Sharpe's Curse Part II
I keep forgetting that a post can only be so long, or something like that...
~~~~~
Wellington was stroking Sharpe again. Hogan smiled bemusedly. He didn’t know the General liked cats, but there was Richard sprawled across his maps and his all important dispatches while Colonel Barkley complained about him.
“So you are saying that this idle little fellow beat off four dogs?” Wellington asked. His tone was amused. That Sharpe did not object to the description showed how far gone he was under the spell of the caressing hand. Sharpe looked boneless as only a cat could. Almost rolled entirely on his back, a front leg raised in the air, the paw dangling as the General scratched under his chin. Barkley looked at the way Wellington was stroking the cat.
Puuuurrrrrrrr.
“Is he yours, then sir?”
“I only met this handsome fellow this morning and he has been a perfect gentleman. Colonel Hogan has taken him under his wing.”
“I’ll take care of any damages, Barkley.” Hogan offered.
“Nonsense, Hogan!” Wellington turned to Colonel Barkley, “Isn’t your black beast the size of a small horse? I would have feared for the cat. He must have frightened him terribly.”
Puuuuuuurrrrrrrrr…
Barkley was beginning to have his own doubts, “Perhaps the little beast was only trying to get away… yes, he must have been frightened. Quite. Quite. Doubt a cat could really have routed four dogs.”
“I would say it could not have, Barkley.” Wellington replied.
“Just a misunderstanding, eh? Fighting like dogs and cats.” Colonel Barkley chuckled at his own joke.
After Barkley left, Hogan again reminded the General.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Hogan?”
“That is Captain Sharpe, sir.”
Wellington paused in what he was doing, swore under his breath before smiling deprecatingly at himself as Sharpe butted his hand with his head and demanded his attention again.
“As a cat, he is a restful little fellow isn’t he? Demanding, but rather restful.”
~~~
The basket Hogan tied in front of his saddle was perfect. Sharpe could sit up or lay down as he chose. Somehow, the gait of the horse was easier to handle in his current form. Sergeant Harper and the Chosen Men accompanied them, and they lived off the land as much as off their own stores. Sharpe ranged farther than he could have as a man, returning to report to the Colonel who took notes and made drawings on his maps. Often, he slipped behind the enemy lines while his men waited nervously for his return.
It was towards the end of a week out in the field when Sharpe smelled cooking fires, horses, goats and dogs.
“Meowwrr. Mrrr. Mowrr.”
Some sort of encampment up wind, sir. I can smell cooking fires and roasting chickens.
“French?” enquired Hogan
“Rrrr. Mewrr.”
No, the horses are clean. I also smell goats and dogs.
Clucking to his horse, Hogan turned. “It may be a band of gypsies, Richard. We may be in luck.”
“Let us scout it out first, sir.” Harper said as with a motion, he sent two pairs of riflemen up ahead. It was not long before they returned with their reports.
“Six wagons, sir. A few carts, donkeys, horses and other life stock. They look like they’ve been here a few days.”
Hogan called out as they approached the wagons. The markings were familiar. They were in luck. He had crossed paths with this particular tribe before. Several voices responded, inviting him to the circle.
Richard leapt down from the saddle to do his own reconnaissance, leaving his Sergeant to bivouac the men on the edge of the encampment and set a piquet.
“Meowrrr.”
I’ll be back.
Before he had gone far, he was found by the camp cats. He paused, accessing the situation. He had not encountered this many strange cats in one place.
Hello stranger.
Hello.
They prowled slowly forward and fanned out to encircle him. He moved uneasily and showed his teeth in a silent snarl. He easily outweighed them but still, they were many.
What are you doing here? Who have you come with? How did you come here?
I come on my own. I go where I choose.
He growled, allowing them to know he would stand against them. Outnumbered or no.
~~~
The cat fight could be heard from the camp fire. Hogan had been eating slowly, expecting Sharpe to join him so he could slip him a few morsels from his plate. He looked up uneasily now.
“It’s just the cats,” one of the men said, not looking up from his plate, “they get into little fights over the queens… over territory.”
Another chuckled. “We move often, so there’s always fight over territory.”
Hogan looked in the direction of the angry shrieks uneasily. “I… brought my cat with me.”
There was laughter now. “If it is male, it will learn soon, who holds the woods. If it’s female, it will learn who leads the pack.”
The sounds grew louder. They could hear thrashing in the underbrush. It sounded, to Hogan’s ears, like a fearsome fight. Another angry shriek, a howl. A scream. He hadn’t known that cats could make so many different sounds. Then the underbrush rustled and a large ginger cat walked into the firelight. The flames cast a reddish glow on its fur. It held its large plumed tail with its black streak down the center high, stalked into the circle of the firelight and sat by Hogan regally. It was bloody. An ear had been chewed on. Some fur was missing from its side and there was a gash over an eye.
“Richard?”
“Meeow!”
Showed them!
“Are you all right?”
“Meeowwrrr!”
Never felt better, sir! But I’m hungry now and that chicken smells good from here.
Sharpe seemed to be bursting with energy and practically swelled with pride. Hogan looked dubious, but not knowing what else to say or do, he set his plate down and Sharpe ate lustily. The men were buzzing with talk at the appearance of the cat.
“That is your cat?”
“It is.”
“It is some cat! What kind is it?”
“It comes from the ancient lands of the Abyssinians. A grand cat it indeed is.” The new voice hushed all others. The clan matriarch had deigned to join them. Men stood to lend a hand to the old woman. A chair was brought for her. A plate filled.
Sharpe looked up, cocking his head to look at the clan matriarch. She was attended by three young women who gasped and cooed at the sight of him. He sat up in alarm as hands reached out for him.
“Mowwrrr!”
Ladies! Your pardon!
More than a pair of hands were on him and before he could run, he was swept into warm arms and a soft bosom.
“Meow!”
Help!
Hogan chuckled as the young women fussed over Sharpe and cuddled him.
“Stop fussing, Richard, I wager you are in good hands.”
According the woman the same respect her clan did, Hogan addressed her after she had finished her meal.
“This is my cat, mother. Have you met him before?”
She smiled. “Maybe I have, and maybe I have not.”
“He is hurt. Will you help him?”
“Maybe I will and maybe I will not.”
“May I ask that you will?”
The old woman looked at Hogan shrewdly.
“He is important to you.”
“To General Wellington as well, mother. He is useful to me in this form, but we need him as he was if we are to drive the French out of this country.”
“And why is that important to me?”
“The French harass you, do they not? You do not have safe passage through Spain while they hold half of it.”
“There is never safe passage for the Rom.”
“But they make it more difficult.”
“You speak true.”
“The French destroy and despoil the countryside. We British do not. We only seek to liberate Spain from the clutches of Napoleon.”
The matriarch was silent. That she had seen. Seen the carcasses of animals rotting in the sun, felt the pain at the despoiling of the earth mother. She was still a moment longer, then she silently sorted through the many small pouches hung around her neck and waist and extracted one. Selecting a piece of chicken, she dipped her fingers in the pouch and sprinkled some of the contents over it, and placed it on the plate on the ground. With a clap of her hands, she called her attendants and demanded they loose the cat.
Sharpe leapt down and shook himself, before returning to Hogan with a scowl. He was just beginning to enjoy himself. Ahh… more chicken. He was still hungry after that fight. Hogan watched as Sharpe gobbled the last bits of chicken down and began to wash himself. As the firelight waned, the gypsies began to sing. Sharpe had tucked his forepaws under himself, curled his tail around himself and closed his eyes. Soon, however, he settled into a ball and little cat snores could be heard.
Snrrrrrk. Snrrrrrk.
“Bring him to my wagon. I will tend his hurts.”
Hogan obeyed. Lifting the limp cat and following the old woman to her wagon. Within the wagon, he laid Richard on a bench as instructed and tried to press a small purse on the woman.
“Do you think to bribe me for my aid?” Her tone was cold.
“No, mother,” Hogan murmured humbly. “I have been a guest with you before and not once have I brought anything to your fire. Gold is the only thing I have to share.”
She accepted the purse then with a nod. “Very well, you may return for him in the morning.”
Hogan returned to the small encampment the riflemen had made. Sergeant Harper had raised a blanket tent for him and looked around for his Captain.
“The Captain, sir?” He enquired.
“We will return in the morning for him.”
Harper wanted to ask more, but stayed his tongue. He could only trust, hope and pray.
~~~
The cat was handed to Hogan. It was totally limp and he was alarmed. However, it was warm and pliant in his hands. He could feel its heartbeat and its even breathing. The old woman had cleaned the blood off its fur and cleaned its wounds. Hogan lifted it up to his face.
“Richard?” He whispered.
It purred softly.
“What will need to be done now, mother?” He inquired politely of the clan matriarch.
“He sleeps. He heals. And when he wishes to be man again, he will.”
With no other choice given him, Hogan draped the cat into the basket, made his farewells and left the gypsy encampment. He had what he had ranged the land for and now it was time to return to camp.
~~~
Wellington was poring over the maps that Hogan had made, listening intently as he made his report. The intelligence gained was invaluable and Hogan had managed to take notes of French troops and their movement as well.
“You’ve done an excellent job of mapping the country, Hogan. You’ve even managed to note number and type of guns the French have.”
“It is advantageous in some ways to have Sharpe in this form, sir.”
“Yes, well,” Wellington paused. “Captain Sharpe. You said that you had found a Romany tribe you’ve guested with before?”
“Yes, sir.”
Both men looked up at a shout and saw the large orange cat lope in from the direction of the picquets, nimbly avoiding horses, carts and marching men. He’d been hunting again, Hogan thought. There definitely was something large in his mouth.
“When he wishes to be man again?” Wellington asked quietly. Sharpe was displaying more cat-like traits with each passing day.
“That was what the old woman said, sir.”
“It looks like he’s caught another young rabbit.”
“Yes, it does.”
“You understand him, don’t you, Hogan?”
“Frighteningly, sir… Yes, I do.”
As the men watched each keeping his own counsel, the cat approached and laid its latest catch at the General’s feet.
~~~
The camp was getting used to the sight of the large cat that spent much of its time between Colonel Hogan’s and General Wellington’s tents. Wellington had sent the Light Company of the South Essex out under Lieutenant Price and none had dared question where Captain Sharpe was. There was nothing for Sharpe to do except get into trouble and he had managed to do that with aplomb. He was frustrated, agitated and surly. He beat up the camp cats and cowed the dogs except for Colonel Barkley’s Great Dane. The only time he was calm was when he was with Wellington. For whatever reason it was, the General also remained in a better temper when Sharpe was around, and it was only Wellington who could stroke him into a relaxed purring mound of fur.
“Mow.”
Not going!
The nights were getting colder now and Sharpe was reluctant to leave the warmth of the tent. He had resisted Wellington’s every effort to turf him out until the General had given up. He was now comfortably ensconced on the General’s lap, purring loudly as Wellington stroked him.
Hogan chuckled. “Better you than me, sir. He’s already destroyed two mattresses of mine.”
“You let him sleep with you?”
Hogan shrugged.
“He can’t stay in his own camp without his men around. It’s cold. He’s a cat.”
Then he grinned.
“Although, I’m not the one stroking him into a nerveless purring ball of fur.”
Once again, Wellington paused abruptly in his actions. Sharpe complained and the General went back to stroking.
“It is rather nerve wracking if one thinks about it,” admitted Wellington wryly, “but he does look like a cat and behaves like a cat.”
Hogan chuckled and turned to leave the tent, pausing to add before he left, “Oh, by the way sir, he snores.”
Wellington rolled his eyes.
“Wonderful.”
He was still stroking the purring cat.
“You are lucky I have use for you in this form, Mr. Sharpe.”
~~~
“Sharpe, just settle down!”
The cat was kneading, purring happily.
“Argh! Watch those claws!”
Sharpe purred loudly and ignored the jerking under his paws, simply adjusting his weight until Wellington stopped moving, before settling down comfortably. This was nice. He was warm and content. He had long ago acknowledged his wish for Wellington’s approbation. He wanted the General to like him and he liked that Wellington liked him. He found himself enjoying the General’s company. He enjoyed listening to the discussions of military strategy as he lurked in his tent and wished he could participate in them. He just needed to be a man again. Gain new rank and then another, and another. He yawned sleepily.
Wellington muttered under his breath and shifted into a more comfortable position under his blanket. How on God’s green earth had he allowed Hogan to talk him into this? Sharpe had curled up on his chest and now purred contentedly. Wellington glared.
“Does Colonel Hogan actually allow you to sleep ON him?” He asked testily.
The only response he received was another contented purr. He probably did not! He grumped, but could not find it in him to turf the cat off. It was a companionable creature and he had to admit that he enjoyed having it near. He had always enjoyed the company of animals when he was a boy, and sometimes, he missed Jack, the little terrier he had with him in India. Even if it were a little disturbing if he thought into it, he enjoyed the company of Richard Sharpe as a cat. The rumbling purr lulled him to sleep and he did not hear the little cat snores as it in turn found sweet slumber.
~~~
Wellington woke slowly with a sense of well being. He had slept surprisingly well and stirred sleepily in the early morning chill. As his senses slowly came to life, he was aware he was not alone in his bed. Ah yes, the cat. But the cat was not quite so large. He opened his eyes.
“Aargh!”
Richard Sharpe was woken from deep slumber by a startled cry. He jumped and opened his eyes, staring straight into General Wellington’s shocked face.
“Yaargh!”
Thump!
He fell off the General’s campaign bed onto the cold ground. He was naked.
“Good God, Sharpe, you are naked!”
“Sir!”
Sharpe looked around desperately for something to cover himself with. He grabbed at the blanket. Wellington held it tight. He was not letting it go.
“Sir? Are you alright, sir?” It was one of the sentries on guard.
“Everything’s fine, private. The cat startled me.”
Wellington glared at the hapless Captain and hissed.
“Put some clothes on, man!”
“Can’t sir. I don’t have any.” Sharpe whispered back.
“My breeches.”
“I can’t wear your clothes, sir!”
“You don’t have a choice, Mr. Sharpe. Unless you want to be seen running naked from my tent… Dear God. Half naked would be just as bad… maybe worse.”
Sharpe looked around desperately. The camp was beginning to stir, the familiar early morning sounds at once reassuring and alarming. With no other choices before him, he stood and reached for the General’s buff breeches. Wellington fell back into his bed and put his hand over his eyes. He heard Sharpe swear under his breath.
“Is there something wrong Captain?” His voice was frosty and clipped.
“No, umph… sir. Mmmph!”
Sharpe swore again.
“Then I would appreciate that you stop swearing.”
“Sorry sir.” He was still grunting. “A bit tight, sir.”
He swore again as he struggled to get the breeches up, sucking in his breath as he tried to button them. Wellington opened his eyes to a view of his breeches sharply delineating the curves of Sharpe’s rear and closed them again. He moaned. He could only pray that they got out of this mess without anyone seeing a half dressed Richard Sharpe leaving his tent.
~~~
“Captain Sharpe!”
Richard Sharpe stopped and turned.
“Colonel Hogan, sir.” He moved the small bundle he held behind him.
“You are returned to us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hogan clapped both hands on Sharpe’s shoulders and grinned.
“Glad to have you back! When did you arrive?”
Sharpe was beginning to feel a burn to his ears.
“Uhh… this morning, sir.”
“You were near camp I hope?”
“Quite near, sir.”
“Capital! Capital! Come with me, m’boy. I’m on my way to see the General. He’ll be glad to see you.”
He will not, thought Sharpe morosely as Hogan turned him and began to propel him towards the General’s tent.
Sharpe stood at attention in front of Wellington, his shako in one hand, a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bit of string in the other. Major Nairn had arrived that morning as well and all three men were conferring over the maps that Hogan had drawn, occasionally asking a question of him and throwing a word or two of praise at him for his work. He didn’t need witnesses to this, he thought. How could he return the General’s breeches to him in front of Hogan and Nairn? He’d have to do it another time.
“Excellent, Sharpe. How close did you say you managed to get to the French lines?” Major Nairn asked.
“Very close sir.” Actually, he had strolled behind the lines when he was in the form of the cat.
“So you are certain of the number of guns, Sharpe?” asked Wellington.
“Yes, sir. Unless they’ve managed to move more in, sir.”
“Mow.”
“Argh!” Sharpe jumped. Major Nairn looked up at the startled exclamation.
“It’s only a cat, Sharpe. Quite a handsome fellow too.”
A large ruddy tabby wound around Sharpe’s legs. He looked down at it with some trepidation. The cat jumped up on the table and Wellington began to scratch its head.
“He’s yours then, sir?” Hogan asked, at first taken aback but now, amused.
“He seems to have adopted me, Hogan. He shared my breakfast this morning.”
Sharpe stiffened in indignation. The General had never shared his breakfast with him!
“Why,” said Hogan, “It’s the spitting image of Richard, is it not?” He asked Wellington.
It was not! Sharpe stewed silently; unwittingly jealous of the attention the new cat was receiving.
“Richard?” asked Nairn, puzzled.
“A cat which met its end in a particularly nasty manner,” Wellington said drily.
“How do you know this isn’t the same cat?” Nairn asked curiously of the men who were almost cooing over the cat.
“He’s not quite Richard’s spitting image. Young Thomas here has yellow eyes and he’s rather much redder in the fur,” murmured Wellington as he scratched its head obligingly, “and less surly. Much less surly.”
“By far!” agreed Hogan as the cat began to purr.
Sharpe bristled visibly. Surly? Let them try to be stuck in the shape of a cat!
It was all Hogan could do to keep a straight face. Major Nairn looked suspiciously at the two men who seemed to be sharing a private joke.
“This morning, he said, sir?” Hogan enquired of Wellington.
“Yes, Hogan.” Wellington was amused and in an expansive mood. Hogan hid a smile. This cat seemed to keep the General in good humor too.
“The cat wasn’t sleeping with you was it?” Hogan ventured, hiding his glee.
“It was, Hogan.”
“I told you it snored, sir.”
“So you did.”
Sharpe could feel the back of his neck burning now, almost convulsing with embarrassment. Bloody hell! They were enjoying this!
“If there is nothing else, sir?” He asked, “May I be dismissed?”
Wellington smiled benignly as he stroked the cat. “You may go, Sharpe.”
Sharpe tried not to smirk as he decided to hand the small package to the General. “Thanks for the loan sir.” Let Hogan and Nairn speculate over that!
“My pleasure, Sharpe… and Sharpe?”
Sharpe paused in the action of ducking out of the tent and turned.
“My Lord?”
“Try not to lose your trousers again.”
Sharpe’s mouth fell open and the burning in his neck rushed to his face. Bloody hell! The General had managed to turn the tables on him.
“Sir.” He managed to choke out before he scurried as fast as his dignity would allow him, away from the General’s tent; seething with a mixture of embarrassment and chagrin, plotting wild plans of fitting revenge. Just let one of THEM get turned into a cat or summat!
~~~~~
Wellington was stroking Sharpe again. Hogan smiled bemusedly. He didn’t know the General liked cats, but there was Richard sprawled across his maps and his all important dispatches while Colonel Barkley complained about him.
“So you are saying that this idle little fellow beat off four dogs?” Wellington asked. His tone was amused. That Sharpe did not object to the description showed how far gone he was under the spell of the caressing hand. Sharpe looked boneless as only a cat could. Almost rolled entirely on his back, a front leg raised in the air, the paw dangling as the General scratched under his chin. Barkley looked at the way Wellington was stroking the cat.
Puuuurrrrrrrr.
“Is he yours, then sir?”
“I only met this handsome fellow this morning and he has been a perfect gentleman. Colonel Hogan has taken him under his wing.”
“I’ll take care of any damages, Barkley.” Hogan offered.
“Nonsense, Hogan!” Wellington turned to Colonel Barkley, “Isn’t your black beast the size of a small horse? I would have feared for the cat. He must have frightened him terribly.”
Puuuuuuurrrrrrrrr…
Barkley was beginning to have his own doubts, “Perhaps the little beast was only trying to get away… yes, he must have been frightened. Quite. Quite. Doubt a cat could really have routed four dogs.”
“I would say it could not have, Barkley.” Wellington replied.
“Just a misunderstanding, eh? Fighting like dogs and cats.” Colonel Barkley chuckled at his own joke.
After Barkley left, Hogan again reminded the General.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Hogan?”
“That is Captain Sharpe, sir.”
Wellington paused in what he was doing, swore under his breath before smiling deprecatingly at himself as Sharpe butted his hand with his head and demanded his attention again.
“As a cat, he is a restful little fellow isn’t he? Demanding, but rather restful.”
~~~
The basket Hogan tied in front of his saddle was perfect. Sharpe could sit up or lay down as he chose. Somehow, the gait of the horse was easier to handle in his current form. Sergeant Harper and the Chosen Men accompanied them, and they lived off the land as much as off their own stores. Sharpe ranged farther than he could have as a man, returning to report to the Colonel who took notes and made drawings on his maps. Often, he slipped behind the enemy lines while his men waited nervously for his return.
It was towards the end of a week out in the field when Sharpe smelled cooking fires, horses, goats and dogs.
“Meowwrr. Mrrr. Mowrr.”
Some sort of encampment up wind, sir. I can smell cooking fires and roasting chickens.
“French?” enquired Hogan
“Rrrr. Mewrr.”
No, the horses are clean. I also smell goats and dogs.
Clucking to his horse, Hogan turned. “It may be a band of gypsies, Richard. We may be in luck.”
“Let us scout it out first, sir.” Harper said as with a motion, he sent two pairs of riflemen up ahead. It was not long before they returned with their reports.
“Six wagons, sir. A few carts, donkeys, horses and other life stock. They look like they’ve been here a few days.”
Hogan called out as they approached the wagons. The markings were familiar. They were in luck. He had crossed paths with this particular tribe before. Several voices responded, inviting him to the circle.
Richard leapt down from the saddle to do his own reconnaissance, leaving his Sergeant to bivouac the men on the edge of the encampment and set a piquet.
“Meowrrr.”
I’ll be back.
Before he had gone far, he was found by the camp cats. He paused, accessing the situation. He had not encountered this many strange cats in one place.
Hello stranger.
Hello.
They prowled slowly forward and fanned out to encircle him. He moved uneasily and showed his teeth in a silent snarl. He easily outweighed them but still, they were many.
What are you doing here? Who have you come with? How did you come here?
I come on my own. I go where I choose.
He growled, allowing them to know he would stand against them. Outnumbered or no.
~~~
The cat fight could be heard from the camp fire. Hogan had been eating slowly, expecting Sharpe to join him so he could slip him a few morsels from his plate. He looked up uneasily now.
“It’s just the cats,” one of the men said, not looking up from his plate, “they get into little fights over the queens… over territory.”
Another chuckled. “We move often, so there’s always fight over territory.”
Hogan looked in the direction of the angry shrieks uneasily. “I… brought my cat with me.”
There was laughter now. “If it is male, it will learn soon, who holds the woods. If it’s female, it will learn who leads the pack.”
The sounds grew louder. They could hear thrashing in the underbrush. It sounded, to Hogan’s ears, like a fearsome fight. Another angry shriek, a howl. A scream. He hadn’t known that cats could make so many different sounds. Then the underbrush rustled and a large ginger cat walked into the firelight. The flames cast a reddish glow on its fur. It held its large plumed tail with its black streak down the center high, stalked into the circle of the firelight and sat by Hogan regally. It was bloody. An ear had been chewed on. Some fur was missing from its side and there was a gash over an eye.
“Richard?”
“Meeow!”
Showed them!
“Are you all right?”
“Meeowwrrr!”
Never felt better, sir! But I’m hungry now and that chicken smells good from here.
Sharpe seemed to be bursting with energy and practically swelled with pride. Hogan looked dubious, but not knowing what else to say or do, he set his plate down and Sharpe ate lustily. The men were buzzing with talk at the appearance of the cat.
“That is your cat?”
“It is.”
“It is some cat! What kind is it?”
“It comes from the ancient lands of the Abyssinians. A grand cat it indeed is.” The new voice hushed all others. The clan matriarch had deigned to join them. Men stood to lend a hand to the old woman. A chair was brought for her. A plate filled.
Sharpe looked up, cocking his head to look at the clan matriarch. She was attended by three young women who gasped and cooed at the sight of him. He sat up in alarm as hands reached out for him.
“Mowwrrr!”
Ladies! Your pardon!
More than a pair of hands were on him and before he could run, he was swept into warm arms and a soft bosom.
“Meow!”
Help!
Hogan chuckled as the young women fussed over Sharpe and cuddled him.
“Stop fussing, Richard, I wager you are in good hands.”
According the woman the same respect her clan did, Hogan addressed her after she had finished her meal.
“This is my cat, mother. Have you met him before?”
She smiled. “Maybe I have, and maybe I have not.”
“He is hurt. Will you help him?”
“Maybe I will and maybe I will not.”
“May I ask that you will?”
The old woman looked at Hogan shrewdly.
“He is important to you.”
“To General Wellington as well, mother. He is useful to me in this form, but we need him as he was if we are to drive the French out of this country.”
“And why is that important to me?”
“The French harass you, do they not? You do not have safe passage through Spain while they hold half of it.”
“There is never safe passage for the Rom.”
“But they make it more difficult.”
“You speak true.”
“The French destroy and despoil the countryside. We British do not. We only seek to liberate Spain from the clutches of Napoleon.”
The matriarch was silent. That she had seen. Seen the carcasses of animals rotting in the sun, felt the pain at the despoiling of the earth mother. She was still a moment longer, then she silently sorted through the many small pouches hung around her neck and waist and extracted one. Selecting a piece of chicken, she dipped her fingers in the pouch and sprinkled some of the contents over it, and placed it on the plate on the ground. With a clap of her hands, she called her attendants and demanded they loose the cat.
Sharpe leapt down and shook himself, before returning to Hogan with a scowl. He was just beginning to enjoy himself. Ahh… more chicken. He was still hungry after that fight. Hogan watched as Sharpe gobbled the last bits of chicken down and began to wash himself. As the firelight waned, the gypsies began to sing. Sharpe had tucked his forepaws under himself, curled his tail around himself and closed his eyes. Soon, however, he settled into a ball and little cat snores could be heard.
Snrrrrrk. Snrrrrrk.
“Bring him to my wagon. I will tend his hurts.”
Hogan obeyed. Lifting the limp cat and following the old woman to her wagon. Within the wagon, he laid Richard on a bench as instructed and tried to press a small purse on the woman.
“Do you think to bribe me for my aid?” Her tone was cold.
“No, mother,” Hogan murmured humbly. “I have been a guest with you before and not once have I brought anything to your fire. Gold is the only thing I have to share.”
She accepted the purse then with a nod. “Very well, you may return for him in the morning.”
Hogan returned to the small encampment the riflemen had made. Sergeant Harper had raised a blanket tent for him and looked around for his Captain.
“The Captain, sir?” He enquired.
“We will return in the morning for him.”
Harper wanted to ask more, but stayed his tongue. He could only trust, hope and pray.
~~~
The cat was handed to Hogan. It was totally limp and he was alarmed. However, it was warm and pliant in his hands. He could feel its heartbeat and its even breathing. The old woman had cleaned the blood off its fur and cleaned its wounds. Hogan lifted it up to his face.
“Richard?” He whispered.
It purred softly.
“What will need to be done now, mother?” He inquired politely of the clan matriarch.
“He sleeps. He heals. And when he wishes to be man again, he will.”
With no other choice given him, Hogan draped the cat into the basket, made his farewells and left the gypsy encampment. He had what he had ranged the land for and now it was time to return to camp.
~~~
Wellington was poring over the maps that Hogan had made, listening intently as he made his report. The intelligence gained was invaluable and Hogan had managed to take notes of French troops and their movement as well.
“You’ve done an excellent job of mapping the country, Hogan. You’ve even managed to note number and type of guns the French have.”
“It is advantageous in some ways to have Sharpe in this form, sir.”
“Yes, well,” Wellington paused. “Captain Sharpe. You said that you had found a Romany tribe you’ve guested with before?”
“Yes, sir.”
Both men looked up at a shout and saw the large orange cat lope in from the direction of the picquets, nimbly avoiding horses, carts and marching men. He’d been hunting again, Hogan thought. There definitely was something large in his mouth.
“When he wishes to be man again?” Wellington asked quietly. Sharpe was displaying more cat-like traits with each passing day.
“That was what the old woman said, sir.”
“It looks like he’s caught another young rabbit.”
“Yes, it does.”
“You understand him, don’t you, Hogan?”
“Frighteningly, sir… Yes, I do.”
As the men watched each keeping his own counsel, the cat approached and laid its latest catch at the General’s feet.
~~~
The camp was getting used to the sight of the large cat that spent much of its time between Colonel Hogan’s and General Wellington’s tents. Wellington had sent the Light Company of the South Essex out under Lieutenant Price and none had dared question where Captain Sharpe was. There was nothing for Sharpe to do except get into trouble and he had managed to do that with aplomb. He was frustrated, agitated and surly. He beat up the camp cats and cowed the dogs except for Colonel Barkley’s Great Dane. The only time he was calm was when he was with Wellington. For whatever reason it was, the General also remained in a better temper when Sharpe was around, and it was only Wellington who could stroke him into a relaxed purring mound of fur.
“Mow.”
Not going!
The nights were getting colder now and Sharpe was reluctant to leave the warmth of the tent. He had resisted Wellington’s every effort to turf him out until the General had given up. He was now comfortably ensconced on the General’s lap, purring loudly as Wellington stroked him.
Hogan chuckled. “Better you than me, sir. He’s already destroyed two mattresses of mine.”
“You let him sleep with you?”
Hogan shrugged.
“He can’t stay in his own camp without his men around. It’s cold. He’s a cat.”
Then he grinned.
“Although, I’m not the one stroking him into a nerveless purring ball of fur.”
Once again, Wellington paused abruptly in his actions. Sharpe complained and the General went back to stroking.
“It is rather nerve wracking if one thinks about it,” admitted Wellington wryly, “but he does look like a cat and behaves like a cat.”
Hogan chuckled and turned to leave the tent, pausing to add before he left, “Oh, by the way sir, he snores.”
Wellington rolled his eyes.
“Wonderful.”
He was still stroking the purring cat.
“You are lucky I have use for you in this form, Mr. Sharpe.”
~~~
“Sharpe, just settle down!”
The cat was kneading, purring happily.
“Argh! Watch those claws!”
Sharpe purred loudly and ignored the jerking under his paws, simply adjusting his weight until Wellington stopped moving, before settling down comfortably. This was nice. He was warm and content. He had long ago acknowledged his wish for Wellington’s approbation. He wanted the General to like him and he liked that Wellington liked him. He found himself enjoying the General’s company. He enjoyed listening to the discussions of military strategy as he lurked in his tent and wished he could participate in them. He just needed to be a man again. Gain new rank and then another, and another. He yawned sleepily.
Wellington muttered under his breath and shifted into a more comfortable position under his blanket. How on God’s green earth had he allowed Hogan to talk him into this? Sharpe had curled up on his chest and now purred contentedly. Wellington glared.
“Does Colonel Hogan actually allow you to sleep ON him?” He asked testily.
The only response he received was another contented purr. He probably did not! He grumped, but could not find it in him to turf the cat off. It was a companionable creature and he had to admit that he enjoyed having it near. He had always enjoyed the company of animals when he was a boy, and sometimes, he missed Jack, the little terrier he had with him in India. Even if it were a little disturbing if he thought into it, he enjoyed the company of Richard Sharpe as a cat. The rumbling purr lulled him to sleep and he did not hear the little cat snores as it in turn found sweet slumber.
~~~
Wellington woke slowly with a sense of well being. He had slept surprisingly well and stirred sleepily in the early morning chill. As his senses slowly came to life, he was aware he was not alone in his bed. Ah yes, the cat. But the cat was not quite so large. He opened his eyes.
“Aargh!”
Richard Sharpe was woken from deep slumber by a startled cry. He jumped and opened his eyes, staring straight into General Wellington’s shocked face.
“Yaargh!”
Thump!
He fell off the General’s campaign bed onto the cold ground. He was naked.
“Good God, Sharpe, you are naked!”
“Sir!”
Sharpe looked around desperately for something to cover himself with. He grabbed at the blanket. Wellington held it tight. He was not letting it go.
“Sir? Are you alright, sir?” It was one of the sentries on guard.
“Everything’s fine, private. The cat startled me.”
Wellington glared at the hapless Captain and hissed.
“Put some clothes on, man!”
“Can’t sir. I don’t have any.” Sharpe whispered back.
“My breeches.”
“I can’t wear your clothes, sir!”
“You don’t have a choice, Mr. Sharpe. Unless you want to be seen running naked from my tent… Dear God. Half naked would be just as bad… maybe worse.”
Sharpe looked around desperately. The camp was beginning to stir, the familiar early morning sounds at once reassuring and alarming. With no other choices before him, he stood and reached for the General’s buff breeches. Wellington fell back into his bed and put his hand over his eyes. He heard Sharpe swear under his breath.
“Is there something wrong Captain?” His voice was frosty and clipped.
“No, umph… sir. Mmmph!”
Sharpe swore again.
“Then I would appreciate that you stop swearing.”
“Sorry sir.” He was still grunting. “A bit tight, sir.”
He swore again as he struggled to get the breeches up, sucking in his breath as he tried to button them. Wellington opened his eyes to a view of his breeches sharply delineating the curves of Sharpe’s rear and closed them again. He moaned. He could only pray that they got out of this mess without anyone seeing a half dressed Richard Sharpe leaving his tent.
~~~
“Captain Sharpe!”
Richard Sharpe stopped and turned.
“Colonel Hogan, sir.” He moved the small bundle he held behind him.
“You are returned to us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hogan clapped both hands on Sharpe’s shoulders and grinned.
“Glad to have you back! When did you arrive?”
Sharpe was beginning to feel a burn to his ears.
“Uhh… this morning, sir.”
“You were near camp I hope?”
“Quite near, sir.”
“Capital! Capital! Come with me, m’boy. I’m on my way to see the General. He’ll be glad to see you.”
He will not, thought Sharpe morosely as Hogan turned him and began to propel him towards the General’s tent.
Sharpe stood at attention in front of Wellington, his shako in one hand, a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bit of string in the other. Major Nairn had arrived that morning as well and all three men were conferring over the maps that Hogan had drawn, occasionally asking a question of him and throwing a word or two of praise at him for his work. He didn’t need witnesses to this, he thought. How could he return the General’s breeches to him in front of Hogan and Nairn? He’d have to do it another time.
“Excellent, Sharpe. How close did you say you managed to get to the French lines?” Major Nairn asked.
“Very close sir.” Actually, he had strolled behind the lines when he was in the form of the cat.
“So you are certain of the number of guns, Sharpe?” asked Wellington.
“Yes, sir. Unless they’ve managed to move more in, sir.”
“Mow.”
“Argh!” Sharpe jumped. Major Nairn looked up at the startled exclamation.
“It’s only a cat, Sharpe. Quite a handsome fellow too.”
A large ruddy tabby wound around Sharpe’s legs. He looked down at it with some trepidation. The cat jumped up on the table and Wellington began to scratch its head.
“He’s yours then, sir?” Hogan asked, at first taken aback but now, amused.
“He seems to have adopted me, Hogan. He shared my breakfast this morning.”
Sharpe stiffened in indignation. The General had never shared his breakfast with him!
“Why,” said Hogan, “It’s the spitting image of Richard, is it not?” He asked Wellington.
It was not! Sharpe stewed silently; unwittingly jealous of the attention the new cat was receiving.
“Richard?” asked Nairn, puzzled.
“A cat which met its end in a particularly nasty manner,” Wellington said drily.
“How do you know this isn’t the same cat?” Nairn asked curiously of the men who were almost cooing over the cat.
“He’s not quite Richard’s spitting image. Young Thomas here has yellow eyes and he’s rather much redder in the fur,” murmured Wellington as he scratched its head obligingly, “and less surly. Much less surly.”
“By far!” agreed Hogan as the cat began to purr.
Sharpe bristled visibly. Surly? Let them try to be stuck in the shape of a cat!
It was all Hogan could do to keep a straight face. Major Nairn looked suspiciously at the two men who seemed to be sharing a private joke.
“This morning, he said, sir?” Hogan enquired of Wellington.
“Yes, Hogan.” Wellington was amused and in an expansive mood. Hogan hid a smile. This cat seemed to keep the General in good humor too.
“The cat wasn’t sleeping with you was it?” Hogan ventured, hiding his glee.
“It was, Hogan.”
“I told you it snored, sir.”
“So you did.”
Sharpe could feel the back of his neck burning now, almost convulsing with embarrassment. Bloody hell! They were enjoying this!
“If there is nothing else, sir?” He asked, “May I be dismissed?”
Wellington smiled benignly as he stroked the cat. “You may go, Sharpe.”
Sharpe tried not to smirk as he decided to hand the small package to the General. “Thanks for the loan sir.” Let Hogan and Nairn speculate over that!
“My pleasure, Sharpe… and Sharpe?”
Sharpe paused in the action of ducking out of the tent and turned.
“My Lord?”
“Try not to lose your trousers again.”
Sharpe’s mouth fell open and the burning in his neck rushed to his face. Bloody hell! The General had managed to turn the tables on him.
“Sir.” He managed to choke out before he scurried as fast as his dignity would allow him, away from the General’s tent; seething with a mixture of embarrassment and chagrin, plotting wild plans of fitting revenge. Just let one of THEM get turned into a cat or summat!