Sharpe's Punishment by Sharpiefan
TITLE: Sharpe's Punishment
AUTHOR: sharpiefan
CHARACTERS: Sharpe, Harper
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Sharpe doesn't go easy on those who break his rules. Ever
DISCLAIMER: The Sharpe series belongs to Bernard Cornwell. I may borrow the characters occasionally, but I do take care of them.
CHALLENGE PROMPT: Booze
WORD COUNT: 681
Sharpe had three rules, for his company. Keep those, and you wouldn’t get in trouble with the Provosts, who could hang you, and, more importantly, you wouldn’t get in trouble with Harper, who could make your life sheer misery without even trying. And, of course, you wouldn’t get in trouble with Mister Sharpe, who could make you wish you were dead.
Just three rules:
Don’t steal, unless it's from the enemy or you’re starving.
Fight like the Devil.
Don’t get drunk without permission.
The first rule was the one that the provosts must’ve coerced him into making. That was their favourite reason for hanging soldiers, their favourite pastime. The second rule only actually applied on the battlefield, although Sharpe hadn’t specified that. The one and only time there had been a milling in the Light Company, Sharpe and Harper had come down on the two soldiers involved like a ton of bricks. Both the soldiers had been on punishment duty for the next month.
It was the last rule that the Light Company hated the most. Drink was probably the main reason most of them had joined; they’d been too fly to be caught by the recruiting sergeant while sober. And now they were in the Army, and they saw other soldiers getting drunk on a regular basis, it irked them that they couldn’t.
Sharpe knew this. He also knew when to turn a blind eye to the fact that several of the men had wine or rum in their canteens. He wouldn’t turn a blind eye if one of those men drank the lot all at once and ended up pissed as a newt.
He was standing outside his tent; cradling the cup of tea Harper had brought him, and deliberately not saying a word. He knew why Harper had come, and refused to make it easy for the Sergeant.
Harper scuffed his toe in the dirt, trying to think of something to say. He felt a certain responsibility to his men; he always had done; yet he also felt a strong loyalty to his officers. This was why he’d never wanted to be a sergeant, and why Sharpe had made him take the stripes. He sighed. “Peters and Robinson were drunk last night, sir.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because one of them ended up taking a swing at Corporal Nicholls, sir.”
Sharpe sighed and threw the dregs of tea towards the fire. “Did the punch land?” If it had, it would be a flogging offence, and Sharpe hated floggings. He would do whatever it took to avoid handing them out, but he wouldn’t be able to if the corporal had actually been struck.
Harper tried to dodge answering. “Nicholls says not, sir.”
“But?”
“But he was sporting a black eye this morning, sir.”
Sharpe growled. That was something he did not want to hear. “So why didn’t Nicholls come and report it himself?” Yes, he was backing Harper into a corner. No, he didn’t care. And he probably knew the answer anyway: Nicholls, like himself, did not want to be responsible for getting anyone flogged.
Harper didn’t answer the question directly. “Peters and Robinson were both drunk, and it was dark. He wasn’t entirely sure which of them it was.”
“How drunk were they?” Sharpe asked. If he couldn’t, no, wouldn’t, flog them, he could still make them feel very sorry for themselves.
“Drunk enough that they’re regretting it now. They looked awfully white on parade this morning.”
“Sign out thirty rounds of ammunition each for fifteen men, and give them some firing practice. That should make sure they don’t do it again.”
Harper grinned. “Will you be coming to watch?”
“No. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on.”
Harper saluted and turned away. Sharpe sighed, and turned back to his tent. He wasn’t going to admit it to Harper, but staring at the company books was only going to make the pounding in his own head hurt worse. Still, it was his own fault for getting drunk last night and he’d take his punishment like a man. Sharpe’s punishment.
AUTHOR: sharpiefan
CHARACTERS: Sharpe, Harper
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Sharpe doesn't go easy on those who break his rules. Ever
DISCLAIMER: The Sharpe series belongs to Bernard Cornwell. I may borrow the characters occasionally, but I do take care of them.
CHALLENGE PROMPT: Booze
WORD COUNT: 681
Sharpe had three rules, for his company. Keep those, and you wouldn’t get in trouble with the Provosts, who could hang you, and, more importantly, you wouldn’t get in trouble with Harper, who could make your life sheer misery without even trying. And, of course, you wouldn’t get in trouble with Mister Sharpe, who could make you wish you were dead.
Just three rules:
Don’t steal, unless it's from the enemy or you’re starving.
Fight like the Devil.
Don’t get drunk without permission.
The first rule was the one that the provosts must’ve coerced him into making. That was their favourite reason for hanging soldiers, their favourite pastime. The second rule only actually applied on the battlefield, although Sharpe hadn’t specified that. The one and only time there had been a milling in the Light Company, Sharpe and Harper had come down on the two soldiers involved like a ton of bricks. Both the soldiers had been on punishment duty for the next month.
It was the last rule that the Light Company hated the most. Drink was probably the main reason most of them had joined; they’d been too fly to be caught by the recruiting sergeant while sober. And now they were in the Army, and they saw other soldiers getting drunk on a regular basis, it irked them that they couldn’t.
Sharpe knew this. He also knew when to turn a blind eye to the fact that several of the men had wine or rum in their canteens. He wouldn’t turn a blind eye if one of those men drank the lot all at once and ended up pissed as a newt.
He was standing outside his tent; cradling the cup of tea Harper had brought him, and deliberately not saying a word. He knew why Harper had come, and refused to make it easy for the Sergeant.
Harper scuffed his toe in the dirt, trying to think of something to say. He felt a certain responsibility to his men; he always had done; yet he also felt a strong loyalty to his officers. This was why he’d never wanted to be a sergeant, and why Sharpe had made him take the stripes. He sighed. “Peters and Robinson were drunk last night, sir.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because one of them ended up taking a swing at Corporal Nicholls, sir.”
Sharpe sighed and threw the dregs of tea towards the fire. “Did the punch land?” If it had, it would be a flogging offence, and Sharpe hated floggings. He would do whatever it took to avoid handing them out, but he wouldn’t be able to if the corporal had actually been struck.
Harper tried to dodge answering. “Nicholls says not, sir.”
“But?”
“But he was sporting a black eye this morning, sir.”
Sharpe growled. That was something he did not want to hear. “So why didn’t Nicholls come and report it himself?” Yes, he was backing Harper into a corner. No, he didn’t care. And he probably knew the answer anyway: Nicholls, like himself, did not want to be responsible for getting anyone flogged.
Harper didn’t answer the question directly. “Peters and Robinson were both drunk, and it was dark. He wasn’t entirely sure which of them it was.”
“How drunk were they?” Sharpe asked. If he couldn’t, no, wouldn’t, flog them, he could still make them feel very sorry for themselves.
“Drunk enough that they’re regretting it now. They looked awfully white on parade this morning.”
“Sign out thirty rounds of ammunition each for fifteen men, and give them some firing practice. That should make sure they don’t do it again.”
Harper grinned. “Will you be coming to watch?”
“No. I’ve got paperwork to catch up on.”
Harper saluted and turned away. Sharpe sighed, and turned back to his tent. He wasn’t going to admit it to Harper, but staring at the company books was only going to make the pounding in his own head hurt worse. Still, it was his own fault for getting drunk last night and he’d take his punishment like a man. Sharpe’s punishment.