Chapter Seven

Sharpe felt that this place, except for Hartford, was perfect for him. He liked independence, and freedom from all the pompous bastards who could afford to be majors, colonels, and the like.

One day, he was sipping water from a canteen and enjoying the view, when Major Hartford walked up. He looked angry, and had good reason to be. As the days passed, Sharpe became more and more influential. The men followed his advice, joked with him, and respected him. Hartford had fought back, punishing riflemen for little things, but he wanted to break Sharpe now.

Hartford stood in front of him. He was normally shorter than Sharpe, but now he towered over his enemy.

"I want a word with you, Sharpe." He said in a low tone. Sharpe only spat out water and looked up at him. Hartford continued, "I am a Major. I am the rightful man in command here. You, Sharpe, are a mere lieutenant, filth from the gutter, playing at being an officer."

Sharpe's grip on the canteen threatened to break it, but that was the only indication that he had heard the insults. Hartford turned, and saw that some riflemen and Portuguese were watching.

Hartford turned back to Sharpe, "Did you hear me?"

Sharpe nodded, "Yes I did, sir. Sorry sir."

Hartford looked at him with triumphant satisfaction, "Why would they ever make you into an officer? You are nothing but a simple brute with an officer's sash." He sneered, and turned to leave.

Sharpe called out, "Bastard!"

Hartford froze. He was being challenged. He could see the men watching edge closer.

He turned, a reproof ready, than started at the murderous look in Sharpe's scarred face.

Sharpe stood, never looking away from Hartford, "I don't give a dead maggot about your bloody rank. You will never command me or my riflemen.' He knew about Hartford and his punishing hand. 'You can barely lead your own men! I've seen wolf puppies that make better officers!' These accusations were empty, as Sharpe had never seen him in battle, but he was too angry to think straight, 'If you're trying to provoke a duel with your insulting, then you must have a death wish, because I'll bloody murder you! Knives, swords, pistols, I don't care! You'll die, you bugger!" with the last word, he hit Hartford in the face.

Hartford rubbed the spot where Sharpe's fist hit his face. He looked ready to pull out the pistol that he always carried, but thought of a better way to fight back.

"You're finished, Sharpe. No one strikes an officer and gets away with it." He sneered, spat out a bloody tooth, and walked away.

As angry as he was at Hartford, Sharpe was suddenly worried. Hartford would indeed be able to put Sharpe in shackles, or issue a flogging. He had once been flogged in India, and he still had the scars on his back. He didn't relish the thought of it again.

"The man's a bastard. I wouldn't worry about it, sir." Harper tried to help, but he could not deny the fact that Sharpe was in big trouble if someone took Hartford seriously. And General Craddock probably would.

But he had to put it out of his mind for now. Herron could come any moment. Sharpe led scouting and forage expeditions every day.

On the third day after Hartford arrived, Sharpe led a band of chosen riflemen, Portuguese, and men from the 22nd. MacGall and Madeira were among them.

The forage had brought in several canteens of fresh water, and a number of vegetables that may or may not have been edible. Madeira and the Portuguese gave their word on it, so they were put in bags to be taken back to the fort.

Perkins, who was on watch, suddenly gave a call of warning. Just after the call, shots filled the air. Carbines, a type of cavalry guns. Cavalry scouts.

Herron had sent a patrol ahead to find Sharpe and the riflemen, not knowing that they had been reinforced by men from the 22nd regiment.

Sharpe roared an order to get together. Soon, all twenty-three of them were assembled.

A bullet whipped by to hit a tree, just a hand's length away from Wilkins, who jumped in shock. Madeira aimed carefully, and fired. A curse sounded, and a man came into view, clutching a bleeding arm. One close-range musket shot from MacGall finished him off, though. Hagman smiled at Madeira, aimed at another area in the bushes, and fired. A man with a bullet in his skull slumped into view.

"Sorry, Madeira, Hagman is the best shot in this damned army!" Harris called out. Everyone chuckled. Hagman just grinned as he reloaded his rifle.

Sharpe motioned to Tom Gladstone. He had a good eye, and Sharpe told him to see if there were no others.

"Gladstone! Any more out there?" Sharpe called out.

Gladstone craned his eyes, and responded, "None that I can see, sir."

It was the last thing he ever said. A well-aimed bullet took him twixt the eyes.

Wilkins whistled partly in surprise, partly in respect for a Frenchman's musket being so accurate. Perkins swore in astonishment, swearing again as the other 22nd fired, splattering more French blood on Portuguese soil.

Sharpe looked at them. All looked hardened in the face. Many stared accusingly at him. Even MacGall looked bitter, but he didn't seem to blame Sharpe. He was carrying Gladstone's body to a small clearing for burial.

Sharpe cleared his throat, "Bury Gladstone, then we go."

None moved. The former friend of Gladstone snarled, "You sent him; one of ours, and why? Because Hartford reprimanded some of your lads?"

Sharpe knew someone would speak out. He felt anger rise inside him. Damn it, it wasn't his fault! "Shut up, and bury him if you want to!"

Sharpe's riflemen glanced around, cautious of the sudden split in opinion of Sharpe. Wilkins put a hand on his knife, but apart from that, nobody made a move at all.

The man with the acne on his forehead looked around angrily, hoping for more support against Sharpe. Hagman and Cooper glared at him in return, and the rest of the Rifles made a move to group together. MacGall laid the body of Gladstone down on the ground.

Again, no one moved. Then, MacGall stepped forward to stand alongside Sharpe, which ended the standoff. The redcoats buried their friend together.

Everyone, except the scrawny man with an acne mark on his forehead.