Sharpe Drabble the second.
Again posed by deannawol, who got me hooked on this in the first place.
Sergeant Patrick Harper was a good man. That he was also a good soldier was only rarely counted against him, and he had been doing a lot of thinking during the months he'd spent, reluctantly at first, under the command of Captain Richard Sharpe. They had started by hating each other, but as the quest of the gonafalcon progressed, Harper had learnt first to respect his Captain. Respect had become admiration which had become comradery which had become....well, friendship was the only word that really fitted.
So, when he overheard one of the lower class of redcoats talking - more accurately when he heard one of the scum that drifted around the Rifles say "Sharpe..", he made his way over to listen in more closely. The men were drunk..and resentful. They did not believe that Sharpe had actually earnt his rank and were offensively certain that he would be stripped of it once the brass got around to it.
It was disturbingly similar to the tone that he had taken when Sharpe pulled his tattered remmnant of a company out of the mud and cold and brought them across Spain to the army again. Harper unshouldered his rifle...then thought better of it and picked up a musket instead. It wasn't loaded, but when the soldier using it was Harper's size, it made an effective cudgel. "'Tention!" he roared, plowing into the middle of the group.
The drunks gaped up at him for a moment, then their eyes dropped to the stripes and they scrambled madly to their feet. "Sarge?"
"You cold, perhaps?" Harper inquired in the dulcet tones that warned of impending trouble as he kicked a bottle of moonshine over. "Or perhaps you're bored? Nothing better to do than show disrespect for an officer and a better man than any of you?"
"Ah, Sarge!" One of the more sober men began uneasily, eyeing Harper with a tinge of fear. "Let's not be hasty..."
Again, difficult to write this one, so sorry?
Sergeant Patrick Harper was a good man. That he was also a good soldier was only rarely counted against him, and he had been doing a lot of thinking during the months he'd spent, reluctantly at first, under the command of Captain Richard Sharpe. They had started by hating each other, but as the quest of the gonafalcon progressed, Harper had learnt first to respect his Captain. Respect had become admiration which had become comradery which had become....well, friendship was the only word that really fitted.
So, when he overheard one of the lower class of redcoats talking - more accurately when he heard one of the scum that drifted around the Rifles say "Sharpe..", he made his way over to listen in more closely. The men were drunk..and resentful. They did not believe that Sharpe had actually earnt his rank and were offensively certain that he would be stripped of it once the brass got around to it.
It was disturbingly similar to the tone that he had taken when Sharpe pulled his tattered remmnant of a company out of the mud and cold and brought them across Spain to the army again. Harper unshouldered his rifle...then thought better of it and picked up a musket instead. It wasn't loaded, but when the soldier using it was Harper's size, it made an effective cudgel. "'Tention!" he roared, plowing into the middle of the group.
The drunks gaped up at him for a moment, then their eyes dropped to the stripes and they scrambled madly to their feet. "Sarge?"
"You cold, perhaps?" Harper inquired in the dulcet tones that warned of impending trouble as he kicked a bottle of moonshine over. "Or perhaps you're bored? Nothing better to do than show disrespect for an officer and a better man than any of you?"
"Ah, Sarge!" One of the more sober men began uneasily, eyeing Harper with a tinge of fear. "Let's not be hasty..."
Again, difficult to write this one, so sorry?