InsaneJournal

Sharpe's Flag
Spoiler: Sharpe's Eagle (movie), Sharpe's Enemy



"Like to join the Rifles, Dobbs?"
"That I would, sir!"
"It’s a good life. If you can stay alive."

It had been a long, dry and hungry march from Talavera to the fort where the Light Company of the South Essex now found themselves. At least they’d had plenty of water, as their route of march followed the Tagus for most of the way. And those words, spoken on a battlefield over a week ago, refused to leave Dobbs’ mind.

Dobbs was grateful that their new officer, Captain Sharpe, allowed them to take a five minute rest break every two hours, unlike Colonel Simmerson, who’d driven them mercilessly through the heat of the Spanish summer. Dobbs’ back still hurt two weeks after the flogging he’d received for collapsing from fatigue.

The redcoats held Captain Sharpe in some awe, especially after hearing the stories the green-jacketed Riflemen told about him, that he’d been commissioned from the ranks after saving Wellesley’s life, and Dobbs watched the new captain as he wandered around the fort, looking at the state of the walls and the readiness of the men. Mostly, though, the officer watched the hills outside.

It had only been three days since the Light Company had arrived at the old disused fort that guarded this crossing of the River Tagus in Spain, but already the men were grumbling about being sent to do a duty that nobody else wanted to do. Dobbs had watched Sharpe and the big sergeant, Harper, as they’d held a discussion only that morning, two hours before sunrise. An hour later, Harper had taken half of the Riflemen with him as he went to explore the small convent that lay a short distance from the fort. The convent was small by the standards of monastic buildings in Spain, and Dobbs knew the Sergeant should probably have been back by now.

Dobbs couldn’t understand it. They’d beaten the French at Talavera, had even taken an Eagle there, but they were retreating to Portugal. The rumours going round spoke of promises made by the Spanish that they hadn’t kept, promises to feed the British army. At least, the nobility had broken their promises. The peasantry had supplied the soldiers with what they could without condemning themselves to starvation during the winter, but it wasn’t enough. And so the army was retreating.

Dobbs watched the officer walk the wall again, before coming back to one particular spot looking east, towards the convent. Sharpe pulled out his telescope, obviously hoping to catch a glimpse of green, but collapsed it again after a few seconds. He turned an unseeing gaze on Dobbs who swallowed and bent to fiddle with the lock of his musket.

He looked up as a shadow fell over him, and hurriedly straightened as he realised the officer had closed the gap between them. The bullying days of Lieutenant Berry weren’t so far behind that he was comfortable with an officer noticing him. His back was still painful at times, as if to remind him how unwelcome that attention could be.

"You still haven’t seen me about transferring to the Rifles," Sharpe said, looking down at Dobbs’ musket.

Dobbs wet suddenly dry lips. "No, sir."

"Changed your mind, have you?"

He shook his head. "No, sir."

"Well, come and see me once we’re out of here and I’ll make the arrangements for you."

"Yes, sir."

No, he hadn’t changed his mind. He did want to stay in Captain Sharpe’s Company though. He had a feeling that Sharpe was going to be a good officer to serve under, and he also wanted to find out more about this officer commissioned from the ranks.

There was a shout from behind the officer and Sharpe turned. Dobbs looked over the wall to see a Rifleman running from the convent.

The man came through the gate and Sharpe went down to meet him. Dobbs overheard a few words, enough to make him tighten his grip on his musket and stare back over the wall. The French were coming! And the British only had a few rounds each…

As if to confirm this, he saw the other Riflemen leave the convent. They didn’t run, so maybe the French weren’t as close as he’d thought?

Sharpe called the redcoats to him. "It’s like this, lads," he said. "There’s some food supplies in the convent over there, enough to keep us going for a week or so. We’re going to fetch them, before the Frogs can get here. They’re not very far away, but they’re only infantry, so they won’t be here for about three hours, which should be enough time for us to get most of the food from the convent back here."

The men began muttering and Sharpe raised his voice a little. "The more men who help out here, the quicker we’ll get done. The only person who won’t be expected to carry anything is Dobbs, because he’s going to be looking out for the French."

Dobbs nodded at this and turned to go back up to the firestep. Behind him, he heard the men taking their equipment and jackets off. Fetching and carrying was going to be hot work, and he was glad that he wasn’t expected to take part. He heard footsteps behind him and turned. "Sir?"

"If you see the French, give us a signal," Sharpe said.

"What sort of signal, sir?"

Sharpe looked at the flag pole nearby. "We don’t have a flag, lad, so hoist your jacket instead. We’ll see it and come straight back."

"Yes, sir."

Sharpe smiled suddenly. "I remember being flogged myself. I could barely stand up for a week afterwards. You won’t be able to fetch and carry like the rest of us for at least another week, so take it easy for a bit." He turned to rejoin the others and Dobbs watched him put his own jacket with theirs.

An officer, yet more than that, Dobbs thought. Was that what being a Rifleman meant?

Three hours later, he saw a dust cloud. It hung low and thick, and he realised that it was the French infantry. He didn’t know where the cavalry were, or even if there were any nearby, but the infantry were here. He hastily pulled off his equipment and unbuttoned his jacket to run it up the bare pole above the gate.

The men came back into the fort, grabbing jackets and equipment as they rushed to their places on the walls. Harper and another Rifleman closed the gates, and silence descended as they waited.

It wasn’t long before the French were within rifle range, and Dobbs watched as the greenjackets began firing, aiming their rifles at the officers and sergeants. The French had no guns with them, and Dobbs wondered what they were planning, how they could get into a fort defended by both rifles and muskets. They could wait for the British to run out of ammunition, but that would take ages, and they had enough food now to last several weeks.

The French were in musket range now, and the redcoats began firing as well. A French musket ball hit Rifleman Carter, to Dobbs’ left, and the clatter of his rifle against the wall made Dobbs jump.

Someone called something in French and suddenly a French officer came forward, waving a white cloth. Dobbs watched Sharpe lay his rifle down and stand up. "Who are you?" he called to the Frenchman.

"I am Capitaine Rancourt," the Frenchman called, "and I am here to demand the surrender of you and your men."

"My men have enough ammunition to last until next year, and enough food to last for six months, while I think you have very little of either,” Sharpe called back. “Also, my army know where I am and have sent reinforcements which will be arriving very shortly."

The Frenchman looked disappointed at this and turned away. Dobbs noticed something behind the French and called over to Sharpe. "Capitaine, my reinforcements will be here in an hour. I suggest you leave. You can gain nothing by staying here."

Rancourt nodded and turned away. Soon the French soldiers were in column, marching away.

An hour later and the reinforcements arrived: a single company of the 60th, under an officer who pulled his hair off with his shako and used it to mop his head. The men looked just as tired and hungry as Dobbs had been when the Light Company had got here, four days before.

"I was expecting more than one company," Sharpe was saying to the 60th’s officer.

"The others won’t be here for a while yet. They didn’t want to associate themselves with a regiment that lost a Colour."

"We took another one." Sharpe’s tone was grim.

"I know, I saw you do it. That’s why we’re here."

"And now we’re leaving. We’ll be going back to Portugal with you, Captain Frederickson. If you don’t mind."

Frederickson grinned. "I don’t mind. Anyone who can take an Eagle is more than welcome to join us."

Sharpe turned and saw Dobbs watching them. "What are you waiting for, lad? Get Carter’s jacket and equipment, and fall in with the Rifles!"

"Yes, sir!"

As they marched away, Dobbs was with Sharpe’s Riflemen. His old jacket still fluttered from the flagpole above the forlorn old fort, where it had been Sharpe’s flag.