Hi. I'm glad people are interested in this story. Like I've said before I started it many years ago but haven't taken the time to finish it. Hopefully by putting it on here, I'll get the bug again.

Thank you very, very much to everyone who has taken the time to review. The more people who do, the most often I'll feel the need to update. I'm funny that way. But so long as one person wants me to continue, I will. I hope you enjoy the new chapter!!

Susanne

CHAPTER THREE

Panicking, Sandra froze. A bullet hit the ground to her left, another one was even closer.

"Shit," Sandra swore under her breath. Crouching low, she climbed the rest of the way up the breech, pausing long enough to spot a green jacket in the smoke and headed toward it. Ten feet away, the smoke became ragged as a wind picked up and blew it back toward the buildings inside the fort. Sandra could finally make out what was going on. Her blood ran cold in her veins as she cocked the rifle, took careful aim and pulled the trigger.

The kickback nearly sent her onto her butt but Sandra just managed to keep upright by staggering back two steps. Then she was running forward, the hot rifle barrel clutched in both hands. With every ounce of strength she possessed, Sandra slammed a French soldier across the face with the butt of the rifle, swinging it like a club. He went down to join the French officer she'd shot and Captain Sharpe where he lay, stabbed, bleeding and unconscious.

Falling to her knees, Sandra reloaded the rifle as quickly as she could through a sheen of tears. Her shoulder felt as though it had been turned into hamburger by the backlash of the rifle, bringing the tears to her eyes. She didn't mind, however, they washed away the grit from the smoke and the powder that had burned her cheek when she'd fired.

There were soldiers all around Sandra. Red uniforms, blue uniforms, but no green jackets that she could immediately see. Fighting the panic and fear, Sandra fixed the sword to the end of her rifle, trying desperately to remember everything Sergeant Harper had told her.

Suddenly aware of how exposed they were, Sandra caught hold of the blond captain's uninjured arm and pulled. Only one frog tried to stop her. Luckily, he was far enough away that she was able to drop the captain, plant her feet, aim and pull the trigger. It felt like her shoulder exploded but she was more prepared this time. Instantly, upon seeing the charging French man drop, Sandra dropped to one knee and ignoring the sharp edge of the sword. She reloaded, faster than she had before, her eyes constantly checking her surroundings.

The panic and fear were abating and being replace by a grim determination. Ready, she caught up Sharpe's arm again and heaved. Desperation had given her new strength and she got the captain into a corner, behind the steps to the ramparts and settled in for a long wait.

It appeared that the French were winning. She'd figure out some way to get him back over the ramparts and to the British lines but that was something she'd worry about later. Right now, she used the sword she'd unclipped from the rifle to cut off a piece of her sweat shirt and used it to apply pressure to the Captain's wounded shoulder. Keeping an eye out for enemy soldiers, Sandra superficially evaluated him for any other wounds.

On the back of Sharpe's head, Sandra found a goose egg that was bleeding freely. Another piece of her shirt became a bandage and a longer piece was wrapped around his head to keep it in place. Sharpe groaned. He shifted around a bit and his eyes flickered as if to open. But then he passed out again. Holding him tight, her back against the wall, Sandra propped the loaded rifle on her right hip and watched.

It seemed to take an eternity during which Sandra observed the ebb and flow of the uniforms until she finally saw a green jacket. She debated on whether she should shout at him or leave the captain long enough to get the man's attention. But she quickly discarded the ideas as the number of French soldiers increased for the moment. By the time they were outnumbered again, the rifleman had vanished.

On her left shoulder, Sharpe's head moved and he moaned softly. Weakly, he stirred against her side.

"It's okay, Captain," Sandra murmured to him as she held him a little bit tighter to keep him from exposing their hiding spot. "We're safe for the time being."

Absently, Sandra brushed his blond hair out of his scarred face and settled more comfortably. The honest truth was that the captain didn't smell very good, especially so close. Sandra supposed bathtubs were few and far between when there was a war going on.

Sharpe was handsome. The scar running down his left cheek didn't detract from his looks. It simply gave his face more character. This close to him, Sandra was surprised to find how small he actually was. When erect, Sharpe stood just short of six feet tall, but she doubted he weighted much mover one hundred and seventy pounds. Lanky, maybe that was the word for it, or sinewy. She couldn't quite think of the word she wanted. All she really knew was that he was strong, especially fighting against her one arm despite his weakened stated.

"Ssshhh," Sandra hissed into his ear. "There're frogs everywhere." That settled him for a moment or two.

"Where's Harper?" Sharpe asked in a voice barely above a whisper. His good hand was resting on Sandra's left forearm.

"I don't know. Harris and I were separated. I just happened to find you before you were run completely through," Sandra whispered back. Out in the courtyard, a French soldier saw them huddled in the dark beneath the stairs. Grinning, he headed toward them, his bayonet fixed in place on his musket. Sandra saw him when he was still four yards away. Releasing the captain, she cocked the rifle and aimed it. Realizing his peril, the French soldier tried to swerve to his right only to find a bullet waiting for him there. Screaming, he went down in a heap, his hands wrapped around his stomach to keep the contents in.

Shuddering, Sandra reloaded, considered whether to finish him off but decided against it. She was running low on shot. Keeping one eye on the dying man, she picked Sharpe up again. He'd passed out. The head wound concerned her greatly. Propping him against her side, Sandra looked up and nearly jumped out of her skin before she recognized Harper's happy face attached to the huge shadow blocking the view of the court yard.

"There you are," he said, grinning broadly. "And you've found Captain Sharpe. I thank you for that, I do."

"He's hurt," was all Sandra could think to say. She barely kept the tears out of her eyes and the urge to kiss the sergeant under control.

"So he is." The sergeant squeezed into the small area and picked the blond man up like a bag of potatoes and backed out.

Shakier than she could ever remember being, Sandra crawled out and was grateful to find the other riflemen. Their rifles were loaded and ready, just in case one of the French still wanted to put up a fight. Cautiously, she uncocked her rifle and blinked in the bright sunlight.

"I'm sorry, lass. I lost you," Harris apologized, looking disconsolate.

"My fault," Sandra managed through a suddenly parched throat. "I shouldn't have stumbled."

The older rifleman, Daniel Hagman, Sandra believed his name was, smiled at her and awkwardly clapped her on the shoulder. "Good shot."

"Thanks." Sandra looked around at the carnage filling the court yard and shook a little harder. She could not believe she had taken part in it. "Where's the captain?"

"Harper's taking him to the surgeon," Perkins said. He was the youngest of the riflemen and looked to be maybe sixteen years old.

"Now what?" Sandra asked, trying to hide her trembling. At least it was beginning to subside a little.

"The fort's taken. We clean our weapons and settle in until we get new orders," Harris replied. "Follow us, we'll check on the captain and find our billets."

OOOOO

The route they took brought them by the two French men Sandra had fought. Aghast, she stared unabashedly. Somehow, she'd killed both of them. The one she'd bashed with the rifle butt was lying on a metallic object. Curious, Sandra paused long enough to roll the body over. Underneath, lying amid the blood was a sword.

"That's Captain Sharpe's," Perkins told her. She scooped it up and double timed it to catch up.

OOOOO

The hospital, if it could be called that, was a scene of organized mayhem. French and British soldiers, as well as the occasional Spaniard, were lying, sitting or wandering around. Blood, sawed off body parts and corpses were everywhere. In some ways it was even worse than the horror they'd just left.

Shocked and appalled, Sandra followed the others. The things taking place were too awful to witness so she concentrated on Daniel's back. They crossed nearly the entire clearing being used before they found them.

Captain Sharpe lie on a bloodied table, still apparently unconscious, stripped to the waist. A serious, haggard looking man was shouting something to an orderly. Sandra couldn`t quite make it out. On one side of the table stood Sergeant Harper a sorrowful look on his broad face.

"Sir?" it was Harris. "What's going on?"

"They want to cut his arm off," Harper said.

"What??" Disbelieving, Sandra covered the distance between them in a heartbeat. She quickly checked the captain over. In the fear and darkness of the stairwell, she'd missed a broken arm.

Apparently the frog who'd bayoneted him in the shoulder had hit his right forearm first. The blade had sliced between the radius and ulna and broke the bones when he'd yanked it out. He'd missed the veins and arteries. Otherwise, the captain would have bled out on her under the stairs. The orderly was coming toward them a nasty looking saw in his hand.

"Pick him up and get him out of here," Sandra ordered her voice deep with rage.

One look at the woman's face and the huge Irishman decided not to argue. Shrugging apologetically at the doctor Harper carefully picked his friend up and followed his fellow riflemen out of the hospital.