The volley, stinging from the flank, flayed into the first infantry ranks, and Frederickson was...
The Misplaced Rifles (Sharpe in Videssos)
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The volley, stinging from the flank, flayed into the first infantry ranks, and Frederickson was bellowing commands as though he held more men under orders. The French were glancing nervously towards the beechwood as Captain Palmer's fifty Marines now loosed their third volley down the road straight at the slowly forming enemy companies. Minver's men, slower to deploy, fired next from the right, through the hedgerow. The mist remnants were thick with smoke now. The stench of blood mingled with powder-stink.
"Stop loading!" Sharpe shouted at the Marines. All the noise caused the pain in his skull to throb terribly, yet his instincts were still able to tell him the battle was won. The French, though outnumbering Sharpe by three or four to one, were dazed, disorganized, and shaken. One more push and the enemy would break. "Front rank up! Fix swords!"
"Bayonets, sir," Harper muttered. Only Green Jackets, who carried the sword bayonet, used the order to fix swords.
"Bayonets! Bayonets!" he quickly bellowed. "Captain Palmer! I'll trouble you to go forward!" Deadly steel was quickly added to the heavy sea borne style muskets of the Marines. Satisfied, Palmer looked over at Sharpe and nodded. "Advance. At the double! Advance!"
The two ranks stepped lively, pushing through the cold, powder filled January air of Gascony. Sharpe and Harper fell in beside the Marine Captain at their rear. If the enemy held, then the Marines would be slaughtered. He shivered inside his grey coat hoping that as they stepped out of the smoke that any surviving French officer wouldn't see how feeble the assault truly was.
"Fire!" Frederickson yelled. Nearly seventy rifles rippled in unison out of the beechwood to Sharpe's left. Good, Frederickson had understood all and was supporting him, adding to the chaos. He hoped Minver would quickly follow with his own volley.
Suddenly the Marines in front of him were stumbling and slowing, though not a shot had been fired at them. "Charge!" Sharpe roared, encouraging the men to face down the unseen enemy line. He marched out of the grey haze. "Ch …." He didn't finish his repeat of the command. Now he understood why the Marines had stalled. The enemy was gone, as were their wagons, horses, packs, and dead. The road no longer even existed. Instead, only a grassy sward a hundred feet long stretched out in front of him until it ran into the edge of a forest. A forest that had not been there during the morning as they waited in ambush. Sharpe shivered, despite noting the temperature to no longer be below freezing. "Cease fire! All Rifles! Cease fire!"
"Bloody hell," Palmer swore.
"God save Ireland," Patrick choked out.
. . . . .
Few of the Rifles, nor the Marines, slept much that night. The afternoon had been spent fruitlessly looking for anything familiar from their previous day's march: no farm on the other side of the hedgerow, no toll house and river, no villages, no roads. The search had revealed only a few trails. So after a warm meal of boiled beef from their gunny sacks and a few snared hares, they had laid down on boughs stripped from nearby trees or simply in their great coats which thankfully were no longer desperately needed for warmth. With heads propped up on packs as the first stars began to flicker out, later than they should for January, the first moans of terror had started. Harper's taunt of "Don't bloody unman yerselfs!" had calmed them just enough as the illegible heavens wheeled into better view. Eventually, as men will to tame the unknown, they began drawing patterns in the new constellation and naming them: the Lancer, the Tower, the Squid, etc.
The naming went on through the night as new stars rose to replace their setting fellows. Finally the east at last grew pale. Or at least what they guessed must be east, for the sun rose and was simply the sun. And with it the forest around them ceased to be a single, frightening, dark shape; becoming trees, brush, and shrubs. The returning light revealed them to still be oddly familiar; perhaps similar to that which they'd marched through at times in Spain and Portugal, but nothing like what they'd seen so far in southern France.
Despite the madness, Sharpe had not lost all his senses, and picquets had been set to keep watch on the edges of the ad hoc camp set up by the two veteran companies of the 60th Rifles and the fifty Marines under the competent enough command of Captain Palmer. Hagman came out of the gloom cast by the trees into the growing pink light. "Visitors comin', major," the old poacher called out softly. "Maybe a dozen on horse.
"Bring the other picquets closer in Hagman, but keep out of sight," Sharpe commanded as he got to his feet. "Rifles. Marines."
Sweet William got his near seventy men formed up quickly on one side of Sharpe and Lieutenant Minver did the same with his company of fifty odd on the other side. And behind, the muskets of the Marines formed the third leg of their protective triad. Patrick strode up beside his friend and unslung his heavy seven shot piece. The big Irishman had a grin on his face, but Sharpe could see the unease beneath which it covered up.
Several men flinched as an arrow flashed high up into the dawn sky and then came thudding down near the remnants of one of the night's campfires. Luckily no one got an itchy finger and pulled a trigger. The Rifles were a veteran lot and the Marines blooded enough even if they'd found no bodies after the previous day's phantom battle.
Sharpe and Harper exchanged surprised glances. "They bloody red injuns, Sir?" Harper snickered.
A challenge soon followed in some unknown tongue.
"Hail the woods!" Sharpe cried out. "Come out and be recognized!"
Less than a minute later a figure pushed aside some bushes and strode purposefully towards them. From the man's clothes, Sharpe instantly knew he wasn't a French officer, private, or even a local militia type. Parts of him were dressed more like a bandit or a Spanish guerilla, though his bearing loudly proclaimed him a leader of men; an aristocrat perhaps.
"He's got balls if he thinks we're going to pay for those rabbits we took from his estate," Harper groused, clearly coming to a similar conclusion as Sharpe as to the newcomer's nature. The stew had been tasty last night despite, though six rabbits hadn't added much overall to the bellies of a hundred and seventy five men.
The mysterious lord stopped well short of Sharpe and well within range of any archer or archers who were protecting his back. He folded his arms across his solid looking chest and waited, all the while eyes passing back and forth over the near hundred men of the Rifles gathered in the glen. He was lean, of middle height, and appeared in his mid-thirties beneath sun-darkened olive skin and just starting to salt dark hair.
"Bloody hell, he thinks he's a god damned knight," Sharpe muttered.
Harper whistled in appreciation, for it wasn't the two vicious scars on his face that made the man stand out. No it didn't. The man wore a shirt of linked mail that reached halfway down his thighs. And atop his head sat an iron pot, that connected to the shirt with more linked iron over his neck.
"Well, we might as well go speak with him then. You coming, Captain Frederickson? My parlez-vous ain't as sweet as yours."
"Yesh, Major," his friend answered with the lisp that always came when he was prepared to fight. Off had come his eyepatch and out the set of false teeth he wore. "But whatever they cried before didn't sound like any language I ever heard before. Maybe it was Basque," the highly literate captain suggested.
Harper, as Sharpe's Sergeant Major and personal shadow, came along too. The trio stopped a good ten feet from the medieval warrior. "Major Sharpe," he announced, jerking a thumb at himself. "Captain Frederickson. Sergeant Major Harper."
The man pointed at himself. "Neilos Tzimiskes." And then blathered a couple sentences.
From growing up as an orphan in mostly the river parishes of Southwark, as well as shipping out of England more than once, Sharpe knew the country of origins for many languages, if not in fact knowing how to speak them. "How's your Greek, Captain?"
"Poor," Frederickson responded. "But it isn't Greek exactly, as Portuguese isn't quite Spainish. Here goes, hope I don't accidentally insult his mother. ποια χώρα είναι αυτό?"
"Videssos."
"Stop loading!" Sharpe shouted at the Marines. All the noise caused the pain in his skull to throb terribly, yet his instincts were still able to tell him the battle was won. The French, though outnumbering Sharpe by three or four to one, were dazed, disorganized, and shaken. One more push and the enemy would break. "Front rank up! Fix swords!"
"Bayonets, sir," Harper muttered. Only Green Jackets, who carried the sword bayonet, used the order to fix swords.
"Bayonets! Bayonets!" he quickly bellowed. "Captain Palmer! I'll trouble you to go forward!" Deadly steel was quickly added to the heavy sea borne style muskets of the Marines. Satisfied, Palmer looked over at Sharpe and nodded. "Advance. At the double! Advance!"
The two ranks stepped lively, pushing through the cold, powder filled January air of Gascony. Sharpe and Harper fell in beside the Marine Captain at their rear. If the enemy held, then the Marines would be slaughtered. He shivered inside his grey coat hoping that as they stepped out of the smoke that any surviving French officer wouldn't see how feeble the assault truly was.
"Fire!" Frederickson yelled. Nearly seventy rifles rippled in unison out of the beechwood to Sharpe's left. Good, Frederickson had understood all and was supporting him, adding to the chaos. He hoped Minver would quickly follow with his own volley.
Suddenly the Marines in front of him were stumbling and slowing, though not a shot had been fired at them. "Charge!" Sharpe roared, encouraging the men to face down the unseen enemy line. He marched out of the grey haze. "Ch …." He didn't finish his repeat of the command. Now he understood why the Marines had stalled. The enemy was gone, as were their wagons, horses, packs, and dead. The road no longer even existed. Instead, only a grassy sward a hundred feet long stretched out in front of him until it ran into the edge of a forest. A forest that had not been there during the morning as they waited in ambush. Sharpe shivered, despite noting the temperature to no longer be below freezing. "Cease fire! All Rifles! Cease fire!"
"Bloody hell," Palmer swore.
"God save Ireland," Patrick choked out.
. . . . .
Few of the Rifles, nor the Marines, slept much that night. The afternoon had been spent fruitlessly looking for anything familiar from their previous day's march: no farm on the other side of the hedgerow, no toll house and river, no villages, no roads. The search had revealed only a few trails. So after a warm meal of boiled beef from their gunny sacks and a few snared hares, they had laid down on boughs stripped from nearby trees or simply in their great coats which thankfully were no longer desperately needed for warmth. With heads propped up on packs as the first stars began to flicker out, later than they should for January, the first moans of terror had started. Harper's taunt of "Don't bloody unman yerselfs!" had calmed them just enough as the illegible heavens wheeled into better view. Eventually, as men will to tame the unknown, they began drawing patterns in the new constellation and naming them: the Lancer, the Tower, the Squid, etc.
The naming went on through the night as new stars rose to replace their setting fellows. Finally the east at last grew pale. Or at least what they guessed must be east, for the sun rose and was simply the sun. And with it the forest around them ceased to be a single, frightening, dark shape; becoming trees, brush, and shrubs. The returning light revealed them to still be oddly familiar; perhaps similar to that which they'd marched through at times in Spain and Portugal, but nothing like what they'd seen so far in southern France.
Despite the madness, Sharpe had not lost all his senses, and picquets had been set to keep watch on the edges of the ad hoc camp set up by the two veteran companies of the 60th Rifles and the fifty Marines under the competent enough command of Captain Palmer. Hagman came out of the gloom cast by the trees into the growing pink light. "Visitors comin', major," the old poacher called out softly. "Maybe a dozen on horse.
"Bring the other picquets closer in Hagman, but keep out of sight," Sharpe commanded as he got to his feet. "Rifles. Marines."
Sweet William got his near seventy men formed up quickly on one side of Sharpe and Lieutenant Minver did the same with his company of fifty odd on the other side. And behind, the muskets of the Marines formed the third leg of their protective triad. Patrick strode up beside his friend and unslung his heavy seven shot piece. The big Irishman had a grin on his face, but Sharpe could see the unease beneath which it covered up.
Several men flinched as an arrow flashed high up into the dawn sky and then came thudding down near the remnants of one of the night's campfires. Luckily no one got an itchy finger and pulled a trigger. The Rifles were a veteran lot and the Marines blooded enough even if they'd found no bodies after the previous day's phantom battle.
Sharpe and Harper exchanged surprised glances. "They bloody red injuns, Sir?" Harper snickered.
A challenge soon followed in some unknown tongue.
"Hail the woods!" Sharpe cried out. "Come out and be recognized!"
Less than a minute later a figure pushed aside some bushes and strode purposefully towards them. From the man's clothes, Sharpe instantly knew he wasn't a French officer, private, or even a local militia type. Parts of him were dressed more like a bandit or a Spanish guerilla, though his bearing loudly proclaimed him a leader of men; an aristocrat perhaps.
"He's got balls if he thinks we're going to pay for those rabbits we took from his estate," Harper groused, clearly coming to a similar conclusion as Sharpe as to the newcomer's nature. The stew had been tasty last night despite, though six rabbits hadn't added much overall to the bellies of a hundred and seventy five men.
The mysterious lord stopped well short of Sharpe and well within range of any archer or archers who were protecting his back. He folded his arms across his solid looking chest and waited, all the while eyes passing back and forth over the near hundred men of the Rifles gathered in the glen. He was lean, of middle height, and appeared in his mid-thirties beneath sun-darkened olive skin and just starting to salt dark hair.
"Bloody hell, he thinks he's a god damned knight," Sharpe muttered.
Harper whistled in appreciation, for it wasn't the two vicious scars on his face that made the man stand out. No it didn't. The man wore a shirt of linked mail that reached halfway down his thighs. And atop his head sat an iron pot, that connected to the shirt with more linked iron over his neck.
"Well, we might as well go speak with him then. You coming, Captain Frederickson? My parlez-vous ain't as sweet as yours."
"Yesh, Major," his friend answered with the lisp that always came when he was prepared to fight. Off had come his eyepatch and out the set of false teeth he wore. "But whatever they cried before didn't sound like any language I ever heard before. Maybe it was Basque," the highly literate captain suggested.
Harper, as Sharpe's Sergeant Major and personal shadow, came along too. The trio stopped a good ten feet from the medieval warrior. "Major Sharpe," he announced, jerking a thumb at himself. "Captain Frederickson. Sergeant Major Harper."
The man pointed at himself. "Neilos Tzimiskes." And then blathered a couple sentences.
From growing up as an orphan in mostly the river parishes of Southwark, as well as shipping out of England more than once, Sharpe knew the country of origins for many languages, if not in fact knowing how to speak them. "How's your Greek, Captain?"
"Poor," Frederickson responded. "But it isn't Greek exactly, as Portuguese isn't quite Spainish. Here goes, hope I don't accidentally insult his mother. ποια χώρα είναι αυτό?"
"Videssos."
woohoo!!! Videssos!! YES!
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_01A - Riflemen, Sharpe&Hagman
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_02A - Williams&Tzimiskes
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_03A - Williams&Harper, PhosTemple
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_04A - Sharper&Harper, Frederickson, Rifles
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_05A - Imbros; Delays, Tzimiskes&Frederickson
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_06A - Imbros; WeekStay, Harper&Rossner
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_07A - Sharpe&Harper, PhosPriest
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_08A - Sharpe&Frederickson, cockTheLocks
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_09A - Muskets, Sharpe&Village
xxXxx
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_01A - Riflemen, Sharpe&Hagman
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_02A - Williams&Tzimiskes
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_03A - Williams&Harper, PhosTemple
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_04A - Sharper&Harper, Frederickson, Rifles
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_05A - Imbros; Delays, Tzimiskes&Frederickson
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_06A - Imbros; WeekStay, Harper&Rossner
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_07A - Sharpe&Harper, PhosPriest
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_08A - Sharpe&Frederickson, cockTheLocks
High Plains Drifter..SV..CH_09A - Muskets, Sharpe&Village
xxXxx
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High Plain Drifter, High Plain Drifter .... where have I heard that name before? Oh! I got it, you are one of the refugees from AH, right? I'm pretty sure I've read one your works before, but I cannot remember what it was. Or maybe I just seen around on some thread discussion?
Anyway, I've only read 2/3 of first Sharpe book so far and I know jack about Videssos but following this for now anyway.
Anyway, I've only read 2/3 of first Sharpe book so far and I know jack about Videssos but following this for now anyway.
- Location
- Washington DC
technically it should be High Plains Drifter, but SV has a character limit on user names, so I dropped the "s"
And claiming "refugee" status from AH . com is a little strong. I still visit and post there regularly, but as "story ownership" is a funny thing that can can engender strong feelings from certain writers (looks in mirror), I have for various reasons chosen to no longer post story content there. I post over at FF . Net (which has all my stories). And back in the day I posted at Counterfactual too.
Anyway, thanks for following.
It's an hyperbolic yes. Perhaps should have add smiley or quote marks.
Under same name? I'll give it a seach later.
Chapter 2
- Location
- Washington DC
More Greek sounding gibberish passed between Frederickson and the scar faced man. Sharpe tried to follow along, but the stabbing pain behind his two day old bandaged forehead had returned, distracting him. He barely picked out "England," "France," and "Greece" interjected into William's queries; all of which only elicited negative grunts or shakes of the head. "America?" "India?" "China?" "Van Diemen's Land?" By their tone, the returning words needed no translation, for they obviously meant no, no, no, and no. William left off the polite interrogation, and reached under his hat to scratch the stubble on his near bald head. Tzimiskes rolled his shoulders a bit in what might have been a shrug and then started to rattle off his own questions.
Harper lightly nudged Sharpe. "All this talk is making me a wee thirsty, major."
Sharpe smirked, deciding a nip of something might ease the throbbing in his skull, so he called out. "Companies, at ease! Not the picquets!" he quickly added. His ears caught the sound of rifles and muskets being lowered to rest butts upon the dirt. "Sergeant Rossner, kindly supervise the issuing of a rum ration for everyone. And be sure the first sip goes to our guest here."
The jibber jabber trailed off as Corporal Harris carefully marched four small bumpers out to the parley and handed them out. The man sniffed at his a moment, then smiled, catching the undeniably strong odor of alcohol. Sharpe returned the smile. "To King George," he toasted, not knowing what else to say.
"Wherever that crazy German farmer is," Harper muttered grumpily.
In answer, Tzimiskes suddenly spat on the ground, lifted both arms in the air, and recited something. "Praise be to Phos," Frederickson translated. "Must be his King or god." Only then did the man dressed as William the Conqueror take a sip.
"We might as well do the same," Sharpe suggested.
"I bloody well will not praise some pagan god," Harper sputtered.
"Stiff necked papist bastard," Sharpe retorted.
"When in Rome, Shergeant Major," Frederickson advised much more politely. "When in Rome."
So all three men also spat on the ground before they took a sip of the body and soul warming rum. Tzimiskes nodded his head in approval before turning back to the woods and shouting out. Soon enough another man, this one a bit younger, stepped out. He too wore a crazy medieval costume. And over his shoulder he carried a leather sack that he handed to the first. The new man's name turned out a mouthful at "Proklos Mouzalon."
Tzimiskes pulled forth dried apples, figs, olives, smoked pork, and hard yellow cheese from the sack. Traveller's fare. Food fit for men marching to war. He also produced a small flask that contained a thick, sweet wine. The bounty was shared with the trio of riflemen. This time only Mouzalon, the newcomer to the parley, spat before drinking.
"Glad we don't have to do that with every sip," Sharpe commented wryly, the food and liquor having put him and more importantly his head wound in a better mood.
"While thesh buggers've never heard of Greece, their food and wine, let alone language, tell me otherwise, Major," Frederickson pointed out.
"We're more lost than Jonah inside the Whale, sirs," Harper said. "So what in Jesus' name do we do?"
Having been lost more times than he carried to remember, Sharpe thought that an excellent question. However he lacked a satisfactory answer. "Survive," he answered simply. Once safe, there would be time to worry about when or whether they'd ever be able to rejoin the army; if he would ever see Jane's sweet face again; if Harper would ever hold Isabella and two week old Richard again. He stifled a morose sigh. "Captain Frederickson, ask Tzimiskes here if he has any ideas on where we should go?"
"Not near hish woman and children for shtarters," the one eyed Captain quipped before digging back into his school boy memories of Greek. He yammered with the two knights for several minutes before coming back up for a breath of English air. "Sheems there's a town a couple days march to the shouth where we might find lodging if the mayor is willing to take our lot in. Neilos knows we are fighters by our shpears, though he finds our lack of armor confusing."
"Spears?" Harper snorted in surprise. "Is he blind?"
Sharpe himself blinked twice hard to cover his shock, for clearly the man must've meant their rifles.
"Yes, shpears," Frederickson said knowingly. "And his people frequently hire coin fighters. If they like what they shee out of us, he thinks they might offer us a contract. Especially as he knows his Avtokrator, which means Autocrat or Emperor, plans to march to war this coming spring. He shesh its only Autumn here now."
Sharpe nodded his head, not even bothering to think about the implications of what a change to the time of year meant. The Rifles might be ugly, villainous, foul-mouthed men, but on the battlefield they were kings and victory their coin. They could fight and they could march. And if his sneaking suspicion was correct, they'd be the only ones fighting with powder and ball. God, how he'd make them pay for their service. He fought hard to keep a vicious grin from spreading across his face.
Recognizing that look of an officer being too clever by half, Harper's instinctive response was to dampen the fire before it could spread. "You can't be thinking of taking'em up on this … Major?" Harper said doubtfully.
"For now, Sergeant Major, let's just get to this blasted town," Sharpe answered. "We've only one more day's rations. We should've already been marching back to the fortress and blasted Captain Bampflyde's ships. Just like the damn navy to leave the army in a tight spot," he snarled. "Captain Frederickson, tell Tzimiskes if he'll guide us, we'll gladly go to this town of his."
- - - - - - - - - -
The picquets had finally been called back in and Mouzalon with a few other riders already sent ahead to prepare the town called Imbros for their arrival, when Sharpe called the hundred and seventy four men together. "Lads, I don't need to tell you we're more lost than two virgins fumbling around in the dark on their wedding night. If we can find a chance to get back to the army, we'll take it, no matter what. But till then we need to stay alive and it looks like we may have found a friend here in this Greek Videssos noble Neilos Tzimiskes. There's a town not too far off we can march to, and we'll all feel better with a warm roof over our heads and some hot food in our bellies."
"And wine and women," a voice with a yankee doodle accent cried out, identifying it as Private Taylor, the only actual American enrolled in either of the two companies of the 60th Royal American Rifles Regiment, who made the quip.
"Only if they're willing," Sharpe growled dangerously. "We treat this country as friendly territory. No stealing, no poaching, no prodding the farmer's daughter. Any man caught doing so will be lucky if I bother to take the time to hang him. We don't want these Videssosians treating us like the guerillas treated the French in Spain. Savvy?"
"We don't have much silver, Major. How we is gonna pay fer foods and stuff?" another man asked.
"Smart question, Higgins. Their Ava … tokator…"
"What the hell's a Avi-whatzit?" someone yelled.
"Their King," Sharpe hadn't wanted to say 'Emperor,' which is what William had translated that mouthful to mean, for after years of fighting old Boney, he wasn't about to refer to their future possible employer by that title. "hires foreign troops for both garrison duty and to fight wars. So if nothing better shows itself, I suppose we'll just have to do that then." He waited for any of them to complain about violating their oaths to King George, but none did. It shouldn't have surprised him for the vast majority of his men were Irish, German, Spanish, criminals who'd enlisted one step ahead of the sheriff, or so poor back in England that the deadly life of a private on the Peninsula had been a step up. "And one last thing, maybe the most important, as mad as this may sound, myself and Captain Frederickson suspect that these Greek sounding bastards have never seen gunfire before. They think your rifles are funny looking spears. So we march with bayonets fixed and only pull triggers when an officer tells you to. Understood?"
Harper lightly nudged Sharpe. "All this talk is making me a wee thirsty, major."
Sharpe smirked, deciding a nip of something might ease the throbbing in his skull, so he called out. "Companies, at ease! Not the picquets!" he quickly added. His ears caught the sound of rifles and muskets being lowered to rest butts upon the dirt. "Sergeant Rossner, kindly supervise the issuing of a rum ration for everyone. And be sure the first sip goes to our guest here."
The jibber jabber trailed off as Corporal Harris carefully marched four small bumpers out to the parley and handed them out. The man sniffed at his a moment, then smiled, catching the undeniably strong odor of alcohol. Sharpe returned the smile. "To King George," he toasted, not knowing what else to say.
"Wherever that crazy German farmer is," Harper muttered grumpily.
In answer, Tzimiskes suddenly spat on the ground, lifted both arms in the air, and recited something. "Praise be to Phos," Frederickson translated. "Must be his King or god." Only then did the man dressed as William the Conqueror take a sip.
"We might as well do the same," Sharpe suggested.
"I bloody well will not praise some pagan god," Harper sputtered.
"Stiff necked papist bastard," Sharpe retorted.
"When in Rome, Shergeant Major," Frederickson advised much more politely. "When in Rome."
So all three men also spat on the ground before they took a sip of the body and soul warming rum. Tzimiskes nodded his head in approval before turning back to the woods and shouting out. Soon enough another man, this one a bit younger, stepped out. He too wore a crazy medieval costume. And over his shoulder he carried a leather sack that he handed to the first. The new man's name turned out a mouthful at "Proklos Mouzalon."
Tzimiskes pulled forth dried apples, figs, olives, smoked pork, and hard yellow cheese from the sack. Traveller's fare. Food fit for men marching to war. He also produced a small flask that contained a thick, sweet wine. The bounty was shared with the trio of riflemen. This time only Mouzalon, the newcomer to the parley, spat before drinking.
"Glad we don't have to do that with every sip," Sharpe commented wryly, the food and liquor having put him and more importantly his head wound in a better mood.
"While thesh buggers've never heard of Greece, their food and wine, let alone language, tell me otherwise, Major," Frederickson pointed out.
"We're more lost than Jonah inside the Whale, sirs," Harper said. "So what in Jesus' name do we do?"
Having been lost more times than he carried to remember, Sharpe thought that an excellent question. However he lacked a satisfactory answer. "Survive," he answered simply. Once safe, there would be time to worry about when or whether they'd ever be able to rejoin the army; if he would ever see Jane's sweet face again; if Harper would ever hold Isabella and two week old Richard again. He stifled a morose sigh. "Captain Frederickson, ask Tzimiskes here if he has any ideas on where we should go?"
"Not near hish woman and children for shtarters," the one eyed Captain quipped before digging back into his school boy memories of Greek. He yammered with the two knights for several minutes before coming back up for a breath of English air. "Sheems there's a town a couple days march to the shouth where we might find lodging if the mayor is willing to take our lot in. Neilos knows we are fighters by our shpears, though he finds our lack of armor confusing."
"Spears?" Harper snorted in surprise. "Is he blind?"
Sharpe himself blinked twice hard to cover his shock, for clearly the man must've meant their rifles.
"Yes, shpears," Frederickson said knowingly. "And his people frequently hire coin fighters. If they like what they shee out of us, he thinks they might offer us a contract. Especially as he knows his Avtokrator, which means Autocrat or Emperor, plans to march to war this coming spring. He shesh its only Autumn here now."
Sharpe nodded his head, not even bothering to think about the implications of what a change to the time of year meant. The Rifles might be ugly, villainous, foul-mouthed men, but on the battlefield they were kings and victory their coin. They could fight and they could march. And if his sneaking suspicion was correct, they'd be the only ones fighting with powder and ball. God, how he'd make them pay for their service. He fought hard to keep a vicious grin from spreading across his face.
Recognizing that look of an officer being too clever by half, Harper's instinctive response was to dampen the fire before it could spread. "You can't be thinking of taking'em up on this … Major?" Harper said doubtfully.
"For now, Sergeant Major, let's just get to this blasted town," Sharpe answered. "We've only one more day's rations. We should've already been marching back to the fortress and blasted Captain Bampflyde's ships. Just like the damn navy to leave the army in a tight spot," he snarled. "Captain Frederickson, tell Tzimiskes if he'll guide us, we'll gladly go to this town of his."
- - - - - - - - - -
The picquets had finally been called back in and Mouzalon with a few other riders already sent ahead to prepare the town called Imbros for their arrival, when Sharpe called the hundred and seventy four men together. "Lads, I don't need to tell you we're more lost than two virgins fumbling around in the dark on their wedding night. If we can find a chance to get back to the army, we'll take it, no matter what. But till then we need to stay alive and it looks like we may have found a friend here in this Greek Videssos noble Neilos Tzimiskes. There's a town not too far off we can march to, and we'll all feel better with a warm roof over our heads and some hot food in our bellies."
"And wine and women," a voice with a yankee doodle accent cried out, identifying it as Private Taylor, the only actual American enrolled in either of the two companies of the 60th Royal American Rifles Regiment, who made the quip.
"Only if they're willing," Sharpe growled dangerously. "We treat this country as friendly territory. No stealing, no poaching, no prodding the farmer's daughter. Any man caught doing so will be lucky if I bother to take the time to hang him. We don't want these Videssosians treating us like the guerillas treated the French in Spain. Savvy?"
"We don't have much silver, Major. How we is gonna pay fer foods and stuff?" another man asked.
"Smart question, Higgins. Their Ava … tokator…"
"What the hell's a Avi-whatzit?" someone yelled.
"Their King," Sharpe hadn't wanted to say 'Emperor,' which is what William had translated that mouthful to mean, for after years of fighting old Boney, he wasn't about to refer to their future possible employer by that title. "hires foreign troops for both garrison duty and to fight wars. So if nothing better shows itself, I suppose we'll just have to do that then." He waited for any of them to complain about violating their oaths to King George, but none did. It shouldn't have surprised him for the vast majority of his men were Irish, German, Spanish, criminals who'd enlisted one step ahead of the sheriff, or so poor back in England that the deadly life of a private on the Peninsula had been a step up. "And one last thing, maybe the most important, as mad as this may sound, myself and Captain Frederickson suspect that these Greek sounding bastards have never seen gunfire before. They think your rifles are funny looking spears. So we march with bayonets fixed and only pull triggers when an officer tells you to. Understood?"
That's thr million drachma question isn't?
And after their stock runs out thins will depends on how much practical knowledge of making gunpowder and bullets that they have.
Then the billion drachma question: how long can they retain their monopoly of firearms? Cuz if they have people with decent skill on gun & gunpowder making among them to produce supplies, well, people can bribed or coerced.
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- Location
- Canada
It is lucky for them that most rifles were issued with atleast a handful bullet moulds in the napoleonic period (due to limits in technology each rifle barrel was essentially a unique profile limiting how much standard ammunition could interchange).
Gunpowder isn't too hard to make (the black powder anyway), I imagine someone like Sharpe would already know how (based off what I know of him from the books). failing that I think rifleman Harris would know (being the educated man he is).
They're from a simpler time so either Sharpe would know or there will be a character who will know how to make it, among other skills.
The second question? It will be beyond the timeframe of the story unless it stretches on for years. Gunpowder would be the first thing reverse-engineered because Sharpe will have to get the ingredients in a reasonable time frame. If he attempts to keep it completely secret, that would mean making saltpeter from scratch and that could take months or a year. He'd have to choose between keeping it a secret and being careful about the gunpowder supply, or not having to worry about it.
Now, I wonder if they're replacing the Romans, or will the two groups of foreigners meet? If it's replacing, then they just don't have enough men, let alone those nifty magic swords, to have the same impact on the plot.
Every rifleman should have about forty rounds apiece, and theyve got people who know how to make more powder. Now, the muskets, let alone rifles and canon, are another matter.
Every rifleman should have about forty rounds apiece, and theyve got people who know how to make more powder. Now, the muskets, let alone rifles and canon, are another matter.
RichardWhereat
Feanor did nothing wrong.
- Location
- Australia
I don't know what Videssos is, beyond some crazy protestant fantasy, but it certainly looks like an interesting start to a story.
Chapter 3
- Location
- Washington DC
About a half day's march to the east by narrow, twisting paths through stands of hardwoods, chestnuts, and pines brought the Rifles, and slower Marines, out of the forest and into the start of settled, or at least pastured, countryside. The land quickly became fairly open with rolling hills, and before too long farmhouses could be spotted. More than one raggedly dressed farmer drove off his livestock at the first sight of the near two hundred soldiers slogging along in column on what could now generously be called a road. Tzimiskes would send off one of his half dozen riders to reassure them, but not a one after receiving the reassurance ever stopped his flight. Farmhouse doors and shutters were slammed tight too.
"A land that's seen its share of suffering, it has, Major, if they're so skittish," Harper commented.
Sharpe simply grunted agreement. Marching had brought back his piercing, spiking headache.
"You should have your wound looked at tonight, sir. Wouldn't want it fester or worsen." The large man responded, knowing his commanders moods so well.
As he was the only one of the men sporting a wound, well other than the blisters all the soft footed Marines were undoubtedly now sporting, Sharpe supposed he shouldn't feel so black, but he couldn't help it. "How's your tooth, you lying Irishman?" he snapped.
The Regimental Sergeant Major smiled broadly at the insult. He'd used his badly inflamed mouth as a medical excuse to slip away from the Colonel newly appointed over Sharpe to lead the South Essex, now called the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers; and then, with the connivance of Hagman, Harris, and Sweet William's blind eye, hid away with the 60th Rifles until they were on the beach below that French fortress. The idea of his friend going to war without him had gnawed at his Catholic soul. And so apparently had it with Sharpe's wife Jane, who'd been the one to suggest the ruse he'd taken. He prodded a thick finger into his mouth and grimaced. "Still hurts a mite, Major."
"I'll look at your tooth first tonight," Sharpe declared grimly.
"Oh no need for that, sir. Your wife gave me a jar of clove oil. Does wonders does it."
At mention of Jane, Sharpe grim look turned to an outright scowl. "Captain Frederickson," he called.
The half German, half English officer soon made an appearance. "Sir?"
"Do you have any pincers, Captain?"
"Sir?"
"For teeth, William. Sergeant Major Harper's tooth is bothering him again."
"It's not so bad, sirs," Harper interjected nervously.
"I fear it might have to pulled or he'll be too weak to continue the march tomorrow."
Frederickson smiled, a fearsome sight that revealed the two fake middle upper teeth on his scarred face. He reached inside a pocket of his well-worn Rifleman's green coat and extracted a narrow pair of pliers. "I think this will do, Major. A dentist in London I'm familiar with charges nobility a schilling a tooth for the false teeth he makes them. And he'll pay a six pence for every sound tooth I pull out of a dead Frenchman."
Sharpe smiled viciously. "Really?"
"Oh yes, Major. But it must be a sound tooth. They break so easy, you understand." The Captain pivoted his hold on the pincers and then held them up to give a demonstration. "The trick is to push in and then twist as you pull back out," Frederickson explained. "Fast and with a quick turn of the wrist, thusly. And don't be losing grip of the tooth or the edges will cut into the gums. How badly are your gums swollen, Sergeant Major?"
"Sirs," Harper moaned pitifully.
"Sir! Sir!" shouts at the head of the column came. And it was quickly followed by Greek as Tzimiskes turned his mount around and started to trot back towards Sharpe. He left off his abuse of Harper and spied ahead where a solidly built stone building had come into view as the thoroughfare they marched on curved around the edge of a hillock.
"He says tis a Temple of Phos, Major. We can make camp here tonight and be assured of a hot, if humble meal," Frederickson announced, translating for their guide.
Sharpe nodded approval. He felt inside his battered coat's mended deep pocket, where he carried the last two bags of the counterfeit ten franc silver pieces Colonel Elphinstone had given him before they'd set sail on the mission. The pieces were only imitations, quality ones, of francs, but the silver at least was real. Wellesley did not want to raise the countryside of southern France against his army the same way the French army's plundering actions had created the guerrillas in Spain. So though Sharpe had been told to fight French soldiers, he was to pay the citizens when his Rifles requisitioned food and supplies. He supposed a donation tonight would be in order. Priests and pastors everywhere were much alike, lusting after coin, if not always after wine and women.
As he passed fully around the hillock, a blue-painted wooden spire with a gilded ball on top stabbed into the air from the far edge of the building's otherwise flat roof. Bald headed, bushy bearded, blue-robed men worked in the fields around their temple.
"How very Greek or even Russian of them," Frederickson commented. "I wouldn't be surprised to find mosaics tiled into the floors and walls of the place." Their guide started chattering again. "Ahhhh, Tzimiskes wants us to stop and have you formally meet their … Abbot."
Sharpe shrugged. "Rifles halt!" he bellowed. Most of the men quickly sat down on the earth, though all gave the place a good long look. "We'll spend the night here, lads! Remember, best behavior. Not that these monks look to have any women among'em." A disappointed sigh ran down the column. He didn't know about the Marines, but like him, most of the Rifles had left their women and more than a few children behind in Saint-Jean-de-Luz. The sigh told him that sooner rather than later thoughts of them would start to cause discipline trouble.
He, Frederickson, Minver, Palmer, and Harper followed Tzimiskes to the gate on the road that led down a wide path to the temple. A thin youth in blue on watch behind the wood pickets called out a greeting or a prayer and Tzimskes spat on the ground in response, as well as uttering something that included "Phos."
They all muttered "Phos" as well and spat.
The youth smiled, bowed briefly to them, and then pulled on a rope that started a bell gonging. After only a brief wait, and Sharpe wouldn't have been surprised if watchful eyes on the road had already sent warning of their coming, two men came out of the temple walking slowly, very slowly, towards them. The first was in simple blue like all the others and he swung a metal censer out of which a fragrant smoke spilled from. The other, much older and white haired – at least in the beard for they were both shaven on top too, wore a palm-wide circle of gold cloth embroidered on his left breast.
Tzimiskes bowed low to the almost doddering man and then spoke briefly. In answer, the ancient one lifted a hand into the sky before speaking.
"All blessings be upon Phos. Guests, even foreign guests, are welcome to their humble home. For Phos welcomes the weary traveler on the path of light," Frederickson muttered softly in a running commentary into Sharpe's ear. "Hhhmn, this Phos might be a sun god. T'would explain the gold gilt dome over there. Ahhhh, as there are so many of us, perhaps the stables would offer the best place for us tonight. A calf shall be slaughtered to provide us meat in the morning, but tonight he apologizes he has only a simple porridge to offer us."
The wizened fellow stopped talking and Tzimiskes looked over at them expectantly. "I think they expect a response of sorts, Major," Frederickson prodded.
For a second, Sharpe wished Hogan was here to handle this bit of 'diplomacy,' then Sharpe did what he naturally did best and simply plowed forward, damn the consequences. "Thank him, for all of us, Captain. And ask if a donation in silver to this Phos of theirs would be thought of properly."
The old man smiled and nodded. All priests were alike after all, even those on the rump end of the world, wherever that was. Then he spoke a bit more of the Greek gibberish.
"He thanks us, Sir," Frederickson translated. "And begs forgiveness that … he is too old to look after your wound, but he assures us there is a healer priest in Imbros who can look after our ailments when we get there."
Sharpe smiled. "Hear that, Sergeant Major. You've nothing to worry about. Can't say as I've ever seen a priest pull a tooth before."
"Bloody pagans," Harper muttered.
"A land that's seen its share of suffering, it has, Major, if they're so skittish," Harper commented.
Sharpe simply grunted agreement. Marching had brought back his piercing, spiking headache.
"You should have your wound looked at tonight, sir. Wouldn't want it fester or worsen." The large man responded, knowing his commanders moods so well.
As he was the only one of the men sporting a wound, well other than the blisters all the soft footed Marines were undoubtedly now sporting, Sharpe supposed he shouldn't feel so black, but he couldn't help it. "How's your tooth, you lying Irishman?" he snapped.
The Regimental Sergeant Major smiled broadly at the insult. He'd used his badly inflamed mouth as a medical excuse to slip away from the Colonel newly appointed over Sharpe to lead the South Essex, now called the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers; and then, with the connivance of Hagman, Harris, and Sweet William's blind eye, hid away with the 60th Rifles until they were on the beach below that French fortress. The idea of his friend going to war without him had gnawed at his Catholic soul. And so apparently had it with Sharpe's wife Jane, who'd been the one to suggest the ruse he'd taken. He prodded a thick finger into his mouth and grimaced. "Still hurts a mite, Major."
"I'll look at your tooth first tonight," Sharpe declared grimly.
"Oh no need for that, sir. Your wife gave me a jar of clove oil. Does wonders does it."
At mention of Jane, Sharpe grim look turned to an outright scowl. "Captain Frederickson," he called.
The half German, half English officer soon made an appearance. "Sir?"
"Do you have any pincers, Captain?"
"Sir?"
"For teeth, William. Sergeant Major Harper's tooth is bothering him again."
"It's not so bad, sirs," Harper interjected nervously.
"I fear it might have to pulled or he'll be too weak to continue the march tomorrow."
Frederickson smiled, a fearsome sight that revealed the two fake middle upper teeth on his scarred face. He reached inside a pocket of his well-worn Rifleman's green coat and extracted a narrow pair of pliers. "I think this will do, Major. A dentist in London I'm familiar with charges nobility a schilling a tooth for the false teeth he makes them. And he'll pay a six pence for every sound tooth I pull out of a dead Frenchman."
Sharpe smiled viciously. "Really?"
"Oh yes, Major. But it must be a sound tooth. They break so easy, you understand." The Captain pivoted his hold on the pincers and then held them up to give a demonstration. "The trick is to push in and then twist as you pull back out," Frederickson explained. "Fast and with a quick turn of the wrist, thusly. And don't be losing grip of the tooth or the edges will cut into the gums. How badly are your gums swollen, Sergeant Major?"
"Sirs," Harper moaned pitifully.
"Sir! Sir!" shouts at the head of the column came. And it was quickly followed by Greek as Tzimiskes turned his mount around and started to trot back towards Sharpe. He left off his abuse of Harper and spied ahead where a solidly built stone building had come into view as the thoroughfare they marched on curved around the edge of a hillock.
"He says tis a Temple of Phos, Major. We can make camp here tonight and be assured of a hot, if humble meal," Frederickson announced, translating for their guide.
Sharpe nodded approval. He felt inside his battered coat's mended deep pocket, where he carried the last two bags of the counterfeit ten franc silver pieces Colonel Elphinstone had given him before they'd set sail on the mission. The pieces were only imitations, quality ones, of francs, but the silver at least was real. Wellesley did not want to raise the countryside of southern France against his army the same way the French army's plundering actions had created the guerrillas in Spain. So though Sharpe had been told to fight French soldiers, he was to pay the citizens when his Rifles requisitioned food and supplies. He supposed a donation tonight would be in order. Priests and pastors everywhere were much alike, lusting after coin, if not always after wine and women.
As he passed fully around the hillock, a blue-painted wooden spire with a gilded ball on top stabbed into the air from the far edge of the building's otherwise flat roof. Bald headed, bushy bearded, blue-robed men worked in the fields around their temple.
"How very Greek or even Russian of them," Frederickson commented. "I wouldn't be surprised to find mosaics tiled into the floors and walls of the place." Their guide started chattering again. "Ahhhh, Tzimiskes wants us to stop and have you formally meet their … Abbot."
Sharpe shrugged. "Rifles halt!" he bellowed. Most of the men quickly sat down on the earth, though all gave the place a good long look. "We'll spend the night here, lads! Remember, best behavior. Not that these monks look to have any women among'em." A disappointed sigh ran down the column. He didn't know about the Marines, but like him, most of the Rifles had left their women and more than a few children behind in Saint-Jean-de-Luz. The sigh told him that sooner rather than later thoughts of them would start to cause discipline trouble.
He, Frederickson, Minver, Palmer, and Harper followed Tzimiskes to the gate on the road that led down a wide path to the temple. A thin youth in blue on watch behind the wood pickets called out a greeting or a prayer and Tzimskes spat on the ground in response, as well as uttering something that included "Phos."
They all muttered "Phos" as well and spat.
The youth smiled, bowed briefly to them, and then pulled on a rope that started a bell gonging. After only a brief wait, and Sharpe wouldn't have been surprised if watchful eyes on the road had already sent warning of their coming, two men came out of the temple walking slowly, very slowly, towards them. The first was in simple blue like all the others and he swung a metal censer out of which a fragrant smoke spilled from. The other, much older and white haired – at least in the beard for they were both shaven on top too, wore a palm-wide circle of gold cloth embroidered on his left breast.
Tzimiskes bowed low to the almost doddering man and then spoke briefly. In answer, the ancient one lifted a hand into the sky before speaking.
"All blessings be upon Phos. Guests, even foreign guests, are welcome to their humble home. For Phos welcomes the weary traveler on the path of light," Frederickson muttered softly in a running commentary into Sharpe's ear. "Hhhmn, this Phos might be a sun god. T'would explain the gold gilt dome over there. Ahhhh, as there are so many of us, perhaps the stables would offer the best place for us tonight. A calf shall be slaughtered to provide us meat in the morning, but tonight he apologizes he has only a simple porridge to offer us."
The wizened fellow stopped talking and Tzimiskes looked over at them expectantly. "I think they expect a response of sorts, Major," Frederickson prodded.
For a second, Sharpe wished Hogan was here to handle this bit of 'diplomacy,' then Sharpe did what he naturally did best and simply plowed forward, damn the consequences. "Thank him, for all of us, Captain. And ask if a donation in silver to this Phos of theirs would be thought of properly."
The old man smiled and nodded. All priests were alike after all, even those on the rump end of the world, wherever that was. Then he spoke a bit more of the Greek gibberish.
"He thanks us, Sir," Frederickson translated. "And begs forgiveness that … he is too old to look after your wound, but he assures us there is a healer priest in Imbros who can look after our ailments when we get there."
Sharpe smiled. "Hear that, Sergeant Major. You've nothing to worry about. Can't say as I've ever seen a priest pull a tooth before."
"Bloody pagans," Harper muttered.
RichardWhereat
Feanor did nothing wrong.
- Location
- Australia
And then the sudden conversion for magical powers.Now we wait for one of Phos' healers magically heal one of Sharpe's Rifleman and knock their collective socks off...
Well it is much easier to belief when faith doesn't have to be taken on faith.
The question changes from, do you believe in god to do you worship god.
Chapter 4
- Location
- Washington DC
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 parallel 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 gut, 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.
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 parallel 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 gut, 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.
Chapter 5
- Location
- Washington DC
As dusk settled in, the city Tzimiskes named Imbros at last came into view; and thankfully for the Rifles a city, or at least a large town, it was. The setting sun only struck high upon the four ball topped blue spires that were the only parts of Imbros observable over the gray stone wall that encircled the place. The wall looked sturdy enough, though parts of it had clearly been rebuilt fairly recently, as any of the men who had taken part in one of Lord Wellington's many sieges could a test. Each one of them was glad to see their destination; though while the two companies of Rifles could have kept going most of the night if forced to, the fifty Marines were done in.
"Thought Tzimiskes said the Yezd were on the other side of the sea from here?" Sharpe wondered, taking note of the repaired gaps. "Who the Hell else does Videssos war with?"
"He said their new Emperor conquered the throne. Maybe each other?" Frederickson suggested.
"Bloody marvelous," Sharpe snarled angrily, glad to have something to release the pain rising like floodwaters in his skull against.
"How'd they make a breach without cannon?" Harper muttered.
"Catapults, Sergeant Major," Frederickson responded. "A damn great lot of them."
"Still, without cannon firing back out, it'd be a lot easier to take than Badajoz," Sharpe commented; gaining him knowing nods of agreement from Harper, Harris, and Hagman, who'd all gone through the breach with him against the Crapauds' withering fire.
Their guide rode up to the closed gate and shouted at the shadowy outlines of guards a top it to let them in. A strangely accented Greek came rumbling down with an answer that set Tzimiskes off in a rant that included several usages of "Phos," none of which sounded like prayers to Sharpe's ear. He felt the better for it seeing that side of the knight's personality.
The delay in opening the gate at least allowed the last of Palmer's lagging web feet to catch up even if the sun was fully set by the time it creaked open. When the thick oak gate bound together by iron bands finished swinging wide, two squads of giants carrying torches in one hand and axes in the other tromped out.
"T'is Vikings, these are," Harper gawked.
"That one must be Odin then," Frederickson said, but none too loudly.
The score of men looked nothing like Tzimiskes or any of his outriders, "akrites" he called them. These were all tall men, the shortest a match for Sharpe's own six feet, and big too; the visible parts of their arms and legs that stuck out from surcoats and chainmail looked thick and muscular. In the flickering torch light they appeared fair of skin, not at all like Tzimiskes' olive tone, with mostly blonde or red hair. And at their head was in fact a one-eyed wonder. Even accounting for the helmet, Sharpe guessed him to be several inches taller than Harper and three or four stone heavier.
Odin came to a stop and in a deep, rumbling voice pronounced, "Neilos Tzimiskes."
"Skapti Modolfyios," their guide responded and then blathered on in Greek.
"Ah, there's Tzimiskes boy, Major," Harper pointed out. "Back there waiting with them quill pusher types. What was his name? Proklos?"
His friend's comment took Sharpe by surprise, he'd again been lost in the stabbing pain of his wound. He gave a dutiful smile to cover his distraction and thought hard to remember where he was and what he was doing.
"Somone's got to pay the coin for mercenaries. No wonder they want a look at the goods before they dig into the treasury," Frederickson wryly commented.
"I dare say we don't look as smart as that lot to their eyes," Palmer pointed out.
"Noooo," Sharpe echoed slowly. He decided the situation wouldn't do. "Captain, see to your Marines. Frederickson, assembly your company to his left. Minver assemble to his right. Quickly now." Like the good officers they were, none questioned him, but went to look after their men. In under a minute the gathered clump of soldiers had sorted itself out into a semi-martial formation. "Form double line!" Sharpe roared, setting his head to pound.
His sudden command startled Tzimiskes and the Skapti something or other named giant; both of them stopping in mid conversation.
"Attention!" Feet stomped. Rifle and Musket butts slammed into the ground.
"Marines, fix bayonets! Rifles, swords!" Blades slipped over the ends of muzzles and clicked ominously into place.
"Front rank, kneel!" The ground thudded as eighty men dropped to one knee.
"Present arms!" The butts swept off the ground and snugged tight into the crooks of shoulders.
Sharpe yanked out his heavy cavalry sword and turned stock still at attention. "Sir, the 60th Rifles and his Majesty's Marines reporting for duty, Sir!" Thunder crashed in waves behind the bandage over his forehead. He hoped he wouldn't faint.
A fat man in maroon robes, a narrow silver crown sitting on a bald head, stepped out of the shadows inside the gate. Sharpe heard Tzimiskes say, "Hypasteos Vourtzes" as he sketched a brief bow from the perch of his saddle. The fat man murmured a few things. Tzimiskes face turned stony, but said not a word. Skapti's Odin eye scanned back and forth over the Rifles and Marines once. He shrugged his shoulders, then nodded an affirmative to whatever the question had been.
The fat man's pudgy face scowled a moment. He said something, waved a hand in the air, and turned around to walk back inside the town. The mercenary giants quickly followed. Tzimiskes allowed himself a short grin and called out in Greek.
"They'll take us for now as simple garrison troops, Major," Frederickson translated. "Tzimiskes will show us to our barracks."
- - - - -
Sharpe didn't remember ordering the men into column, but sure enough they were marching through dark streets, some cobblestone and others dirt. He shivered the whole time, unable to pay attention to the twists and turns Tzimiskes led them through. The one story building they arrived at looked to have seen better days, but it had a mostly intact roof and chimneys at either end. The men had stayed in plenty worse. "Captain Palmer, send some Marines to find water. Lieutenant Minver, your Rifles have to make sure there are enough loos. Captain Frederickson, detail some men to scrounge up whatever food we've left and make a kitchen. The rest of you, clean this sty out. We'll figure out the rest in the morning." When the lads dispersed, he walked inside and found a corner to get out of the way in.
- - - - -
Sharpe woke to the sound of moaning. Something wet lay over his face, he could barely see. The moaning he distantly realized was his.
- - - - -
"Sooooo, cold. Cold," he shivered.
"Move him closer to the fire," someone commanded.
Sharpe felt hands lift him and move him. More sticky wetness dribbled down off his brow, threatening to glue his eyes shut again. It smelled horrible. It smelled of death. His stomach revolted. He wretched.
"It'll be alright, Sir," Patrick whispered. "They're getting' a doctor for ya."
"A priest," he barely heard William snort with disgust.
- - - - -
Something blue hovered over him. Sharpe felt woozy, disjointed, and cold as hell or a Spanish winter in the mountains. He tried to focus, now seeing what might be a hand reaching out for him; above it a thin-faced man with bright, burning eyes was chanting softly. "Blah, blah Phos … blah, blah … Phos blah." Fingers gently touched his forehead. Sharpe screamed in agony, they felt like red hot pokers piercing his brain. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes, battling with the blood and puss crusted to his lashes. His body stiffened and clenched and shook. He bit down hard on his tongue, fearing to unman himself in front of the men.
Calm.
Light.
Peace.
The pain drained out of him like dirty water swirling out of a tub.
"Jesus, Joseph, and Mary," Harper mumbled. He heard others around him gasp, "Magic."
He blinked, and then in irritation raised a hand to swipe once, swipe twice the putrid smelling gunk off his face and forehead. Able now to see, a blue clad, shave headed priest hovered over him as he lay on a blanket. The fire in the eyes of that thin face now appeared banked compared to how brightly they'd glowed before. The man gave him a tired smile. "Blah, blah Phos."
"Phos," Sharpe whispered back to him.
"Do ya see that, just a wee scar, Captain!" Harper expostulated.
"How do you feel, Major?" William asked.
"I'm hungry," he answered in a matter-of-fact voice.
"Thought Tzimiskes said the Yezd were on the other side of the sea from here?" Sharpe wondered, taking note of the repaired gaps. "Who the Hell else does Videssos war with?"
"He said their new Emperor conquered the throne. Maybe each other?" Frederickson suggested.
"Bloody marvelous," Sharpe snarled angrily, glad to have something to release the pain rising like floodwaters in his skull against.
"How'd they make a breach without cannon?" Harper muttered.
"Catapults, Sergeant Major," Frederickson responded. "A damn great lot of them."
"Still, without cannon firing back out, it'd be a lot easier to take than Badajoz," Sharpe commented; gaining him knowing nods of agreement from Harper, Harris, and Hagman, who'd all gone through the breach with him against the Crapauds' withering fire.
Their guide rode up to the closed gate and shouted at the shadowy outlines of guards a top it to let them in. A strangely accented Greek came rumbling down with an answer that set Tzimiskes off in a rant that included several usages of "Phos," none of which sounded like prayers to Sharpe's ear. He felt the better for it seeing that side of the knight's personality.
The delay in opening the gate at least allowed the last of Palmer's lagging web feet to catch up even if the sun was fully set by the time it creaked open. When the thick oak gate bound together by iron bands finished swinging wide, two squads of giants carrying torches in one hand and axes in the other tromped out.
"T'is Vikings, these are," Harper gawked.
"That one must be Odin then," Frederickson said, but none too loudly.
The score of men looked nothing like Tzimiskes or any of his outriders, "akrites" he called them. These were all tall men, the shortest a match for Sharpe's own six feet, and big too; the visible parts of their arms and legs that stuck out from surcoats and chainmail looked thick and muscular. In the flickering torch light they appeared fair of skin, not at all like Tzimiskes' olive tone, with mostly blonde or red hair. And at their head was in fact a one-eyed wonder. Even accounting for the helmet, Sharpe guessed him to be several inches taller than Harper and three or four stone heavier.
Odin came to a stop and in a deep, rumbling voice pronounced, "Neilos Tzimiskes."
"Skapti Modolfyios," their guide responded and then blathered on in Greek.
"Ah, there's Tzimiskes boy, Major," Harper pointed out. "Back there waiting with them quill pusher types. What was his name? Proklos?"
His friend's comment took Sharpe by surprise, he'd again been lost in the stabbing pain of his wound. He gave a dutiful smile to cover his distraction and thought hard to remember where he was and what he was doing.
"Somone's got to pay the coin for mercenaries. No wonder they want a look at the goods before they dig into the treasury," Frederickson wryly commented.
"I dare say we don't look as smart as that lot to their eyes," Palmer pointed out.
"Noooo," Sharpe echoed slowly. He decided the situation wouldn't do. "Captain, see to your Marines. Frederickson, assembly your company to his left. Minver assemble to his right. Quickly now." Like the good officers they were, none questioned him, but went to look after their men. In under a minute the gathered clump of soldiers had sorted itself out into a semi-martial formation. "Form double line!" Sharpe roared, setting his head to pound.
His sudden command startled Tzimiskes and the Skapti something or other named giant; both of them stopping in mid conversation.
"Attention!" Feet stomped. Rifle and Musket butts slammed into the ground.
"Marines, fix bayonets! Rifles, swords!" Blades slipped over the ends of muzzles and clicked ominously into place.
"Front rank, kneel!" The ground thudded as eighty men dropped to one knee.
"Present arms!" The butts swept off the ground and snugged tight into the crooks of shoulders.
Sharpe yanked out his heavy cavalry sword and turned stock still at attention. "Sir, the 60th Rifles and his Majesty's Marines reporting for duty, Sir!" Thunder crashed in waves behind the bandage over his forehead. He hoped he wouldn't faint.
A fat man in maroon robes, a narrow silver crown sitting on a bald head, stepped out of the shadows inside the gate. Sharpe heard Tzimiskes say, "Hypasteos Vourtzes" as he sketched a brief bow from the perch of his saddle. The fat man murmured a few things. Tzimiskes face turned stony, but said not a word. Skapti's Odin eye scanned back and forth over the Rifles and Marines once. He shrugged his shoulders, then nodded an affirmative to whatever the question had been.
The fat man's pudgy face scowled a moment. He said something, waved a hand in the air, and turned around to walk back inside the town. The mercenary giants quickly followed. Tzimiskes allowed himself a short grin and called out in Greek.
"They'll take us for now as simple garrison troops, Major," Frederickson translated. "Tzimiskes will show us to our barracks."
- - - - -
Sharpe didn't remember ordering the men into column, but sure enough they were marching through dark streets, some cobblestone and others dirt. He shivered the whole time, unable to pay attention to the twists and turns Tzimiskes led them through. The one story building they arrived at looked to have seen better days, but it had a mostly intact roof and chimneys at either end. The men had stayed in plenty worse. "Captain Palmer, send some Marines to find water. Lieutenant Minver, your Rifles have to make sure there are enough loos. Captain Frederickson, detail some men to scrounge up whatever food we've left and make a kitchen. The rest of you, clean this sty out. We'll figure out the rest in the morning." When the lads dispersed, he walked inside and found a corner to get out of the way in.
- - - - -
Sharpe woke to the sound of moaning. Something wet lay over his face, he could barely see. The moaning he distantly realized was his.
- - - - -
"Sooooo, cold. Cold," he shivered.
"Move him closer to the fire," someone commanded.
Sharpe felt hands lift him and move him. More sticky wetness dribbled down off his brow, threatening to glue his eyes shut again. It smelled horrible. It smelled of death. His stomach revolted. He wretched.
"It'll be alright, Sir," Patrick whispered. "They're getting' a doctor for ya."
"A priest," he barely heard William snort with disgust.
- - - - -
Something blue hovered over him. Sharpe felt woozy, disjointed, and cold as hell or a Spanish winter in the mountains. He tried to focus, now seeing what might be a hand reaching out for him; above it a thin-faced man with bright, burning eyes was chanting softly. "Blah, blah Phos … blah, blah … Phos blah." Fingers gently touched his forehead. Sharpe screamed in agony, they felt like red hot pokers piercing his brain. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes, battling with the blood and puss crusted to his lashes. His body stiffened and clenched and shook. He bit down hard on his tongue, fearing to unman himself in front of the men.
Calm.
Light.
Peace.
The pain drained out of him like dirty water swirling out of a tub.
"Jesus, Joseph, and Mary," Harper mumbled. He heard others around him gasp, "Magic."
He blinked, and then in irritation raised a hand to swipe once, swipe twice the putrid smelling gunk off his face and forehead. Able now to see, a blue clad, shave headed priest hovered over him as he lay on a blanket. The fire in the eyes of that thin face now appeared banked compared to how brightly they'd glowed before. The man gave him a tired smile. "Blah, blah Phos."
"Phos," Sharpe whispered back to him.
"Do ya see that, just a wee scar, Captain!" Harper expostulated.
"How do you feel, Major?" William asked.
"I'm hungry," he answered in a matter-of-fact voice.