After seeing the men fed something more than their dried beef rations, given a few barrels of the monks' own brewed ale to quench their thirsts, and billeted snuggly in a now over bursting but at least warm stable; Sharpe, Frederickson, Palmer, and Minver had ensconced themselves in the spartan cell the Abbot had provided Tzimiskes.
In Spain, Wellesley rarely made a move without consulting Hogan first; to discover the disposition of enemy forces and what they were thinking. That often meant sending Sharpe out at the very end of the sword tip so that his friend would have something to tell the General.
This reconnaissance he would do for himself, the lads, and even the web foots. The work was slow, as William had to translate everything he asked and Tzimiskes answered, but at least it didn't appear dangerous and the mulled wine never ran out. By the time he rejoined the Rifles in the stable, his head hurt worse than ever before.
When he woke up in the morning, he found himself shivering. While his dreams had been filled with visions of Mongol looking like raiders – not that he knew what a Mongol looked like - laying into him with sabres, he doubted his chills were from fear of the baby killing Yezd. Videssos' deadly enemy, whom Tzimiskes' new emperor Mavrikilos wanted to fight come the spring, had sounded ferocious, but nothing three rounds of lead per minute couldn't stop he thought confidently.
No, Sharpe worried that either the contagion which had been running through Saint-Jean-de-Luz before he left by ship had finally settled in upon him – Jane had been shivering herself when she saw him off at the dock that wet, windy dawn – or that the wound he took storming the French fortress had turned sour. Sharpe gently adjusted the bandage on his forehead and was rewarded with a stabbing flash of pain.
"Some fresh beef, Major?" Harper asked cheerfully, bending over to offer him a warm, juicy red piece of meat right off the giant turning spit a few of the monks had been tending all night in the courtyard. It smelled good and he accepted the battered piece of tin it sat on gratefully. "Thank you, Patrick."
The big Irishman squatted in the straw beside him in response. "Are you sure that French carbine ball didn't take away some of your brains along with a bit of flesh, Sir?" he asked with a cheery grin.
"What?" Sharpe grunted as he sank his teeth into the tender piece of bloody meat.
"You callin' me by my Christian name and all. A might familiar for an officer to address one of his men that way, don't ya think."
"Piss off," Sharpe mumbled through a full mouth, glad the act of eating hid the smile that wanted to break out on his face.
"Oh I'll be takin' one of those soon enough, Major. But no hurry. I figure you'll let the lads eat their fill till there's nothing left but the marrow scrapped bones of that cow. Would be a shame to let even a wee tasty piece go to waste, it would. The 60th are veterans and the web-foots ain't so bad either, they'll all be ready to march within minutes of the last of the drippings bein' sucked down."
Sharpe nodded in agreement as he swallowed. "So they're holding up?" he asked his Regimental Sergeant Major.
"Not sayin' they ain't spooked. But they got you to see'em through, full bellies, and a hint of a safe harbor to hole up in. Their spines'll stay stiff and strong a while longer I figures, Sir," Harper said, concluding his assessment.
"And you, Sergeant?" Sharpe asked in a low voice.
Harper stood up to his full six foot and four inches of height, a frown now turning down his rosy cheeks. "Think I'll see about that piss now Major," he said and walked away.
"God save Ireland," Sharpe muttered.
Harper had been right. The men took very little time to fall into column once the last of the food went down their greedy gullets. Sharpe was pleased that as far as he knew, or the monks showed, that none of the men had gone off foolishly looking for mischief or a bit of loot during the night. He had no idea what these people used for money or how valuable a cow was to them, yet the ancient Abbot seemed amply pleased with the ten silver pieces of counterfeit francs he 'donated' the monastery as they left. At least that's the way he took the blessing of 'Phos' the Abbot gave them. Of course maybe he was simply happy the Rifles and Marines hadn't proven to be as big a pack of thieves, cut-throats, and bastards as they looked.
Quickly enough the column got back into its miles eating stride. And as happened on the previous days, the column stretched out as the Marines started to lag, unable to keep pace with Rifles. Green coats could march and they could shoot, by God, Sharpe thought on more than one occasion that day. A thought frequently followed by a question of whether God even knew where the hell they were.
As they went by a farmer's field, Sharpe spied what looked like an oversized gourd or a good sized pumpkin. "Rifles halt!" he cried. They didn't find his command unusual. He had been calling for breaks more often than normal so that Captain Palmer's foot blistered web-feet could periodically catch up. "Captain Frederickson!" he shouted. "Kindly ask Tzimskes if he could send his riders on to scout a mile ahead."
"Everything alright, Major?" Frederickson asked.
"Aye. I thinks it's time Tzimiskes had a demonstration," Sharpe answered, though truthfully he felt ill; his whole body ached and he shivered something fierce at times. Nothing he hadn't experienced dozens of times before on marches in Flanders, Portugal, or Spain. You simply kept on or you died.
Greek jibber jabber was exchanged and soon enough Tzimiskes sent off his half dozen riders. To say their guide who dressed like a knight had been dubious of the Riflemen's claims the previous night over wine would be an understatement. He had told Wiilliam it was obvious we were soldiers and not simple militia fit only for guard duty, but was confused as to why the men wore no armor and their spears were on the short side. "So how do you fight?" Tzimiskes had asked. The man had not believed the answer.
"Harris, go pick up a couple of those giant squash and place them on one of those stumps at the far side of the field," Sharpe commanded.
"Right away, Sir," the Corporal answered cheerily enough. Harris didn't complain about being given a job better fit for a private. He knew he was still on the Major's personal punishment list detail for joining up with Harper and Hagman to sneak on board the ship as pretend members of the 60th Rifles.
As Harris scurried out, Sharpe asked, "Hagman, how far out do you think that is?"
The old poacher smiled slyly and began slipping his Baker rifle off his shoulder. "That one there, Sir?" he asked, pointing vaguely. "Oh, a mite over two hundred fifty yards, Major."
"I agree," Sharpe replied. "Private Taylor," he next called out, addressing the lone American in the 60th Rifles. "Once Corporal Harris steps aside, blast that gourd to Hell. I want to show Tzimiskes here what a Rifleman can do."
"Yes, Sir," Taylor responded with a smirk, while Hagman frowned and humped his rifle back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and Taylor. Don't miss," Sharpe added, deadly serious. "I want them eager to hire us."
Tzimiskes watched carefully as the American unslung his weapon and went about carefully loading it with powder, patch, and ball, all tapped down tight with the ramrod.
"Should we wait for Captain Palmer?" Lieutenant Minver asked right as Harris placed the big oblong tuber down, and then adjusted its position so its broadside lay perpendicular to the road.
Sharpe sighed and turned to look back down the road. He could see a few red coats at the head of what he imaged to be a long line of stragglers. "Oh, alright. At ease Taylor," he commanded.
The tension mounted. Tzimiskes horse turned nervously catching the mood of the gathered men. Harris, standing far out in the farmer's field, held up his arms as if to ask why the delay. Finally Palmer and the first group of web feet waddled in. "About ta give Zemekis a demonstration, eh Major?" the Marine captain droned obviously.
Sharpe grunted to at least acknowledge he'd heard the junior officer. Then, "Proceed, Taylor"
Up came the rifle. A few sprinkles of powder went into the pan. Taylor checked the wind. The stock lowered ever so slightly, as if aiming right at a man's cock, which accounting for distance would drop the ball right about … Taylor gently squeezed the trigger.
A familiar crack filled Sharpe's ear. The gourd exploded as the heavy ball smashed through it. The Rifles let out a brief cheer. Tzimskes spat and swore to his Phos god. And Sharpe let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Though he shivered a bit inside his tattered old Green Coat, he felt the day turning much warmer.
"Should we show him a volley too, Major?" Frederickson asked.
"No, let's keep a few things hidden up our sleeves, Captain," Sharpe answered. "They're will be more important officers than Tzimiskes to impress later, I'm sure. Rifles, time to march, by God!" he shouted.
Like the veterans they were, his command brought more than a few good natured rumblings, but go they went.