Grand Review - the 95th Rifles

Sharpe nodded. "Aye, he does that. I reckon he'd make a good Rifles officer if he ever decided to transfer."

Harper raised his eyebrows in surprise - that was a damn fine compliment from Sharpe. "Is he not too shiny?"

"He were rollin' about in t'mud like a good'un the other day, during that football game," Sharpe retorted. "I defy anyone to stay shiny caked in mud."

"True - I never thought I'd see the day: an English Colonel playing caid." Harper looked back along the line to see where Wellesley was. "Right you lot, stand up straight, eyes front. Dearcaígh romhaibh, Carty. Feet together, Perkins."

Wellesley moved on, giving a last salute to the 60th, and arrived at the small huddle of 95th under Sharpe's command. God, but they were a mess! True, they had been in the Peninsula since before Corunna without stores or a proper quartermaster, yet he could not help but wince internally at the sight of their uniforms.

"Rifles! General salute, present...arms!"

The Heavy Cavalry sword he had been bequeathed swept into the salute as the General and his Staff approached.

Compared to Wellesley in his best dress uniform, Sharpe felt more scruffy than ever, but it wasn't his fault. And he knew that every single rifle was cleaner than it had ever been before, and that, to him, was the only thing that mattered.

And here was the greatest scruffbag of them all - Richard Sharpe; rogue, barbarian and gutter-born bastard. Never was there a man so unlikely to occupy an officer's uniform; yet even though he might like to Wellesley could not deny that Sharpe deserved his rank, and against all the odds made a fine officer.

The General raised his white-gloved fingers to his brow again, his blue eyes fixing on Sharpe's face before glancing over to the lines of untidy men - though it was clear that each had made an effort to improve their uniforms as much as humanly possible. Thirty-seven men in total. It would be a very short inspection indeed.

Oh Mary, Mother of God, the General. Carty knew he was going to drop his rifle, or worse, accidently shoot somebody, but he found his body reacted when his mind would not, the familiar syllables causing his rifle to move out of the crook of his elbow almost of its own accord, right fingers curling around the butt, to then snap across his body in perfect time with the men on either side, as his right foot moved back to press against the heal of his left; he stared at the oiled barrel on front of him, the rifle completely straight.

Sharpe met Wellesley's gaze unflinchingly. He might not be a born gentleman, but he was a better officer than many of those who had the class and the money - and they knew it, which was why they sneered at him.

And it was this man who had given him the chance. Sharpe owed him everything, and would do what it took to prove that he was right to have done what he had on that day in far-off India.

And here was some of the proof: thirty-seven men brought south from Galicia in the worst winter for thirty years, after they were cut off during the retreat. How many of the gentlemen officers could have done as much, he wondered.

Unaware of Sharpe's reflections, having received the salute Wellesley nudged Hercules forward with his heels at an ambling pace, his eyes raking along the ranks with minute scrutiny. Here Sharpe had no option to put his best men in front, which made matters easier, and though on the surface shabby he felt a glimmer of satisfaction that every man moved in perfect time to command, that every cartridge belt, sword bayonet and rifle was gleaming to perfection - most likely the guns cleaned, polished and oiled to within an inch of their lives.

Shabby on the surface, but these men would be able to fight, and fight hard.

His men were not parade ground soldiers, only good for standing around outside Windsor Castle. They were soldiers, fighters, every one of them, and their shabby uniforms spoke of hard fighting done. But these were the sort of men that would win Wellesley's war for him - if he would let them.

And Sharpe was proud of them, so proud it hurt.

It was an incredibly short inspection. He had hardly started Hercules walking before he had to halt again. Giving one last glance over the men he turned in his saddle to Sharpe.

"A commendable display, Lieutenant Sharpe," he said crisply. "Very commendable."

"Thank you very much, sir," Sharpe returned politely, trying to assimilate the words.

A compliment, to his men from the General. That was something Sharpe had never experienced before, as an officer, receiving such praise for men he commanded. He was very proud of his men.

Harris felt the tension unwind in his back. It would not be visible, he knew, but it would have given him a headache if he's stayed that straight, like a ramrod, for any longer. In a moment or two the general would be gone, and they could all relax, and Carty could breathe again.

And Sharpe was genuinely pleased with that comment. He felt that odd feeling, that almost painful contraction in his chest again as he took in the expression on the Rifles officer's face. That he could be pleased by so little... it was pathetic really.

"Carry on," he said gruffly, turning his horse and moving up the line without a second glance.

Carty exhaled desperately as soon as the General was out of hearing-range, then straightened immediately when he caught Sergeant Harper's look.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Sharpe said. When the General had passed on to the next regiment, he turned to face his men.

"Shoulder...arms! Order... arms! Stand at ease... stand easy. The General's pleased with you, lads. And I'm proud of you all. Very proud." Passing on the compliment wasn't something Sharpe was comfortable with, nor was he comfortable with giving a compliment of his own, but they needed to hear it.

Proud, proud, Mister Sharpe was proud... Carty relaxed and grinned.

"See, lad, they're not going to eat you." And so old Nosey should be proud of us, Harris thought. We'll fight for him to the death, scruffy or not.

"Yis, yis, no eat me," Carty whispered back happily.

"If he ate all his best soldiers, who would fight for him?" Harris said. Nor were Sharpe's men particularly appetising. Wellesley had gone on to look at the cavalry now - and nervous cavalrymen made nervous horses.

And now at last Perkins could release the cough he had been holding in for so long. He coughed seven times, explosively, doubling over before he recovered himself. "Sorry sir," he whispered. "Bit of dust." He finished with a sniff and wiped his nose on his sleeve.