TEN
"Ranks! Form ranks!" Colonel Lawford bellowed. "Campbell! Relay!" he ordered. Captain Campbell, the not so tall but ever so wide Scottish officer, nodded.
"Ranks!" he roared, waving his Claymore high above the wandering redcoats. "Ranks! Form ranks, yir dozy bastards!"
South Essex and 42nd men looked around, realising the blue tunics were disappearing, and gladly stepped backwards, lifting their muskets to their shoulders and shuffling into squares. "Campbell, find the Major, bring him to me!" Lawford shouted, only too aware that he could not see the officer's green jacket anywhere among the assembling men.
"Sir!" he shouted, turning and picking his way through the redcoats, looking for anything green. He grabbed at a green tunic, turning it to find a grinning young lad looking back at him.
"Sir," he said, saluting wearily with a cheeky smile. Campbell released him.
"Rifleman," he said. "Where's Major Sharpe?"
"I don't know, sir, haven't seen him," Rifleman Taylor shrugged. Campbell looked at him for a long moment.
"Good work today, lad," he nodded, then turned and plunged on through the wandering and shuffling men. Most were simply picking items from the pockets of dead soldiers. Some were kneeling, talking to dying men in their own colours. Some just wandered, too exhausted or dazed by fear or emotion to heed any order to regroup.
He saw a familiar uniform from the corner of his eye and turned. "Mackenzie!" he shouted, finding the tall Scotsman bending over someone on the field. He crossed quickly. Mackenzie looked up and saluted.
"Sir!" he nodded smartly. Campbell looked around him.
"Who's this?" he demanded. He looked down at the damp, bloody green tunic, buttoned up to hold together the scruffiest, dirtiest, sweatiest soldier he'd ever laid eyes on.
"Major Sharpe, sir," he said dutifully. "Got a cut on the head, sir, but he'll be right as rain in a few hours," he said proudly. Campbell looked from Sharpe, sitting with his arms resting on his bent-up knees, back to Mackenzie.
"And why would that please you?" he smiled. "I thought you hated all Sassenachs?" he grinned. Mackenzie looked down at the bleeding Major, and then back at Campbell.
"Aye, but he's no bad for a foreigner," he winked. "Lost of all his blades, sir, and still had a go," he grinned. Campbell nodded.
"Major?" he asked. Sharpe looked up at him slowly. "Can you walk, Major? The Colonel would like to see you."
Sharpe climbed to his feet slowly, fresh blood seeping languidly from the two inch cut high above his right eye. A cut somewhere on top of his head had spilled blood all over the right side of his scalp, turning his hair black on that side. Campbell had to admit he looked a little like a badger.
"Yes sir," Sharpe said gingerly, putting his hands to his buttons and doing up the last few slowly. Campbell eyed him, wondering if the Englishman were steady enough to walk back to the Colonel, but Sharpe sniffed to himself, took a deep breath, and nodded resolutely.
"Sir," Mackenzie said quickly. Sharpe looked back at him. He held his gaze for a moment, unsure, then put this hand to the long belt on his kilt. He unbuckled the thin belt, pulling it off from round him and handing it over. "To replace the one you left in that Frog, sir," he said. Sharpe just looked at it.
It was a beautiful piece of work, he had to admit. Five inches of gleaming, impressive metal with an unfamiliar stamp and name engraved in it. He looked back at Mackenzie.
"I'll find me own again, don't you worry, Lieutenant," he said. Mackenzie's hand didn't drop.
"Aye, but I'd be awful offended if ye didnae take it, sir," he said quietly. Sharpe let himself smile, then reached out and took it slowly. He looked at it for a long moment before looking back at Mackenzie.
"It's…" He searched the best way to sum up his feelings. "It's a proper bit of kit," he said at last, nodding to him. "How do you spell yer name, Lieutenant?" he asked suddenly.
"Why, sir?" he asked, puzzled.
"Cos as soon as I find some paper I'm writing to Horse Guards and recommending they make you a Captain," he said cheerfully. Mackenzie grinned.
"Well, that's up to you, sir," he said, puffing his chest out unconsciously and saluting smartly. Sharpe nodded to him and turned, walking with Campbell back toward Lawford.
"Will you really write to Horse Guards, sir?" Campbell asked him.
"Bloody right I will. Any man who fights like he does deserves it," he said. "And I think he saved my life," he added, trying to think back. Campbell grinned.
"Oh he's good at that, sir. Saved mine twice in India," he admitted. Sharpe looked at him.
"So why is he just a Lieutenant?" he asked.
"Well… You ask him why he's so brave and that, and he'll just say it's his job, sir," he shrugged humbly. Sharpe grinned.
"Sir! Major Sharpe, sir!"
They turned to find Harper running toward them across the field. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph sir, but you dropped your sword," he said breathlessly, handing it out to him. Sharpe grinned, well pleased, putting his hand out for it. "How's your head, sir?" he asked, suddenly taking in the half black, half blonde head and tracks of blood down the right side of his face.
"I'll live. You alright?" he asked. Harper nodded.
"Tanned all over, so I am, but I'll be alright after we make that tavern, sir," he winked. Sharpe grinned.
"I did say that, didn't I?" he asked. "Have to tell the Colonel we're off first though," he said, turning and walking. They walked toward the four-foot wall of the village of País del Té, finding Lawford on his horse, talking to White. The Colonel turned and looked at him.
"Ah, there you – good God man, what happened to you?" he demanded, shocked.
"Got into a fight, sir," Sharpe replied innocently. Lawford chuckled.
"Yes, well. The French are retreating, Major! They're swarming from the back of the village, into the hills!" he crowed.
"Do we go after them, sir?" Sharpe asked seriously, his good humour slipping away suddenly.
"Certainly not, man!" Lawford tutted. "We've done quite enough for one day. Now we get into this village and while your men are making themselves known to the local ladies, we'll go and make sure the British families are aware there are officers here too. Off you go," he said imperiously. Sharpe nodded smartly, turning and stepping back out of his way as Lawford urged his horse to walk through the gap in the village wall. Villagers and soldiers mingled, and things became crushed as Spanish came flooding out of the village to congratulate the redcoats.
"Not dead yet then?" Sharpe asked White harshly. White was creased, blood-stained and a little dazed, it seemed.
"Ah, no, don't think so, sir," he said humbly. "Glad to see you're still with us, sir," he added.
"Really?" he challenged. White nodded. Sharpe looked at Harper, then back at White. He crossed the few feet between them and grabbed the front of his tunic. White just stood there, surprised and more than a little rattled as Sharpe pulled him roughly up to look him in the eye.
"Yer wife," he hissed. "Where is she?"
"My wife?" he echoed, confused. "Well, she'll be with the baggage carts, sir, but why –"
"You tell her I know what she did. And I'm coming for her," he breathed. White just gaped.
"What? Did what?" he asked, looking from Sharpe to Harper and back desperately. Sharpe stared, then released him quickly.
"You have no idea, do you Lieutenant?" he asked. Harper sucked in a long breath quickly as realisation dawned.
"God save Ireland!" he spat. "It was her?" he demanded. They both looked to White but he turned and disappeared in the crush of people.
"Bugger!" Sharpe spat, looking over the heads, trying to see where he'd gone. Harper tutted.
"Well isn't that a turn-up for the Day Book," Harper sighed, grabbing Sharpe's arm and pulling them both to the relative quiet of the side of the street. The throng of moving people was becoming impassable.
"Major Sharpe!" someone shouted. "Major Sharpe, sir!" It was Campbell, appearing out of the crush of people. "I've come tae ask you to a wee celebration, sir," he grinned. "The lads would like a piss-up, and I'm afraid every officer has tae be present."
"Then we'll have to go," Sharpe shrugged. The movement caused him to hiss suddenly in pain, feeling his shoulder. Harper looked at him, then turned him round quickly by the shoulders, crying out with alarm. "What?" Sharpe demanded. Suddenly he couldn't feel any pain, and it worried him suddenly. He wondered if he had a huge hole in his back.
"Oh shite," Harper whimpered, shaking his head. "Mary, Mother of God," he whined.
"What is it, man?" Sharpe demanded, trying to see over his back.
"But they've cut a bloody great hole in your scabbard, so they have!" Harper moaned.
"Me scabbard?" Sharpe echoed, stunned. "Me scabbard? Bloody hell man! You had me worried!" he shouted. Harper pulled the red sash out to free the end of the scabbard, pulling it out. Sharpe unbuckled the sword belt, still over his shoulder, and Harper pulled it free. He wandered to the wall and sat slowly, cradling the leather sheath in his hands, tears pricking his eyes.
"The bastards," he whispered, broken-hearted. Campbell and Sharpe just watched him, eyebrows raised, not knowing what to say.
"Richard!" someone shouted. Harper looked up quickly, searching the crowd of villagers and redcoats, and spotted someone. He stared for a second, then a warm, wide grin swept across his face.
Sharpe heard the shout and looked round, but the throng of laughing Spanish and grinning redcoats was too much. Something barrelled into him at high speed, grabbing at his arms for balance. He caught a whiff of lavender and had a moment of imminent realisation.
"You daft bugger! It's me!" the voice called, chuckling wickedly. He let the dirk-belt dangle through his fingers to push an elbow away from him slightly, to see who was squeezing his arms so fiercely. His eyes found a face.
"Mar?" he demanded, shocked. "Marjorie?"
"I saw it were the South Essex and prayed you were with 'em!" she grinned, leaning up and kissing him. He held on for a long moment, then pulled her away to see her clearly.
"I thought you were on yer way to England?" he asked, delighted to be wrong. She took in the sudden grin lighting up his dirty, bloodied face and put her hands to it gratefully.
"We were on our way 'fore we got caught up in all this," she said.
"We?" he asked.
"Peter and me. It'll be a few days till they get us going again towards Lisbon. How long are you here for?" she asked. He let the sword and his new dirk fall to the ground. He grabbed her, lifting her off her feet and swinging her round.
"Few days," he laughed, planting her back on the ground and kissing her roughly.
Harper nodded to himself, as if all were as it should be. He realised Harris had appeared next to him from nowhere and looked up at him. He was shaking his head at the Major and Miss Marjorie Schofield.
"Guess he won't be needing any more of that tea, then," Harper said to him. "Seems his temper's going to restore itself, so it will."
"Looks that way," Harris grinned. "Make sure no-one takes it though," he added.
"And why's that?" Harper asked, looking back at the wounded scabbard forlornly.
"Well, we should keep it, for the next time he needs it. She'll be gone in a few days, after all," he said philosophically.
"Next time he needs what?" Campbell asked, looking at Harris.
And Harper and Harris both replied: "Sharpe's tea."
THE END
Richard Sharpe will return... "Sharpe's Book" is on its way...