Sharpe's Stand

Stanley Marlowe

Chapter One

Portugal, not far from the Spanish border, April 1809

It was a cold, rainy day in Portugal. Yet it was no excuse for people to do their duties of the day. There were fields to till, livestock to herd, and young children to educate.

The birds that often sung in the sky, now sheltered in the trees as drops pelted the ground. Thunder occasionally erupted on the horizon.

In a patch of forest, a group of riflemen struggled to stay dry.

One rifleman watched the dark clouds slowly moving.

He had a long scar down his face, giving him a mocking look, except when he smiled.

He was 6 foot exactly, and had been a soldier for most of his life.

Unlike some other officers, he wore a large heavy cavalry sword. On his back was slung a rifle.

His name was Sharpe. Lieutenant Richard Sharpe of the 95th Rifles. He had fought in Flanders, India, Denmark, and now he fought Napoleon Bonaparte in Portugal. Sharpe had been caught in the winter of 1809, the year when the French drove the British out of Spain. He had been lost, while leading a number of fugitive riflemen. He had led those men out of that disaster, and into Lisbon, where the British still held a garrison.

"Miserable goddamn weather." Sharpe growled as a fork of lightening crossed the dark sky.

"Couldn't agree with you more, Richard." Hogan spoke up suddenly.

Sharpe was surprised, "I thought you were asleep."

Michael Hogan, Irishman, captain and Engineer, was finding Sharpe and his riflemen a bonus on his journey mapping Portuguese country. He and Sharpe were becoming good friends.

But this day, for Sharpe and Hogan and the thirty riflemen whom Sharpe had brought along, was a bad day to go anywhere.

"…Never was the bloody weather this bloody bad in bloody Donegal before," grumbled an Irish sergeant four inches taller than Sharpe's six feet, with muscles to match. He was a ferocious fighter. Yet, in truth, he was a good-hearted fellow. His name was Patrick Harper, and he was Sharpe's closest friend.

"Easy there, Pat. At least you're not marching," Sharpe retorted. He thought of when, just this winter, they had been worst enemies.

It had not just been Harper. Most of the riflemen had not been very happy with Sharpe. He knew why. Sharpe was one of the few men in the British army to rise up from the ranks. It had been in India, at the battle of Assaye. Sergeant Sharpe had rescued Sir Arthur Wellesley from certain death, and in return, he had promoted Sharpe to Ensign.

Now he was a lieutenant, in Portugal, helping Hogan map the countryside.

"Sir! Company of soldiers on their way!" Rifleman Pendleton called out.

"French or British?" Sharpe asked.

"Ours, sir. And some Portuguese lads!" Rifleman Perkins answered.

Sharpe yawned, and turned to look at the hundred or so redcoats, and another thirty brown-coated Portuguese.

"Shall we signal to them, sir?" Rifleman Cooper asked.

Sharpe shrugged, "Why not? The rain is clearing a bit."

He and Hogan chose ten riflemen and stepped into a patch of forest clearing.

The newcomers, seeing the captain and eleven riflemen, quickened their pace. They seemed to be led by a major, two captains, and three sergeants.

Sharpe grimaced. He wished he could afford to purchase the rank of captain. He was lucky to even be a lieutenant.

By now the men had caught up. They looked like they had marched for a while.

Sharpe eyed the major. He looked like he would be quite at home at Buckingham Palace. He wore a finely jewelled sword, but despite its gaudiness, Sharpe knew it would serve very well in a fight. As for the owner, he was less certain.

The captain in front looked nineteen. He was cheerful, despite for the fact that he was soaked to the bone. He had a curved sword, and a hat that looked a better fit for a man twice as big as the thin captain.

The redcoats all had muskets, and the Portuguese had rifles. They looked more than able to fight.

Hogan nodded at the major, "Captain Michael Hogan. Engineer. What brings you to this flood?"

The major bridled at not receiving a salute, but responded all the same, "Major Nathan Hartford. I am leading two companies of the 22nd, and a band of locals who serve as guides."

It was clear that Hartford had no fondness for the Portuguese. Sharpe looked at them. They looked angry, so they doubtless understood English.

Hogan nodded to Sharpe, "Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Richard Sharpe. 95th Rifles."

Hartford stared at Sharpe, who stared back. Eventually, Hartford spoke up, "Lieutenant eh? You look quite old to be a lieutenant."

Sharpe's voice was heavy with defiance, "Rose up from the ranks, sir."

Hartford made no response, merely lifting his eyebrows up to disappear into his auburn hair.

After a minute, he waved a hand towards the captains with the other men, "This is Captain Terry Lewis and Captain Andrew MacGall. And sergeants Horace, Calumn, and O' Connelly." The sergeants saluted briskly.

Hartford shrugged, "I'm on patrol. I found it immensely pointless to stay at Lisbon for another month, so I do something productive."

"Good for bloody you." Sharpe said, but only so Hogan heard him.

Hartford glanced at the two men, "So have you seen any enemy soldiers?"

"There's a new man supposed to be patrolling this area for the French. A man named Brigadier Herron," Hogan replied.

Hartford snorted, "A full Brigadier out here? Surely not. The French army wouldn't possibly spend a full Brigadier out here."

Hogan smiled at this man's naivety. The French needed to spend many men to guarding their supplies and keeping the locals in check. The guerrillas were causing far more damage than the British ever could.

Neither he nor Sharpe said anything; it was clear by this captain's expression that he would never listen to them anyway.

Meanwhile, the rest of the riflemen came out of hiding. They stood to attention behind Sharpe and Hogan, matching the troops behind Hartford.

Hartford glanced at the men in surprise, "Thirty-something rifles alone here? I thought the Rifles were in England!"

Sharpe spoke up, "We got left behind in the retreat. Now we stay here where the fighting is." He did not elaborate on the horror and disorganization of the retreat in the dead of winter. The long slog back to Corunna, and how Sharpe had been left with fifty of the 95th Rifles in the middle of nowhere. They had eventually made it back south, where Captain Hogan had brought them to the British troops in Portugal, just as the French were massing to drive them into the sea.

"May I suggest you stay with us? There is safety in numbers." Hartford offered.

"I'll certainly keep it in mind. But I don't think it is wholly necessary. I have absolute faith in Lieutenant Sharpe and these troops. Good day." Hogan tipped his hat to Hartford and signaled for the riflemen to follow him. Sharpe marched closely after Hogan, eager to not have to see Major Hartford if he could help it.

Author's Note: I do not own the redoubtable Sharpe series. I do own a number of characters I'm going to introduce in this story. I also am very glad that they finally made a Sharpe category on