Morton. “You do realise we’re wasting the King’s time
here, sir,” he said icily. “I’m completely satisfied
that Mister Sharpe had nothing to do with this. In fact, I’m
wondering why you’re pursuing him so relentlessly when you
don’t seem to have any evidence,” he said slowly. Morton
lifted his chin and stared at Bane.
“I
assure you, sir, that Mister Sharpe is far from innocent – in a
great many areas,” he added. Bane just snorted without mirth,
waiting. Lawford got up and walked round his desk, looking at Jacinda.
“My dear, had you met
Mister Sharpe before last night?” he asked curiously.
“No,” she said, puzzled.
“Hmm. And yet you agreed to
go back to his army encampment. Were you not worried he would in some
way… trick you? Out of money, or… anything else?”
he asked carefully.
“Him?” she asked, looking over at him.
“I think no. He is too nice. When we walk and I cold, he let me
wear the green chaqueta,” she said, seemingly well pleased. “In his tent, he let me see his thing, is very nice,” she added.
“Excuse me?” Morton asked indignantly.
“Is small, like…
like hands,” she said, pressing her hands together in a circle to
demonstrate, holding them up to Morton so he could see the radius.
“Is cold, I rub it to make warm before he put it… ah, let
me hold it,” she said, thinking of words.
“Madam, please!” Morton interrupted.
“Is very useful!” she
interrupted, “Can make it very long if you pull it.”
“Telescope, sir,”
Sharpe offered slowly from behind his hand, currently rubbing
innocuously at his mouth to keep himself from laughing. Morton thought
about it.
“Oh, I see, er… well yes, of course,” he babbled.
Jacinda grinned. The guard re-appeared at the tent flaps, looking in.
“Rifleman to see you, sir,” he said. Bane stood.
“Thank you,
corporal,” he said, nodding. The guard disappeared and in walked
a green jacketed young man. Sharpe smiled. “Name and rank, young
man,” Bane boomed.
“Harris, sir. Rifleman,” he added. Bane nodded.
“Do you know this man,
rifleman?” he asked, waving a hand in Sharpe’s direction.
Harris looked at him quickly.
“I do, sir. Major Sharpe, sir,” he added. Bane nodded.
“And did you see Major
Sharpe return to his tent last night, rifleman?” he asked.
“I did, sir,” he nodded stiffly.
“And what time was that, please?” Bane asked.
“Can’t be sure, sir,
I seem to have misplaced my timepiece of late,” he said politely.
Bane smiled, then wiped it off before Morton could see it.
“Could you venture a guess, rifleman?” he asked.
“My best guess would be
before a quarter to ten, sir,” he said.
“And how could you know
that if you had no timepiece!” Morton crowed angrily.
“Mrs Harper, sir, she
remarked on the time when she was putting her little son to bed,
sir,” he said pleasantly.
“Mrs Harper?” Morton
demanded. “The wife of the Sergeant Major? And you trust that
hussy to tell the time, much less have a watch?”
“Colonel Morton, you will
not talk about a lady in such a manner!” Lawford shouted,
slapping his hand against the desk. Morton turned to him and shot back.
“Gentlemen!” Bane
called over the resulting argument, “I think we have enough
evidence to pronounce Mister Sharpe innocent of all charges, and get
the Hell out of this tent and onto something worthwhile, eh? This is a
grievous waste of my time, and we have to be off to paste some
Frenchies, so come on, be off with you,” he said. He looked at
Lawford. “Can we pass judgement now?” he asked impatiently.
Lawford nodded, pulling his red jacket straight.
“I concur, Colonel,” he said seriously. Bane nodded.
“Right then, two out of
three ain’t bad. We’re done,” he said, nodding to
Morton and then looking at Harris. “Dismissed, rifleman,”
he said. Harris nodded and fled from the tent. Bane turned his
attention on Jacinda. “My dear, you are free to go. Thank you
very much for your help,” he said suavely, putting his hand out.
She took it and stood slowly, nodding to him.
“Thank you, sir,” she
said and he kissed her hand. She giggled but as soon as he released her
hand she turned her attention to the officer in green behind them.
Morton turned on him too.
“You!” he spat. “Don’t think this is over!” he added.
“I’m sorry, sir, I
thought it were just settled as such?” he asked, as Jacinda put
her arm out and looped hers under his.
“You – you –
you – lying, conniving cur!” he spat. Sharpe raised his
eyebrows, nodded to Lawford and Bane, and then looked at Jacinda.
“This man’s manners
are shocking, lass. Let me see you out,” he said politely,
walking off. Jacinda grinned and bounced along at his side, and they
quickly disappeared out through the tent flaps.
Morton turned on Lawford.
“You! You somehow engineered this!” he accused, seething.
Lawford looked at him.
“You didn’t even let me defend my own
man, Morton, I fail to see how I could have helped in any way,”
he said scathingly. Morton opened his mouth. “It was you who
called for the girl, don’t forget.”
“Ah yes! And how much was
she paid to lie?” he demanded. Lawford looked at him.
“You sir, are accusing a
fellow officer of bribery and accessory to perjury! Choose your next
accusation carefully, or I shall press my own charges!” he
shouted fiercely. Morton jumped back one step, looking at him.
“Now please do me the indescribable honour of leaving my tent so
that it may struck and we may advance on some real enemy!”
Morton seethed, tossed him one
final glare, and turned on his heel, marching out of the tent. Bane
shook his head, then looked at Lawford.
“I say, what’s got
him in such a frightful state?” he asked conversationally.
Lawford sighed, walking to his chair and dropping into it.
“He somehow convinced
Wellington to let him come out here and try to disband the Chosen Men,
and get Major Sharpe re-assigned to some American rifle outfit,”
he sighed, wiping a hand over his face. Bane tutted.
“Well, let’s hope he
fails miserably, what?” he said, and Lawford looked up at him.
“I think it’s fair to say you could rely on my help, should
such a need arise,” he said airily, winking at him before picking
up his cocked hat and setting it on his head. He turned and was out of
the tent before Lawford could put a sentence out.
He huffed and sat back in his
chair. He thought for a long minute, then leaned back against the tent
wall behind him.
“That’s it, Sergeant,” he said
casually. “All done. Is there something else you need to
overhear?”
“Oh! Er… thank ye sir, no sir,”
Harper replied from the other side of the canvas, surprised.
“Then get yourself ready to
march, Sergeant, and make sure Mister Sharpe’s hands are freed of
local matters too,” he said.
“Oh yes sir, that I will
sir,” Harper grinned, and hurried off. Lawford smiled, wiped a
hand over his face, and sighed.
THIS WAY to vanquishing, victory and vindication!
