NOT FOR HONOUR ALONE
by Clio

Part 2

Edrington had been oddly unnerved by the stares of the green-jacketed
men. They had appeared knowing and contemptuous. Especially the tall
officer with the tattered sash and long sword. His blue eyes had met
Edrington's for just a moment, but in that short span of time his
feelings had been made clear. Not since he was an ensign had Edrington
felt so effectively dismissed.

He had recognized the green jackets, as well as the weapons carried by
the men. Baker rifles. The most accurate firearm made. Just as the
riflemen were the elite light troops in Wellington's army.

He turned to his second-in-command, who was riding to his right and
slightly behind. Major Harlan was a veteran of the war in Spain, a
grizzled and disgruntled man of nearly fifty years. He had been stalled
at the rank of major for just over six years, possessing neither the
money nor the ability to raise himself to lieutenant colonel. His
disappointment at being passed over for command yet again had made him
silent and morose. He never spoke to his colonel unless first spoken to.

"Major" Edrington began. "I wasn't aware that there were any
Greenjackets in this division. Who were those riflemen that we saw with
the South Essex?"

Harlan started out of his haze. He had long ago perfected the ability to
all but sleep on horseback; allowing the motion of the horse to lull him
into a veritable stupor. He had, however, heard Edrington's question,
and he answered it in his usual abrupt manner.

"95th Rifles, m'lord. Attached to the light company of the South Essex."

"And their officer?"

At that question Harlan perked up. He was somewhat amazed that his
commander had not recognized the man, and he let it show. "Their
officer? You mean you didn't know him, sir?"

Edrington shook his head, wondering why it was such a surprise that he
had failed to place the tall officer with the rifle and scarred face.
"No, I didn't. Should I have?"

"That was Sharpe, my lord." Harlan said.

He knew the name, of course. There was scarcely a man in the army that
didn't. Still, he managed to keep his expression impassive and show no
surprise at having encountered the infamous Captain Richard Sharpe.

"So that was the Hero of Talavera? The man first over the breach at
Badajoz?" he asked. "Odd, he didn't look ten feet tall."

"Sir?"

"Nothing, Major. A slip of the tongue." He smiled slightly and nodded
to the other man. "Thank you for the information, Major." And he
spurred toward the head of his regiment.

That evening when the army bivouacked Edrington was surprised to find the
86th encamped alongside the South Essex. The veterans of both battalions
swapped stories and traded tobacco for hoarded rum and brandy. What food
there was the men had used to fashion a halfway decent meal for
themselves. Once the sun set the heat of the day quickly dissipated,
leaving groups hunched around their fires.

Edrington had spent a couple of hours getting caught up on the company
commander's reports, so that he could prepare his report for the
divisional commander. It was a tedious duty that needed to be done every
month. He had been putting it off, waiting for his shoulder to at least
partly heal. When it could not be set aside any longer, he had forced
himself to sit and get the job done.

Now, nearly three hours later, he rose from his camp stool, stiff from
sitting for so long hunched over the tiny table that passed as his desk.
His left hand was cramped and his injured shoulder was aching fiercely.
The night had turned cold, and he shivered in the breeze that came
through the open tent flap. He looked out on row after row of glowing
fires; heard the laughter, the snatches of song. Since the shooting he
had kept to his tent at night rather than making his customary walk
through the camp before retiring, but on this night he wanted to be back
amidst his men. He swung his greatcoat on his shoulders and went out
into the night.

He paced along the rows of tents, acknowledging the murmured sirs and
m'lords with a nod or a brief smile. It was strange, he thought to
himself, how the men had accepted him without hardly a thought, but he
constantly had to prove his worth to the other officers. Many of them
had served in the regiments that had gone into making the 86th, and a few
had hoped to be named commander. He recognized the reasons for their
resentment, but what could be done? That was the army way.

He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice Private Andrews come up
beside him.

"Sir?" the young man asked. "Should you be out here in this cold, sir?"

"Don't cluck, Andrews. I'm fine."

"Yes sir. Of course sir." Andrews faded away into the dark. But not
too far; he followed his commander at a distance.

Edrington smiled to himself. Andrews could always be counted on to do
what was expected of him. He wouldn't hover, but he would damn sure make
certain his colonel made it back to his tent safely. I may as well take
advantage of him while he's there, Edrington thought to himself.

"Andrews." he called. There was no response. "Andrews, I know you're
skulking back there, so if you wouldn't mind stepping forward, I'd like
to talk to you."

Grinning sheepishly, Andrews came closer. He stood rigidly at attention.

"At ease, Andrews. Please. You make me nervous when you act like that."
Edrington said, the humour unmistakable in his voice.

Andrews relaxed his posture slightly. "You wished to speak to me,
m'lord?"

Edrington sighed. "And you can drop the 'm'lord' nonsense as well. You
know me far better than that by now."

"Yes, sir." Andrews said. "What did you want to speak to me about, sir?"

Edrington glanced around at the soldiers lounging by their fires. He
pitched his voice low so only his orderly could hear him. "I'm curious
about something, Andrews, and I can't get any information from my
officers." Andrews snorted. It was the closest he would come to
criticizing any of the 86th's junior officers. Edrington continued.
"Can you gather what information you can about the South Essex? And
about Captain Sharpe in particular?"

Sharpe, sir?" Andrews asked. "Why do you want to know about him? The
men say he's some kind of madman. That he fights like a demon, and that
he bloody well can't be killed." He blushed slightly at his language.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir. But he did capture that eagle at Talavera,
and he survived the breach at Badajoz. From what I hear nobody crosses
Captain Sharpe. They say that the general - Lord Wellington, sir - has a
special attachment to Sharpe."

"Do they?" Edrington asked, his curiosity piqued. He glanced sidelong at
his companion. "Andrews, I want you to do something for me. Keep your
eyes and ears open, and bring me any information you can gather about
Captain Sharpe."

"I will, sir." Andrews looked puzzled. "But, may I ask why, sir?"

Edrington stopped and looked up at the vast canopy of stars overhead.
"Just a feeling, Andrews. It may come in handy some day."

They had continued walking as they talked, and at some point had crossed
the imaginary barrier separating one regiment from another. They were in
the South Essex's territory now. Edrington turned abruptly to head back
to his own battalion and was overcome by a wave of dizziness. He lurched
into Andrews, catching the young man by surprise and nearly tumbling both
of them to the ground. But Andrews recovered quickly, caught, and held
his colonel.

"86th!" he shouted. "86th to me!"

Ghostly shapes rose from the ground and came towards them. The first to
arrive was a tall man, very like a giant in the darkness.

"Here, lad. What's all this about, then?" The soft Irish voice was
cajoling. "You'd best let him down gently. Give the good colonel a
chance to recover his wits."

Voices were coming from the direction of the 86th's camp by then, along
with the sound of running footsteps. Andrews knelt and lowered Edrington
to the ground, checking the colonel's right shoulder for any sign that
the wound had broken open. He looked frantically about. "Light!" he
said. "I need light!"

A huge hand came down on his shoulder, calming him. "Easy, lad. Your
boys are coming. They'll take care of your colonel, they will."

"Harper!" The shout split the air. "What the bloody hell is going on
here?"

The giant stood up straight and spoke to someone over Andrews' head. "I
don't rightly know, sir. The lad here called out for help. When I got
here he was holding the colonel, the pair of them like to fall over in a
heap."

Sharpe looked down at the officer lying at his feet. It was the colonel
that they had encountered earlier that day. Again he noticed how drawn
and wan the other man's face was.

"What's the matter with him?" Sharpe asked Andrews. "Is he sick?"

Andrews looked up towards the voice and was momentarily stunned to see
the very man he and his colonel had been discussing just moments before.
He recovered his voice quickly enough, however. "No, sir. He was
wounded. Four days ago, sir."

Before Sharpe could say another word some men of the 86th arrived on the
scene, among them Sergeant Owen. At the sight of Edrington lying on the
ground Owen quickly pushed through the press of men, knocking Sharpe
aside in his haste to see to his commander.

"Here!" Owen called. "Bring that torch closer!" He knelt down beside
Andrews and looked at him with a questioning glance. "What happened?"
was all he said.

Andrews shook his head. "I don't know. He was fine one moment and
then..." The orderly swallowed hard. "He's not..."

Owen gave Andrews a scathing look. "No, he's not dead! Just a bit of
dizziness, I gather." He gestured to a canteen held by one of the men.
"Let me have that."

The soldier clasped his canteen close. "But, Sarge!" he protested. "Its
not water..."

He got no further. Owen stood up and snatched the canteen out of his
hands. "I'm sure its not! But what I need now is brandy, but rum will
just have to do." And he poured a small stream of liquid into
Edrington's mouth.

Edrington immediately began to cough and splutter. The rum burned a path
down his throat and brought him back to his senses. He opened his eyes to
see Andrews, Owen, and a host of others gathered around him. He tried to
sit up and felt a hand on his back, supporting him.

"Easy, sir." Owen's voice. "Not so fast." Two other men helped him
rise to his feet. Owen kept a supporting hand on his back. "Are you all
right, m'lord?" he asked.

"Yes." he answered; his voice hoarse. He tried to nod to emphasize his
answer, but the dizziness came again. He leaned against Owen for a
moment before recovering himself. "I'm fine." he said in a stronger
voice. "Just got a bit dizzy, that's all." He seemed to notice for the
first time that two of the men present were not his. He met the cold
blue eyes of the officer and recognized Sharpe from their earlier
encounter.

Sharpe had stiffened as soon as he heard the sergeant address his
commander as m'lord. Just what I thought, he told himself. A worthless,
idiotic and titled fop. Whatever pity he may have felt at the other
man's condition quickly evaporated, disgust taking its place. He
sketched a small salute and made to walk away.

"Thank you for your help, Captain...?" The inflection of his voice made
it a question.

"Sharpe." was the response. "Captain Richard Sharpe." His voice was as
hard and cold as granite. He gestured to his companion. "And Sergeant
Harper."

Edrington looked at the large Irishman, and a fleeting smile crossed his
lip. "My thanks to you both."

Sharpe nodded once as Harper smiled to acknowledge the thanks. Then the
pair of riflemen turned and walked briskly away.

"Come on, sir." Owen said. "Lets get you back to your tent and settled
for the night." He smiled at Andrews. "I don't know about you two, but
I surely could stand a little less excitement in my life!"