Based around the books by Bernard Cornwell (must-reads) and the television
series starring Sean Bean (dreamy sigh).
Sharpe and Harper meet again after 'Sharpe's Waterloo' and directly before
setting out for Chile in 'Sharpe's Devil'. Basically I wanted a more
emotional reunion of the two rogues.
#~**~#
Sharpe paused outside the tavern and took a deep breath. It had been three years since he had last seen Harper- would he have changed? Does three years make any difference to a friendship formed in twelve hour marches, three rounds a minute and sleeping under the stars? Now Sharpe was a farmer and Harper was a publican. Soldiering belonged to a different life. Did their friendship also belong there?
Only one way to find out, thought Sharpe, as he opened the door of the tavern and breathed in the smoky atmosphere within.
On the table nearest the door a group of men- footpads by the look of them- squabbled over a pile of coins. One of them forgot the squabble momentarily to wolf-whistle at a pretty serving wench. "'Nother round, Bess!"
Sharpe fought his way through a group of ex-soldiers. "Where will I find, Mr Harper?" he asked one of them, a grisly forty-something with only one leg and one arm. The man nodded his head in the direction of the bar. Sharpe jostled through yet more people- thieves, sailors and whores with hearts of gold, until he heard a familiar Donegal voice booming across the packed tavern:
"An' he cried 'Stand firm' and the men stood, so they did, and the cannons roared, the muskets cracked and the men stood firm. Then Mr Sharpe he shouted 'you'll fight like bloody Englishmen, or you'll have me to answer to!' And they fought so they did, like gutter dogs," Harper paused to gulp down some ale. "Old Nosey's scum of the earth beat the French bastards to the kingdom in the skies!"
Harper was sat amidst an audience of young men, who listened spellbound to his words.
"Did you know Sharpe well, Mr Harper?" piped up a boy who looked scarcely fourteen-years-old.
Sharpe laughed softly to himself, then cleared his throat loudly and stepped forward. "He was Sharpe's closest friend," he said simply and grinned at Harper.
"God save Ireland!" cried the huge Irishman. He was grinning insanely. "Ain't half good to see you, sir."
"Dick! You're not in the bloody army now, Pat!"
"Aye, King George's had more than his shilling out of me," laughed Harper, standing up and stepping towards Sharpe. The two men stood, a foot apart, and for a moment awkwardness subdued them both.
"It's good to see you too," said Sharpe softly.
The two men embraced.
"Time for one last adventure?" asked Sharpe, his hand still resting on Harper's broad shoulder.
"Always time for an adventure," said Harper, swiping at his eyes. Sharpe pretended not to notice his tears of joy.
#~**~#
Sharpe paused outside the tavern and took a deep breath. It had been three years since he had last seen Harper- would he have changed? Does three years make any difference to a friendship formed in twelve hour marches, three rounds a minute and sleeping under the stars? Now Sharpe was a farmer and Harper was a publican. Soldiering belonged to a different life. Did their friendship also belong there?
Only one way to find out, thought Sharpe, as he opened the door of the tavern and breathed in the smoky atmosphere within.
On the table nearest the door a group of men- footpads by the look of them- squabbled over a pile of coins. One of them forgot the squabble momentarily to wolf-whistle at a pretty serving wench. "'Nother round, Bess!"
Sharpe fought his way through a group of ex-soldiers. "Where will I find, Mr Harper?" he asked one of them, a grisly forty-something with only one leg and one arm. The man nodded his head in the direction of the bar. Sharpe jostled through yet more people- thieves, sailors and whores with hearts of gold, until he heard a familiar Donegal voice booming across the packed tavern:
"An' he cried 'Stand firm' and the men stood, so they did, and the cannons roared, the muskets cracked and the men stood firm. Then Mr Sharpe he shouted 'you'll fight like bloody Englishmen, or you'll have me to answer to!' And they fought so they did, like gutter dogs," Harper paused to gulp down some ale. "Old Nosey's scum of the earth beat the French bastards to the kingdom in the skies!"
Harper was sat amidst an audience of young men, who listened spellbound to his words.
"Did you know Sharpe well, Mr Harper?" piped up a boy who looked scarcely fourteen-years-old.
Sharpe laughed softly to himself, then cleared his throat loudly and stepped forward. "He was Sharpe's closest friend," he said simply and grinned at Harper.
"God save Ireland!" cried the huge Irishman. He was grinning insanely. "Ain't half good to see you, sir."
"Dick! You're not in the bloody army now, Pat!"
"Aye, King George's had more than his shilling out of me," laughed Harper, standing up and stepping towards Sharpe. The two men stood, a foot apart, and for a moment awkwardness subdued them both.
"It's good to see you too," said Sharpe softly.
The two men embraced.
"Time for one last adventure?" asked Sharpe, his hand still resting on Harper's broad shoulder.
"Always time for an adventure," said Harper, swiping at his eyes. Sharpe pretended not to notice his tears of joy.