FIVE

        "Sharpe! You'll want to hear this!" Colonel Parker shouted down the street. Sharpe split from Harper and walked up the dusty street. They, the rest of the Chosen Men, and the entire South Essex were now mostly out of uniform, all in local clothes borrowed or bought from the villagers. The Spanish girls had enjoyed making the foreign soldiers pay full coin for the clothes, and although the threat of a short sharp drop had prevented many men from pursuing them, they had also enjoyed fraternizing with the formerly red-coated strangers.
        Colonel Parker himself was dressed as a farmer, and Sharpe had to admit he looked completely convincing. He stopped and looked at him.
        "Sir," he said. The Colonel was looking at Peter Hindle, and the man stood next to him.
        "This erstwhile fellow is a village scout, just back from the path the French usually take to get here," he said, nodding to the man. He smiled nervously, not following a scrap of the English conversation. "He says still no sign."
        "Right sir," Sharpe said, covering his relief. "Then we have time for fortifications, sir."
        "Fortifications? They're not bringing a whole battalion, Major," he grinned. "Don't bother yourself with that kind of thing. Just keep your men from the girls, and wait for the foxes to raise their heads. We'll soon see them off," he said haughtily, clapping Sharpe a mighty slap on his shoulder. Sharpe took a step to balance himself and then looked at him.
        "But sir, if we start now we can –"
        "Really, Major, this good fellow says we needn't worry," Peter interrupted. "He says they're probably only bringing a hundred men." He looked at the man. "Si?" he asked. The man looked at him, then at Sharpe. He nodded.
        "He's got no clue what yer talking about, man," he snapped. "Ask him in Spanish."
        Peter said something quickly and the man smiled, relieved. He nodded and rambled on for a moment. Sharpe just looked at him, then at Peter. Nice trick. Worked first on him, then on me. Nearly, he thought. He looked at the Colonel, thinking.
        "Permission to fill sandbags, sir?" he asked innocently. "Fer a small wall, give the men something to do, keep 'em out of trouble, sir," he added. The Colonel looked at him.
        "Yes, why not Major, good thinking, what?" he said, grinning. "Good man. Dismissed," he said. Sharpe nodded and turned, walking back to the men, his rifle slung. He reached Harper and swore, viciously and at length. Harper just waited.
        "What's he done?" he asked carefully, his tone light.
        "He's taking that Peter Hindle's word on everything," Sharpe said, being careful to keep his voice down.
        "Is that bad, sir?" he asked, following Sharpe as he strode back toward the barn.
        "It is when I don't trust the bugger as far as I could throw him," he snapped. "Come on. Get the Chosen Men up, steal me some South Essex men, and get 'em all digging," he said. Harper just followed.


        They were diligent in their work, Sharpe mucking in for lack of something else to do. He looked up and around, pausing to survey the apparently haphazard holes and trenches. He leaned over his shovel, wiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve, before rolling it up.
        Despite the heat and feeling naked without the feel of a rifle hanging off his shoulder, he had to admit it was a peaceful kind of satisfaction, digging. He had felt great personal satisfaction at seeing soldiers perform well, at battalions decimating French columns in an organized manner, and even receiving his Majority, raising him to where he was now. But digging gave him a feeling that he'd done something good without having had to kill anyone. It was a different kind of sense of worth, an alien one.
        He sighed, looking around and finding Nigel and Marjorie watching them. He heard a clang of metal and looked to his left, finding Harris looking at him. He mouthed the word "gentile" at Sharpe, who huffed and picked up his shovel, walking over to the two of them slowly.
        "Miss," he said suavely, then cleared his throat and added, "Mr Hindle."
        "Mr Harp, it's lovely –"
        "Sharpe."
        "Yes. So lovely to see you all… working hard," he said, waving a hand at the riflemen and the twenty or so men that had been commandeered from the South Essex. "You must be thirsty, dear man," he added, turning to his canteen on his belt.
        "I'll survive," he said. "You don't mind the heat, miss?" he asked politely, wondering just what the bloody hell he was supposed to do next. She eyed him, seemingly amused. He noticed her scarf of the day was pale pink to match her white blouse and red heavy skirt.             "Nice colour, that," he said, nodding toward it, and she smiled before looking at Nigel. He looked back at her.
        "Oh, yes. Peter was wondering… what it is you're doing out there?" he asked innocently. Marjorie looked back at him, her eyes hooded. Sharpe smiled at her, hoping it looked friendly but suspecting it was coming out grateful.
        "Just giving the men summat to do, Mr Hindle," he said easily. "I hate to see bored soldiers. Makes 'em do stupid things, what with so much distraction about," he said, except his concentration wasn't what it should have been, and the last word came out as "abaht". He shifted his eyes to Marjorie unconsciously. She grinned, before wiping it off and looking out at the men. She sniffed delicately, waving air at her face, and Nigel looked at her.
        "Well, I daresay we've dug enough ourselves, wouldn't you?" he said, looking at her.
        "I bet she rattles on all day when there's no-one to hear her, like," Sharpe said suddenly, and they both turned to look at him. Suddenly he wanted to her to stay behind and him to leave. He wondered why.
        "Oh, I see, ha!" Nigel chuckled, "Very funny, Mr Harp," he added, patting him on the shoulder and finding his shirt damp. "Well then," he said awkwardly, wiping his hand on his coat, "we'll get inside where it's a little cooler, eh?" he said to Marjorie. She nodded, but as Nigel turned away she looked back at Sharpe and winked.
        He pursed his lips, thinking, as she turned and walked off, following Nigel back toward the big gates and the village inside. Sharpe picked up his shovel thoughtfully and walked back to the hole he had started. He slammed it into the ground as Harris wandered up.
        "Gentile, sir?" he asked quietly.
        "Every slippery bloody eel you can name," Sharpe muttered, hacking at the dirt mercilessly.


        Harper walked inside the town house, laying his shovel against the side of the kitchen basin and leaning over it, pouring water in from the jug next to the basin. He washed his hands, humming to himself, splashing the water against his face. He heard someone behind him in the kitchen and turned.
        "Oh, Miss Marjorie," he said happily. She looked at him curiously. "Oh that's right, you don't speak miss. Ah well, my loss, I'm sure," he continued. "Was there something I could do for you, miss?" he asked. She smiled, reaching into her pocket and taking out a small piece of paper. She walked over slowly, handing it to him. He began to open it but she put her hands out to his, holding them closed. He swallowed and looked at her at close range.
        She was definitely very good-looking, but not in a classical sense, he reasoned. More like a sneak-up-on-you kinda way, he thought to himself. He nodded.
        "I'll give it to the Major, shall I?" he asked innocently. She nodded, then smiled and leaned over, kissing his cheek softly. He waited until she had smiled and left as silently as she'd come. Then he let out a long sigh. I'm a married man. I'm a married man, he repeated to himself, stuffing the paper in his pocket and picking up his shovel. He walked back outside, trying to appear unhurried. He looked around just beyond the gates, where everyone was now filling gunny sacks with the turfed dirt, but couldn't see Sharpe. "Shite," he muttered, then wandered back inside the gates.
        He turned left and walked up the dirt road, heading for the town house and hoping the Major had gone back to his room. He walked in the door, quietly for a big man, and walked up the stairs slowly. He reached the landing and walked along, but paused when he heard voices.
        "It's him, no?"
        "Oh don't be silly," someone said, and he recognized the voice as that of Nigel Hindle.
        "Then what?"
        "It's… Look, you needn't worry," Nigel said, indignant. "I'm still prepared to do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes," he said, his thin voice desperate.
        "Just remember how you begged me to spare him on the crossing."
        "I do, every day I do," Nigel said, his voice taking on a whining timbre. Harper's face twisted into derision for the owner. "I owe you, I know."
        "Just make sure you remember that," said the voice. "Tell him I said hello. And if I catch you with that filthy little soldier, telling him anything –"
        "Would I?" Nigel said innocently. Yes, you bloody would, you stinkin' fop, Harper thought immediately. He turned and fled from the corridor, opening a door and flying in. He shut it almost completely and stuck his eye to the gap, watching.
        "Did you want summat, Pat?" came a quiet mumble, and he turned to find Sharpe dosing on his back, over on the bed near the window.
        "Quiet! – Sir," he hissed, and Sharpe snapped awake. He put his elbows under him and looked over. Harper waved at him not to move and looked back at the door. He watched a short, bulging mass of man appear from Nigel's door and walk slowly down the landing. He noticed the ragged, farmer's clothes and large floppy hat. The man began to walk down the stairs and Harper heard the bed creak slightly. Sharpe appeared at his elbow.
        Harper closed the door quietly, then looked at the Major. He put a finger to his lips. Sharpe nodded and gestured to the door. Harper shook his head and they waited, not daring to breathe, until they heard Nigel's door open and close, and his boots clatter down the stairs slowly.
        Finally Harper breathed out. "Jesus wept," he sighed, turning and walking to the window.
        "Well what is it?" Sharpe asked. Harper turned and walked away from the window.
        "Nigel, sir. That's what it is. He had some man in his room sir, scared of him so he was, only he didn't sound Spanish or like one of you English," he added. Sharpe looked alarmed.
        "French?" he asked.
        "Don't know sir. He told Nigel to stay away from talking to you sir, sounded proper threatening, and no mistake," he said. Sharpe turned thoughtful. "Oh, and Miss Marjorie asked me to give you this, sir," he said, producing the crumpled paper from his pocket.
        "When?" Sharpe asked, unfolding it and peering at it.
        "Just before I came upstairs and eavesdropped on Nigel, sir," he said.
        "Nice work, Pat," he said quietly, thinking. He read the note again. "Alright. You get back to it, tell the lads to make sure those holes are left open. They have to be kept open till it goes dark, understand?" he asked.
        "Yes sir. Will we be filling them in after dark then sir?" he asked as Sharpe turned to the door.
        "Aye," he said, disappearing out the door.
        "Funny time to be doing that," he said to himself, then just shrugged and walked out, closing the door behind him.



        "Miss?" Sharpe called, wandering round the barn. A cow stirred and he looked at it. "You tread on me I'll share you out to the lads fer breakfast," he hissed. The cow ignored him.
        The door to the barn opened and closed, and he turned and found Marjorie looking at him.
        "Well?" he asked shortly, then kicked himself. "I mean, er… " He cleared his throat. "Nice to see you again, miss," he said, forcing a pleasant demeanour on his stern features. She walked over, folding her arms. "You sent for me?"
        "I did," she said, and he raised an eyebrow. "You won't do that in front of Nigel again," she said sternly, and he grinned.
        "If you say so, miss. What did I do?" he asked knowingly. She searched his face.
        "Nigel dunt know. He thinks I have a genuine 'affliction'," she said quietly.
        "So you don't?"
        "Does it sound like it to you, Major?" she said tersely. He shrugged. She huffed. "Look, I'm just trying to look out fer me brother, that's all," she continued. He waited, but she had played this game before. "What do you know about Nigel?" she asked.
        "Only that he's not your brother," he said cautiously, his smile dropping. "Is there summat else I should know?" he asked gamely.
        "He likes you. Really likes you," she stressed. "Peter's upset about it and he's just pretending it's not all going to end in tears 'fore bedtime," she snapped. "It's proper cocked, all of it," she spat, turning away from him. He looked at his feet, suddenly feeling bad for her. He walked over, stopping short of putting his hand on her shoulder.
        "Look, miss –"
        "Marjorie," she said quietly, not turning.
        "Miss Marjorie, if you want me help, you'll have to tell me what's going on," he said. "Starting with who you lot really are."
        She turned and looked up at him. "We're cartographers, Major. Always have been."
        "You and your brother are. I'm willing to bet Nigel's not even a map-reader," he scoffed. She studied his face, and he just looked back at her. She sighed, wiping her hands over her face. She walked round him to the glass-less window, looking out. She unbuttoned her small cropped jacket and slid it off, hanging it on the post in the cow gate.
        "You want to know who we really are?" she asked. "Some things show it better than others," she added quietly. She turned to look at him, undoing the bow at her neck. She pulled it loose and walked over to him, pulling the pink scarf from her neck slowly. He looked at her, his eyes sliding down her neck to the right side, finding a scar.
        It was a good three inches long, angry red and half an inch wide. It was criss-crossed with tiny white lines, as if a brush had been swept over it many times. He simply looked at it, his eyebrows raising and his mouth pursing as if it meant nothing.
        "I've seen worse," he said confidently. "I've had worse," he added darkly. She stared at him, but she seemed relieved. "What happened?"
        "Accident," she said reluctantly, and Sharpe nodded, looking at his feet.
        "You're lucky, it's not a war-wound," he said charitably. She snorted.
        "Well, kinda," she said, and he looked at her. "It were a…" She hesitated, thinking perhaps it was a desperate thing she was about to do. "It were a cotton-loom accident. Some lad hadn’t secured the loom arm. It came loose and… and almost took me head off," she finished angrily.
        "Bloody hell!" he frowned, imagining it. He'd seen looms himself, and the thought of her mangled by one of the large, clumsy machines pushed the invective from him more forcefully than he'd meant. "What did you do?"
        "I picked meself up alright, and grabbed a bucket," she shrugged, her anger subsiding.
        "For the blood?" he asked, astonished.
        "To crack the little bleeder over the head with," she smiled, and he laughed. "He came off worse that me – a year later he… fell into the canal."
        "Fell?" Sharpe prompted.
        "He owed money," she shrugged. "So did we. We left."
        "You and your brother?" he asked.
        "Brothers," she stressed, and Sharpe sighed, shaking his head. She shrugged, holding her hands up. "Alright, yeah, me and me brother," she admitted. "And Nigel."
        "What's his real name?" he dared.
        "Nigel Hindle, would you believe? That way it's easier for him to remember – he int the sharpest bayonet int box, is he?" she said easily. He grinned, at her words and her meaning.
        "So what's your real name?" he asked. She eyed him.
        "Is yours really 'Sharpe'?" she asked curiously. He frowned.
        "Well, yeah," he said, confused. She nodded.
        "You're lucky. Thought maybe you'd changed it, like."
        "Why would I do that?" he asked, still looking monumentally puzzled.
        "To hide yer background. Thought p'raps you were a 'Sharples' originally." She paused. "Though with an accent like yours, don't suppose changing yer name would do any good."
        "So what is your name? Yer real one?" he asked, fascinated. For some reason he found he desperately wanted to know. He tried to believe it was because he hated the thought of being deceived, but he let himself vaguely acknowledge that there may well be another reason.
        "Schofield," she admitted guiltily. "Peter didn't want it following us out here, so he took Nigel's name fer ours. He learnt to speak all posh and turned us into this gentile family of map-makers," she added. He wet his lips, looking over at the window thoughtfully, then back down at her.
        "And you? Why didn't you learn to talk all proper-like?" he asked, curiosity burning.
        "I'd like to say it were cos I felt bad about us leaving the Cotton City behind," she said slowly. So you are from the Cotton City, he reasoned.
        "But?" he prompted, smiling in anticipation.
        "But I just can't change the way I speak," she shrugged helplessly, "same as you." She paused, and he watched her, struck by her sudden, happy smile. "Do you know… this is the longest conversation I've had wi' anyone in… since we left England?" she asked wearily, wiping her hands over her face. He felt himself wilt on the inside.
        "Well, I don't want to put you out, love," he said, turning reluctantly to go. "I'll –"
        "Major," she said quickly, putting her hand on his arm, pulling at him to stop. "That's not what I meant." She eyed him, and he swallowed. "I meant… it's been grand," she finished lamely. He smiled.
        "How grand?" he dared. Usually he felt particularly clumsy around women, but there was something about Marjorie that put him at ease.
        "Grand enough to invite you to dinner tonight," she said. "That is, if the French don't attack."
        "I'm sure they wouldn't be so peevish," he said with a disarming grin. "But won't your brother mind?" he asked, his smile fading.
        "Shouldn't think so, he's not coming," she said frankly, and he grinned.
        "Well then, I'll have to accept."
        "Nine o'clock, Major," she said sternly. He inclined his head respectfully, turning for the big barn door. He was halfway there when she called out to him. "Oh, and Major," she said. He stopped and turned, looking at her. "Don't worry about washing them farmer's clothes out. You won't be in 'em fer long."
        "Oh aye?" he asked innocently, one eyebrow raised, but a cheeky grin spread over his face as he put his hand to the door.
        "The fight against the French? Getting back int uniform for the battle?" she prompted.
        "Oh. Aye, of course," he said knowingly, disappearing out of the door, pulling it to behind him.

SIX

        "Well? What does he say?" Sharpe asked. Peter looked at the scout, then back to Sharpe.
        "He says still no sign. Very odd, that. He says they're usually here prompt. It is the fifteenth today, isn't it?" he asked gingerly, taking out his pocket watch and peering at it. Sharpe shrugged.
        "Summat like that."
        "Ah." He snapped the watch shut and pushed it back in his pocket. He dismissed the scout, who nodded and walked off down the dirt street. Sharpe turned to go. "Mr Sharpe," he said quickly. He turned and looked at him. "I, er… It seems I have… mis-judged you," he said quietly.
        "Not you as well. I think I'll get a notice put on me back," he said tersely, "One that says: 'I'm not an arrogant bastard'," he added curtly. Peter smiled.
        "No, I… I notice Marjorie asked you to dinner, last night."
        "She did."
        "And… what was it you talked about?" he asked quietly. Sharpe smiled.
        "I did all the talking, she did all the listening, what with her not being able to speak, like," he allowed. Peter nodded.
        "I see. Told her all about your amazing victories against the French, what?" he smiled.
        "Actually, no," he admitted. They had talked about London, and how close Hallam and Ashton-Under-Lyne really were after all. How it had been such a stroke of luck that two people, thrown so far apart, could have so much in common. Was it the up-bringing, she'd wanted to know. Was it the cities that had made them what they were? Was it the country that had made them both harder on the outside than in? Sharpe wet his lips, pushing the thought away abruptly. "About England."
        "I see," he said easily. "Perhaps tonight you'll let her get more rest, eh Mr Sharpe?" he needled. Sharpe looked at him quickly.
        "Now look here Mr Hindle, nothing happened that's not in King's Regulations," he said harshly, eager to scotch any rumours where Marjorie was concerned.
        "Oh dear chap, don't think for one minute I'm accusing you of anything," he said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "What I meant was, her lamp was lit for a long time after you'd left. Left her a book, did you?" he asked lightly.
        "No," he admitted, puzzled. Peter patted his shoulder, then nodded.
        "Well then. I'll go find that useless brother of mine. At best, he's simply lost," he said with a laugh, turning and walking off. Sharpe watched him go, then his thoughts turned back to Marjorie.


        Harper walked into the barn, throwing down his shovel and letting himself sit heavily in the hay.
        "All done, Sarge?" Brown asked from across the hay. Moore sat up and watched.
        "All done, lad. Every wee thing he wanted." He lay back and closed his eyes.
        "What's he up to, Sarge?" Moore asked curiously. Harper sighed.
        "God only knows."
        It was quiet, save the snores of the Chosen Men. The door creaked open and Sharpe walked in, looking at them and tutting.
        "If I'd known it were a holiday I would have brought drink," he said sarcastically. "Well come on, there's stuff to do yet," he added indignantly.
        "Mary Mother of God," Harper hissed, getting to his feet. Robinson, Hagman, Taylor and Harris appeared from under the hay like magic. "Alright then, on your feet," he said wearily, counting the six heads to be sure. He looked at Sharpe. "Where to, Major?"
        "The kitchens," Sharpe said with a smile. "There's food needs sortin'."
        "Now that's more like it!" Robinson grinned, elbowing his way to the front and tearing off out the door. The others followed, but Harper hung back.
        "That young miss, sir?" he asked. Sharpe looked at him. "Did you get any information from her? I take it you got her on your side then?" he smiled innocently.
        "Palm of me hand, Pat," he said confidently with a grin, and Harper 'o'ed his mouth at him.
        "I don't want to know what you do in your spare, lonely time sir, I was just asking after the lady, so I was," he grinned, clapping a hand to the Major's elbow and walking out. Git, Sharpe thought with a grin, looking at his feet. He looked up and saw Harris leaving slowly.
        "Harris," he said quietly. The rifleman stopped, looking at him.
        "Yes, sir?" he asked, amused. He had an idea what he would be asked.
        "That Spanish scout, out the front," he said, gesturing with his head. Harris' smile faded. He had expected to be quizzed on women. Again.
        "Yes, sir?"
        "Go talk to him. There's summat not right here, and that scout knows more 'n he's letting on. Go and be nice to him, get him to tell you what he really knows about the Frogs coming," he said. Harris nodded.
        "Yes sir." He turned to go.
        "And Harris," he said quickly.
        "Yes, sir?" he asked, looking at him.
        "You were wrong, Harris. Not all women like the gentile things in life," he said, winking at him and walking past him. Harris watched him go, frowned, and then shook his head, heading out of the barn.


        He knocked on the door politely, waiting on the landing. After a long moment the door opened. Marjorie looked at him. She gestured with her head and he walked in, looking around. She closed the door behind him, turning to look at him.
        "I hope yer men are happy, Mr Sharpe," she said quietly.
        "The last time I saw 'em this happy, it were cos they had whole box-full o' new flints," he admitted cheerfully, and she smiled.
        "That must be a rifleman thing," she allowed, walking to the window and drawing the blinds slowly. He looked over at the table and saw hot food waiting. She looked at him. "Well go on then, sit down and get some food. You look tired," she said, following him to the table.
        "Been diggin'," he said dismissively, pulling a chair out by the back. She just looked at him, and he gestured with his head. She smiled and sat in it, and he pushed it up for her.
        "Well thank you, Mr Sharpe, I'm sure," she said. "Who'd a known a little Tyke like you would have such manners?" she smiled.
        He sat in the chair opposite. "Who'd a thought a girl who used to work looms would be here at all," he countered, and she looked at him.
        "True." She waved a hand at the food; simple but well roasted chicken, with roasted jacketed potatoes and a few green and orange looking vegetables. He spied a jug of gravy stock next to it and she noticed, picking it up and leaning over, pouring some on the pile of food on his plate. It flowed decidedly slowly.
        "Bloody hell, you could surface a road wi' that!" he cried, most pleased, and she laughed.
        "Something told me you'd like it thick," she said, pouring some on her own plate. She set the jug down. "It's nice to have someone who understands, int it?" she said to herself, it seemed. He picked up his fork.
        "Yeah," he admitted quietly. He waited for her to start eating, then tucked in himself. "Makes it harder to lie," he added.
        "Mr Sharpe, I'm sure –"
        "Richard."
        "Well then… Richard," she said, trying the name on for size. "I wouldn't lie to you. I'd hoped you'd understand that, at least," she said flatly. He shook his head.
        "Not you, Marjorie, your brother," he said carefully.
        "Why would Peter lie to you? About what?" she asked, surprised.
        "He thinks he can use that Spanish scout to convince me of summat that's not true," he said. "He's playing a very dangerous game, Marjorie."
        "You can call me Mar," she said easily.
        "Well then." He huffed. "Do you know when the Frogs are coming?" he asked tersely. She looked at him.
        "Richard, if I knew, you're the very first person I'd tell," she said dismissively, and he felt his pride jump. Something about the tacit way she'd said it made him believe her. "And anyway, I thought the scouts were watching for 'em?" she asked, looking at him.
        "They are. But I don't trust the buggers. I've got men of me own watching, ta very much," he said quietly, and she laughed. "What?" he asked, bemused.
        "You! Oh, I wish Dad could have met you," she said.
        "Could have?" he asked gingerly.
        "He… passed away. A good ten years ago now. A good man. A bloody good cartographer." She sighed, then looked back at him. "And your father? What does he do? No, wait, let me guess," she said, waving her hands up to stop him interrupting. "A… farmer, right? No, wait… he's a… a town crier! Yeah, a town crier – that's why you shout like it comes from yer boots," she giggled. He opened his mouth but she waved her hand at him. "No - he's a soldier too, most like. A Colonel, o' course. He bought you your commission as a Lieutenant, but you worked yer way up to Major all by yourself," she said, watching him.
        "I've never paid fer a commission," he admitted. "Started out as a bloody Sergeant, like Harper."
        "What? Oh, well... that sounds about right," she nodded suddenly. He looked at her, indignant.
        "What's that supposed to mean?" he said, a little stiffly. She smiled slyly.
        "Only that I were right - you are a dirty little ranker after all."
        He laughed abruptly, resting his elbows on the table and sliding his left hand over the knuckles on his right. He looked at the food, then back at her. "You know...  this is..." He cleared his throat, looking down at the food and then removing his elbows from the table guiltily. "You realise this chicken's stolen," he said, to fill the sudden silence. She smiled.
        "Absolutely. I stole it," she countered, and he smiled again. "So, come on then, what does yer dad do? Can't be worse than a cartographer," she reasoned. She noticed his smile fade. "What?" she asked.
        "I don't know what he did. Never met him," he admitted, and she closed her mouth.
        "Oh. Sorry," she said awkwardly.
        "What for? Were it your fault?" he asked curiously, and she grinned.
        "Now you sound more like me father. Stop it," she said. He smiled and they got on with eating. "You know," she said quietly, "Dad would have found all this very strange. His two children out in Spain, one of 'em entertaining some foppish waster, just cos –"
        "Thanks very much, Mar," he interrupted, and she grinned.
        "You know what I mean. He'd turn in his grave if he knew… well, about Peter and Nigel," she said quietly, and he kept judiciously silent. It was quiet for a long moment, and he suddenly appreciated the chicken.
        "How did he meet Nigel?" he asked.
        "It's a strange story, actually," she said. "Nigel was working for Declaré, a rival mapping house. One day he came over and delivered some papers, said they were new maps of Spain, and could he leave 'em for Peter. Well, I thought he might as well. Turned out he'd seen Peter going to and from work every day. Love at first sight," she shrugged, and Sharpe sat back slowly, pushing all the thoughts away that that brought up.
        "How did Peter take it? Him working fer a rival company?" he asked.
        "He was upset, Richard. He… were head over heels for Nigel, that much was clear. But… Well, I just put up with it cos Peter's my brother – my older brother. Other people – society – would not have been so understanding.  He didn't want scandal and public outrage," she said. "Nigel's boss knew people as could spirit us out on a ship from Liverpool, so one night we went. I went cos we were that close," – she brought her fingers together to indicate an inch – "from being chucked in the canal fer not paying debts. I had no reason to stay, and Nigel said he knew people as could help us get on our feet in sunny Spain." She shrugged. "I had no reason not to trust Nigel, seeing as how he thought the world of my brother, and I couldn't see him betraying that. So here I am."
        Sharpe studied her face, her candid tale belying the rich clothes she wore. He noticed tonight's scarf was pale pink. There was a knock at the door and Sharpe stood. He looked at her, then at the door.
        "Yes?" he asked.
        "It's Harris, sir," he called. Sharpe dropped his napkin on the table and crossed to the door. He opened it and gestured him inside. "There you are, sir. I went looking in your room, but it was empty, so I assumed you'd be in here, sir." He looked past him to Marjorie, nodding. "Evening miss," he said eagerly. She just nodded, smiling.
        "Well?" Sharpe asked impatiently. Harris looked back at him.
        "Oh, er, the scout sir? It took me three bottles of wine, sir, but he's being paid by the French. Seems they're two days away, and they're bringing a full infantry battalion. No cavalry, no guns, they can't get them here in time. The Spaniard was supposed to keep us thinking they weren't coming, sir, and when they arrived at dawn the day after tomorrow, we'd be caught with our trousers down, sir." He paused. "Begging your pardon, miss," he said, nodding to her apologetically. She grinned.
        "Good work, Harris. Now go and repeat that to the Sergeant Major, but not Colonel Parker."
        "Sir?"
        "Do it. Tell Harper to start on them other things I told him about," he said. "And not a word of this outside the Chosen Men, understand? I don't care if bloody Wellington appears, you're not to tell him, either. Dismissed."
        "Yes sir," he nodded firmly, saluting and turning, disappearing from the room. He closed the door quietly, thinking. She watched him.
        "So the scout were lying," she said softly. He looked at her.
        "And so were your brother, Mar," he said apologetically. "That scout's been paid by the Frogs. Whether Peter knows or not, he's helping him to keep up the ruse." He walked back to the table slowly, sitting on the chair sideways, putting his elbows on his knees. She leaned back in her chair, watching him curiously. He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers slowly, thinking.
        "Richard," she said quietly. He looked at her. "Why did you… Why did you let your man spill everything like that? In front of me?" she asked curiously. "I'm Peter's sister. Why do you think I'd not tell him what I've just heard?" she asked plainly. He studied her face, searching for an answer that wouldn't sound as lame out loud as it did in his head.
        "I trust you," he managed eventually, realising everything sounded just as lame out loud as it did in his head. She huffed with amusement.
        "Hardly. You don't trust anyone," she replied.
        "Alright, I'm hoping I can persuade you not to tell yer brother about what we've discussed tonight," he said, straightening.
        "Oh you were, were you?" she asked, amused. "And how were you going to do that?"
        "Appeal to yer sense of… what's that word? Coming from the same place?" he asked, and she laughed.
        "Oh Richard, you are a card," she giggled, and he grinned, not just relieved she wasn't scathing of his ignorance, but amused she shared and accepted it.
        She straightened and looked around the room slowly. "Right… Dinner," she said smartly, holding her hand up and counting off a finger, "done. Talk of family and the French, done," she said, counting off another finger. "Get past sticky issue of my brother and Nigel, done," she added, touching a third finger. She looked at him, letting her hands drop to the table. "Well then, just one thing left. Do me a favour," she said. He looked at her, eyebrows raised in innocent query. "Get over there and turn down me bed."
        He gawped for a second. "What, just like that?" he asked, not moving.
        "Well did you want summat else?" she challenged. "I don't know about you, but I'm not playing this game any longer. The Frogs will be here day after tomorrow, Richard. You'll go off and fight. Now you and I both know you've got a bloody good chance of surviving and coming back to me, but who can be sure?" she asked frankly.
        "I weren't aware I were supposed to be coming back to you," he said, grinning gamely.
        "Oh Richard, don't be facetious," she said dismissively, standing and walking over to stop in front of him.
        "I'll do me best," he said as he looked up at her, wondering what 'facetious' meant.
        "You'd better do a damned sight more than that," she remarked.



        She turned over under the warm cotton sheets, finding him sleeping on his front, to her right. She caught sight of some long, thin scar and pushed the sheets down, finding more criss-cross scars across his back. She stared at them, fascinated, wondering what they were. She inched closer and put her finger out, touching one of them gently. He started and lifted his head swiftly.
        "It's alright, the place int on fire," she smiled quietly, and he huffed through his nose, letting his head fall back to the pillow. She slid her finger down the scar slowly. "What are these?" she asked curiously.
        "Scars," he said succinctly, rolling onto his back deliberately. She watched him, but he just got comfortable and sniffed to himself, clearly attempting to go back to sleep.
        "You don't like them?" she asked, putting her hand under her face and propping herself up on her elbow to watch him.
        "Who does?"
        "You don't need to be ashamed of them, Richard."
        "Who says I am?" he said irritably, opening his eyes and looking at her in the gloom. She smiled.
        "Takes one to know one," she admitted quietly. He watched her, and she wondered what was going through his head. "You know, scars are not who we are," she added. He raised his hand to her bare neck lazily, sliding his fingers down it slowly.
        "Oh aye? So why do you hide yours?" he asked. She didn't answer. "Cos they are." He paused. "I'm just a soldier who were flogged raw fer summat he didn't do, and you're just a loom girl on the run from Nigel's old boss," he said, resigned.
        "Balls, Richard!" she snapped, and he grinned delightedly. "You're a Major, with titles and medals and Eagles and armies crushed beneath you," she said flatly. "They might have whipped you while you were a grunt, but they sure as bloody hell couldn't beat the tiger out of you," she added, her eyes flashing. He grinned.
        "And you?"
        "And… I'm just lost in Spain," she sighed, falling onto her back and looking at the ceiling. "Bloody hell, what am I doing in this odd country?" she asked herself. He rolled onto his left side, leaning over her.
        "Trying to convince people yer more than what you were, same as me," he said softly. She looked at him, putting a hand to his face, feeling the rough stubble and studying the emerald green eyes.
        "Oh Richard," she sighed unhappily. "What happens to the villagers while you and yer brave men are fighting?" she asked.
        "They hide behind the barricade," he said simply. "We give the Frogs a good pastin', and come home fer dinner," he said cheekily. She giggled.
        "It's going to be that easy, is it?" she asked, grinning.
        "Well, for you, maybe. I have to actually do some fighting," he said.
        "Be careful. Don't get any more scars," she said quietly, her face losing its humour. He looked her face over with intent, thinking. "Don't die here, Richard, so far from home," she whispered.
        "Dunt matter. I don't have a home."
        She let her face register her anguish, before pulling his head toward her. She kissed him once, before guiding his head down to rest on her collarbone. He slid his hand across her and to her side, pulling her in, and she slipped her arm round his back, holding his head to her neck securely. She squeezed him to her once, pulling the sheets up over them.
        "You will one day. A bright, sunny place with your own buildings. All yours. Safe."
        She closed her eyes, heard him sigh comfortably, and drifted off to sleep.

SEVEN

        The crack of a rifle woke him smartly. He sat up, looking around, disorientated. Marjorie was still sleeping, the room was still mostly dark, but suddenly another rifle fired and he heard the unmistakable sound of Hagman sounding the alarm.
        "Frogs! Frogs, sir! Marching this way!"
        He sprang out of bed, grabbing up his farmer's trousers and pulling them on roughly.
        "Bastards!" he hissed to himself, "They said tomorrow!" He yanked on his boots even as he hopped to the window. "Hagman! Dan! Dan!" he shouted into the dawn.
        "Sir!" Hagman shouted, looking up.
        "Wake the Colonel, tell him I want to hold the line inside the gate. Make sure he does not step out of the gate!" he bellowed.
        "Sir!" he acknowledged, and ran off. Men started to wake and fuss, voices started to rise, and he turned back to find Marjorie waking, blissfully unaware of what was happening.
        "Mar, get up!" he called, hurrying over. She snapped awake, looking round.
        "What is it?" she demanded, looking for her silk slip. He grabbed it from the bedside chair and tossed it to her. He snatched up his shirt, pulling it on over his head quickly.
        "Frogs. They even lied to the old man. They're coming," he said, running back to the window. "Sergeant Major!" he bellowed.
        "Typical!" Marjorie tutted, pulling on her slip and jumping out of bed. She managed to locate most of her clothes from around the room.
        "Harper!" Sharpe roared from the window.
        "Sir!" came an answering shout.
        "Get the men up on them gun steps!" he shouted, "As close to the main gates as they can get. How close are the Frogs?" he demanded.
        "Couple of hours, sir!"
        "Then get the men back in uniform!"
        "But it's –"
        "They lied, Harper! Everyone bloody lied!" he shouted, turning and checking Marjorie was decent before running from the room and across the landing, down the stairs.


        The breeze was slight, the sun strong, and two hundred and ten soldiers in the South Essex, back in fighting uniform, stood and sweated. The two blocks of men stood inside the gates, between the village walls and the barricade the riflemen and commandeered men had produced. The barricade blocked the main street that ran directly from the front gates, right through the entire village. It connected all side streets and walkways. If infantry got into that, they could go anywhere they chose.
        The Chosen Men, green-jacketed and ready, were positioned in the gun steps, heads down below the line of sight from the other side. It was a superfluous precaution. Not even a mounted officer could have seen them from the other side at that height. The long barrels of the rifles were resting on the top of the wall, the men wiping their foreheads and waiting.
        Colonel Parker sat on his horse, his reins held neatly in his right hand. Inside he was cursing the weather, the French, and the man who had designed army uniforms. Obviously he'd never left England.
        Sharpe was walking from one rifleman to another, from one gun step to another, checking one last time. He stopped just past Taylor, leaning a hand on the wall and looking over.
        And there they were. What looked like hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers, their blue jackets and bright white trousers shimmering in the heat as they marched. They were still far enough away that he needed his telescope to see them clearly.
        He inspected the man in charge, on his horse. He seemed unlike other French Colonels he had had dealings with; this one was thin and tall. He watched them approach, thinking perhaps they had almost an hour before all hell would break loose.
        He collapsed the telescope slowly, thinking. What was the Colonel going to do? A straight attack or some kind of clever feint? He huffed.
        "How many, sir?" Taylor asked carefully. Sharpe looked at him.
        "Not nearly enough," he lied. It must have been convincing, for Taylor relaxed slightly and turned to Moore, fifteen feet from his right, grinning. Sharpe turned away deliberately, finding the ladder and shinning down it quickly. He paused at the bottom, looking around. He walked over to Colonel Parker's horse, parked in front of two ranks of red-coats, half the total. "Sir," he said respectfully. Parker looked at him, his horse flicking its ears to ward off flies.
        "Major," he said quietly. "Seems we were led up the garden path, what?" he said sourly. Sharpe pursed his lips.
        "Not too far, sir," he allowed. Parker looked at him.
        "Oh? You've noticed the eight ranks of Frenchmen, have you?" he asked loudly. Sharpe didn't look up at him.
        "We have rifles."
        "Damn it all, Sharpe! They outnumber us two to one, man! We're fenced in here like cattle and you're banging on about some fancy muskets!" he spluttered. Sharpe kept his mouth judiciously shut. "What we're going to do when they get through those gates I don't know," he said, just as hotly.
        "They'll have a job, sir. Those gates are pretty –"
        "The army don't pay you to think, man!" he shouted suddenly. He paused, looking at the ranks of red-coats, standing ready and sweating in the heat. He sighed. "Look, Major... Everyone's nerves are a little tested this morning. You'll forgive me, won't you?" he asked, and his voice sounded slightly tremulous. Sharpe hoped he wouldn't break before the French fired their first shot.
        "Of course, sir," he said, then realised perhaps the Colonel just didn't want to die having just taken his fear out on a subordinate. He looked at him. "They have to reach the gates first, sir," he added. Parker looked at him.
        "Meaning?" he asked, his temper much restored. Sharpe sniffed dismissively.
        "We might have left some holes lying about, sir. After we filled them bags for the barricade," he said innocently. Parker looked up at the gates quickly, thought about it, then looked back down at Sharpe.
        "But… I didn't see any holes!" he protested, as though he wished he were wrong.
        "Well, couldn't have 'em left open, sir. Someone might have fallen in," he said innocently. "We covered 'em over, like. Made 'em safe. Well, if you know they're there, sir," he added.
        Parker stared at him. "And… how many of these… holes might there be?" he asked, aghast.
        "Just a few, sir."
        "Damn it, Sharpe, I need to know so that our men don't fall in them themselves!" he cried. Sharpe looked at him, then transferred his rifle to his left hand, lifting his right to point out rough areas.
        "About thirty feet from the gates, sir. Around ten on the right, covering the right hand gate and its approach, and about the same on the left. About fifteen foot wide, arranged in a slanted pattern, like window shutters, sir."
        "You –"
        "And five or six spreading round the sides sir, in case the buggers try and sneak round 'em," he added. Parker stared at him, speechless. "If the men stay close to the gates, they won't come anywhere near 'em, sir," he said confidently. He was greeted with silence and looked up at Parker. "Sir?"
        "You – you devious, obfuscating little – officer!" he bit out, shocked. "Goddamn man, but I'm glad you're here!" He laughed suddenly, drawing looks from the other men, relieved their commanding officers didn't appear worried. Sharpe cleared his throat.
        "I'm not," he said, and Parker looked at him.
        "Oh. Yes, quite," he allowed, much more quietly. He looked ahead again. "You really think those fancy muskets of yours will make the difference?" he asked.
        "Oh be sure," Sharpe said menacingly, thinking of the battle ahead. "Sir," he added, remembering where he was.
        "Well then. I shall lead our splendid South Essex, Major. I charge you with the task of leading your precious rifles to cut down as many French as possible. Amenable to you, sir?" he asked haughtily. Technically it was an insult; a Colonel sweeping the board and taking command of the entire day, leaving a full field Major in charge of seven men and fourteen rifles. But Sharpe smiled, relieved. He didn't want South Essex soldiers.
        "Yes sir," he said smartly. Parker nodded. Sharpe turned to him and nodded respectfully, turning to walk over to the gates slowly. He paused at the bottom of the ladder, then thought of Marjorie. He huffed and looked over at Harper, leaning semi-alert on another ladder. He walked over slowly, stopping near him. "Pat," he said quietly. Harper looked at him, noticing the Major wasn't even looking at him. He took the hint.
        "Yes, sir?" he asked softly, looking away from him deliberately.
        "You seen Nigel or Peter?" he asked gingerly.
        "No, sir."
        "You seen Mar?"
        "Miss Marjorie, sir?" he asked pointedly. "Yes, sir. Kitchen, that open one in the first town house, sir," he said, not looking at him. Sharpe huffed to himself. He thought about it.
        "What's she doing there?" he demanded.
        "Preparing bandages and water, sir. Clever girl, that one," he said appreciatively.
        "Aye."
        "And not worried about rough hands, so I hear."
        "Watch it."
        "Yes sir," he grinned, scanning the wall. Sharpe looked around, then turned to him purposefully.
        "Sergeant, eye on the men," he said loudly, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.
        "Yes sir," Harper said loudly, tossing off a jaunty salute. Sharpe turned and walked back toward the Colonel, nodding before turning slightly and heading for the barricade. He skirted the edge of the nine foot wall and squeezed between the barricade and the first town house. He found the open doorway and walked inside, finding Marjorie clapping her hands to chivvy the Spanish girls into sorting linen and clearing space for wounded men. She didn't make a sound, but it didn't matter; she spoke no Spanish and they spoke no English. She pointed and clapped her hands at them, waving and flapping at them. They busied around as if she were the loom master herself, and Sharpe grinned.
        "Hey, slow down, you'll have someone's eye out," he said warmly.
        She turned around and spotted him. She smiled, then walked over slowly. She raised an eyebrow at him, folding her arms. "I'm just here to check on you civvies, then I'm back in the front line," he said quietly. She let worry cross her face, and he gave her his best, most confident look. "'S nothing to fret over, we've done this before, you know. And I'm not dead yet."
        She put her hand out to his left arm, her finger poking into the old musket ball-hole in his green tunic. She shook her finger in it, looking at him. He grinned, shaking his head.
        "It were there when I got it," he lied cheekily, and she shook her head, pulling her finger away. He grabbed her hand before she could draw it away. "Just keep yer head down, alright lass?" he asked seriously. She watched him, then pulled her hand out of his grasp and turned it palm up, waving the fingers at him. "What?" he asked. She pointed at his rile, then beckoned with her fingers again. "You want a rifle?" he asked, astonished. She put her hands on her hips and he put his hands up in surrender. "Can you shoot a pistol?" he asked. She nodded immediately and he looked at her – just looked. She waggled her fingers again and he sighed. "Alright, wait here, I'll get you one," he said. "I don't know, bloody women," he muttered as he walked back toward the door. He heard a short, sharp trill of a whistle and turned to look at her. She poked her tongue out at him mischievously and he chuckled before turning and walking back toward the South Essex.
        He rooted around the stacks of ammunition pouches and found a pistol, shaking it to make sure there was no powder in it already. He picked up a horn of powder and a handful of pistol shot, walking back round. He walked in to find Peter grabbing her by the wrist.
        She wrenched herself from his grasp and stood, staring at him accusingly. Sharpe stood tall in the doorway.
        "'Ey!" he called loudly. Peter turned to him.
        "Oh, there you are, thank goodness," he said quickly. "Look, tell her to get back to the house with us," he said urgently. "She's not safe here, and you know it."
        "I know she dunt want to leave," Sharpe said walking over slowly. Peter looked wild with fear, his hair mussed and his shirt carelessly buttoned. Sharpe swallowed, wondering how desperate he was. "Best to let her do as she pleases. You know women, stubborn as mules," he said dangerously. Peter stepped closer to her.
        "You're not taking her anywhere, Sharpe!" he cried angrily. "She's my sister! I know she's nothing to you, nothing! You soldiers are all alike, wandering from camp to camp, taking whatever girl you fancy, casting them aside when you're bored! Well you're not doing it to my baby sister, sir! You might be a famous war-hero, but I'll see honour satisfied if you so much as –"
        He was silenced as something brown crashed into the side of his head. He fell on the piles of linen safely, and Sharpe just looked at Marjorie.
        "Steady on, love!" he breathed, stepping over him and crouching down to look at him. She dropped the wooden bucket hastily and took a step back. Then she took a deep breath and put her hand to Sharpe's ammunition belt over his back, pulling at it.
        "Leave him, he'll be fine, the hypocrite," she said angrily. He stood, then handed over the pistol he still carried. "Is it primed or loaded?" she asked seriously. He just looked at her for a long moment. "Well?" she asked, shaking it as he had already done, listening for powder. She put her hand out for the powder horn and shot.
        "No, neither," he said, his hand hesitating. "Can you load and prime the pan –"
        "Richard, just go," she said dismissively. "That man of yours were right. Everyone lied and – and you got caught with yer trousers down," she grinned. He smiled briefly. "You send yer wounded men in here. We'll hold the kitchen. You hold the fort," she said. She looked up at him, amused at her own words, then put her free hand to the whistle chain on his ammunition belt, pulling on it and forcing him to step closer. She kissed him suddenly, making it count. She pushed him away, her hand out for the horn and shot. He handed them over. "Go and kick seven shades o' shit out of the Frogs," she smiled grimly. He nodded; he would, too. Not because she had told him to, not because it was his commission to do so, but because he could. And he knew it was perhaps his only talent in this life. "Now think on: don't die."
        He nodded, straightening unconsciously. He turned and walked out the door. She flicked up the pistol, arranging the horn in her hand to tip it toward the pan. She caught sight of a figure walking past the window and looked up, seeing him turn and walk backwards, his rifle in his hands, grinning at her as he left. She smiled, then turned her attention back to the pistol.

EIGHT

        The whole thing started slowly and quietly. Harper was uncomfortable.
        "There's no music, sir," he said, uneasy.
        "Aye, thank God," Sharpe replied. They watched the four centre columns of French soldiers simply march toward the gates resolutely. "They're mad!" he hissed. "How the hell do they expect to –"
        The answer became painfully obvious. The village gun, the long-forgotten cannon, stored high up on the roof of the first town house right across the dirt street from Marjorie's makeshift hospice, pounded into life.
        A single shot boomed over the ranks. Two hundred odd men jumped and near-panicked, the sound terrifyingly close behind them. As one they turned and saw the smoking cloud hovering above the house.
        The momentum of the gun's recoil sent the entire roof down through the floor. The almighty crash of the gun smashing its way through two floors, demolishing most of the house, did nothing for the nerves of the men.
        "Eyes front!" Sharpe shouted, the first to collect his wits. The house continued to collapse and fall as the men stared in horror at the village gates.
        The close range of the shot had made it easier. It rammed directly into the wall halfway between both hinges on the right-hand gate.
        "Nigel! That bastard!" Harper spat venomously.
        "Couldn't have done better if he'd tried," Sharpe cursed, watching the right-hand gate swing perilously. Both hinges had splintered under the weight of it twisting away from the wall and the left gate, which still stood. It creaked and swung, but then came to a stop, leaning on the stone rampart. There was now a huge gap at the bottom. Sharpe turned to Colonel Parker, who was trying to stop his mouth from gaping. "Sir! Gimme two ranks," he said quickly. Parker looked at him.
        "Where to?" he asked quickly.
        "Other side o' that gate, sir. We'll stop 'em," he said. Parker held his gaze for a long second. He nodded curtly.
        "Go. Two ranks," he said. Sharpe turned and ran to the front of the assembled men. "Middle two ranks, on my order, trail arms!" he called. The middle two ranks twitched, fear spreading very quickly. "Trail arms!" he bellowed. They did as told, muskets going to their arms for transit. "On my order, quick march! Follow me!" he called. Deep breaths were taken all round. "March!" he shouted, turning and walking toward the gate. "Rifles! Get that bloody gate down!" he shouted.
        Green jackets ran to the base of the gate, kicking and thumping at the edge, pushing it. It gave a huge creak and there was a squeal of wood scraping on stone. It slowly twisted and fell, looking like it had all the time in the world. It landed in the dust, sending clouds of grainy mist up to prevent them seeing the enemy still advancing. Got to get some of them down before they reach the pits, he realised. Harper came running, his huge volley gun in his hand, sliding to stop in the dust next to the assembled men. Sharpe nodded to him and the big Irishman turned smartly. The two Green Jackets led the two ranks of the South Essex through the gaping hole, walking up and over the fallen gate.
        "Rifles! Pick off them bastard officers!" Sharpe roared vindictively. First in, last out. That's our advantage. The riflemen scrambled back up the steps to the gun steps, aiming long-since loaded weapons. A crack rang out, then another, and another. Sharpe noticed sergeants at the edge of the four advancing columns fall.
        He spread the South Essex out in a long line, shoulder to shoulder, in two lines. One hundred men had better do it. They have another four ranks yet to move, he cursed. He moved to the side, Harper stamping smartly to attention at the far end, his bayonet in hand, his volley gun slung. Sharpe drew his heavy sword, once again appreciating the weight and balance. Perfect instrument fer putting the fear of God into them Frogs, he thought, wishing it didn't sound so specious.
        "Front rank! At fifty paces!" Sharpe bellowed. "Wait for my command!"
        They waited, the French approaching slowly, knowing they had another hundred men to kill after these brave fools, and that they could do it very easily. They were four hundred and twenty-four muskets in total, and right now these English couldn't even fire more than fifty at a time. It was simple mathematics. The two hundred men marched in splendid formation, not a step wrong, their muskets held at the hip, the front hundred men ready to unleash hell.
        The sun beat down, the birds wheeled in the cloudless blue sky, and Harper watched the French approach. He smiled slightly. It spread into a grin, and the men nearest him noticed. He looked at them.
        "Stand firm, lads! We have a surprise for them, just see if we don't!" he called confidently. The men just waited, fingers rubbing triggers, nerves knotting and unknotting continuously.
        Sharpe watched the four columns. Now or never. "Front rank… fire!" he roared.
        The sudden explosion of fifty muskets was deafening, even to a half battle-deaf soldier like Sharpe. The balls flew out and straight into men waiting for them, their accuracy boosted by the short range. Men were thrown back and into the soldiers behind, who simply stepped over or around them and kept advancing. They closed ranks into three columns, holding a formidable unbroken line.
        "Front rank, kneel! Reload!" Sharpe shouted. As one the red-coats kneeled quickly, reloading just as fast as they could.
        "Rear rank… muskets!" Harper shouted. The weapons snapped up ready. "Rear… fire!" he roared. The second volley thudded squarely into the three columns, sending men sprawling as before. The French closed again, forming just two columns, this time four men deep. "Rear, reload!"
        "Front, make ready!" Sharpe shouted. The front rank stood and aimed. "Front – fire!"
        Again the volley burst forth, again the soldiers absorbed the musket balls, again men fell. The survivors closed ranks quickly, but Sharpe could see they were thinning piteously. He had them.
        The second rank fired, the first rank fired, and just as Sharpe was sweating over the men getting within thirty feet, the French opted to halt and open fire.
        Red-coats fell, the survivors closing ranks, chivvied by Harper. The two Green Jackets stood, seemingly impervious to fire, and Harper grinned. Invincible, the pair of us, he thought, wondering if any Irish king had ever felt as grand facing down a foreign enemy. He looked over at Sharpe, his stare seething as the bowels of Hell even as he ordered the men to fire, and looked back at the French. He heard a drum and his sudden good mood faltered; two more ranks of French were on the move, straight toward them.
        They think they can keep sending men to simply batter us down, do they? Harper grinned a feral imitation and looked over at Sharpe. He was now grinning maliciously, and Harper shouted for the second rank to reload as Sharpe had his rank stand and return fire.
        The remaining ranks were too thin, just one man deep now, and Sharpe could sense the men wanting to split and run. But they didn't. The two fresh ranks arrived, filling out the columns by a hundred men, and now they kept the columns two men deep. Sharpe's grin widened. They were trying to bring more muskets to bear at once. Let them, he grinned viciously.
        He heard the shouts of the men, and the two new ranks paced forwards, firing indiscriminately. They advanced as one, over one hundred and fifty men stomping at the dirt, eager to get near the English as they heard the order to fix bayonets. They screwed them in quickly, looking up to find the English had stopped firing.
        The French Colonel shouted, and the French broke into a run, shouting and screaming like the very demons from Hell. The English twitched.
        "Steady! Reload!" Harper shouted. The two ranks bit and spat, rammed and cocked, and waited, watching the foreign devils charging at them. Hands on raised muskets shook. Sweat poured. And still Sharpe and Harper grinned.
        The Colonel massed another rank. He poured them after the first. The French, all two hundred of them, stampeded.
        Suddenly they were no longer running. The seventy remaining South Essex muskets stared, incredulous, as nearly a hundred Frenchmen simply stumbled and disappeared into the dirt. The men behind couldn't even stop. Most simply fell over the first, landing headlong in the dirt themselves. Others piled on top of them, and still more, until Harper was doubled-over, unable to stop himself laughing.
        "Front!" Sharpe bellowed, his voice sober as a Provost Marshall. "Fire!"
        The South Essex's volley slammed straight into the men still standing, as they tried to step over and avoid trampling their own men.
        "Rear rank!" Harper commanded proudly, "Fire!"
        It was too much. The French ranks broke and simply ran in all directions.
        "Ranks! Re-form! Fire at will!" Sharpe roared over the noise.
        The soldiers shuffled out into one line, stepping round fallen comrades, aiming and firing as they liked. He heard the sound of a horse on the fallen gate behind him, and glanced round to see Colonel Parker approaching with another rank. That left one inside, he tallied.
        He nodded to the Colonel and stepped aside, bringing his sword down from its resting place on his right shoulder. But the Colonel simply waved his hand in an "after you" gesture. Sharpe nodded his gratitude and turned, to see the new rank swell the muskets already cutting down the French ranks. Men shouted in fear and confusion. Someone was shouting in French, red-coats were firing and screaming at the enemy. Muskets coughed and flamed, butts were slammed into the dirt as the barrels were reloaded. The minutes swept by, unnoticed.
        Sharpe slid his heavy sword back into its scabbard. He lifted his rifle, cocked it slowly, and raised it to his eyes. He drew a bead on the French Colonel and grinned.
        Something made him pause, however, and although he still aimed, some part of him made him wait. He was surprised to see the Colonel raise his hand to him. To him! He was retreating!
        Sharpe relaxed, the edge of his hand feeling over the frizzen slowly to find the S-shaped cocking arm. He eased it back cautiously, ready to snap it back to full cock, watching the French officer. He sensed movement from the corner of his eye and he raised his eye from the gunsight, opening his left one to see over the barrel clearly. Suddenly he realised the obvious; the French Colonel had not been signalling to him at all, but Colonel Parker, next to him on his horse.
        He smiled ruefully at himself, letting his rifle down but keeping the barrel up lest the ball roll down and drop out. He let out a huge sigh through his nose slowly, watching the French pick themselves up and turn and stagger back whence they came. He looked at the men of the South Essex, and was surprised to hear Colonel Parker's voice.
        "Cease fire!" he bellowed across the noise. Silence fell. They watched the French stagger and retreat slowly, still watching these crafty English carefully. "Alright, off you go. Looter's rights, boys," the Colonel said cheerfully. The men slung their muskets and started walking slowly toward the dead French. There were still live men crawling from the pits, and the red-coats stared at them for a long moment.
        One man bent down and offered his hand. The Frenchman gawped at him before taking it and accepting his help to clamber out of the hole. Someone laughed at the absurdity, and that was that.
        Soldiers, red-coated and blue, laughed at the ridiculous afternoon. Soldiers who had not ten minutes ago been trying to kill each other now helped each other find their feet and weapons. Sharpe watched, humbled to silence, as two red-coats stripped a dead Frenchman of his valuables before helping a live one heft him over his shoulder so he could be returned for burial. He shook his head, looking up at Parker.
        "Well, Major Sharpe, a good day, wouldn't you say?" he asked. Sharpe smiled wearily.
        "Not so bad, sir," he agreed. His face fell. "The cannon!" he snapped, turning abruptly and marching back inside.
        "Sergeant Major, let's watch out for this lot. Then we'll get them inside and roll called, what?" the Colonel grinned.
        "Yes sir!" Harper grinned with conviction. He stepped forward and felt something flap against his leg. He looked down to find a musket ball had torn straight through the side, opening his boot and trousers to the weather. "Damn the buggers!" he hissed. "Now I'll need new boots. And they've all got such small feet, so they have." He looked up to find Sharpe had left the field. "Now why's he in such a hurry?" he asked himself.
        Sharpe ran into the square, dispersing the men still waiting in their one rank. They ran out of the gate, eager to join the scavenging. He ran on to the barricade and squeezed himself round, finding the town house full of red-coats. He scanned the room quickly and his eyes fell on Harris.
        "What you doing?" he asked, shocked. Harris grinned.
        "This man's trading me a Marquis de Sade for French gold, sir," he grinned, indicating a wounded red-coat sitting up on the kitchen table. The red-coat looked suddenly much less wounded at the mention of gold, Sharpe noticed. He tutted dismissively, still searching the room.
        "Have you seen Marjorie?" he asked. Harris looked at him, pocketing his newly acquired book.
        "She left just as I came in, sir. Said she wanted to find her brother," he said helpfully. Sharpe looked at Peter, lying on the linen, a hand pressing a scrap of it to his temple. Harris shook his head. "Not that one, sir," he said. "The other one."
        "Ohhh…. shit," he breathed, turning and running through the house. He crashed through the huge hole made by the locals bringing in the wounded, running to the remains of the town house opposite. He suddenly felt glad he still had his rifle.
        He slid to a stop in the dust, looking round. "Mar!" he shouted. "Marjorie!"
        "Richard!" she called, and he turned to his right and hurried round the side of the torn up house. He found a side of the wall missing and picked his way through.
        "Mar, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily, struggling over the bent up wood, thatch and masonry. He looked around.
        Marjorie was crouched in the rubble, her back to him. She turned at the sound of his boots sliding over the masonry. She had tears down her face, forging deep canals in the dust. He made his way over, looking over her shoulder carefully.
        Nigel was lying on his back covered in red dust, one hand out and in hers firmly. He was breathing raggedly, blood trickling from his ear slowly. Sharpe put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing.
        "We have to get him out," she said quietly. Sharpe swallowed, assessing the damage and his face showed his doubt. Nigel looked at him.
        "Sorry, dear chap," he whispered, "Forgive a hopeless romantic... Had to, you see?" He swallowed with difficulty. "Peter?" he asked. Sharpe patted her shoulder, then nodded at Nigel.
        "I'll get him. Lie still," he said quietly. He turned and picked his way back out of the rubble, jumping out to the street. He unslung his rifle and pointed it down, letting the ball run out to the ground. He cocked it and let it off, the resulting crack loud enough to send dust from his sleeve spinning away in the warm summer breeze.
        He waited, and within two minutes Green Jackets came running from the back of the hospice. He turned to them.
        "Harris, Harper, get Peter over here on the double," he said quietly. They nodded and ran back toward the house. Hagman looked at him.
        "Did you find him, sir? The one as let the gun off?"
        "Aye," he said uneasily.
        "What'll happen to him now, sir? Will you give him over to the Colonel?" he asked quietly. Sharpe looked at him.
        "No need. In a few minutes there'll be no point," he admitted. Hagman nodded sadly.
        "Best be there for the lass, then sir," he said wisely, patting Sharpe's shoulder before turning away. Peter emerged from the house, followed rather more slowly by Harper, Harris and now Taylor and Robinson. Peter tore across the open ground and toward the house. Sharpe grabbed his arm, yanking him to a stop.
        "Peter!" he shouted tersely. The man stopped trying to free himself and looked at him. "He's not got long. Say goodbye," he said softly. Peter wrenched his arm free, horrified. He threw himself at the opening in the wall, slip-sliding inside and over to him.
        "Nigel!" he cried, and Marjorie stood and backed away carefully. Peter collapsed on the piles of masonry and wooden cannon wheels, grabbing Nigel's hand. "Nigel," he whispered, his throat tight.
        "Peter," he whispered warmly, smiling. "Mr dear Peter. I'm so sorry… This is my reward," he managed painfully. Peter looked over the blood spilling over his shirt, the deep stains up his sides from his back. He swallowed.
        "Oh Nigel, what did you do?" he whispered fearfully.
        "I… I owed him, you see. At Declaré… He was the friend of Pierre, got me the berths on that ship from Liverpool… Had to, you see. He wanted me to… to sell you to them, Peter. To the French. Well, I… I couldn't," he said, a tear breaking from his eye and running over his temple. It dripped on the sandy stones.
        "Nigel."
        "Had to pay him back for the journey... You thought I was a proper gentleman, with money. Couldn't… couldn't let you down, dear Peter," he whispered.
        "Oh Nigel, you're such a fool," he said quietly, his eyes blurring. "I loved you anyway. You were always a proper gentleman."
        "So kind of you…" Nigel managed. He swallowed. "This is my reward. For betraying you, and all these soldiers... and your kind sister. She only tried to protect you from me. She was right to," he whispered hoarsely. "Tell her… she is a proper lady. I'm so ashamed," he admitted, closing his eyes.
        "No, I am. You did all this so I'd think well of you? I already did," he smiled. "I thought the world of you." It made a tear start from his eye.
        "No. I did all this for you... I wanted us to be happy in this – this dusty country. And now you'll… you'll have to bury me in it. In all this dust… Think of me, Peter, when you reach Liverpool and – and feel the sun… feel the sun on your face." His breath rattled in his chest loudly.
        "I'll never feel the sun on my face again," he whispered.
        "Now who's being a fool, Peter?" Nigel smiled gently. "Take Marjorie back to – back to England. She's not happy here. Look after her. Don't let her tarry with that soldier... He'll love her, and she'll love him... and then when he dies on some foreign battlefield it'll break her heart." He gave a great sigh. "I'm so… I'm so sorry, Peter," he rasped.
        "Nigel, I forgive you. For all this. It's me who's sorry – you did all this for me. It wasn't worth it."
        "Yes it was…. You're… you're a – a fool," he managed, struggling bravely.
        "Then we both are."
        Nigel smiled at him warmly, and Peter squeezed his hand. Nigel's eyes glassed over, and he let out a long, relaxing breath. Peter closed his eyes, and bent over his hand.
        Marjorie turned and skittered over the rubble, dashing outside and running headlong into Hagman. She cried out in fright, looking up quickly. He smiled kindly and she grabbed onto him, shaking. Hagman lifted his head and looked at Harper. The Irishman nudged Sharpe's elbow, who was perched on the wall, crunching at gravel with his boot heel. He looked up at the Sergeant, a question on his face. He gestured to Marjorie with his head, and Sharpe threw him an unidentifiable look before lifting his rifle, handing it Harper, and walking over.
        Hagman turned her from him gently, and she looked up into the face of Sharpe.
        "Nigel's dead," she whispered. He nodded.
        "Yeah," he confirmed softly.
        She looked up at him, into his bright green eyes. The incongruity of his bedraggled, unkempt appearence against his calm, noble demeanour made her swallow and control herself. She took in his grimy, dusty face and took a deep breath, sighing it out slowly. She put her hands up and stroked his disarrayed, sweat-drenched hair back from his face, straightening it. She slid two fingers over his cheek, wiping away a tiny splatter of something she suspected was blood. She smiled apologetically, letting his green eyes communicate their worry, and she let her hands slide down the front of his uniform.
        She put her hands to her face, scraping the hair back from it and tugging it into some semblance of order. She put her hand out and he looked at her, a question on his face. She reached up and put her hand to his tunic, unbuttoning it quickly, sending an amused look direct from Hagman to Harper. But she simply put her hand inside and pulled out the handkerchief, putting her other hand out to Hagman's canteen. He handed it to her and she poured water over the hanky, before wiping it over her face repeatedly. She sniffed, handed the hanky and the canteen back to the men. She pulled her blouse straight smartly.
        "Well we can still do summat about the living wounded," she said, straightening and walking off toward the hospice.
        Harper and Harris watched her go, their mouths open. They looked at each other for a long moment.
        "God save Ireland, but that's a proper lady and no mistake," Harper breathed. They turned as they heard a horse approaching.
        "Think we'll be safe now, Sharpe?" the Colonel called down. Sharpe looked up at him.
        "Probably. It'll take 'em a week to get strength from the French lines, sir," he said confidently. Colonel Parker nodded.
        "Well, this is a tale and a half, eh? They'll be telling this story all over Spain next week, I shouldn't wonder, what?" he grinned. Harper, Harris and Hagman looked up at him, their faces about to erupt in contempt for stolen credit.
        "Probably, sir," Sharpe agreed. Yeah, telling the tale of brave Colonel Parker and his South Essex, he snorted.
        "Have to make sure they tell it right, eh? Me and a couple of Chosen Men ordering my South Essex around like clockwork, beating down a formidable foe, rescuing Spanish food and girls, blah, blah, blah, eh?" he asked. Sharpe grinned.
        "Yes sir," he said gratefully. And he knew. He knew the Colonel realised what had really saved the Light Company and the village, with its supplies and villagers now firmly supportive of these crazy English.
        It hadn't been Baker rifles, or muskets, or steady action under fire. Nor had it been nerves of Sheffield steel, quick thinking or the courage of a paltry two hundred men against twice that.
        It had bean Sharpe's pits.

THE END

Historical Note:
None of this really happened. I made it all up.
However, Manchester was indeed a city helped on its way to greatness by spinning cotton, and Ashton-Under-Lyne and Hallam really are only about 30 miles (roughly 50 km, I think) apart.
No green-jacketed Majors were harmed during the writing of this fan-fic. Although certain double-crossing yet woefully backbone-lacking unfortunates discovered the hard way why you're better off writing about cannon than playing with them.

~ The Mardy Bum,
15th July, 2006.
Hong Kong S.A.R.