Harper
Huddled in my warm greatcoat, I sit a little closer to the fire, cradling my mug of tea. In the daytime, it is nice and warm, but as soon as the sun goes down, it gets chilly. Inside our tent I hear Ramona’s soft voice, singing a Spanish lullaby for our son. On the other side of the camp Perkins, Hagman and Harris share another fire in companionable silence.
Life has been good in the last few months. I like being a father, and I am so proud of my son. Ramona, I think, is happier than ever before, even though her tongue is as sharp as ever.
Richard – Major Sharpe – seems to have more or less dealt with Miss Teresa’s death, and I grudgingly admit that cousin of hers had a hand in that. Still I hope I have seen the last of him. There was something very strong between the two of them, and I didn’t like it at all.
I never begrudged Sharpe his women, and Jesus knows there were more than plenty. I was glad he settled down with Miss Teresa, who was a fine woman indeed. Of course I knew – and so did she – there would be the occasional other woman, Sharpe being Sharpe, but he truly loved her.
I’ve always been there for him. We are soldiers, and life can be hard. At times like that it’s sometimes easier to be with a man, someone you trust. But what would he needing another man for, when he has me? I felt threatened by this man, this Viggo, and I was glad to see him go.
Richard has never spoken about him again, but I know him, and I know he still thinks about El Commandante. To be sure, he’ll get over it. I just hope they won’t cross paths any more.
I am shaken from my thoughts when I hear Sharpe laughing. Young Perkins seems to have found a girlfriend amongst the camp followers, and now he has to deal with the men taking the piss all the time, Sharpe as much as the others. It won’t do him any harm and I know that Hagman will take care of him if it gets too much.
I wait patiently until Richard walks over, and sits down next to me.
“Good evening, Sir,” I say, holding up a tin mug. “Tea?”
“Good evening Pat,” he says. “Aye.”
We sit and talk a little, but mostly we just sip our tea in silence. I know he’s restless, we‘ve been waiting for orders for days now, and Richard doesn’t like to just sit around.
“No news from old Nosey Sir?” I ask, knowing very well there hasn’t been a messenger for days.
“No Pat,” he replies,” I hope he hasn’t forgotten the 95th.”
“Oh, no chance of that, I would say Sir, “I soothe him. “I am sure we’ll be marching before you know it.”
“I hope you’re right Pat, I am bloody bored.”
He shivers in the cold evening air, and I notice he’s only wearing his white shirt under his coat, open onto his breastbone.
“Are you cold Sir?” I ask, dragging my eyes away deliberately. “You’re not wearing your jacket.”
“Lil is repairing it for me. It’ll be done tomorrow.”
“Well, it is cold, why don’t you retire early Sir? It will be a lot warmer inside your tent, and if you’d like a bit of company…Ramona is already asleep.”
“I am not asleep Patrick Harper,” Ramona’s indignant voice comes from behind me, “but young Patrick is, and I’d like to keep it that way, so do what you like but keep your voice down.”
Richard looks at me, a wide grin on his face. “So Patrick, it seems we are dismissed. Any chance of a spot of brandy?”
“I just filled her up today, so I did, Sir,” I say stroking my flask, “finest brandy if I may say so.”
“So what are we waiting for Pat? Let’s go.”
We are scrambling to our feet, when we hear the sound of a galloping horse approaching. Turning around we peer though the dark, and then we hear a familiar jovial voice.
“Good evening Richard my boy, good evening Patrick, how are you?
Damned if it isn’t that murderous owld bugger Hogan.
“Good evening Sir,” I say politely, knowing very well he is bad news. Ruined a perfect evening, so he has and I fake a friendly smile at the bloody bastard.
Sharpe
After giving my green jacket to Lil for repair, I walk around the camp a little. I exchange a few words with the men on sentry duty, and then head back into the camp. From afar I spot Patrick sitting in front of his tent, patiently waiting for me, as I very well know.
For the first time in months I feel restless. We’ve been here for bloody days now and I want something to happen. Being so restless, I know I am almost back to being myself. I have finally accepted Teresa’s death, and I accepted saying goodbye to Viggo, even just for the time being.
Viggo isn’t dead, and meeting him again is very likely. When Teresa were alive, we did not see each other for months sometimes, and this isn’t any different. I can wait, and I will, but I would still like a bit of action right now.
I walk over to Hagman’s fire, and poke poor Perkins a little about his conquest, making him blush like a lass. Well, it’s about time he became a man, and I think this Rose will do quite well.
After that, I sit with Patrick, drinking tea. When his son was born, I backed away a little, gathering he and Ramona might want a bit more private time together, but slowly we have got back to how we were before. He’s a friend, a very good friend, and Ramona doesn’t seem to mind, not even when Patrick comes to me in the dead of night.
The, arrangement I have with Patrick serves us both, I suppose. I love women, but I never feel really comfortable with them, once the shagging is over and done with. Teresa was an exception, she was different. Normally I feel more at ease with whores. You pay and you shag, that’s all, nothing more expected.
Sometimes though, I like the uncomplicated touch of a man, a man who knows so well what feels good, a man with hands more calloused and bigger than my own; a man like Harper, whom I trust completely, enough to let him take me on occasion, and who made me get a taste for it.
Viggo was different, as different as Teresa was. From the first moment I laid eyes on him there was a strong pull, making me want him. It was great all the way, but it was also bitter, as we both knew it couldn’t last.
I tried to make it no more that, a pleasant pastime, but found out soon I couldn’t, and neither could he. It was unnerving, and strange, but still wonderful. I just somehow feel we will meet again, and then it will happen again, and maybe we’ll have a bit more time.
I don’t talk about him with Pat, I know he doesn’t like him, and it makes me feel uneasy. I don’t want Patrick to be jealous, he has a wife and I am not a lass and I don’t want to think about the implications of his jealousy. But he’s still my friend, and I am still lonely and want him to touch me, and sometimes fuck me.
Tonight is one of those nights, and we both know. We can’t fuck, not in my tent, as much as I’d like to. We did once, but it’s too bloody risky, and I don’t want to go somewhere out in the fields and freeze my arse off. There are enough other things we can do, though.
We are about to go to my tent, when someone on horseback rides into our camp. I freeze when I recognize the bulky form of Hogan on the big black horse, but there’s also a tingle of anticipation creeping up along my spine. Hogan always makes me do things that are highly dangerous, and will one time be the death of me I suppose, but they are never boring, I have to give him that.
“Good evening Richard, my dear boy, good evening Patrick, how are you?
Pat says he’s a bloody murderous bugger, and I agree, but he’s Nosey’s ear and I think I wouldn’t have been a Major today without him. He could have picked another time though, and I can see in Pat’s face he feels the same.
So instead of letting Pat beat me off in the confines of my tent, I just sit with him and Hogan, offering Hogan tea, knowing all to well he’ll drain the biggest part if we tell him about Pat’s brandy.
“Tea?” he says, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand, “We’ll have something better than that, I have something very special with me. Lord Wellington himself asked me to bring for you. ‘Hogan,” he says, ‘give this to Major Sharpe, as he’s one of my most valued officers!’ ”
Now I know I am really in big trouble, he wants me to do something I won’t like, and I look him straight in the eye.
“Skip the small talk Major, just tell me what it is you want.”
“What I want? Oh no Richard, not me! It’s a direct order from Wellington, and he says to me: ‘Sharpe, is the man for the job, Hogan,’ so he says, ‘and let him take that clever Irish sergeant with him.’
He stands up, and takes a bottle from the saddlebag of his horse.
“First we drink, though!”
Harper
*God save Ireland!* When that owld divil, Hogan is this lavish with the brandy, it’s always a bad sign.
Sure he’ll be after sending my Major on another of his suicide missions and wanting him to take me with him. *Try and stop me going with him this time, anyway, you bastard.*
I accept a slug of the brandy anyway, waste not want not and never look a gift horse in the mouth. Sharpe accepts too, even though he’s tried to get Hogan to tell him right away what it is he wants of us.
It’s not his way, though, to be direct. Instead, he pours more brandy and begins his tales of gossip and intrigue. The bugger probably makes them up, but he has us laughing in spite of ourselves and seems to be very indiscreet. Lulling us like babes, he thinks he is and I look at Sharpe, who winks at me.
I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit and nor would Sharpe, though we both know that his work is Wellington’s and we won’t have any choice in the matter, when it comes down to it.
On a particularly loud burst of laughter, young Patrick lets out a shriek and Ramona curses in Spanish and appears in the doorway of the tent, face flushed, hair in disarray and a screaming babe in her arms.
“I said to keep your voices down. Now see what you have done. Well you woke him, now you can settle him.”
With that, she thrusts Patrick into my arms and stomps back into the tent.
I stand up and walk a little, rocking him and humming softly. He waves a tiny hand, which has escaped from the blanket and grabs my finger in a death grip. His sobbing subsides, but he is still drawing little shuddering breaths and whimpering.
Hogan indicates that I should sit by him and when I do, he dips a finger into his brandy and offers it to Patrick to suck. I have to say that the lad takes to it like a duck to water. An anxious voice comes from the shadows,
“Sir, I don’t think that’s right…..!”
“Shut it, Harris! It’s working isn’t it?” That’s Sharpe, clearly amused by the proceedings.
Ramona is less amused, when she reappears at the tent-flap, having heard the exchange.
She slaps me round the back of the head, making my ears ring, glares at Sharpe and snatches Patrick back, as if we were about to roast him over the camp fire,
“And YOU!” she snarls at Hogan, “YOU should know better!”
Patrick is about to start crying again, deprived of his brandy, but he gets a tit in consolation and that seems to pacify him. Well, to tell the truth, it would pacify me too. We decide that a strategic withdrawal is in order, and head to Sharpe’s tent.
“Sure she’s a fine, buxom woman, Pat and you’ve a fine son there,” declares Hogan, sitting on Sharpe’s stretcher bed and pouring more brandy.
“She is that, Sir and he is too, so he is.”
*Now get to your point, for the love of God!*
Finally, Hogan produces a map and starts to talk to us about the mission. He tells us that an important partisan leader has been captured by the French and is being held in a closely guarded fort, two days’ ride away. He has information which Wellington has ordered must not fall into French hands.
So far, he has refused to talk, but they have sent for a notorious French officer, skilled in interrogation and much feared, nicknamed L’étau (the vice), in other words, a torturer.
It seems that the man is too closely guarded to be rescued and Wellington’s orders are that he be killed before he can reveal any plans to the French. We’ll be provided with explosives to do the job.
Sharpe frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of this, I can tell. Killing in battle is one thing, but killing an ally like this is another. Wellington is as ruthless as Hogan, though. A right pair of bastards they are and the orders will be carried out.
Having got our agreement, Hogan takes his leave, asking me to come and take the explosives he is carrying on his horse. We leave Sharpe in his tent, brooding and I follow Hogan.
“He has a soft heart, your Major Sharpe.”
“That he has, Sir, but he will carry out the orders.”
“And I trust that you will see it done, Patrick.”
I narrow my eyes. Whenever he calls me by my full Christian name, it starts little alarm bells ringing and the hairs go up on the back of me neck.
“Just between us, Patrick, you both know this Partisan leader and if Sharpe gets wind of who it is, he may have a ………..conflict. You know how he is. He may try to effect an impossible rescue against orders.”
I stare at him in shock.
“You’re sending us to kill Commandante Mortensen?”
“Wellington is sending you to kill Commandante Mortensen, Pat and I’m sure that you’ll see it’s in your interests and keep it to yourself. Goodnight.”
Viggo
I curse my own stupidity for landing myself in this situation. I was betrayed by someone I trusted, because he used to work for my cousin, Teresa’s family. Used to complete loyalty from her Partisans, I let my guard down.
Although I am well aware that some Spaniards believe that we would do better allying ourselves with France, I had not looked for such views among her old family retainers. Well, he paid for his treachery with his life, I am sure.
I am suffering for my sins, chained naked in this dank, bare cell, with not so much as a pile of straw to sleep on, or a bucket to piss in. The chains are just long enough for me to shuffle into the corner to relieve myself and the place stinks.
Twice a day, they bring water and dry bread and they were also beating me two or three times each day, but worryingly, this has stopped since yesterday. I fear that, having failed to get any information from me, they have sent for a more expert questioner.
Listening to the guards talking outside my cell, I have heard a name that strikes a chill into my heart. It is a man called L’étau and they say that he has never failed to extract information from a prisoner. He is especially skilled at doing his evil work without killing the subject before he has learnt all there is to know.
I am aware that the cell is very well guarded and within a fort, which is also strongly defended. There is no chance that my Partisans will be able to rescue me and their orders were that should I be captured, they were not to risk losing men in any futile attempt to do so.
Of course, if word of my capture has reached the British, which it surely must have done, their intelligence being second to none, they will have an interest in this. Whether they would risk a rescue is doubtful, although they know that the information I carry will be valuable to the French.
I take a mental inventory of my current injuries. Apart from general bruising, one of my eyes is so swollen that I cannot see out of it, several ribs are broken and two fingers on my left hand. There was blood in my urine, but it seems clear now.
My whole body aches and in the cold and cheerless cell, I shudder, when I consider that much worse is to come.
There is nothing that I can do but endure whatever happens for as long as I can and I have to resist the urge to curl up on the hard floor like a small child and weep.
No, I am a soldier and I must be strong. I set my jaw and close my eyes, trying to think of more pleasant things, my home in Denmark, my childhood here in Spain, laughing with Teresa, my long-dead wife and finally, a British officer with green eyes.
It seemed like fate that Richard Sharpe and I met, for he had been married to my dear cousin, Teresa and we both came to love him. Our time together had been brief, but sweet and although we knew that parting was inevitable, I always believed that we would meet again.
Sadly, I was wrong in this, but at least I have the memories of his strong body, covered in a multitude of scars, which together tell the story of his hard, soldier’s life, his roguish grin, the stubborn set of his jaw, the way he looks boyish and vulnerable in sleep, his long, sensitive fingers and his delicate ears. I smile in spite of my predicament.
There is a rattle of keys and a guard kicks open the cell door and sets down a metal cup of water and chunk of mouldy bread.
“What do you have to smile about, you filthy Spanish dog?” he snarls in French, aiming a kick at my broken ribs.
I manage to twist away before the boot lands, but the effort is almost as painful as the kick would have been and sweat forms on my brow.
“You won’t be laughing, when L’ étau gets here! He will break every bone in your body, slowly, starting from your toes. I hope they will let us watch!”
He spits at me and leaves, the door clanging shut behind him, like a bell tolling for my demise.
If I have to die, I am prepared to do so, but I would have wished it to be quick and clean. I fervently wish I had some way of cheating this monster, but chained as I am, I am helpless.
At least I can refuse to eat, even though my stomach is twisting in hunger. I have no wish to prolong what remains of my life, so I close my eyes again and sink back into my memories.
*Oh Richard, I would so like to have met you just once more, before I died.*
Harper
I stare after the bugger’s disappearing back, still struggling with what he just told me. Instead of returning to Sharpe’s tent directly, I sit down on a large log, and think. Hogan is of course right. If Sharpe finds out who this partisan prisoner is, he will try to release him, no matter the consequences. I can’t let that happen, Sharpe is my Major, my officer and I am supposed to watch his arse.
To be sure, I am not too keen on that Viggo, and it might be better for all of us if he was to die. On the other hand, it feels like a bad thing to do. He is an ally, and I don’t like the idea any more than Sharpe does.
These are our orders though, and we’ll just have to do it. I will also have to keep the truth from Richard and I pray that he’ll never find out. I could use some more of Hogan’s brandy right now, but the bugger took it all with him, so I take a pull from my own flask.
I slowly, almost reluctantly make my way back to Sharpe’s tent. Right now I would prefer to go to my own, crawl in bed with Ramona, and try to sleep. I can’t, knowing very well Richard is expecting me to come back.
When I step inside he’s lying on the bed, but he’s not asleep. His jaw is set and the green eyes glitter with anger.
“Bloody hell, Pat, what kind of a mission is that? Killing one of our allies. We’re soldiers, not murderers. That bastard Hogan.”
I nod, sitting down carefully on the only small chair.
”I know Sir, but you heard what Major Hogan said, it needs to be done, orders directly from Wellington. And maybe we’re doing that poor bugger a favour Sir, at least his death will be quick by our hands, if we can reach him before that French torturer does, that is.”
“You’re right Pat, we’ll leave first thing in the morning. You’d better go and tell Ramona, then make sure you get some sleep.”
“Yes, Sir, so I will.” Glad to make my escape I leave.
Back at my tent Ramona has a few things to say too, but – thanks be to Jesus – she has to keep her voice down because of little Patrick, who is soundly asleep. I agree with everything she says, until she calms down and I can take her in my arms, then bury my face in her warm and willing flesh.
The sun is barely up, when we leave next morning. After I have kissed Ramona and little Patrick goodbye, Richard and I start our journey. I've found us two good horses, and as much as I dislike this mission, I am still looking forward to the journey.
Richard is still strained and tense, but the exercise seems to do him good, and after a while he visibly relaxes. It feels good to be up and about again.
The day is uneventful, and we are making good progress, when we decide late in the afternoon to camp for the night. There’s a stream nearby and I am refilling our canteens, when I see a group of rabbits playing and eating in the late evening sun. I slowly reach for my gun, and I manage to shoot a big, fat rabbit for our dinner.
I almost regret it, when I hold it up by the ears triumphantly to show it to Richard. The expression on his face tells me I have stirred up some memory, and I just know it has something to do with that poor bugger Viggo. I push that thought away fast, because I don’t want to think about him.
We build a small campfire, roasting the rabbit, and later eating in silence. With the sun down, it is starting to cool off fast, and after a few shared sips of the brandy I brought, we settle for sleep.
We lay at opposite sides of the fire, but I know he’s not asleep, as he’s tossing about. After some time he sits half up, and looks at me. His voice is soft, not a command, but a request, a plea almost.
“Why don’t you come here, Pat?”
I say a silent Hail Mary, and get up, taking my blanket with me and walking over to him. His eyes glitter in the dark, but he says nothing, so I lie down beside him. Tentatively I stretch out my hand to touch his shoulder.
“Can’t you sleep, Richard?” My hand slips under his blanket, and into his shirt, stroking the soft warm skin underneath the thin cloth, When I linger a little too long brushing a nipple, in a touch he does not want, his hand comes up to push mine down towards his breeches.
He shudders against me, when my hand closes around his cock, and then chokes the words out.
“Fuck me Pat.”
Summary: Sharpe and Harper are sent out on a mission, Viggo has a very rough time.This is a sequel to Triangulation
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Crossovers Pairing: Sharpe/Viggo/Harper
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: ManipulationChapters: 5 Completed: Yes
Word count: 22781 Read: 4625
Published: 05 Aug 2009 Updated: 05 Aug 2009