Lieutenant Colonel Richard Sharpe raised his head from the pillow and stared into the pitch-black room. He knew it must have been something he had heard which woke him up. He couldn't pinpoint it, but years of soldiering had trained his instincts enough so that he was sure that someone was on the other side of the door. He glanced at the woman sleeping next to him. He couldn't see her in the darkness, but her regular breath suggested she was still fast asleep. Sharpe gently moved the covers aside and lowered his feet onto the cold floor. He reached for the pistol he always kept next to the bed, despite Lucille's protests. He didn't need to see it to find it. Closing his fingers around the grip, he slowly stood up, wondering what time it could be.
He moved to the window and slightly moved the thick curtain aside to let in just a tiny bit of light. It was almost dawn — according to many commanders the best time to attack. But it would take much more to surprise Richard Sharpe. He tiptoed to the door and pushed it very slowly until it gave up with a barely noticeable creak. The first thing he stuck out through the opening was his bundled-up coat he picked from a chair on his way to the door. Nothing happened, so he followed with his head and the hand with the pistol. The window in the corridor had no curtains, so in the weak light of the dawn he looked just into the eyes of his opponent. He froze and immediately lowered the weapon. Getting paranoid, are we? mocked the little voice inside his head, strangely reminding Sharpe of his long-gone friend Michael Hogan.
"What do you need, princess?" Still a bit pale after realizing he had almost pointed a gun at his little daughter, he quickly put the weapon on a nearby dresser and reached for the girl's hand. Dominique, who a minute ago must have been unsure whether to enter her sleeping parents' bedroom, now eagerly jumped into his arms.
"I can't sleep," she mumbled, her face against his neck. "And Patrick-Henri is talking in his sleep. Can I come sleep with you?" She tilted her head back to look at her father, knowing he wouldn't be able to say no to her pleading eyes.
Still holding Dominique in his arms, Richard slipped back into the bedroom, silently praying that Lucille was still asleep, at least until he put that damned pistol away.
"Papa, did you shoot someone?"
Sharpe swallowed down a curse.
"No, princess, I just wanted to clean it." He hoped the darkness would prevent Dominique from seeing through this lie. "Get in the bed or you'll catch a cold."
"Why would you clean it in the middle of the night, Papa?" The girl obediently slipped under the covers, but it didn't stop her from questioning him further.
Sharpe decided to ignore the question. Just like he ignored a sarcastic comment that reached him from the other side of the bed.
"Exactly, Papa," Lucille mocked him in a low-pitched, sleepy voice. "We'll talk about it in the morning."
"It's morning already," grumbled Sharpe, back in bed, pulling the covers over his head.
When he woke up again, Lucille was already dressed, and her side of the bed was occupied no longer by one, but by two of their children.
"Finally! How can one sleep for so long?" Sharpe was welcomed by his first-born, who didn't even stop picking his nose while speaking.
"Patrick-Henri!" Lucille scolded him.
The boy obediently lowered his hand and sent his mother an innocent look. Sharpe yawned and stretched.
"And here I was, hoping you'd let us get enough sleep again when you grow up."
"When we grow up," observed Dominique cleverly. "You always tell us we're not grown up yet."
"When I grow up, I'm going to be an officer like you!" announced Patrick-Henri.
Sharpe just smiled, thinking how much he hoped it would never happen. His son had his mother's name, and Lucille couldn't become Mrs. Sharpe as long as Jane was alive somewhere in England. The boy was a citizen of France, an ancient enemy of Britain, which meant that if he indeed became a soldier, there was a possibility he would have to fight against his father. Nevertheless, the world was more or less at peace, and Patrick-Henri didn't understand the complexities of politics yet, so Lucille laughed at Sharpe whenever he expressed his dissatisfaction with their son's childhood dreams.
"I want to be an officer too," declared Dominique suddenly.
Her brother snorted at that.
"Girls can't join the army," he reminded her.
Dominique pouted her lips.
"If Papa orders them, they'll sure accept me. Because even the Duke of Wellington is afraid of Papa!"
"Not true!"
"True!"
"Papa, do you know any girl-soldier?" Patrick-Henri asked his father, who tried to do his best not to laugh as he imagined Wellington trembling with fear when facing any of his officers.
"I did know one," he admitted after a moment of silence.
Lucille furrowed her brow in a silent warning, clearly not wanting Sharpe to further encourage their daughter, who was already equal to all the boys in their neighbourhood when it came to any antics children could think of.
"Tell us about her, Papa, tell us!" both siblings pleaded in unison, which did not happen frequently.
Their mother shook her head with a short laugh.
"Just make it short. Maria's already working on the breakfast." They used to manage with only one elderly housekeeper, but when Lucille had become pregnant, they had been forced to find someone else to help. And thus they had been joined by Pierre — a veteran from the Peninsula just like his master — and his young wife he had brought home from Salamanca, and who was not particularly liked by the locals because of that — also just like Sharpe.
Richard sent Lucille a questioning glance. He had told her about both his marriages — about Jane rarely and without pleasure, about Teresa much more, although he still wasn't sure if these memories weren't painful for Lucille. The woman sent him a gentle smile and a nod of encouragement, so after a moment to collect his thoughts, he started to speak:
"They called her 'La Aguja'. The Needle. She commanded a group of Spanish guerrillas..."
"See?" Patrick-Henri chimed in. "She was not a proper soldier. She didn't even wear a uniform!"
Sharpe smiled to himself.
"No, she didn't wear a uniform, but those who were stupid enough to think she wasn't a proper soldier, usually ended up dead."
This time it was Dominique who sent her brother a triumphant grin. Patrick-Henri answered by sticking out his tongue.
"I saw it!" Sharpe found it hard not to laugh, but he made sure to frown in mock anger. Neither of the children looked particularly ashamed with their behaviour, though. Not that it surprised Sharpe. Lucille would often joke that he must have drilled his soldiers long enough to have nothing left in him to discipline his own children. And indeed, both Patrick-Henri and Dominique knew very well that their father would tolerate most of their antics. On the other hand though, they were aware that if Sharpe was angry with them — not irritated, which was an inherent element of his personality, it seemed, so no one took his irritation seriously anymore — but really angry, it meant they really crossed the line, so they accepted the punishment without a word of complaint. It was good enough for him, he would answer wherever Lucille mocked him that he had gotten soft. After all, they were children, not a company of wayward infantrymen who needed to be constantly reminded that whoever opposed Richard Sharpe, would regret it more than anything in their miserable lives.
"Did she have a rifle?" asked Dominique again, bringing him back to reality.
"She did."
"Baker?" Patrick-Henri knew how to take apart and clean his father's rifle, and if it wasn't for his mother's loud protests, he probably would have been able to shoot it by now.
"Indeed," Sharpe confirmed. "Because it's the best. I gave it to her myself."
"And did she know how to shoot a cannon?" Dominique didn't give up.
Sharpe hesitated. Admitting she didn't could somehow lower Dominique's opinion of Teresa. He was saved from his dilemma by Patrick-Henri, who meanwhile grabbed a pillow and, yelling "Fire!", threw it at his sister. Dominique squeaked in surprise, but soon she collected herself, threw the missile back at her brother, jumped down from the bed and repeated the attack, this time using her father's boot.
"Patrick, come on, let's build a barricade!" Sharpe yelled, covering himself and his first-born by a raising a duvet over their heads.
'You're crazy," laughed Lucille, shaking her head. "Children, back to your rooms. Get cleaned and dressed, and in fifteen minutes I want to see you both downstairs." She followed the two with her eyes, and when she was sure they were out of the room, she sat down on the bed and reached for the duvet, forcing Sharpe to emerge from under it. "I would really like to see Sergeant Harper's reaction to seeing you like this."
Sharpe chuckled softly.
"Won't happen," he declared with conviction. "Because then I'd have to kill him." He grinned and pulled Lucille to him.
"Richard, the children..." Lucille made a half-hearted effort to escape his embrace, but gave up half-way through.
"Don't worry, they usually listen to you. Much more than they listen to me," he muttered straight into her ear.
Lucille smiled and rested her head against his chest.
"You should write to Patrick," she said after a moment of silence. "It has been so long since his last letter."
"It's because he only writes when Ramona forces him to," Sharpe joked. "Besides, I'm trying to set a mood here, and you're thinking about Patrick Harper?"
"Jealous?" Lucille snorted and poked him gently in the ribs with her elbow.
"Who, me?" Sharpe sent her a look of pure innocence, which was wasted, though, since Lucille, still lying against his chest, couldn't see his face.
"Definitely not me," she laughed. "Although maybe I should? I mean, you even named our son after him." She raised her head and looked up to make sure Richard knew she was joking.
"If we have another daughter, you can name her Ramona, and we'll be even then."
Lucille eyed him with a much more serious look.
"I would rather call her Teresa." she said quietly.
Sharpe looked away for a second, then tightened his grip around Lucille and tenderly kissed her brow.
"I wouldn't count on it too much, though," added Lucille after a moment to break the awkward silence. "I have enough problems with these two."
They bough laughed softly.
"And what about Pat, didn't he want to name his son after you?"
"He did," Sharpe lied, knowing very well Lucille was aware of it. "I forbade it."
"If only our children listened to you as well as your soldiers," Lucille mocked him.
"Don't mention it to anyone, but the truth is Patrick Harper could manipulate me almost as well as you," laughed Sharpe in return, and then fell silent, thinking about the old times. Maybe Lucille was right and he should write to Pat and Ramona to see if they were well? Subconsciously, he let his mind wander back to England, where some of his old brothers in arms still lived. or at least he hoped they did. Sweet William Frederickson, who had been once one of his closest friends, until they had both fallen in love with the same woman, Lucille Castineau, a widow of a French officer—and she had chosen Sharpe. Peter D'Alembord, who had miraculously survived losing his leg at Waterloo. Harry Price, with his sense of humour, constant need for money and weakness for alcohol. William Lawford. Robert Knowles. And finally, the riflemen who had accidentally detached themselves from the 95th Rifles with Sharpe at the beginning of the Peninsular war and eventually joined the South Essex regiment, where, dwindling in numbers, they had remained with him to the end of the war. So few of them had lived long enough to see Bonaparte's fall. He himself, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Sharpe. Sergeant Major Patrick Harper. Sergeant Harris and Sergeant Hagman. Maybe also Rifleman Francis Cooper, who, having lost an arm in Spain, had gone back to England, never to be seen again, at least not by Sharpe.
"What are you thinking about?" Lucille's voice brought him back to the present, and Sharpe thought bitterly that this was not how he had planned to spend the rest of the morning.
"About the young troopers cut down in their prime."[1]
He smiled sadly to his own thoughts.
[1] A quote from an old English folk song known in many versions and under many titles, e.g. "Young Sailor/Trooper Cut Down In His Prime", "Unfortunate Rake/Lad", and in the US — as "Streets of Laredo".