FIVE

            “Right, get that struck,” Sharpe said, turning away from riflemen Brown and Moore, his green tunic in his hand. They nodded and turned to his tent, starting to dismantle it like lightning.
            “Sharpe! Mister Sharpe, sir!” shouted a voice. He turned and spotted Colonel Bane advancing on him through the mess and noise of one hundred and twenty men getting ready to march.
            “Colonel, sir,” he said cheerfully, holding his hand out. Colonel Bane shook it gratefully.
            “Well, well, well, didn’t expect this when I got up this morning, I don’t mind telling you!” he boomed. “How are you, young man?” he grinned.
            “Surviving, sir,” he admitted with a grin. Bane let their hands drop.
            “Well glad to hear it, man,” he laughed. “Ronnie and Emily asked after you, thought I’d pass along their good wishes,” he added.
            “Thank you, sir. How are they?” he asked, hoping he had parted with the aforementioned girls on good terms.
            “Very well, Richard, very well, due in no small thanks to you, I should say. Emily is quite the little self-assertive hero these days,” he winked, and Sharpe nodded. “Although it’s hard to get her to stop dipping those loathsome biscuits in her tea.”
            “Oh, well, er… give it time, sir,” he allowed.
            “Yes. Well, that Morton’s looking to kick you in the arse, Richard. What on Earth did you do?” he asked, as they turned and walked toward the lines of soldiers’ tents hastily being dismantled.
            “Absolutely nothing, sir,” he said innocently. “I think he had me mixed up with someone else.”
            “Oh yes, so I heard,” he grinned. “Lucky that girl was willing to tell all, eh?” he chuckled.
            “That’s the Spanish girls for you, sir, never pull any punches, them,” he said ruefully, and Bane laughed.
            “Yes well. I’m about to lead the 54th, sir, or what’s left of us. Lawford tells me we’re meeting up at some river, going to do a little Frog-pasting and then hand it over to some locals. Is that about right?” he asked.
            “That’s all I know, sir,” he said truthfully, nodding.
            “Well good. It’s good to know we’ve got three of us that can handle an army, eh?” he boomed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Have a good march then, and I’ll see you at the match,” he chuckled, and Sharpe nodded to him. They parted, Bane heading off toward his own quickly de-camping forces.
            “Sir!” someone called, and Sharpe realised he should turn at that hail. He did and stopped, watching the Irishman run up to him. “There you are, sir. Colonel Lawford’s looking for you, sir, says he has orders, so he does,” he said. Sharpe looked at him, then around to see how many people would hear their conversation, and found no-one.
            “So I should go and see what they are, right?” he asked quietly.
            “That you should, sir,” he said. “I’ll have to come with ye, of course,” he said, and Sharpe grinned. “Just remember you’re supposed to be in charge of the light company, sir. Lawford normally lets you do what you want.”
            “Why would he do that if he’s the ranking officer?” Sharpe asked quietly.
            “Cos you normally win your campaigns, sir,” Harper grinned. “He knows better than to try to fix something that isn’t broken, so he does.”
            “Right,” Sharpe said, and they turned and walked toward Lawford’s tent.
            “Just remember, sir, this Morton’s going to hound you till he finds a way to get us split up. We have to stop the bastard before he finds out how to do it,” Harper said fervently. Sharpe put a hand out across Harper and stopped them.
            “This green jacket thing is important to you, int it?” he asked curiously. Harper sighed.
            “Oh sir,” he heaved. “If you could only hear yourself. I mean, if you were yourself,” he added helplessly. Sharpe looked at him, his face a picture of apology. “This man’s going to try and break up the Green Jackets, and we can’t have that. Lawford may have no choice but to do as the man says, seeing as he’s on orders from Nosy himself, but –“
            “Nosy!” Sharpe hissed suddenly. “Tall man, big nose? Gave me the telescope?” he asked quickly. Harper nodded.
            “Aye sir, that’s the one,” he said, puzzled. Sharpe nodded.
            “And he’s important, is he?” he asked. Harper looked at him – just looked.
            “He runs most of the British Army, sir,” he said quietly. Sharpe looked at him, but Harper could see his eyes glazing over as he thought about something.
            “So… That were him. I stopped him from getting chopped into little pieces, and he gave me a telescope?” he asked himself. “Couldn’t he have stretched to a purse?” he tutted. Harper smiled.
            “He gave you a commission, sir,” he said happily. “Made you an Ensign, so he did. Set you on the road to where you are now.”
            Sharpe looked at him. “Great! Same shit gets dropped on you, just from higher up, eh?” he tutted. Harper grinned.
            “Put it this way, sir, if he hadn’t, you’d probably be the oldest private in your King’s army,” he grinned.
            “Or dead,” Sharpe said philosophically. He shook his head. “So… What am I doing?”
            Harper sighed, clapping his hand to his shoulder. “Look, just bury this Morton arse, and we’ll find a way to get you back to your old self, so we will,” he said reassuringly.
            “I think I’m going to enjoy finding a way to give that little shit a kicking,” Sharpe said deviously. “He’s a right arrogant twat.”
            “That he is, sir,” Harper grinned, and they turned and walked on to Lawford’s tent. Sharpe ducked in but Harper hung around outside.
            “You are not a field officer, sir! How dare you impugn –“
            Sharpe stopped just inside the tent flaps, clearing his throat. Lawford and Morton stopped mid-argument, turning and looking at him.
            “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t want to interrupt owt,” he said politely.
            “The word is ‘anything’!” Morton snapped at him. “And you call yourself a Major? You peasant!”
            “Morton!” Lawford cried angrily. He looked at Sharpe, who was looking Morton over with the kind of intense scrutiny he’d give a joint of meat before finding the best place to start carving. Lawford looked back at Morton, then back at Sharpe, and hesitated. There was a long silence, and then he smiled tightly.
            “Major Sharpe, I have orders for you,” he said haughtily. Sharpe looked at him.
            “Sir.”
            “Colonel Morton here has requested that he replace you as command of the South Essex. He doubts your ability to lead,” he said mildly. Sharpe turned a look on Morton that would have set fire to the canvas if he’d ducked. “So Colonel Morton is to command the South Essex for us, to show us how it’s done, you understand,” he said pleasantly. Sharpe’s eyes took on Lawford’s, who couldn’t hope to stand against them. He flicked his gaze down at his desk quickly to avoid the look that was accusing him of betrayal.
            “And when he mires us in the shit, sir, can I do whatever it takes to get us out?” Sharpe said dangerously.
            “Absolutely, Major,” Lawford said, relieved.
            “Now look here –“ Morton began, but Lawford interrupted.
            “You may command the Chosen Men, sir. I would like you to take point and come up with one of your usual cunning plans for shattering the order and discipline of the French ranks, allowing Colonel Morton here the chance to bugger it all up. Then we can simply step round him, pick up the pieces, and get on with business. At least that way we can say to Lord Wellington that we tried,” he said.
            “How dare you!” Morton shouted at him. Lawford fixed him with a stare.
            “I’m the ranking field Colonel here, Mister Morton. And you have never led a battle. We will indulge your little fantasy, but not at the cost of victory or the lives of real soldiers. Good day,” he said, nodding and turning away. Morton seethed.
            “You’ll both be struck off by Horse Guards for this!” he snapped, turning and marching toward the tent flaps. Sharpe stepped neatly out of the way, but his trailing foot snarled up in Morton’s flashing boots. He stumbled through the tent flaps and onto his face in the grass outside.
            “Richard, please,” Lawford said wearily. Sharpe sniffed, hiding a childish smile.
            “Accident, sir,” he said innocently. Lawford just looked at him. “So I’m to march under him, am I?” he asked seriously. Lawford nodded.
            “Just so, Richard. Carry out every order he gives you – he might turn out to be a good field Colonel, after all – but remember take no orders that stop you from leading your Green Jackets. They’re under your direct control, and are not part of the South Essex advancement,” he said.
            “Sir,” he said, his eyes still communicating admirably just what he thought of the whole plan. He nodded and turned to go. Lawford turned to the two men walking in through the tent flaps.
            “There you are,” he said to the two Lieutenants, “get all my things packed and this thing down sharpish,” he said. “We have a river to get to.”

*

            “So, me and Harper didn’t get on?” Sharpe asked, as if trying to picture it. Harris nodded.
            “Got off on the wrong foot, so to speak,” he said nervously. “Look, sir, maybe we should concentrate on what you do know. No-one can tell you everything you knew, the best way is for you to get your memories back yourself,” he said.
            “No, really?” Sharpe said sarcastically. “Alright, alright,” he said, noticing Harris’ slight frown. He sniffed.
            “What do you remember of the army, sir?” he asked carefully.
            “Pretty much nothing,” he said miserably. “That Jacinda said I’ve got really harsh-looking scars over me back, but I can’t remember as how they got there,” he said.
            “I’m sure you will, sir,” Harris said darkly. “Most flogged soldiers remember for the rest of their lives, or so I’m told.”
            “Have you ever been flogged?” Sharpe asked curiously.
            “I’ve had the best fortune in avoiding that particular punishment, sir,” he allowed. “But as I remember, you hadn’t actually done anything. Well, that was what you said,” he stressed, with a small smile. Sharpe snorted with amusement.
            “But everyone says that, am I right?” he asked.
            “Yes, sir,” Harris said.
            They continued walking, the Green Jackets strung out in a line behind them, Harper at the rear with his huge volley gun. They were picking their way over the rise in the hills, watching for enemy advances. And rabbits.
            The South Essex and the 54th were marching smartly some half-mile away, on the straight and even road made by thousands of other troops having done the same. The sun shone brightly but it was curiously cool, a fresh breeze preventing the men from sweating too much. Even so, when the light began to fade, it was a grateful Sharpe that ordered the men to halt and make camp.
            “Do we not have tents?” he asked Harper quietly.
            “Oh, no sir, not on a march like this, sir. The Essex lads carry them for us, we just sleep under the stars, so we do,” he smiled.
            “And if it rains?” he asked.
            “We get wet,” Harper shrugged. Sharpe looked up at the clear night sky, shivering in the sudden chill.
            “Or freeze,” he muttered.
            “Oh, sure this is nothing, sir,” Harper said off-hand. “We’ve slept in snow before,” he shrugged, turning at the sound of Brown and Taylor. “Right then, you two are on tea duty, get a wiggle on,” he said cheerfully.
            “Yes sir,” they chorused eagerly, and disappeared over the hillside to find something worth burning. Sharpe watched them go.
            “So is someone going to watch while the others sleep?” Sharpe asked.
            “That they are, sir, but not you,” he said confidently. Sharpe looked at him.
            “Me?”
            “Well, normally you take the first watch, sir, on account of -. Well, you just like to take the first watch of an evening,” he said, not looking at him.
            “Why?” he asked him directly.
            “Couldn’t say, sir,” he muttered, making sure he was turned away from him.
            “Harper,” he said quietly. The Irishman stopped and waited. “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about you in the last two days, it’s that you love to tell a story. So go on, tell,” he said carefully. Harper turned around and looked at him.
            “You once said, sir, that… Well, the less you slept, the less you remembered. About people you’d lost, sir,” he said awkwardly.
            “People?” he prompted, then ‘oh’ed. “You mean that woman,” he said.
            “Aye sir, and… other people,” he said.
            “Who?”
            “Well sir, I’m sure it wouldn’t do for me to tell you this, you should be remembering it by yourself,” he said wretchedly. Sharpe studied his face in the rapidly failing light.
            “Alright then. Go and sort out a watch,” he said quietly. Harper nodded.
            “Thank ye, sir,” he said, turning, about to make a very quick exit. He stopped suddenly, turning back to him. “Sir?” he said brightly. Sharpe looked at him.
            “What?”
            “Well, how about a nice hot cup of tea, sir?” he grinned. Sharpe took in his expression, the sudden eagerness, and something told him he was in for something outside of the King’s regulations. He smiled.
            “Aye, go on then,” he said.

SIX

            He woke with a muggy head, not at all sure where he was. He opened his eyes, rubbing at them, wishing his head didn’t feel like last week’s pig’s-bladder football. He groaned, then put his hands out to sit up.
            He found himself wrapped up in a garishly striped thick woollen blanket, four feet from a dead fire and surrounded by men in green, similarly waking.
            “Bloody hell,” he hissed, wiping his hands over his face. He spotted Robinson and winced. “’Ey,” he called, and Robinson looked over cheerfully. “Did we drink last night?” he asked.
            “Not at all, sir,” Robinson said smartly. He rolled out of his blanket with the agility of an ape and began packing his bedclothes away. Sharpe just rubbed his head with both hands. Someone placed a hand on his shoulder and he looked up to find Harper smiling at him.
            “Are you feeling better now, sir?” he asked hopefully.
            “I feel like shit,” he countered. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d dumped some of that Spanish crap in that tea we had last -.” He stopped abruptly, then looked around quickly. He looked down at his hands, surprised, turning them over quickly. He slapped them to his chest, patting at his green tunic as if afraid it wasn’t real.
            “Well, I might have dropped a few leaves in, sir,” Harper said slyly. Sharpe looked up at him.
            “I remember!” he cried, surprised. “I remember me!”
            “That’s good sir,” Harper grinned with relief. “Do you remember what we’re about, sir?” he asked.
            “Bugger me, Pat,” Sharpe said, standing so quickly Harper jumped backwards slightly, “we’ve got a lot on.”
            “Don’t I know it,” he said. “I think we should –“
            “Robinson, round ‘em up,” Sharpe interrupted, oblivious. “Pat, get ‘em on the road sharpish. We’re supposed to be at some river by noon.”
            “Yes sir,” Harper grinned, recognising the commanding tone and tacit belief. “And when we get to the river, sir? And Colonel Morton takes charge, sir?” he added mischievously.
            “I’ll bloody well break him in half,” Sharpe growled.
            “Then my work here is done, so it is,” Harper said cheerfully, turning and clapping his hands, chivvying the Green Jackets to their feet. They massed and trotted cheerfully into line, Harris looking at Sharpe and grinning to himself. Sharpe just winked at him and turned to his blanket, wrapping it up and rolling it, strapping it to his pack quickly. He straightened and looked round to find everyone as ready as they’d ever be.
            “Right then, Harper, you keep ‘em in line, I have to tell that bastard Colonel we’re taking point,” he grumbled, scooping up his pack and rifle, turning away. Harper turned back and looked at the men, their faces reflecting their doubts as Sharpe stalked off.
            “Hey now lads, what’s with the long faces?” he said cheerfully. “You heard the Major, did you not? He’s not going to let anyone put us in red coats,” he added vehemently. Harris sniffed.
            “We’re not saying he can’t do it, Harps,” he piped up. “But… sometimes things don’t work out how he wants.”
            “Well, this is one of those times when you find yourself in the dark, and then at the last minute you find a light,” he said cheerfully. Moore snorted.
            “Yeah, but that’s normally a mirror,” he muttered.
            “Then we know how to find our way back, don’t we rifleman?” Harper said quickly, and a few smiles broke out. “Now then, are we primed and ready, gentlemen? We’re scouting ahead, so we are, we’ve got just six hours to reach that hill and find some Frogs to dispatch. Are you with me?”
            “Well, if we’re not, we’re in the wrong country,” Harris replied, as everyone flipped open frizzens and began to load their rifles.


            “Colonel Morton, sir,” Sharpe said carefully, approaching a small circle of men. Amongst a man-servant, a man fussing over some horse’s reins and a Lieutenant discussing tactics, Morton seemed distracted. He looked up at Sharpe’s voice.
            “You!” he hissed. Sharpe stopped dead, fingering his rifle in his left hand.
            “Sir, the Chosen Men are ready, we’re about to move out and take the hill, sir. We’ll –“
            “You’ll do no such thing, Sharpe!” he spat. “I am in command here, I’ll decide where your rifles go!”
            “Begging yer pardon, sir, but Colonel Lawford instructed me to –“
            “Well Colonel Lawford ain’t here, is he?” he interrupted maliciously. “You seem to think you can swan around the hills doing whatever you want! Well I have some orders for you, Major: you’re to escort the South Essex and 54th across country. We must push hard and be at the top of the hill, overlooking the village of Rolinda and the river Trampa, in less than six hours,” he ordered.
            Sharpe’s eyes narrowed. The Lieutenant, from the 54th, shifted away from Morton slightly. Sharpe took a deep breath, cleared his throat and looked at his feet for a second. He looked up at Morton slowly.
            “Sir, the Chosen Men are skirmishers. You wanted to know what we do, and that’s it. If you want to win, you’ll order us to scout ahead on top of the hills, watching fer French ambushes and clearing anything that gets –“
            “You forget, sir, I get information you don’t!” Morton snapped. Sharpe closed his mouth slowly, his hand tightening on his rifle. “We know there to be a clear road straight to the village. We have no need of your sneaking about, pretending you’re somehow more important than the actual striking force, man!”
            “You want to march two hundred men fer six hours along a straight road, in broad daylight, knowing there are enemy battalions also marching about, and you don’t think we’re in any danger of being spotted and attacked? Sir?” he demanded.
            “I know so, sir!” he countered angrily. “Now get back to your men and bring them here! And make sure you do it well, sir! This may be the last time you ever command such a motley crew. When I report to his Lordship, you’ll find yourself on a ship for the Americas and your Green Jackets in proper regiments where they belong! Now snap to!” he shouted.
            Sharpe eyed him for a long moment. Morton met his burning stare bravely at first, but then wilted and turned away deliberately. Sharpe breathed out a long, relaxing breath, then turned and began to walk back to the men.
            “Sharpe!” Morton called angrily. Sharpe stopped, closed his eyes a second, then turned slowly and fixed him with a stare that would have melted the filigree in the man’s epaulettes if Morton hadn’t shifted nervously. Morton swallowed, then rallied. “You didn’t salute me, sir,” he snapped, to cover his wavering courage.
            Sharpe considered it. How ‘bout two bottle-beggarin’ fingers, you arsewipe? He straightened, snapped his heels together, and inclined his head slightly.
            “Sir,” he said politely. Morton eyed him, then waved him away. Sharpe smiled pleasantly and turned, walking away softly through the spindly grass. Morton watched him cautiously, then turned to the Lieutenant. “Withwood,” he said, looking at him, keeping his shoulders back and his nose high, “back the 54th, sir, and send my compliments to Colonel Bane. Please advise him we are gathering as one force and marching onto the village. I will take the South Essex out this instant, we have no time to lose,” he said imperiously. Lieutenant Withwood nodded, turned, and exited as swiftly as his feet would carry him, hastily holding his shako to his head as he went. Morton turned to the others, then took the reins of the horse and mounted up smoothly.

*

            Harper stomped along, watching the slight hills either side of them as they went. The Chosen Men were stationed at intervals at either side of the South Essex, Harper at the rear right, his eyes searching the tops of the hills incessantly. Sharpe was at the front, his rifle in both hands, his shoulders stiff and his feet heavy.
            Lieutenant Withwood was next to him, marching gingerly. They had been on the move only twenty minutes before Colonel Bane had asked him to leave the 54th and attend to Major Sharpe. Although he’d heard his Colonel talk about Major Sharpe several times, he had been prepared for neither his appearance nor his manner.
            To be honest, I’m a little frightened, he admitted. He looked at Sharpe and hoped he’d never have to cross the stern features and piercing eyes. He swallowed.
            “Ah, sir?” he ventured. Sharpe’s gaze didn’t waver from the road ahead.
            “Yes, Lieutenant,” he replied clearly.
            “Ah… The men, sir,” he offered, “They seem uneasy to see your Rifles walking with us, sir. I must confess, I’ve never seen –“
            “That’s cos we’re not supposed to march with anyone, Lieutenant,” he snapped angrily. “We’re supposed to scout ahead and keep the way clear. That’s our job, that’s what we do.”
            “I see,” he said. It was quiet for a long moment. Sharpe looked at him, but his gaze was less fierce than before.
            “How long have you been a Lieutenant, Withwood?” he asked curiously.
            “Just a year, sir,” he said uneasily. “I was an Ensign for three years before that, sir,” he added.
            “Three years?” he asked, surprised.
            “You have to put in three years before they’ll let you buy up, sir,” he said uneasily. Sharpe grinned, then looked ahead.
            “Is that how they do things now?” he asked, apparently of himself.
            “I’d like to be a Major some day,” he said helpfully. Sharpe looked at him and his stern expression cracked into a small smile.
            “And why’s that?” he asked.
            “Because there are less officers who can tell you what to do, sir,” he pointed out. Sharpe grinned.
            “That there are. But the ones as can tell you what to do aren’t snotty little Captains any more, they’re pompous, self-serving bastard Colonels,” he chuckled. Withwood stared at him. Sharpe noticed and sobered. “How old are you, Withwood?” he asked.
            “Twenty, sir,” he said with pride. Sharpe’s smile faded slightly.
            “Then do summat for me,” he said seriously. Withwood nodded. “When we find these Frogs, fight like there’s no tomorrow. Then find yerself a good woman and leave the army. Marry her and do summat else before the army kills you.”
            Withwood stared, then closed his mouth and forced himself to nod. He stared at the road and they walked in silence for a few minutes. At last he looked back at Sharpe.
            “Er, sir?” he asked carefully. Sharpe looked at him. “Well, why haven’t you done that, sir?” he asked.
            “Tried it once. But it’s not fer me,” Sharpe allowed.
            “Ah. So the army’s going to have to kill you to get rid of you, sir?” he asked cheekily, and Sharpe grinned at him.
            “Take more’n some French army to kill me, son,” he said, and they chuckled.
            They marched on.

*

            “Sharpe! Here!” Morton called. Sharpe looked at Withwood, then turned and walked to the two Colonels and their horses. He stopped by Colonel Bane’s horse, wanting to put as much distance between him and Morton as possible.
            “Ah, there you are, Richard,” Bane smiled.
            “Sir.”
            “Right then gentlemen, let’s survey the land, shall we?” Morton said haughtily, dismounting and pulling a telescope from his jacket. Bane swung down from his horse and clapped Sharpe on the arm, gesturing toward the hill top thirty feet away with his head. Sharpe turned, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and followed.
            Bane and Sharpe got on their hands and knees to crawl up to the top of the hill.
            “I say, old man, get down, would you?” Bane said impatiently. Morton looked back, realised they were on their fronts, and quickly ducked down.
            “Oh yes, I see,” he said quickly. Bane just tutted and he and Sharpe edged up the brow of the hill. They lay flat, looking over. Morton copied them, finding himself at Sharpe’s right elbow. Sharpe ignored him as the three of them stared down into the valley.
            The hill gently sloped down a good two hundred feet, a hundred-foot gap to the village. There was no wall, no gates, no official entry point, just a ramshackle jumble of thatched cottages and houses dotted about. Morton sniffed to himself, lifting his telescope and opening it grandly, the expensive instrument putting Bane’s to shame. Bane just watched Morton, his mouth open, as the man lifted the telescope to look out.
            Sharpe noticed and put his right hand up quickly, knocking the telescope down suddenly.
            “Sharpe!” Morton hissed.
            “Sunlight, sir,” Sharpe snapped. “You want ‘em to see your glass flashing away like a penniless lass in a whorehouse?” he demanded. Morton coloured.
            “You will try to act like a gentleman, sir,” he hissed back angrily. “Gentleman do not use such language!”
            “And Colonels don’t point their bastard telescopes against the sun into the direct sight of Frog officers in a village, sir!” Sharpe shot back. Morton ground his teeth, meeting Sharpe’s hardened gaze.
            “He’s got a good point, Colonel,” Bane said stiffly. Sharpe looked away from Morton deliberately.
            “What’s the matter, Major, couldn’t afford a telescope?” he asked snidely. Sharpe looked back at him, holding his eyes as he put his hand inside his tunic and pulled out his telescope. He cleared his throat as he pulled it to full extension, the plate with the dedication plainly visible. Morton caught the inscription and his face dropped for a long moment.
            “No sir, I just know how to use it, sir,” Sharpe said pleasantly, putting his hand back inside his tunic and pulling out his handkerchief. He found the threadbare corner and held it over the glass of the instrument, lifting it and looking out over the hill. Bane smiled, shaking his head and waiting.
            “Well?” he asked. Sharpe took a deep breath.
            “Blue coats everywhere, sir,” he said shortly. “Looks like… Bloody hell! There’s three battalions spreading out, sir,” he said. “Looks like they’re getting ready to cross the river!”
            “Three? Ready to cross already?” Morton said fearfully. “But they’re not supposed to go till noon!”
            “Perhaps they didn’t get their orders from Lawford in time, sir,” Sharpe snapped sarcastically. Morton turned on his side and rounded on him.
            “Now look here, you ruffian whoreson, when I want –“
            “Morton! Get your arse back to your horse and get ready to move the men out, right now!” Bane snapped. Morton snapped his telescope shut angrily and inched backwards, leaving Bane huffing and muttering to himself. He looked at Sharpe. “What a man, eh?” he said, then put a hand to Sharpe’s shoulder, patting once. “I’m sure he’s just learnt that word and has been dying to try it out on someone, eh?” he said helplessly. “Don’t hold it again him,” he said, beginning to inch backwards. Sharpe huffed, then started inching backwards on his elbows as well.
            “I don’t sir, he’s right, after all,” he said. “Funny though, how to some people I’ll always be some scruffy, unwashed bastard they’d rather do without till they need me to do summat they don’t have the balls to do themselves,” he grumbled. Bane stopped short.
            “He was right?” Bane asked, surprised. Sharpe looked at him.
            “Aye.” He stopped short, looking at Bane. For the first time he felt ashamed. Bane was looking at him as if he’d just told him he was actually French after all. They looked at each other for a long moment, then Sharpe found he couldn’t meet the man’s eyes any more and he looked at the grass under his elbows, pursing his lips. There was a long silence.
            “Well… Looks like you’ve made the most of what you were given, I’d say,” Bane said nervously, and Sharpe suddenly realised the man was embarrassed. He watched Bane inch his way back before getting to his feet slowly, brushing off his sleeves. Sharpe sighed, then inched back quickly and climbed to his feet.
            “Right sir, I suggest we get the men down this hill as fast as we can and onto those French,” Morton said, climbing back onto his horse. “We have no time to spare.”
            “Absolutely, sir,” Bane said, some of the wind gone from his sails. He looked at Sharpe before flicking his gaze up to Morton. He looked at the horse, stopping short and thinking. He looked back at Sharpe, looking him up and down slowly, and then looked back up at Morton, looking him over too. Morton noticed.
            “Something amiss, sir?” he asked curiously. Bane looked back at Sharpe for a long moment. Sharpe realised he was being watched and turned to look at him. Bane smiled warmly at him.
            “Nothing that’s our fault, I’m sure,” he said, straightening and pulling his red jacket straight with a quick tug. He nodded to Sharpe. “Well then, how are we to proceed, hmm?” he asked, looking back at Morton. “I believe Colonel Lawford put you in charge of manoeuvres?”
            “That he did sir, that he did,” Morton said proudly. “Myself and Mister Sharpe will take half the South Essex down the hill, sir. You and your 54th will provide rear support. Once we engage the French, your men will spread out and form a defensive line. We will pound the devils, but your force will tidy up anything we miss. Clear?” he asked.
            Bane and Sharpe looked at each other.
            “Clear,” they both chorused. Morton nodded, then turned his horse and kicked it to a canter, back to the lines. Bane shook his head, removed his cocked hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Sharpe just huffed, pushing his handkerchief and telescope back into his tunic and doing up the buttons slowly. Bane turned, looked at him, and clapped him on the shoulder, and they walked back toward the lines slowly.

SEVEN

        
            Bane, Morton and Sharpe stood at the front, Sharpe loading his rifle slowly.
            “Really Sharpe, must you?” Morton scoffed. “As if you’re going to do much damage with that.”
            Sharpe ignored him, turning and shouting to the ranks behind him. “Rifles! To me!” he bellowed. Morton opened his mouth but hesitated as seven green-jacketed men poured out from the ranks of the South Essex, jogging toward Sharpe. “Loaded? Primed?” he asked curtly.
            “Just say the word, sir,” Hagman grinned. Sharpe nodded, lifting his rifle in his left hand.
            “Right, spread out, fifteen feet each, set up and pick off them officers,” he said.
            “Sir!” the men chirped, scattering. Morton watched, outraged.
            “What the Hell do you think you’re doing, Sharpe?” he demanded. Sharpe turned quickly, pinning him with a stare that would have made his horse skittish if he’d been paying attention.
            “My job, sir. Watch, you might learn summat,” he snapped. Morton sat, speechless, as Sharpe walked to the brow of the hill. If anyone had been looking up, they probably would not have been worried by the silhouette of a single man looking down the hill at the three clumps of men preparing to ford a river with long boats. “Right lads! On my shot!” he called. “This man wants to know what we do – show ‘im!” he shouted angrily.
            He knelt down, his right elbow sitting comfortably on his knee, holding the rifle up in position. He closed his left eye, looking down the long barrel and pulling the Baker rifle back to full-cock slowly.
            Just better hit summat, or I’m going to look pretty stupid, he thought, swallowing quickly. He found a large plumed hat in his sights and smiled maliciously. He waited till he had a good bead on it and squeezed back on the trigger.
            The crack and puff of smoke had barely registered with Morton before a volley of cracks and cheers broke out around them. Sharpe was already reloading like lightning, the others doing the same.
            Bane and Morton took out their telescopes and looked over the hill. French soldiers were shouting and scattering, their calm, orderly groups shattered. Men fell, rifles cracked, Green Jackets whooped in celebration and continued their assault.
            “Rifles! Take it to ‘em!” Sharpe shouted, before letting off another perfect shot. It connected with a running French sergeant and Sharpe bounced to his feet, reloading even as he and the Chosen Men ran to the hill and down, disappearing quickly.
            “Well, that seems to have done it, eh?” Bane chuckled. He looked at Morton. “Well then, sir, you take your half of the South Essex, and I’ll get back to my half and the 54th,” he said.
            “Sir,” Morton nodded, wheeling his horse and looking at the men. “South Essex, half battalion!” he called, drawing his sword and waving it high. “Lieutenant Withwood! Go!”
            Withwood drew his sword and looked at the men.
            “Follow me!” he bellowed, “Down the hill!” The men moved as one, a rippling tide of red and white washing down over the side of the hill. The colours swept past Morton and he sat back on his horse, watching with satisfaction as they stampeded toward glory. They scrambled down the hill, meeting the bottom neatly.
            “South Essex!” Lieutenant Withwood shouted. “Form ranks!”
            They jumbled and scrambled into line, four men deep, their muskets up and ready. Withwood turned and saw the masses of three French battalions mustering order and getting ready to advance in columns. He swallowed hastily.
            “First rank! Muskets ready!” he shouted. The men in the front rank raised their muskets and aimed as best they could. “Fire!”
            The volley went out and ripped into the French. Most fell, but the ones behind simply stepped over their fallen comrades and carried on. The thin columns were cutting down on the number of casualties admirably. The front rank of the South Essex knelt down swiftly to reload.
            “Second rank!” Withwood shouted calmly. “Fire!” The second volley went out perfectly timed, the men sinking to their knees to reload their muskets. Withwood waited until some of the acrid smoke had been cleared by the stiff breeze. “Third rank!” he commanded and they raised their muskets. “Fire!”
            Sharpe and the Chosen Men kept their distance on the side of the hill, a good fifty feet behind the South Essex’s half battalion. They sat comfortably, picking off men at their leisure. Pretty soon there were few officers left.
            Sharpe’s concentration was shattered as a huge horse bore down on him from the side. He wobbled on his knee and almost fell, looking up to find Morton looking down at him.
            “Get up, man!” he shouted at him, waving his sword. “On, sir, on!”
            Sharpe cursed at him as the Colonel turned his horse and headed for the fray. He steadied himself and fired his rifle, leaping up and looking around.
            “Rifles! Fall back!” he bellowed. Morton heard and turned to look at him.
            “What the devil –“
            “Rifles! Rifles!” Sharpe shouted over the noise of musket fire and rifle cracks. “Fall back!”
            Sharpe turned and stood, surveying the carnage at the base of the hill. Lieutenant Withwood had performed perfectly, readying and using the men to best effect, but that couldn’t stop close to four hundred French soldiers approaching the scant hundred men with muskets. Sharpe cursed, turning to one side and spitting out the saltpetre quickly.
            Morton harried his horse over to Sharpe, wheeling it round hastily.
            “What are you doing, man? We’re into them!” he shouted.
            “Look, sir!” Sharpe shouted angrily, pointing with his free left hand. “The South Essex are about to get massacred! This int a battle, it’s a bloody slaughterin’ field!” he bellowed. “Get ‘em back, now! While there’s still someone to get back!”
            Men in green rushed past them, back up the hill quickly, stopping to fire with deadly accuracy even as they retreated.
            “I’ll have your Majority for this, Sharpe!” Morton snarled, kicking his horse on and riding straight toward Lieutenant Withwood. Sharpe turned and grabbed at a running Green Jacket.
            “Brown!” he shouted, catching his attention. Brown saluted quickly, grinning. “Get back up that bastard hill, tell Bane to get the other half of the South Essex an’ all his 54th down here! Now!” he shouted.
            Brown scrambled away up the hill, as fast as his legs would carry him. Sharpe turned round and spotted that the Chosen Men had found vantage points dotted around the hill. They were reloading, not even bothering with the paper wraps for the balls in their haste. They aimed and picked off anything blue. Sharpe turned and looked at Morton, riding his horse toward the brave Lieutenant Withwood. Sharpe thought of the twenty-year-old.
            He’ll just struggle on, cos that’s his job. And when some Frog stabs him through the heart, he’ll think on what I’ve told him and about leaving, and wish he’d taken me advice. He huffed and slung his rifle over his shoulder, the hot barrel bouncing against his should blade. He lifted the strap and looped it across him securely. He drew his sword and ran forwards.
            “Third rank! Fire!” Withwood shouted, the men trembling now as the French pressed forwards. They were nearly within throwing distance. Withwood gripped his sword tightly, feeling the fear and sweat very keenly. He swallowed and started to pray. “Fix bayonets!” he shouted hoarsely. All three ranks of the South Essex stood, fumbling to get the blades from the barrels, screwing them on as fast as they could.
            “Withwood!” Sharpe shouted, appearing next to him. He looked back at the men, noticing them and their bayonets ready. “Good work, lad,” he said, clapping him on the elbow. Withwood just looked at him.
            “We’ve got slightly more than we can handle, sir,” he said slowly, hearing the jump of fear in his own voice all too well. Sharpe grinned.
            “This is the army, son, there are always more than we can handle,” he said confidently. Withwood swallowed. “Colonel Bane and two and a half battalions are on their way. We just need to keep ‘em here till they get down that hill. Can you do that?” he challenged.
            Withwood looked at him, taking in his face smudged with black cartridge powder, his much-used, proud uniform, the large sword with the nicked blade but a sharp edge, and looked back at Sharpe’s clear green eyes that were waiting for some spark of bravado. Withwood found it.
            “Yes sir!” he replied clearly, straightening. Sharpe grinned.
            “Then let’s give them bastards a good kickin’,” he commanded. “South Essex!” he shouted, lifting his sword diagonally across him, finding the French literally a few sword-lengths away. “Charge!”
            The redcoats ran at the blue. Men stabbed and cursed, shouted and clubbed. Swords clanged on musket stocks, bayonets scraped on cartridge boxes, fists flailed out at heads. Sharpe raked a man across the back, kicking him away from him. He turned to see a horse dancing in fear and ran towards it.
            He found Morton cowering nearby, with the fallen bodies of South Essex men. He ran over, grabbed him by the lapel and heaved him to his feet.
            “Get up, man!” Sharpe shouted into his face.
            “They’re trying to kill me!” Morton gibbered. Sharpe pushed him from him, turning and picking up a sword. He advanced on Morton, who stepped back. But Sharpe simply pushed the sword into his hands. He turned and fended off a large French soldier, slicing at his neck neatly. Two more jumped at him. It took all his strength to wrench his sword into the first and drag it free to slice at the second. He turned and looked back at Morton.
            He was just standing, watching, both hands clutching the sword hilt in fear as men swarmed around him.
            “Bloody hell, man! Kill some bugger! Now!” Sharpe roared at him, but Morton just turned glassy eyes on him and stared, witless. Sharpe heard someone shout and turned in time for someone to club at his head. He was pushed to the ground. He rolled, shaking his head and looking up. A French soldier with a bayonet blade leapt at him. Sharpe got his hands to his throat and squeezed. The Frenchman elbowed him in the gut and Sharpe wheezed, winded. He fell back and the Frenchman sat up, lifting the bayonet. Sharpe suddenly sprang up and headbutted the man in the eye.
            He fell back. Sharpe leapt up and stamped down on the man’s windpipe as hard as he could. He deemed him out of the fight and turned to pick up his sword. He looked up at Morton, then ran over.
            He grabbed his elbow and yanked him from the fray, heading for the hill. He cut and slashed at anything blue as he dragged the man, still clutching the sword, toward the safety of the red lines by the hill.
            “That’s it boys! Show them who’s got first dibs on the Spanish girls!” Bane was shouting from atop his horse. He turned and noticed Sharpe pull Morton to the hillside and push him down roughly.
            “You stay there, you useless bastard, until we’ve cleared this mess up! If we ever get out of this, I’m bloody well sending you back to Horse Guards wi’ no balls!” Sharpe roared. He turned and fought his way back Bane.
            “Ah! There you are, Sharpe! Nice of you to invite me to this little shindig!” Bane crowed delightedly. He slid from his horse and grabbed Sharpe’s shoulder to stop him from getting lost in the melee. “I say, have you seen that Morton?” he asked slyly.
            “Found him barrel-eyed, sir,” Sharpe said. “Gave him every opportunity, but he’s not with us. Left him by the hill, sir,” he said. Bane tutted disgustedly.
            “More than he deserves, man!” he snorted. “Ah well. Just goes to show, eh? Good work, Major, good work,” he nodded, then drew his sword. “Up and at ‘em, Major!” he cried.
            The two men split and jumped into the noise, roaring and swinging like madmen. Bane was a powerhouse of strength and agility, beating down swords and musket bayonets alike. He whirled and sliced, stabbed and heaved.
            Sharpe hacked at anything that tried to get close to him. All he could see were blue coats jumping at him. All he could hear was the clang of metal on metal, metal on wooden stocks, metal on men. He roared and swung his sword, kicking out. He rammed his shoulder into the bulk of a huge blue coat, sending them both to the ground. He squirmed on top and slammed his elbow into the side of the man’s head. He leapt off him and grabbed his sword, struggling to his feet as men kept on coming.
            Withwood looked up, his sword dripping, his hat lost, his face running with sweat. He found himself looking at the river, but instead of marvelling at the shimmering surface, he saw the dark figures on the opposite bank. He heard shouts and swallowed, realising they were about to be attacked by the new arrivals.
            Then a shout rang out and a curious, small rag was raised. He grinned, then waved his sword at them, laughing. The strange group of figures waded into the river a short way until they were stopped by the start of strong currents.
            “Regalo de santo?” someone shouted at him, and he grinned, nodding.
            “I bloody hope so!” he called back. The people jumped and waved delightedly, turning to the long boats tied at the banks. They started untying them and loading them with men and carbines.
            Withwood turned and surveyed the carnage. He took a deep breath, noticing the only soldiers still standing were wearing red, or at least, had been. Now they were all shades of purple and burgundy, blood and mud covering what had started out as brushed red. He put his hand to his crossbelt and found his whistle, pulling it out.
            He gave three short blasts, and the men in red started to look around for someone in charge.
            “South Essex! 54th!” he shouted as best he could, with his raw throat and aching chest. “Form lines!”
            Men in red started to coalesce into lines, finding spaces and manoeuvring themselves into columns. He did a quick count and noticed with pleasure that the left-hand group were ten across and around seven men deep. The right-hand group, the buttons denoting them as the 54th, appeared to be eight men across and at least six deep.
            Withwood grinned, standing his sword tip on the grass and looking around. He saw Colonel Bane waving to him from the opposite side of the right-hand group, then pause to wipe his sword on the grass. He walked over slowly, grinning and clapping at men’s arms in the ranks as he did so.
            “Bloody good job, lads!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, and the ranks cheered and threw hats. Bane laughed, turning to Withwood and putting his hand on his shoulder. “Well, glad to see you’re safe, George!” he bellowed.
            “Oh yes sir, me too sir,” he said gratefully, and Bane laughed. He looked around, then his smile faded slightly.
            “Major Sharpe!” he shouted suddenly. “Rifles!” The ranks of red turned to look about, then one man shouted and pointed. The ranks all turned to look, as did the two officers. Sharpe and the Chosen Men were at the river, behind everyone, helping Spanish bandits out of boats and onto dry land. Bane grinned, patted Withwood’s shoulder hard enough to make him take a step to steady himself, and turned and walked over.
            An old man with a huge pipe was babbling something at Sharpe, who was doing his best to slow him down and communicate that he wasn’t sure what was going on. Bane strode up behind them, and the man peered round Sharpe to see him. He said something, then looked back at Sharpe.
            “I say, what’s he on about?” Bane asked.
            “I’ve no idea, sir,” Sharpe said helplessly. “But now you’re here,” he said, pleased, turning to look at the man. “See him?” he asked, chucking his thumb over his shoulder at Bane, “he’s the Colonel – coronel,” he said desperately. “Me,” he added, stabbing his thumb into his tunic, “comandante, that’s all, mate.” He lifted his left hand at his eye-height. “Him, coronel, and then me,” he said, raising his right hand only to chest-height, “Major, comandante, right?”
            The man grinned, laughing and grabbing him by both upper arms, babbling on and laughing. The other men and women gathered around, laughing too. Sharpe sighed, then looked at Bane. He pushed into the happy throng.
            “Now then, see here,” Bane said happily, smiling and trying to look as friendly as possible, “I’m in charge, you see?”
            But the rotund man with the big pipe simply edged him politely out of the way, grabbing hold of Sharpe’s elbow again and pulling on it. Sharpe stared at him.
            “No, mate, I’m not in charge here,” he said urgently. The man laughed and nodded.
            “Chaquetas verdes – green!” he cheered, “armas largos, si?”
            “Bloody hell, where’s Harris?” he asked himself, looking around. Moore pushed his way through.
            “He’s talking about rifles, sir,” he said helpfully. “Don’t know much, but I know that word in any language,” he grinned. Sharpe grabbed Moore’s jacket before he could be carried away in the crush.
            “Fine. Tell him Bane’s in charge, so we can get off this spit of land,” he ordered. Moore turned to the old leader, and in his best, faltering Spanish, explained. It didn’t seem to faze the partisans at all, and as Bane watched, the men in green were bundled along in a happy conflagration of singing and cheering, toward the battleground that was now being rifled for souvenirs.

EIGHT

            “Sir!” Harper shouted indiscriminately, wandering the lines of fallen men, looking at the uniforms carefully.
            “Harps!” Harris called, sitting with his feet up on a brick, his jacket off and his shirt torn to shreds. Harper walked over, spying the huge red lump of bandage on the younger man’s upper arm.
            “And what happened to you?” Harper asked.
            “Had a disagreement with a young man in blue, over which end of his sword I should be holding,” Harris said cheerfully. “Still, all over now,” he added.
            “Aye,” Harper said. He looked around. “Have you seen the Major?”
            “No,” Harris said. “Why?”
            “Can’t find him,” Harper said gingerly.
            “He’s not with Lawford? I heard they were meeting partisan leaders in his tent not too long ago,” Harris said. “You know how the Major has a soft spot for partisans,” he grinned.
            “Aye, well, ‘spect he’s round here somewhere then, eh?” he said, nodding to Harris before walking on to the hastily erected officers’ tent.
            He stopped by the flaps, then looked at the South Essex man on duty. He leaned in and said something quietly, and the guard looked at him before nodding slowly. Harper grinned, nodded his thanks, and wandered to the pile of soldiers’ packs ten feet away, sitting down and getting comfortable.
            Inside the tent, Sharpe stood to attention with his shako under his arm, his back as straight as he could hold it while it throbbed and ached. Colonel Bane was standing with his hands behind his back, watching Lawford write a long letter at his desk. Colonel Morton stood at the side of the desk, watching and protesting angrily.
            “Shut up, man, there’s a good soldier,” Lawford snapped at him.
            “I will fight this all the way to Wellington!” Morton shouted. “Don’t forget I know people at Horse Guards! How dare you write such lies about me!”
            “Lies, sir?” Bane asked angrily, walking forwards. “Saw you with my own eyes, man, gibbering and cowering like some five year old under their bed!” he added furiously. “If it hadn’t been for Major Sharpe, you’d be in two pieces right now!”
            “I resent the implication that this scruffy, common gutter-thief somehow aided me in my fight against the French!” he shot back.
            “Oh-ho! You fought the French, did you?” Bane shot back. “That must have been hard from your knees!”
            “How dare you!” Morton seethed.
            “Gentlemen, please!” Lawford shouted suddenly. He flicked his gaze up at Sharpe. “Major, would you be good enough to sign this, please?” he asked.
            Sharpe smiled pleasantly, walked forward and took the quill from Lawford, looking at Morton as he bent over and dipped it in the ink. He leaned over and signed his name neatly on the line at the bottom marked ‘witness’. He handed the quill back to Lawford, straightening and standing back.
            “Everything seems to be in order now,” Lawford said with great satisfaction. He looked up at Morton. “This letter, containing our certified true account of what happened and how you lost your nerve and your command to Colonel Bane and Major Sharpe at the river Trampa, will be delivered to Horse Guards by my personal carrier. I expect you will be stripped of rank. However, I rather think you were lucky it was Major Sharpe on that field sir, and not myself. I don’t know I if could have brought myself to save such a pitiful wretch from certain death, under the same circumstances,” he scoffed. “Be thankful you’re still alive.”
            “We’ll see about this,” Morton said quietly. Lawford smiled.
            “I expect we will. However, I rather think you should thank Major Sharpe for saving your life, Mister Morton,” he said maliciously. Morton just stared at him.
            “Me? Thank him?” he asked, horrified.
            “Yes sir, you sir. Now, if you don’t mind. After all, we’re all gentlemen here, aren’t we?” he said airily. “Don’t forget, Major Sharpe also has friends at Horse Guards. It may be to your advantage,” he added slyly.
            Morton swallowed, turned, and looked at Sharpe. He was still standing to attention, his shako under his right arm, watching Morton with an evil look on his face. Morton cleared his throat and walked over to him gingerly. He stopped in front of him, straightened and put on his most convincingly sincere face.
            “Major Sharpe,” he said bravely. “I would like to offer you my thanks and appreciation for your actions on the battlefield today. In particular, I would like to thank you for saving my life,” he managed, his voice thin, the act galling him deeply. He looked at Sharpe and waited.
            The taller rifleman sniffed to himself and licked dry lips, before looking down at his shako and lifting it onto his head. He tugged at the brim to pull it straight, then looked at Morton.
            He stepped forward and in one swift movement had kneed him with all his strength in the groin. Morton howled and fell over backwards, clapping his hands to the injured area and rolling around on the floor. Sharpe smiled pleasantly.
            “You’re welcome,” he said cheerfully, nodding to both Colonels before turning and walking out of the tent.
            He ignored the sounds of boisterous laughter and groaned curses admirably, walking away from the tent with a broad grin of satisfaction on his face. He noticed Harper sat on the pile of disused packs and stopped.
            “And what’s got you in such a good mood, sir?” the big Irishman asked, watching him. “You and your knee sorted out Mister Morton, did you?”
            Sharpe chuckled, shaking his head. “And how did you know that?” he asked as Harper got to his feet slowly, brushing his uniform down.
            “Oh, just something I heard on the wind, sir,” he grinned, then broke into a chuckle.
            “Is there anything you don’t hear about?” Sharpe asked, and they turned to walk back toward the mass of South Essex’s walking wounded.
            “Oh, I’m sure there’s something, sir. Pity Mister Morton hadn’t heard about the things I’d heard about – or at least, one thing in particular,” he added cheerfully.
            “And what’s that, Sergeant?” Sharpe asked, half-dreading the answer.
            Harper grinned a grin that touched his eyes and said, “Sharpe’s knee.”

THE END

Historical Note:
None of this really happened. I made it all up. 
No poncy, up-their-own-arse Lieutenant Colonels were harmed during the writing of this fan-fic ~ unfortunately. However, some of Sharpe's shiny buttons needed a damned good polishing, something with which Miss Jacinda was only too happy to help.

~ The Mardy Bum,
23rd October, 2006.
Hong Kong S.A.R.