Sharpe's Morning
A column of smoke floated into the sky on the horizon, the remnants of somebody's cooking fire. The tall grass was cool and damp. The dew had fallen in the night, and the world was still dark in the early hours before dawn. The camp stretched out across the valley, the carts pulled by mules, the artillery with their horses asleep nearby, and the army tents were all in the shadow of the Spanish hills. Apart from the men on the patrols and those in the piquet lines, only one man was awake. Richard Sharpe.
He sat easily, watching the slumbering men and the carrion birds already in the sky. It was more than likely that there would be a battle today, which was why he found it difficult to sleep. His thoughts wandered to Teresa, his lovely wife, and to their little daughter, Antonia. Antonia had cried as he left, and he wondered what tears Teresa was shedding for him. Much as he loved them, they would only be hurt by him in the end. The life of a soldier was perilous, and Sharpe's fearless charge into battle would eventually leave his wife a widow and his daughter fatherless. Unless he came into money, all that he would leave for them would be his name and an unmarked grave. Next to him, Patrick Harper stirred. Sharpe was very still, not wishing to wake him. His massive Sargent needed his sleep. To march into battle without rest, especially when there was rest to be had, was sheer foolishness. Sharpe grinned, his ghastly scar mocking the expression. He was a fool in that respect. However, Major Sharpe was anything but an idiot. He had led his South Essex Battalion to victory in the breaches of Badajoz, in the Arapiles, and even captured an Eagle at Talavera. Yes, Major Sharpe was no fool. And everybody knew it.
Dan Hagman was the first to rise, and he tripped over Lieutenant Harry Price as he did so. "Bloody bastard," he muttered under his breath, and was surprised when Sharpe heard and laughed appreciatively. Lieutenant Price was well liked, and he spread his infectious enthusiasm and humour to the men, which was good for morale. "Mr. Price is a good lad, he is," Hagman amended, "But he drinks like a whale."
"Let him sleep it off, Dan." Sharpe decided. "He takes his drink well, and he'll be as right as rain when he wakes."
All along the miles of the camp, the sounds of awakening stirred. By now half of Sharpe's Riflemen were awake, polishing their rifles and making sure that there was no residue in the firing chambers so that their shots could ring true. It would be a great and terrible day if there was to be a battle. Victories would be won, but for England or France nobody knew. As Richard Sharpe gazed over where the enemy was sure to be, he grinned. This would be a day to remember, and his well trained men could handle Bonaparte's troops. It was Sharpe's morning.