FIVE

"Sharpe! You'll want to hear this!" Colonel Parker shouted down the street. Sharpe split from Harper and walked up the dusty street. They, the rest of the Chosen Men, and the entire South Essex were now out of uniform, all in local clothes borrowed or bought from the villagers. The Spanish girls had enjoyed making the foreign soldiers pay full coin for the clothes, and although the threat of a short sharp drop had prevented many men from pursuing them, they had also enjoyed fraternizing with the formerly red-coated strangers.

Colonel Parker himself was dressed as a farmer, and Sharpe had to admit he looked completely convincing. He stopped and looked at him.

"Sir," he said. The Colonel was looking at Peter Hindle, and the man stood next to him.

"This erstwhile fellow is a village scout, just back from the path the French usually take to get here," he said, nodding to the man. He smiled nervously, not following a scrap of the English conversation. "He says still no sign."

"Right sir," Sharpe said, covering his relief. "Then we have time for fortifications, sir."

"Fortifications? They're not bringing a whole battalion, Major," he grinned. "Don't bother yourself with that kind of thing. Just keep your men from the girls, and wait for the foxes to raise their heads. We'll soon see them off," he said haughtily, clapping Sharpe a mighty slap on his shoulder. Sharpe took a step to balance himself and then looked at him.

"But sir, if we start now we can –"

"Really, Major, this good fellow says we needn't worry," Peter interrupted. "He says they're probably only bringing a hundred men." He looked at the man. "Si?" he asked. The man looked at him, then at Sharpe. He nodded.

"He's got no clue what yer talking about, man," he snapped. "Ask him in Spanish."

Peter said something quickly and the man smiled, relieved. He nodded and rambled on for a moment. Sharpe just looked at him, then at Peter. Nice trick. Worked first on him, then on me. Nearly, he thought. He looked at the Colonel, thinking.

"Permission to fill sandbags, sir?" he asked innocently. "Fer a small wall, give the men something to do, keep 'em out of trouble, sir," he added. The Colonel looked at him.

"Yes, why not Major, good thinking, what?" he said, grinning. "Good man. Dismissed," he said. Sharpe nodded and turned, walking back to the men, his rifle slung. He reached Harper and swore, viciously and at length. Harper just waited.

"What's he done?" he asked carefully, his tone light.

"He's taking that Peter Hindle's word on everything," Sharpe said, being careful to keep his voice down.

"Is that bad, sir?" he asked, following Sharpe as he strode back toward the barn.

"It is when I don't trust the bugger as far as I could throw him," he snapped. "Come on. Get the Chosen Men up, steal me some South Essex men, and get 'em digging," he said. Harper just followed.

They were diligent in their work, Sharpe mucking in for lack of something else to do. He looked up and around, pausing to survey the apparently haphazard holes and trenches. He leaned over his shovel, wiping the sweat from his face with his sleeve, before rolling it up.

Despite the heat and feeling naked without the feel of a rifle hanging off his shoulder, he had to admit it was a peaceful kind of satisfaction, digging. He had felt great personal satisfaction at seeing soldiers perform well, at battalions decimating French columns in an organized manner, and even receiving his Majority, raising him to where he was now. But digging gave him a feeling that he'd done something good without having had to kill anyone. It was a different kind of sense of worth, an alien one.

He sighed, looking around and finding Nigel and Marjorie watching them. He heard a clang of metal and looked to his left, finding Harris looking at him. He mouthed the word "gentile" at Sharpe, who huffed and picked up his shovel, walking over to the two of them slowly.

"Miss," he said suavely, then cleared his throat and added, "Mr Hindle."

"Mr Harp, it's lovely –"

"Sharpe."

"Yes. So lovely to see you all… working hard," he said, waving a hand at the riflemen and the twenty or so men that had been commandeered from the South Essex. "You must be thirsty, dear man," he added, turning to his canteen on his belt.

"I'll survive," he said. "You don't mind the heat, miss?" he asked politely, wondering just what the bloody hell he was supposed to do next. She eyed him, seemingly amused. He noticed her scarf of the day was pale pink to match her white blouse and red heavy skirt. "Nice colour, that," he said, nodding toward it, and she smiled before looking at Nigel. He looked back at her.

"Oh, yes. Peter was wondering… what it is you're doing out there?" he asked innocently. Marjorie looked back at him, her eyes hooded. Sharpe smiled at her, hoping it looked friendly but suspecting it was coming out grateful.

"Just giving the men summat to do, Mr Hindle," he said easily. "I hate to see bored soldiers. Makes 'em do stupid things, what with so much distraction about," he said, except his concentration wasn't what it should have been, and the last word came out as "abaht". He shifted his eyes to Marjorie unconsciously. She grinned, before wiping it off and looking out at the men. She sniffed delicately, waving air at her face, and Nigel looked at her.

"Well, I daresay we've dug enough ourselves, wouldn't you?" he said, looking at her.

"I bet she rattles on all day when there's no-one to hear her, like," Sharpe said suddenly, and they both turned to look at him. Suddenly he wanted to her to stay behind and him to leave. He wondered why.

"Oh, I see, ha!" Nigel chuckled, "Very funny, Mr Harp," he added, patting him on the shoulder and finding his shirt damp. "Well then," he said awkwardly, wiping his hand on his coat, "we'll get inside where it's a little cooler, eh?" he said to Marjorie. She nodded, but as Nigel turned away she looked back at Sharpe and winked.

He pursed his lips, thinking, as she turned and walked off, following Nigel back toward the big gates and the village inside. Sharpe picked up his shovel thoughtfully and walked back to the hole he had started. He slammed it into the ground as Harris wandered up.

"Gentile, sir?" he asked quietly.

"Every slippery bloody eel you can name," Sharpe muttered, hacking at the dirt mercilessly.

Harper walked inside the town house, laying his shovel against the side of the kitchen basin and leaning over it, pouring water in from the jug next to the basin. He washed his hands, humming to himself, splashing the water against his face. He heard someone behind him in the kitchen and turned.

"Oh, Miss Marjorie," he said happily. She looked at him curiously. "Oh that's right, you don't speak miss. Ah well, my loss, I'm sure," he continued. "Was there something I could do for you, miss?" he asked. She smiled, reaching into her pocket and taking out a small piece of paper. She walked over slowly, handing it to him. He began to open it but she put her hands out to his, holding them closed. He swallowed and looked at her at close range.

She was definitely very good-looking, but not in a classical sense, he reasoned. More like a sneak-up-on-you kinda way, he thought to himself. He nodded.

"I'll give it to the Major, shall I?" he asked innocently. She nodded, then smiled and leaned over, kissing his cheek softly. He waited until she had smiled and left as silently as she'd come. Then he let out a long sigh. I'm a married man. I'm a married man, he repeated to himself, stuffing the paper in his pocket and picking up his shovel. He walked back outside, trying to appear unhurried. He looked around just beyond the gates, where everyone was now filling gunny sacks with the turfed dirt, but couldn't see Sharpe. "Shite," he muttered, then wandered back inside the gates.

He turned left and walked up the dirt road, heading for the town house and hoping the Major had gone back to his room. He walked in the door, quietly for a big man, and walked up the stairs slowly. He reached the landing and walked along, but paused when he heard voices.

"It's him, no?"

"Oh don't be silly," someone said, and he recognized the voice as that of Nigel Hindle.

"Then what?"

"It's… Look, you needn't worry," Nigel said, indignant. "I'm still prepared to do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes," he said, his thin voice desperate.

"Just remember how you begged me to spare him on the crossing."

"I do, every day I do," Nigel said, his voice taking on a whining timbre. Harper's face twisted into derision for the owner. "I owe you, I know."

"Just make sure you remember that," said the voice. "Tell him I said hello. And if I catch you with that filthy little soldier, telling him anything –"

"Would I?" Nigel said innocently. Yes, you bloody would, you stinkin' fop, Harper thought immediately. He turned and fled from the corridor, opening a door and flying in. He shut it almost completely and stuck his eye to the gap, watching.

"Did you want summat, Pat?" came a quiet mumble, and he turned to find Sharpe dosing on his back, over on the bed near the window.

"Quiet! – Sir," he hissed, and Sharpe snapped awake. He put his elbows under him and looked over. Harper waved at him not to move and looked back at the door. He watched a short, bulging mass of man appear from Nigel's door and walk slowly down the landing. He noticed the ragged, farmer's clothes and large floppy hat. The man began to walk down the stairs and Harper heard the bed creak slightly. Sharpe appeared at his elbow.

Harper closed the door quietly, then looked at the Major. He put a finger to his lips. Sharpe nodded and gestured to the door. Harper shook his head and they waited, not daring to breathe, until they heard Nigel's door open and close, and his boots clatter down the stairs slowly.

Finally Harper breathed out. "Jesus wept," he sighed, turning and walking to the window.

"Well what is it?" Sharpe asked. Harper turned and walked away from the window.

"Nigel, sir. That's what it is. He had some man in his room sir, scared of him so he was, only he didn't sound Spanish or like one of you English," he added. Sharpe looked alarmed.

"French?" he asked.

"Don't know sir. He told Nigel to stay away from talking to you sir, sounded proper threatening, and no mistake," he said. Sharpe turned thoughtful. "Oh, and Miss Marjorie asked me to give you this, sir," he said, producing the crumpled paper from his pocket.

"When?" Sharpe asked, unfolding it and peering at it.

"Just before I came upstairs and eavesdropped on Nigel, sir," he said.

"Nice work, Pat," he said quietly, thinking. He read the note again. "Alright. You get back to it, tell the lads to make sure those holes are left open. They have to be kept open till it goes dark, understand?" he asked.

"Yes sir. Will we be filling them in after dark then sir?" he asked as Sharpe turned to the door.

"Aye," he said, disappearing out the door.

"Funny time to be doing that," he said to himself, then just shrugged and walked out, closing the door behind him.

"Miss?" Sharpe asked, wandering round the barn. A cow stirred and he looked at it. "You tread on me I'll share you out to the lads fer breakfast," he hissed. The cow ignored him.

The door to the barn opened and closed, and he turned and found Marjorie looking at him.

"Well?" he asked shortly, then kicked himself. "I mean, er… " He cleared his throat. "Nice to see you again, miss," he said, forcing a pleasant demeanour on his stern features. She walked over, folding her arms. "You sent for me?"

"I did," she said, and he raised an eyebrow. "You won't do that in front of Nigel again," she said sternly, and he grinned.

"If you say so, miss. What did I do?" he asked knowingly. She searched his face.

"Nigel dunt know. He thinks I have a genuine 'affliction'," she said quietly.

"So you don't?"

"Does it sound like it to you, Major?" she said tersely. He shrugged. She huffed. "Look, I'm just trying to look out fer me brother, that's all," she continued. He waited, but she had played this game before. "What do you know about Nigel?" she asked.

"Only that he's not your brother," he said cautiously, his smile dropping. "Is there something else I should know?" he asked gamely.

"He likes you. Really likes you," she stressed. "Peter's upset about it and he's just pretending it's not all going to end in tears 'fore bedtime," she snapped. "It's proper cocked, all of it," she spat, turning away from him. He looked at his feet, suddenly feeling bad for her. He walked over, stopping short of putting his hand on her shoulder.

"Look, miss –"

"Marjorie," she said quietly, not turning.

"Miss Marjorie, if you want me help, you'll have to tell me what's going on," he said. "Starting with who you lot really are."

She turned and looked up at him. "We're cartographers, Major. Always have been."

"You and your brother are. I'm willing to bet Nigel's not even a map-reader," he scoffed. She studied his face, and he just looked back at her. She sighed, wiping her hands over her face. She walked round him to the glass-less window, looking out. She unbuttoned her small cropped jacket and slid it off, hanging it on the post in the cow gate.

"You want to know who we really are?" she asked. "Some things show it better than others," she added quietly. She turned to look at him, undoing the bow at her neck. She pulled it loose and walked over to him, pulling the pink scarf from her neck slowly. He looked at her, his eyes sliding down her neck to the right side, finding a scar.

It was a good three inches long, angry red and half an inch wide. It was criss-crossed with tiny white lines, as if a brush had been swept over it many times. He simply looked at it, his eyebrows raising and his mouth pursing as if it meant nothing.

"I've seen worse," he said confidently. "I've had worse," he added darkly. She stared at him, but she seemed relieved. "What happened?"

"Accident," she said reluctantly, and Sharpe nodded, looking at his feet.

"You're lucky, it's not a war-wound," he said. She snorted.

"Well, kinda," she said, and he looked at her. "It were a…" She hesitated, thinking perhaps it was a desperate thing she was about to do. "It were a cotton-loom accident. Some lad hadn't secured the loom arm. It came loose and… and almost took me head off," she said angrily.

"Bloody hell!" he frowned, imagining it. He'd seen looms himself, and the thought of her mangled by one of the large, clumsy machines pushed the invective from him more forcefully than he'd meant. She snorted. "What did you do?"

"I picked meself up alright, and grabbed a bucket," she shrugged, her anger subsiding.

"For the blood?" he asked, astonished.

"To crack the little bleeder over the head with," she smiled, and he laughed. "He came off worse that me –a year later he… fell into the canal."

"Fell?" Sharpe prompted.

"He owed money," she shrugged. "So did we. We left."

"You and your brother?" he asked.

"Brothers," she stressed, and Sharpe sighed, shaking his head. She shrugged, holding her hands up. "Alright, yeah, me and me brother," she admitted. "And Nigel."

"What's his real name?" he dared.

"Nigel Hindle, would you believe? That way it's easier for him to remember – he int the sharpest bayonet int box, is he?" she said easily. He grinned, at her words and her meaning.

"So what's your real name?" he asked. She eyed him.

"Is yours really 'Sharpe'?" she asked curiously. He frowned.

"Well, yeah," he said, confused. She nodded.

"You're lucky. Thought maybe you'd changed it, like."

"Why would I do that?" he asked, still looking monumentally puzzled.

"To hide yer background. Thought p'raps you were a 'Sharples' originally." She paused. "Though with an accent like yours, don't suppose changing yer name would do any good."

"So what's your name, originally?" he asked, fascinated. For some reason he found he desperately wanted to know. He tried to believe it was because he hated the thought of being deceived, but he let himself vaguely acknowledge that there may well be another reason.

"Schofield," she admitted guiltily. "Peter didn't want it following us out here, so he took Nigel's name fer ours. He learnt to speak all posh and turned us into this gentile family of map-makers," she added. He wet his lips, looking over at the window thoughtfully, then back down at her.

"And you? Why didn't you learn to talk all proper-like?" he asked, curiosity burning.

"I'd like to say it were cos I felt bad about us leaving the cotton city behind," she said slowly. So you are from the cotton city, he reasoned.

"But?" he prompted, smiling in anticipation.

"But I just can't change the way I speak," she shrugged helplessly, "same as you." She paused, and he watched her, struck by her sudden, happy smile. "Do you know… this is the longest conversation I've had wi' anyone in… since we left England?" she asked wearily, wiping her hands over her face. He felt himself wilt on the inside.

"Well, I don't want to put you out, love," he said, turning reluctantly to go. "I'll –"

"Major," she said quickly, putting her hand on his arm, pulling at him to stop. "That's not what I meant." She eyed him, and he swallowed. "I meant… it's been grand," she finished lamely. He smiled.

"How grand?" he dared. Usually he felt particularly clumsy around women, but there was something about Marjorie that put him at ease.

"Grand enough to invite you to dinner tonight," she said. "That is, if the French don't attack."

"I'm sure they wouldn't be so peevish," he said with a disarming grin. "But won't your brother mind?" he asked, his smile fading.

"Shouldn't think so, he's not coming," she said frankly, and he grinned.

"Well then, I'll have to accept."

"Nine o'clock, Major," she said sternly. He inclined his head respectfully, turning for the big barn door. He was halfway there when she called out to him. "Oh, and Major," she said. He stopped and turned, looking at her. "Don't worry about washing them farmer's clothes out. You won't be in 'em fer long."

"Oh aye?" he asked, one eyebrow raised, a cheeky grin on his face and one hand on the door.

"The fight against the French? Getting back int uniform for the battle?" she grinned.

"Oh. Aye," he said knowingly, disappearing out of the door, pulling it to behind him.