'Fairy footsteps and babies bottoms, Sor, but Wellington wants to see yez,' Harpur saluted, calling Sharpe away from the newly-made campfire. Not that Sharpe's personal comfort mattered, seeing as he normally felt no temperature, pain, emotion, or feeling of any sort except possibly bestial lust. The Sharpe Fangirls hope.

Sharpe entered the Duke of Wellington's tent. There was a pair of muddy Wellingtons outside the tent, because there just had to be.

'Sharpe! Damn! Bugger, and blast! Bloody well bugger and damned, the frog bastard!' Wellington barked, wagging a be-gloved finger across the various maps, charts and lottery tickets on the desk.

Major Hogan joined in, albeit in a more dazed and red-nosed manner. He was currently undergoing treatment for a chronic snuff-powder addiction, and the best substitute they could come up with to wean him off was Vicks Vapo-Rub.

'Major Sharpe, dammit. Blow and bugger, bastard, damned well damn – eh?'

'Sir?' Sharpe enquired, deeply confused.

'New idea, Sharpe!' Wellington waggled his index finger again, ' I'm just going to call you into my tent to swear at you, in future, seeing as I've realised there's no point in giving you instructions, since a) you never do as I say anyway and b) none of the viewers are listening to what I'm saying, because they're too busy admiring your taut bottom. Just clear off into the countryside with those maniacs in green jumpers for a few weeks, blow something French up, rescue some woman and make a bad leader see the error of his ways, and, oh, you know the drill by now – just generally save the world.'

'Yes, Sir,' Sharpe grinned, saluting.

And so, they marched.

'That wuz a fine tune ye just sung us, Dan, but Oi've got a request. Do ye know 'O, the Twisted Shamrock Tastes Nice with Fried Onions'?'

'Surely - that be a good tune,' Hagman answered Harper, crumblier and more rustic than a slab of Cheshire cheese. He opened his mouth to start on the 'O'.

'OOOOOOOo –glmmph!'

'Marshmallows and Mother Hens, that's much better. Thought' we'd never get 'im tae shut up!' Harper said, whistling through his teeth as he knocked Hagman to the rocky ground, and knelt on the flaky Rifleman's head as he hammered the large cork into place.

'Careful, Pat, you'll knock 'is teeth out!'

'Oh, fiddle-faddle, if I do, we'll just sell them to a dentist, apologise, and make Dan some nice porridge'

'Sarge, I hate to ask,' Harris paused, 'but is it totally necessary to hammer a cork up each of his nostrils as well? Won't that, well…kill him?'

Harper rolled his eyes.

'Foine, but doan't blame me when he starts breathin' and walkin' about and singin' again!'

Harris wavered.

'Well…I suppose if I do have to hear 'What I Did To A Fine Young Maiden With Four Ribbons And A Feather One Fair Morning In May' again, I'm going to go clinically insane, but still…'

Meanwhile, Sharpe had marched on ahead, and was using his periscope (his first choice, the telescope, was being mended) to scout ahead for French soldiers. Although it was no good for seeing to far-away plains, it was useful for seeing what was happening at the tops of cliffs and similar.

Back at the ranch, Harper was reminding everyone of how the sun shone out of Sharpe's various orifices and how any human being in their right mind would want to make passionate love to him on a bed of roses.

'At least, Oi know Oi do,' he said faithfully, eyes shining, 'He picked up this regiment, roight when the Chosen Men needed him most. All of us wuz in the gutter,' he said meaningfully, 'but one of us wuz lookin' at the stars…'

'Yeah,' agreed Cooper, 'he was probl'y wonderin' where his roof had gone'.

Laughter all round, except for Hagman, who'd spat out the cork in disgust and was sitting a little way off, moodily taking pot shots at squirrels. Seeing as he'd spent about forty years of his life becoming a crack shot, the ground all around him was a sea of twitching

furry bodies which squeaked pitifully and writhed in their death throes.

And Sharpe caught sight of something upon the clifftop.