TWO
Sharpe heard something loud and brass-like. It sounded like it was a long, long way off. He ignored it, content to slip back into that dreamy world of half-asleep and half-awake. He felt he'd never been this comfortable or relaxed in his life. That thought saw him slip quickly back into a dreamless sleep.
"Sir! Sir!" someone shouted, and he grunted in annoyance. "Sir! Come on, sir, it's way after sun-up, so it is!" He felt something grab his shoulders and shake him roughly.
"Bugger off," he snapped, opening an eye to see Harper looming over him, his face worried. "What?" he demanded plaintively.
"The Colonel's looking for you, sir! We were supposed to march half an hour ago, so we were!" he cried anxiously. Sharpe felt those words, in that particular order, should be triggering some kind of action, but for some reason he could make himself neither move nor care.
"Bugger him," he muttered, letting his eyes close again. Harper swore.
"This is all my fault," he cursed, then bent over Sharpe and slapped him with real force.
"Jesus, Sergeant!" Sharpe cried angrily, waking immediately and grabbing at the wooden edge of the cot to sit up. He heard something creak and wondered in a detached way if it were the bed or some part of himself. Harper stepped back quickly, out of his reach. "What the bloody hell were that for!"
"We're supposed to be marching, sir! The Colonel's looking for you to take out the Chosen Men first, sir, and you're sleeping!" he cried desperately. Sharpe blinked and rubbed an eye, looking round blearily.
"Is it dawn?" he asked, unable to make sense of his surroundings.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it's broad daylight, sir!" he cried. "Here," he said, stepping forward and pulling Sharpe to his feet by the open edges of his tunic. Sharpe pushed him off and almost lost his balance. "Oh shite, it's all my fault, so it is," he hissed. Sharpe rubbed his eye again, not quite sure of the point in being stood up. His face twisted in confusion.
"What are we doing?" he asked faintly, blinking at the big Irishman.
"Just get your things sir, and follow me, sir," he said clearly. Sharpe looked around.
"Things?"
"Mary Mother of God!" Harper shouted, frustrated. "Look," he said, crossing the few feet to the makeshift bedside table. He picked up the sword belt and thrust it at the Major, who took it and, more by instinct than his wits, began pulling it round him and buckling it up.
"Where are me boots?" Sharpe asked innocently, as if he had all the time in the world. Harper looked at him, then his feet.
"There, sir," he said, pointing to his feet. Sharpe looked at them blearily.
"Oh yeah, look at that," he reasoned cheerfully. Harper turned him round and pushed him out of the tent.
"Right boys!" Harper called, and six Chosen Men appeared and started striking the tent as fast as they could. Sharpe turned and looked at them, then round at Harper uncertainly. He shivered and hopped from one foot to the other suddenly.
"Buggerin' hell, I'm dying for a pi–"
"Major Sharpe!" Colonel Lawford shouted, his horse coming into view. Sharpe turned quickly to see him. Slowly, gradually, it began to dawn on him that perhaps he was not in possession of his full set of wits this morning.
"Colonel," he said, hoping it had sounded awake and ready.
"Major, the entire South Essex and your own Chosen Men have been waiting an hour for you to lead the scouts ahead so that we may march, sir! Where in blazes have you been, man?" he demanded hotly. Sharpe thought about it, realising he wasn't completely sure.
"He's been ill, sir," Harper put in suddenly. Sharpe looked at him.
"Ill?" Lawford echoed, "Ill?"
"Bit of a fever, so it was, but he's mostly better now, sir," Harper continued. "He's ready to go now," he said, pushing Sharpe forward a step. He stumbled on the grass verge but kept his balance. He looked up at Lawford, who slid quickly from his horse and walked up to him. He leaned close to him and sniffed pointedly.
"Hmm. So it's not drink, Richard?" he asked quietly.
"No, sir!" he said indignantly.
"Well? Was it illness or a woman?" he asked softly. Sharpe blinked and Lawford studied his face.
"Don't rightly know, sir. Me head's a bit –"
"Illness," Lawford nodded confidently. He stood back, raising his voice. "Mister Sharpe has done well to rise this early after a nasty bout of fever like that, Sergeant Major Harper," he called, loud enough for the officers behind him, including one Lieutenant White, to hear. Harper nodded gratefully, and Lawford shot Sharpe one rather damning look before turning back to his horse. "Next time, sir, you will do me the courtesy of notifying me of your incapacitation." He lifted an arm and led the mounted officers and the South Essex onwards.
Harper turned and pushed Sharpe sideways, toward the Chosen Men. They grouped around them.
"Right then, Mister Sharpe wants us along the two ridges either side of the road, so he does. Hagman, you've got point left, Taylor, you've got point right," he said. Taylor and Hagman nodded, turning and sprinting off to be in front of the marching troops. Harris looked at Brown and Moore, watching Sharpe with grins on their faces. Harper cleared his throat. "Right then sir, anything else?" he asked loudly. Sharpe looked at him.
"Eh?"
"Quite so, sir. Well, you heard him gentlemen, Rifles to the front and keep your feet up, or so help him he'll break you in two!" he ordered fiercely. Brown, Moore, Harris and Robinson nodded, turning smartly and running to get to the front of the South Essex. Harper looked at Sharpe. "I'm very sorry, sir. I didn't know you couldn't take the tea, I swear," he said, looking worried. Sharpe just blinked at him, then his face screwed up in abject confusion.
"Tea?" he asked, lost. Harper sighed and put a hand on his shoulder, turning him round. He handed him his rifle and pushed him in front of him, walking them behind the tail end of the South Essex.
"Jesus, but it's going to be a long march," Harper said to himself.
By sun-down they had made it halfway to the village, and Colonel Lawford ordered them to fall out and make camp.
Brown and Harris were laughing like men possessed as they put the tent up.
"And stone me, but his eyes were large as dog-bowls," Brown managed. Harris laughed.
"You're all in a lot of trouble when he realises what you did!" he breathed. "It took me a whole day to get over that half cup!"
"I know – and he had nigh-on one and a half," Brown grinned. Harper appeared behind Harris abruptly, and Brown's face dropped.
"Find something funny, do you Rifleman Brown?" he asked loftily. Brown cleared his throat.
"No sir," he said immediately.
"That's good. You'll be getting this thing up quickly then, boys, and getting your heads down. We have a lot of walking tomorrow," he said, turning and walking off. Brown and Harris exchanged a look, then wrestled with the canvas.
Harper walked across the line of tents, finding Sharpe's by sound.
"Well get it off then!" Sharpe was shouting viciously. "And if I find it there again, I'll boot you in the nadgers so hard you'll make a living being the oldest choir boy in the whole bastard parish!" he bellowed. Harper closed his eyes in anguish, his mouth rounding into an 'o' shape before he shook his head. He walked on and rounded Sharpe's tent to see him stood, hands on hips, watching Robinson quickly unlacing some girl's favour from his jacket buttons.
He cleared his throat. Sharpe turned his head and then did a double-take, realising who it was. "And you!" he shouted venomously. Harper froze. "Get this lot away from them girls and into their own beds! We're all getting up at dawn, Sergeant, and if just one man so much as leaves his boots unlaced, I'll find the rustiest bleedin' bayonet in the camp and bloody well skewer him on it!" he roared. Harper looked at his own feet.
"Yes sir!" he said smartly.
"Now go on, bugger off, the lot of you!" he bellowed. Harper looked over at Robinson and gestured with his head. Robinson made himself scarce and Harper turned to Sharpe.
"Will you be wanting a drink before you sleep, sir?" he asked politely.
"Just go, Sergeant," he snapped, then turned and stalked into his tent. Harper cleared his throat, thought for a long minute, then went to his own tent. He ducked inside to find Ramona dressing little Patrick in thick woollen sleeping clothes.
"His head hurts," she said conversationally. Harper looked at the little boy.
"Patrick's?" he asked, surprised. "Told you that, did he? Is he talking already?" he asked, grinning. Ramona looked up at him.
"Richard's. It will give him a bad head. He won't sleep much tonight."
"Oh. That's bad, so it is, we have a long way to go tomorrow," he said, unbuttoning his jacket and sliding it off. She pinned him with a reproving look.
"Then you should not have let him drink it," she said sternly. "Is not fair, Patrick. You know he is not big and strong like you. I don't know how he woke this morning," she sighed. Harper nodded.
"I know," he sighed with difficulty. "It's my fault. I'll make it up to him, so I will," he said lightly, and Ramona looked up at him again, lifting little Patrick to sit up slowly.
"I know you will. I will make you," she said. "Take him that drink there," she said, pointing to the bedside table.
"What is it?"
"It will help his head. Maybe tomorrow he won't shout so much," she said, then looked at little Patrick. "And tell him not to say such words when our little boy can hear him," she said. Harper grinned.
"I'll try. If I come back without a head, you'll know the right of it," he winked, picking up the cup and walking back out of the tent. He rounded the side and walked to Sharpe's, noticing the candle was still lit. He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and pushed at the tent flap. "Sir?" he asked quietly.
"What do you want, yer bastard?" Sharpe demanded angrily. Harper ducked inside, finding him on his back on the bed, the heels of his hands in his eyes. He'd taken his boots and tunic off, but that seemed to have been the most he could manage.
"I came to… Ramona sent me, sir," he said craftily, knowing while he wouldn't take anything from Harper, he'd trust anything Ramona sent so long as it didn't smell like manure.
"And what does she want?" he asked roughly, letting his hands drop. He glared at the Irishman. Harper shifted his feet, made sure his cheerful expression didn't falter, and held out his hand with the cup in it.
"She says for you to drink this, sir. It'll help your head, so it will," he said. Sharpe just watched him for a long moment. Then he sat up slowly, taking the cup and peering in it. He sniffed it and then sipped it carefully. "Jesus sir, but I'm awful sorry, so I am," he said quietly. Sharpe pinned him with a look that could have frozen over a great many circles of Hell without even trying, and then drank the rest of the cup.
"What would have happened if we'd been fighting today?" he demanded. Harper thought it best not to answer. Sharpe huffed, then handed him back the cup. "Tell Ramona, ta very much." He hesitated, letting his anger subside for now. "And you get to bed. Don't think about it. Just be ready for tomorrow," he said, more reasonably.
"Oh I will sir, thank you sir," he said, taking the cup gratefully and backing out of the tent. He let the tent flaps fall shut behind him, waiting for the inevitable muttered curse from his superior officer, but it never came. He turned and walked back to his own tent.
"We'll be inside País del Té tomorrow, dear," White said as they sat round their own campfire, huddled near their tent.
"Not soon enough," she grumbled. "Honestly, I couldn't leave you to march without me, Edward, but really, the sooner we find proper shelter the better."
"You couldn't?" he asked, marvelling at her incredible beauty in the flicker of the fire. Her long black hair was twisted into plaits, pinned neatly back, and her grey eyes looked at him, the fire reflected in them, almost making them jump red.
"Of course not," she smiled, putting her hand on his knee. "What would you do without me to guide your career?" she teased. He smiled, nodding.
"True, true. You know I'm grateful to you, for all your engineering and politicking," he said warmly.
"Oh Edward, I never wanted you to be grateful. I just want you to… love me," she said quietly, mindful of how many soldiers were camped around them. And secure me – us – a pensionable wage.
"Oh I do, Liza, I do," he said quietly. "Without you I'd still be a man of no means or position. Thanks to you, I have a commission, good friends in some important officers, and a path to promotion," he said. "You are clever and wise, and you are the most beautiful creature I've ever seen, my dear."
"Oh really," she scoffed coyly, hoping it were true.
"I may not be a famous hero like Major Sharpe, but I have you to come home to," he said, well pleased. She looked at him, her smile dropping.
"And what of Major Sharpe? What do we do? He's out to ruin you, you know," she said sternly. He looked at her, surprised.
"Really? But the Colonel said that –"
"If you listen to any of the gossip around this camp you'll know that the Colonel is a friend to Major Sharpe," she interrupted. "Of course he'd want to smooth any ruffled feathers – he doesn't want you causing more trouble for his friend," she tutted, "even if the Major was at fault. Honestly, dear, fighting like schoolboys in the dirt. I'm almost ashamed of you."
"Almost?" he asked, surprised. She smiled slightly.
"It seems camp gossip is that you're quite a fighter, Edward. Some soldiers here quite respect that," she said craftily. He let his shoulder straighten.
"Yes, well, couldn't let him think little of me, could I?" he said.
"Another few minutes and I'm sure you would have won," she added slyly.
"Do you know, perhaps you're right," he said brightly, as if the idea were only just occurring to him. She smiled on the inside. "He fights dirty, you know. Terribly dirty," he said miserably.
"Well what do you expect from someone like him?" she tutted. He studied her beauty in the firelight. They were quiet for some moments.
"So me going and shaking his hand, making sure there are no hard feelings – you don't think that would help?" he asked honestly.
"Oh Edward, you are a noble soul, but really, you don't understand people as I do!" she scoffed. "No, he'll shake your hand and tell you everything's settled, but really, he's going to write straight to Horse Guards and tell them of your alleged disrespect," she tutted.
"But… it wasn't alleged. I refused a direct order to –"
"Because it was a silly order, given by someone who really shouldn't hold a commission at all, much less a Majority," she snapped. "Think back, Edward, what happened when you refused? Did anyone else get angry with you?"
"Well, er, no," he admitted, remembering there had only been privates around them at the time. "But –"
"No buts, Edward. He's a scoundrel and a bully, and it's not his place to be giving a fine, noble gentleman of birth like you an order to do anything," she said haughtily. He looked at her.
"You really think so?" he asked quietly, wondering why he never saw things as clearly.
"Of course I do, dear Edward," she said warmly. "Look, it's time we were asleep, I think. This army has a habit of waking and walking early," she said. He nodded.
"You're quite right, my dear, quite right," he said, standing. She stood too.
"I'll say goodnight to the Colonel – it doesn't hurt to stay in his good books," she said, leaning up and kissing his cheek. "Have the bed turned down for me," she said wickedly, turning and lifting her skirts, walking away. He sighed happily, turned for the tent flaps, and ducked inside.
"Excuse me, where may I find Major Sharpe?" she asked. The ginger-haired private in his green jacket looked at her.
"In his tent, ma'am," he said respectfully.
"Oh. And where may that be?" she asked, trying her best dazzling smile. The man turned and pointed, then let his arm drop.
"Perhaps I should escort you, ma'am – it's not safe for a proper lady to be amongst so many soldiers' tents," he said. She smiled.
"Why, thank you very much, young man," she said warmly.
"Rifleman Harris, ma'am, at your service," he said, taking her elbow gallantly and leading her across the minefield of women-less squaddies. He stopped outside Sharpe's tent. "Er, sir?" he asked loudly, ruffling the tent flaps. There was a long pause. Harris cleared his throat and banged on the wooden post next to him. "Sir?" he called again.
"Buggerin' 'ell," came the sleepy, muttered response. "Harris? What the bloody hell do you want?" Sharpe demanded much more loudly, obscured by the flaps.
"A lady to see you, sir," he said pointedly. They heard a low muttering before a weary Sharpe appeared at the tent flaps, stripped to the waist and looking very much irritated.
"Miss," he said curtly. "Summat I can do for you?" he asked. Harris looked at him, then shifted his eyes up to the side.
"I am Madam Elizabeth White," she said warmly, holding out her hand. Sharpe just looked at it. He sniffed, as if he'd rather be anywhere else, then put his hand up and squeezed her fingers quickly, letting his hand drop again. She regarded him with a crafty smile. "I am sorry to have disturbed your sleep, Major," she said, and Sharpe looked at Harris suddenly.
"Alright rifleman," he said tersely, and Harris nodded and turned, walking away with a huge smile on his face. He walked straight toward Harper's tent.
"How can I be of service, ma'am?" he asked pointedly. She looked at the tent flaps helplessly. He shifted so that he was in the way, and waited. She felt annoyance flicker but smiled warmly at him, trying her best.
"I am told you and my husband… disagreed," she said politely. He nodded.
"We did."
"My husband is not a clever man, Major. He often does not realise his errors until much, much later," she said serenely. She noticed his eyes did not leave hers, even though she had made sure the shoulders of her dress had slipped as she had walked over.
"And?" he asked. She smiled.
"I would like to try to persuade you that… he's not a bad man, Major. He just needs guidance from time to time. You would be the perfect instructor, Major, someone who has had so much field experience," she said, leaning closer to him. His eyes narrowed slightly. "I beg you not to write Horse Guards over such a minor disagreement," she said, her eyes pleading the best way she knew how. He just regarded her, then looked over her head suddenly. He cleared his throat.
"I'll think about it," he said. If he steps out of line again, he'll damn well watch me write it, the bugger, he thought vehemently.
"Oh Major, how charitable of you," she said delightedly, stealing another step closer to him. She flicked her eyes over him, noticing the scars and abrasions. How different a build he is to my Edward, she mused. Her eyes fell on the long, angry scar over his left shoulder and collarbone. She lifted a hand to touch it. "Oh my, how perfectly vicious," she said quietly. He moved back so that her hand missed him. She looked up at him in the weak light of the campfires, noticing his eyes steal over her quickly. "I wonder, Major, if there's something I could do to… persuade you to put off writing that letter? At least, until morning, perhaps?" she asked quietly. He looked at her for a long moment, and she knew he'd accept. All men did.
At last he wet his lips and straightened unconsciously. "Actually, there is summat you could do," he said softly. She smiled, stealing closer slightly. He didn't move.
"For you, Major? Name it," she whispered. He swallowed.
"You could go back to your tent, Mrs White. Your husband must be looking for you," he ground out. She looked at him, then realised he wasn't joking.
You filthy little gutter-snipe! she fumed. How dare you refuse me? Me! What makes you so high and mighty after fighting like the ruffian toe-rag you are? She controlled her seething rage admirably, turning her infuriated huff into a passable attempt at a long, reluctant sigh.
"Yes, he must," she said, her tone as regretful as she could make it, given her boiling anger. "Well then. If you should feel the need to write to Horse Guards… I pray you think of me first. I can be very… grateful, Major," she said quietly.
"Good evening, ma'am," he said, his voice a thick rumble. She controlled her face, swallowing the anger finally. You unconscionable swine! You think you can intimidate me with your height and cold arrogance? There is no way I'd let Horse Guards receive your letter! I'll teach you to treat me as a woman of no importance!
"I bid you a good night, Major," she said with a warm smile, "you shall be in my thoughts this evening," she added truthfully, backing away slowly.
"Your servant, ma'am," he allowed. She turned quickly, lifting her skirts clear of the ground and disappearing into the night.
Sharpe let out a long breath, letting his shoulders sag in relief as he watched her go. "Bugger me," he muttered, shaking his head and ducking back inside the tent. He flopped back down on the cot, got comfortable again, and sighed through his nose.
He twisted and turned, trying to regain the rest he'd had interrupted. But he was no longer in the mood to sleep.