Rumors (drabble)
Rumors
Rifleman Perkins was used to being patronised and mocked, being the youngest of the handful of Mr. Sharpe’s riflemen, but this was too much! He was wearing a dress, a dress! All for the sake of the mission, Mr. Sharpe had previously told him. Sergeant Harper had sung something about green fields, cows and pretty maidens and bloody Harris had recited some funny poetry from someone probably dead centuries ago. Bugger them, thought Rifleman Perkins, and bugger the dress! But he didn’t dare to take it off. Mr. Sharpe wouldn’t like it.
“What happened later?”
“I don’t know, sir, I lost sight of Perkins just when he was lifting his skirt… very tempting, sir”
That made Captain Hogan burst into laughter.
“So, a very succesful night, Richard?”
“You could say so, sir” laughed Sharpe. Hogan poured more wine into their glasses. He was enjoying an unexpected good dinner at that filthy tavern somewhere between Spain and Portugal. The Chief of Wellesley’s Intelligence was in high spirits, not for the tasty mutton but for the mischievious tale the captain of the South Essex was reeling off.
“Patrick Harper, explain yourself, ahora!” shouted Ramona, hands on her hips.
“Ssh, love, it’s just a dress. I thought you would like to have a new one. It’s pretty, isn’t it?” The huge Sergeant touched the white linen gently.
“But it’s stained with blood, and it has a tear in the skirt. What…?”
“Ssh, love, don’t ask”
Riflemen took care of themselves.
“Captain Hogan said you asked for me, sir”
“Yes, Sharpe, I asked for you. There’s some funny tale running around, about some pretty spy, a pretty young english spy”
“Is there, sir?”
General Wellesley wasn’t fooled by the wooden answer. He knew Sharpe. Never talking straight to senior officers. The ragged captain was standing still, looking at a point between the general eyes. They were alone in the General’s office. There was a camp bed in one corner, the walls with maps of Spain and Portugal. Wellesley took his pencil and wrote a few minutes. When he finished, he sank back into the chair and spoke conversationally.
“There are three kind of officers, Sharpe, the ones who do the job, tho ones who order the job to be done and the ones that are bloody useless, and by God that we have plenty of those! But you are, I believe, the kind of officer that never would ask something from his men that he couldn’t do himself.”
Sharpe shivered. Usually nothing good came from a soft Wellesley.
“Sir!” answered Sharpe. He didn’t knew if an answer at all was expected from him.
The General cocked his head towards a chair in the shadows, near the bed. Sharpe looked at closely. His eyes widened in disbelief, a blush in his tanned face.
On the chair was a lacey, wanton dress.
Rifleman Perkins was used to being patronised and mocked, being the youngest of the handful of Mr. Sharpe’s riflemen, but this was too much! He was wearing a dress, a dress! All for the sake of the mission, Mr. Sharpe had previously told him. Sergeant Harper had sung something about green fields, cows and pretty maidens and bloody Harris had recited some funny poetry from someone probably dead centuries ago. Bugger them, thought Rifleman Perkins, and bugger the dress! But he didn’t dare to take it off. Mr. Sharpe wouldn’t like it.
“What happened later?”
“I don’t know, sir, I lost sight of Perkins just when he was lifting his skirt… very tempting, sir”
That made Captain Hogan burst into laughter.
“So, a very succesful night, Richard?”
“You could say so, sir” laughed Sharpe. Hogan poured more wine into their glasses. He was enjoying an unexpected good dinner at that filthy tavern somewhere between Spain and Portugal. The Chief of Wellesley’s Intelligence was in high spirits, not for the tasty mutton but for the mischievious tale the captain of the South Essex was reeling off.
“Patrick Harper, explain yourself, ahora!” shouted Ramona, hands on her hips.
“Ssh, love, it’s just a dress. I thought you would like to have a new one. It’s pretty, isn’t it?” The huge Sergeant touched the white linen gently.
“But it’s stained with blood, and it has a tear in the skirt. What…?”
“Ssh, love, don’t ask”
Riflemen took care of themselves.
“Captain Hogan said you asked for me, sir”
“Yes, Sharpe, I asked for you. There’s some funny tale running around, about some pretty spy, a pretty young english spy”
“Is there, sir?”
General Wellesley wasn’t fooled by the wooden answer. He knew Sharpe. Never talking straight to senior officers. The ragged captain was standing still, looking at a point between the general eyes. They were alone in the General’s office. There was a camp bed in one corner, the walls with maps of Spain and Portugal. Wellesley took his pencil and wrote a few minutes. When he finished, he sank back into the chair and spoke conversationally.
“There are three kind of officers, Sharpe, the ones who do the job, tho ones who order the job to be done and the ones that are bloody useless, and by God that we have plenty of those! But you are, I believe, the kind of officer that never would ask something from his men that he couldn’t do himself.”
Sharpe shivered. Usually nothing good came from a soft Wellesley.
“Sir!” answered Sharpe. He didn’t knew if an answer at all was expected from him.
The General cocked his head towards a chair in the shadows, near the bed. Sharpe looked at closely. His eyes widened in disbelief, a blush in his tanned face.
On the chair was a lacey, wanton dress.