"What's the story, Harris? I thought we'd cleared the area of bloody
Frenchmen." The voice that spoke carried the authority of an officer, but
the accents of a Piccadilly tart.
I turned and beheld a vision - a veritable vision. The green-jacketed lieutenant was older than most of his rank in time of war, probably about thirty, and would never be commended for the neatness of his uniform. But what I noticed about him most were a pair of smouldering eyes, a thin, but sensuous mouth, a good pair of shoulders above a chest and arms which filled his coat to perfection and his codpiece was very nicely stuffed with cod, thank'ee. You could tell at a glance, from the careless way he wore his clothes, that he was no gentleman, of course, but a tastier piece of rough I've never clapped eyes on.
The wench kept a tight clutch on my arm as she went burbling away at the curly-headed trooper, who nodded in that sage way of schoolmasters everywhere that makes you want to rip off their head and use it for a football.
"The girl's from a vineyard, Sir," the trooper reported, as I feasted my eyes on the officer, "she says the Frogs were four deserters who slaughtered their officer and stole his uniform and horses. They've been hiding out at her family's hacienda, and were trying to slip past us to join another group in the hills. They took her along to assure their welcome, but came across Ensign Hughes and this officer. Ensign Hughes was killed in the first pass, but this officer fought them off - he killed the two by the river, and the other two took flight."
"Brave lad! Bloody well done!" The grin that spread across the man's face made it even more appealing, and he stuck out his hand "Richard Sharpe, Lieutenant, 95th Rifles, glad to know you."
I clasped the outstretched member, and almost felt my knees buckle as he gave me a hearty handshake. There was no longer any doubt - if this was Richard Sharpe, then I had somehow arrived in the middle of Wellington's peninsular campaign, some ten years or so before I was actually born.
But. . . Sharpe! The man was a legend. Raised from the ranks for saving Old Hookey's life, he'd risen inexorably echelon by echelon on the back of insane acts of bravery. My father had recited his exploits as bedtime stories (as examples of the best way to get killed, I confess, but you could tell even the Pater had a grudging respect for the man) - he was a bona fide hero.
"F. . .Flashman," I stuttered, "Harry Flashman, Eleventh Hussars."
Now, like any self-respecting coward, I have a healthy disdain for any normally brave man. A stupid disregard for the wholeness of one's skin ain't something I admire, in the general way - but that's common-or-garden bravery. Genuine psychotic heroism, coupled with the relentless resourcefulness that allows a man to survive it, is another thing altogether. I felt like a blushing debutante being introduced to the season's most eligible bachelor - all a-flutter with admiration and desire.
"The eleventh? God save Ireland, but they're miles away!" The speaker was a giant of a man, hefting a vicious looking seven barrelled rifle. Harper, my mind filled in, Sharpe's sergeant, friend and co-actor in scenes of derring-do. And not half-bad himself, the voice of my libido whispered in my ear. Certainly the open, peasants' face and merry smile had a naïve charm about it.
"Took a head wound," says I, in explanation for failing to be with a unit that I'd have no place in for probably thirty years. "Was trying to catch 'em up."
That seemed to satisfy them, though Sharpe shook his head, indulgently.
"Without a horse? A brave idea, lad, but bloody impossible. Come along and join us for now, and we'll get you back to them as soon as may be. You can share my tent, if you wish, and you're not averse to the snores of a common man - but if you're planning to collect the reward that senorita's so plainly offering, I'd thank you to do it before I'm ready to sleep."
I'd quite forgotten the doxy hanging limpet-like on my arm. I took a proper look at her. She was a buxom and bouncy little armful, and I'd've usually been more than prepared to overlook the slight squint in the doe-like eyes and give her a quick tumble, but I decided that on this occasion I'd reserve my energy for the more piquant charms displayed so enticingly by Sharpe's breeches.
Gently I disentangled her fingers and shook my head with a little regretful smile. "Perhaps she should be returned to her family," I ventured. The wench looked chagrined as Sharpe ordered "Kelly, Harris, get the lass back to her folks" and the trooper explained the situation to her in that damned gutteral lingo of hers, but Sharpe beamed in approval, clapped me on the shoulder, and led me back to camp.
Making camp with Sharpe and his Chosen Men was nothing like being with my company in Kabul. His background made it impossible for him to rule them as a matter of course, the way I would have, and instead there was a disturbing kind of friendly companionship. Oh, they called him Mr Sharpe, and Sir, alright, and there was as much or more respect in their voices as there would have been if he'd been a gentleman born, but when he turned to the oldest of them, the impudent bugger who'd been blathering about dressing my head wound with brown paper, and said "Give us a song, Dan," it sounded like a request to a friend. Made me damned uncomfortable, I can tell you, sitting like chums with the scaff and raff, but nothing short of Elspeth's naked form twirling in front of me could have dragged me from Sharpe's side before I'd fulfilled my desire for the man.
Even so, when he handed me a bottle and said "Get some of that down you, Flashman, it'll keep out the cold." I found myself surprised by my response.
"Call me, Harry, do," says I, my voice breathless and boyish to my own ears. "I say, Sharpe, this is a damn fine bottle of brandy."
"Isn't it? I stole it off one of them bastards at the Commissariat while his back was turned." He grinned at me, a raffish expression, which set a flutter of butterflies dancing in my belly.
"Did you really take an Eagle, Sharpe?" God rot it, I must have sounded like one of the fags from Rugby, looking down at him worshipfully. It weren't my usual method of toadying, but let no-one say that Flashy ain't adaptable, when it comes to getting him what he wants.
"Well, together with Pat, there, I did, yes."
I turned to look at the big Sergeant.
Since I've expounded at length in other pages on the various kinds of attractiveness to be found in the gentler sex, I should point out here that chaps are, frankly, much less universally enticing a bunch, so many of 'em being sneaks or snots, pompous or primping. Still there's much to be said in praise of the tight cheeks of a fresh youth, or the style and imagination of a man in his middle years who's travelled with an open mind and picked up a few treasures of debauchery along the way. Sharpe and his Sergeant fitted neither of these categories of course - instead, their appeal came from being a third type: the antithesis of everything feminine. While a woman is a fine wine, soft on the palette, smooth and scented, Sharpe and Harper were cheap blue ruin: hard, rough and stinking, but just as intoxicating. And sometimes, after all, a man just wants to get beastly drunk.
Now, earlier in the evening, I'd seriously considered trying to make the man-mountain my first conquest, since I'd frequently found that lower ranks were easily flattered by the . . . 'special attention' of their officers, and I thought it might make him a tad less protective of Sharpe. However, the way the plump little Spanish hen cooking for the men clucked round him told me he'd be less than amenable to any blandishments I could offer, and what's more, I never have been able to abide an Irish brogue, especially in bed. Somehow yells of "Sweet Mary, Mother of God," or "Great Jaysus!" in the throes of passion always make me feel like I'm defiling a blasted church. I'd probably have overlooked that, just that once, if it meant sampling such a fine specimen of Celtic manhood, but I couldn't ignore the way the impudent son-of-a-bogtrotter eyed me with open amusement and some quizzical speculation.
The bastard was grinning at me, and I swear he winked as he raised the bottle of rotgut he was swilling.
Beside me, Sharpe struggled to stand, stretching. I saw a wince of pain cross his face.
"Are you alright Sharpe?" I asked, eagerly.
"Just twinges, lad. I'm full of 'em. I'm going to take a piss, then turn in. Try to sleep the stiffness out of my bones."
"I. . . . I might be able to help with that, Sharpe, if you'd let me. I've learned a few things. . . an Indian Ayah. . . . You'd sleep better." Of course, I knew bugger all about massage, except that it was supposed to ease pain, but I was convinced that once I got my hands on him I could soon set his juices flowing, and there's no lie ever invented that's as convincing as half-truth, after all, I was damned sure he WOULD sleep well - when I'd finished with him.
"Thank'ee Harry. I'd take it as a kindness. But call me Dick." Sharpe put a friendly hand on my shoulder, his touch making me quiver, before heading away to relieve himself
Harper threw me a pointed look, and as Sharpe disappeared, he walked nonchalantly round the fire. Seemingly bending to get tea from the can that hung there, he spoke softly to me.
"Now then, Mr Flashman, Sir. I know your type, so I do, and I know what it is you have in your mind. I'll do nothing to get in your way, if you can bring some aise to Mr Sharpe, in one way or another, but be very clear m'lad, that if you do him any ill - bring him any pain -- any -- then God save Ireland, but I'll have your entrails on a stick, so I will, and I'll lead you by them the length of this country while the carrion birds peck at them, as sure as Mary bore Jaysus in innocence and light."
Then he smiled. I swear my guts turned to water and tried to piss themselves out of me, and it was only iron control, learned in many situations of similar screaming fear that prevented me from soiling my breeches where I sat.
He reached out, and patted me gently on the cheek, still smiling. "Now, just you remember that, Mr Flashman, Sir, and I'm sure that everything will be just fine and dandy, so it will."
By the time Dick Sharpe returned, I'll be damned if I wasn't ready to offer him my unworthy hand in marriage, together with what little remained of the Flashman estates and fortune, if that was what was necessary to keep Harper happy. I'd also scoped out every possible escape route from the camp, in preparation should I need to run - 'expect the worst and be prepared for' it has ever been my motto.
I turned and beheld a vision - a veritable vision. The green-jacketed lieutenant was older than most of his rank in time of war, probably about thirty, and would never be commended for the neatness of his uniform. But what I noticed about him most were a pair of smouldering eyes, a thin, but sensuous mouth, a good pair of shoulders above a chest and arms which filled his coat to perfection and his codpiece was very nicely stuffed with cod, thank'ee. You could tell at a glance, from the careless way he wore his clothes, that he was no gentleman, of course, but a tastier piece of rough I've never clapped eyes on.
The wench kept a tight clutch on my arm as she went burbling away at the curly-headed trooper, who nodded in that sage way of schoolmasters everywhere that makes you want to rip off their head and use it for a football.
"The girl's from a vineyard, Sir," the trooper reported, as I feasted my eyes on the officer, "she says the Frogs were four deserters who slaughtered their officer and stole his uniform and horses. They've been hiding out at her family's hacienda, and were trying to slip past us to join another group in the hills. They took her along to assure their welcome, but came across Ensign Hughes and this officer. Ensign Hughes was killed in the first pass, but this officer fought them off - he killed the two by the river, and the other two took flight."
"Brave lad! Bloody well done!" The grin that spread across the man's face made it even more appealing, and he stuck out his hand "Richard Sharpe, Lieutenant, 95th Rifles, glad to know you."
I clasped the outstretched member, and almost felt my knees buckle as he gave me a hearty handshake. There was no longer any doubt - if this was Richard Sharpe, then I had somehow arrived in the middle of Wellington's peninsular campaign, some ten years or so before I was actually born.
But. . . Sharpe! The man was a legend. Raised from the ranks for saving Old Hookey's life, he'd risen inexorably echelon by echelon on the back of insane acts of bravery. My father had recited his exploits as bedtime stories (as examples of the best way to get killed, I confess, but you could tell even the Pater had a grudging respect for the man) - he was a bona fide hero.
"F. . .Flashman," I stuttered, "Harry Flashman, Eleventh Hussars."
Now, like any self-respecting coward, I have a healthy disdain for any normally brave man. A stupid disregard for the wholeness of one's skin ain't something I admire, in the general way - but that's common-or-garden bravery. Genuine psychotic heroism, coupled with the relentless resourcefulness that allows a man to survive it, is another thing altogether. I felt like a blushing debutante being introduced to the season's most eligible bachelor - all a-flutter with admiration and desire.
"The eleventh? God save Ireland, but they're miles away!" The speaker was a giant of a man, hefting a vicious looking seven barrelled rifle. Harper, my mind filled in, Sharpe's sergeant, friend and co-actor in scenes of derring-do. And not half-bad himself, the voice of my libido whispered in my ear. Certainly the open, peasants' face and merry smile had a naïve charm about it.
"Took a head wound," says I, in explanation for failing to be with a unit that I'd have no place in for probably thirty years. "Was trying to catch 'em up."
That seemed to satisfy them, though Sharpe shook his head, indulgently.
"Without a horse? A brave idea, lad, but bloody impossible. Come along and join us for now, and we'll get you back to them as soon as may be. You can share my tent, if you wish, and you're not averse to the snores of a common man - but if you're planning to collect the reward that senorita's so plainly offering, I'd thank you to do it before I'm ready to sleep."
I'd quite forgotten the doxy hanging limpet-like on my arm. I took a proper look at her. She was a buxom and bouncy little armful, and I'd've usually been more than prepared to overlook the slight squint in the doe-like eyes and give her a quick tumble, but I decided that on this occasion I'd reserve my energy for the more piquant charms displayed so enticingly by Sharpe's breeches.
Gently I disentangled her fingers and shook my head with a little regretful smile. "Perhaps she should be returned to her family," I ventured. The wench looked chagrined as Sharpe ordered "Kelly, Harris, get the lass back to her folks" and the trooper explained the situation to her in that damned gutteral lingo of hers, but Sharpe beamed in approval, clapped me on the shoulder, and led me back to camp.
Making camp with Sharpe and his Chosen Men was nothing like being with my company in Kabul. His background made it impossible for him to rule them as a matter of course, the way I would have, and instead there was a disturbing kind of friendly companionship. Oh, they called him Mr Sharpe, and Sir, alright, and there was as much or more respect in their voices as there would have been if he'd been a gentleman born, but when he turned to the oldest of them, the impudent bugger who'd been blathering about dressing my head wound with brown paper, and said "Give us a song, Dan," it sounded like a request to a friend. Made me damned uncomfortable, I can tell you, sitting like chums with the scaff and raff, but nothing short of Elspeth's naked form twirling in front of me could have dragged me from Sharpe's side before I'd fulfilled my desire for the man.
Even so, when he handed me a bottle and said "Get some of that down you, Flashman, it'll keep out the cold." I found myself surprised by my response.
"Call me, Harry, do," says I, my voice breathless and boyish to my own ears. "I say, Sharpe, this is a damn fine bottle of brandy."
"Isn't it? I stole it off one of them bastards at the Commissariat while his back was turned." He grinned at me, a raffish expression, which set a flutter of butterflies dancing in my belly.
"Did you really take an Eagle, Sharpe?" God rot it, I must have sounded like one of the fags from Rugby, looking down at him worshipfully. It weren't my usual method of toadying, but let no-one say that Flashy ain't adaptable, when it comes to getting him what he wants.
"Well, together with Pat, there, I did, yes."
I turned to look at the big Sergeant.
Since I've expounded at length in other pages on the various kinds of attractiveness to be found in the gentler sex, I should point out here that chaps are, frankly, much less universally enticing a bunch, so many of 'em being sneaks or snots, pompous or primping. Still there's much to be said in praise of the tight cheeks of a fresh youth, or the style and imagination of a man in his middle years who's travelled with an open mind and picked up a few treasures of debauchery along the way. Sharpe and his Sergeant fitted neither of these categories of course - instead, their appeal came from being a third type: the antithesis of everything feminine. While a woman is a fine wine, soft on the palette, smooth and scented, Sharpe and Harper were cheap blue ruin: hard, rough and stinking, but just as intoxicating. And sometimes, after all, a man just wants to get beastly drunk.
Now, earlier in the evening, I'd seriously considered trying to make the man-mountain my first conquest, since I'd frequently found that lower ranks were easily flattered by the . . . 'special attention' of their officers, and I thought it might make him a tad less protective of Sharpe. However, the way the plump little Spanish hen cooking for the men clucked round him told me he'd be less than amenable to any blandishments I could offer, and what's more, I never have been able to abide an Irish brogue, especially in bed. Somehow yells of "Sweet Mary, Mother of God," or "Great Jaysus!" in the throes of passion always make me feel like I'm defiling a blasted church. I'd probably have overlooked that, just that once, if it meant sampling such a fine specimen of Celtic manhood, but I couldn't ignore the way the impudent son-of-a-bogtrotter eyed me with open amusement and some quizzical speculation.
The bastard was grinning at me, and I swear he winked as he raised the bottle of rotgut he was swilling.
Beside me, Sharpe struggled to stand, stretching. I saw a wince of pain cross his face.
"Are you alright Sharpe?" I asked, eagerly.
"Just twinges, lad. I'm full of 'em. I'm going to take a piss, then turn in. Try to sleep the stiffness out of my bones."
"I. . . . I might be able to help with that, Sharpe, if you'd let me. I've learned a few things. . . an Indian Ayah. . . . You'd sleep better." Of course, I knew bugger all about massage, except that it was supposed to ease pain, but I was convinced that once I got my hands on him I could soon set his juices flowing, and there's no lie ever invented that's as convincing as half-truth, after all, I was damned sure he WOULD sleep well - when I'd finished with him.
"Thank'ee Harry. I'd take it as a kindness. But call me Dick." Sharpe put a friendly hand on my shoulder, his touch making me quiver, before heading away to relieve himself
Harper threw me a pointed look, and as Sharpe disappeared, he walked nonchalantly round the fire. Seemingly bending to get tea from the can that hung there, he spoke softly to me.
"Now then, Mr Flashman, Sir. I know your type, so I do, and I know what it is you have in your mind. I'll do nothing to get in your way, if you can bring some aise to Mr Sharpe, in one way or another, but be very clear m'lad, that if you do him any ill - bring him any pain -- any -- then God save Ireland, but I'll have your entrails on a stick, so I will, and I'll lead you by them the length of this country while the carrion birds peck at them, as sure as Mary bore Jaysus in innocence and light."
Then he smiled. I swear my guts turned to water and tried to piss themselves out of me, and it was only iron control, learned in many situations of similar screaming fear that prevented me from soiling my breeches where I sat.
He reached out, and patted me gently on the cheek, still smiling. "Now, just you remember that, Mr Flashman, Sir, and I'm sure that everything will be just fine and dandy, so it will."
By the time Dick Sharpe returned, I'll be damned if I wasn't ready to offer him my unworthy hand in marriage, together with what little remained of the Flashman estates and fortune, if that was what was necessary to keep Harper happy. I'd also scoped out every possible escape route from the camp, in preparation should I need to run - 'expect the worst and be prepared for' it has ever been my motto.