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Sharpe's Sergeant	By : Sable899 Category: S through Z > The Sharpe Books Views: 1683 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Sharp series of books that this fanfiction is written for, nor do I know Sean Bean. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. This story is fiction.

Chapter List
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Chapter 5, Normandy, France, 1821

Lieutenant Jamie Sharpe’s heart started pounding as he pulled the red roan mare to a stop before turning onto the graveled drive that would finally lead him to the end of a very long journey that had taken him from his home in Scotland, to Ireland to the halls of Westminster, and now into Normandy. Looking up the long drive he could just make out the house he had been directed to by Sergeant Major Harper’s map. It wasn’t anything like the grand French manor he had imagined. Instead, it looked like a warm and inviting country seat of a landed esquire that could be found nearly anywhere in England, thatched roof and all. He reached a hand under his oilskin greatcoat to make sure the precious letters he carried were still there inside his green uniform jacket. Satisfied that the leather dispatch case was still safely tucked away and the cylindrical map case was still secured behind him, he spurred the mare forward with a clatter of hooves.

Stopping his horse in the poplar-framed courtyard, Jamie briskly dropped his lanky frame from the saddle, lifted his hat to run some fingers through his tousled blond locks, wiped his gritty green eyes with the back of a gloved hand and wound the reins through a hitching post next to the gate of a picket fence surrounding a distinctly English country garden in full bloom under a noonday sun. Quickly draping his coat across the saddle, he removed the map case and slung it over his shoulder to hang at his right side. A winding path led to a rose-draped Dutch-style door. He was hesitant to disturb the pleasant pastoral atmosphere as he approached; noticing the top half of the door was open. Stretching his tall frame, he squared his broad shoulders, adjusted his sword scabbard under his left hand and tugged on the doorbell lanyard, hearing footsteps almost immediately.

“Oui, Monsieur?” questioned a rather rotund-looking domestic woman as she approached down the entry hall, wiping her hands on a neat linen apron.

“Uh…Parlez-vous Anglaise?” asked Jamie tucking his hat under his left elbow.

“Certainment! Yes, of course,” came her swift reply, “How can I help you?”

“Is this the home of the English Colonel…….Richard…….Sharpe?” Jamie asked haltingly.

“Yes, yes. You have need to speak with him?” she asked.

“Please, inform Colonel Sharpe I have come with urgent dispatches from His Grace, the Duke of Wellington,” Jamie stated, deliberately omitting his own name.

The woman frowned and cursed something in French upon hearing the name Wellington, but turned quickly and disappeared inside the house. Jamie caught himself holding his breath and took several gulps of lavender-scented air, trying to hold back the nervousness that had him near vomiting. The woman quickly returned, still cursing in French, and motioned for him to come in and follow her into a nearby room.

Leaving him on his own, Jamie found himself standing in the middle of an oak and leather library. As his eyes adjusted to the lessened light of the room he began to take in the furnishings and small bits of military kit on display. A tattered, red-sashed, green jacket of the 95th Rifles hung on a hook next to a well-used fireplace, riding boots, much like his own, but worn to near nothing on the floor beneath. A nicked and stained officer’s sword hung above the mantle over a tattered map of the Peninsular War. A cluttered writing desk displayed a genuine French Eagle, a brass spyglass standing next to it. Before he could look closer, he heard hard-booted footsteps coming nearer and a solid Yorkshire drawl order “Lunielle, bring our guest refreshments.”

Larger than life, Colonel Richard Sharpe was everything Jamie had imagined him to be. Sergeant Major Harper had filled Jamie’s childhood days with everything he could dredge from memory of the rogue, villain, hero and friend, until Jamie began believing the blustery Irishman was surely making most of it up. Jamie nearly reeled at the sight of the legend come to life as the noonday sun finally reached an open window to slowly spotlight the frame of the man now filling the doorway. Jamie saw his own hooded green eyes, unruly blond locks, chiseled jaw line, gentle hands, broad-shouldered yet lanky soldier’s frame and felt his heart nearly burst.

“My name is Sharpe, and just who might you be, lad?” Sharpe asked in a firm voice, “And what in bloody-ell does ‘is high and might-eh want from me this time?”

Jamie couldn’t find his voice to answer, opting instead to offer the dispatch case to the Colonel, only to turn it upside down in his nervousness, spilling three letters onto the thick wool Aubusson carpet.

Swiftly picking them up, Jamie fumbled to arrange them in a specific order, handing them over to an obviously impatient Sharpe.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Sir, they need to be read in this order,” Jamie stammered, revealing a confusing mix of proper King's English, Irish brogue and Scottish lilt.

Fixing his steady green gaze on the young officer, Sharpe silently took the letters from Jamie’s shaking hand.

“Aye, you ‘owt to be afraid of me, young Sir. Eny’time ‘is Grace sends for me, you can expect a lot o’ men to end up dead,” Sharpe scowled, motioning to one of the chairs opposing each other in front of the fireplace, “Well, take yer ease, man. I don’t ken to formalit-eh like the rest o’ them poncy lot back at Horse Guard.”

Dropping his gaze, Sharpe proceeded to inspect the first of the three letters. His face exploded with his famous cheeky grin as he saw ‘RSM Patrick Harper, Esquire, to Colonel Richard Bloody Sharpe’ scrawled across the front of the first envelope.

May 23, 1821

My Dear Friend Richard,

Hoping this letter finds you well and in better spirits than last we parted. I am writing this as a way of introducing the young Sir into whose hands I am placing it for delivery to you. Knowing you as I do, I will get right to the point.

Some years ago, I was visited by the Lady Mary MacKinnon, whom you would have known in a previous life as Mary Bickerstaff. When last you saw her, she was preparing to marry an Indian General. But, as fate would have it, he was killed in action before the marriage took place. Her circumstances were such that she found it necessary to return to England and her late husband's family bearing the news that she was with child. She allowed the family to assume the child was of her late husband's blood. A fine son was born and given his grandfather's name. Mary insisted on the middle name of Richard and so the child was christened 'James Richard Bickerstaff'. The family prospered and eventually a marriage was arranged between the widowed Mary and Sir Angus MacKinnon of Edinburgh, an elderly, childless bachelor. Being the last of his line, he graciously gave the child his own family name and declared him as his sole heir. After his death in 1813, Mary's son inherited his lands and title. Shortly after Ramona and I came home to Ireland during the peace of 1814, Mary came to call on me. She was quite ill with consumption and distressed about her son's future. Before she would tell me the tale of Jamie's provenance, she swore Ramona and me to secrecy. She had always tried to do the best she could to keep her son safe and to provide a secure future for him. She had followed the career of the 'legendary' Richard Sharpe and his chosen men and when she knew she was dying, she sought me out to tell me the tale and to ask me to become Jamie's guardian until he reached his majority. Seeing the boy with mine own eyes convinced me of the truth. With nowt to consider, Jamie came to live under my roof same as one of me own. Because of the blood that runs in his veins and the man that he was already showing himself to be, I was proud to be his guardian. Richard, it is your blood that runs in his veins.

I ask you now, old friend, to forgive me for keeping my oath. Mary knew that if the wrong people found out about Jamie's heritage before he came into his majority that her hopes for his secure future would be lost. I was certain that were you to know that you had a motherless son you would have moved heaven and earth to have him with you. You still have many powerful enemies in England and the risk was far too great that should they learn that Jamie was the son of Colonel Richard Sharpe they would take their revenge upon you by denying the heritage that Sir Angus had taken great pains to pass to him and Jamie's own hopes for the chance to follow in your footsteps into the 95th would have been denied to him. And so I kept my oath. Please accept Mary's own words in the letter she placed into my hands for safekeeping, to await the right time for you to hear the tale. The boy’s blood proves out that her words are the truth of it all.

Ever your true friend and servant
Patrick Harper

Sharpe felt his heart explode and his head begin to spin. Nothing existed around him at that moment. He let the letter fall from his hands to the floor as, without hesitation, he tore into the second envelope, his mind racing ahead of what his eyes could see.

February 14, 1814

My Darling Richard,

It is with aching heart that I find myself putting pen to paper. It has been so many years, yet I still hear your voice, feel your touch, and breathe your scent. I have always regretted my decision to remain behind in India all those years ago, knowing that I was turning my back on the love of my life. Alas, a life with you was not in our Lord's plan for me and I have done my best to atone for my sins by ensuring that your son, our son, was afforded every opportunity to have the best life possible. His future is now assured and while he may grow to manhood not knowing you directly, he has always known of you. Whatever else there is to know Patrick Harper will teach him.

As my time on this earth grows shorter, I find solace in knowing I have made up for the hurt I caused you by doing right by Jamie. I know I forfeited any right to ask anything of you after causing you pain all those years ago. But now, as my death draws near, I am asking for your forgiveness and for you to acknowledge Jamie as your son. Upon his majority, Jamie's stepfather's heritage will be confirmed and he will have the freedom and the security to wear his true name and to follow whatever path he so chooses.

I am at peace with what I have done because I did it for our son. I am certain that you will know Jamie is your son the moment you meet him face to face. He is you in every way. Until then, I place him into the safekeeping of Patrick Harper, the last of your Chosen Men.

Always and forever loving you,
Mary Bickerstaff Mackinnon

Collapsing into the open chair, Sharpe felt numbed by the revelation that the young man sitting in front of him was his own flesh and blood. He felt many other things as well, only he wasn't sure what they meant. Not for even a fraction of a second did any doubt cross his mind; he trusted Patrick Harper with his very soul and he knew that Harper would follow him into the gates of hell with just a word, such was their bond. Harper would never, could never, lie to him. And based on the boy’s features, his eyes, his mannerisms, the way he carried himself, there was no denying that he was of his blood.

The two men sat facing each other in silence for some time before Sharpe regained enough composure to speak without breaking down.

“So, young James, why would ye want to know this broken down old soldier who cursed yer mother before ye were ever born for rippin' 'is 'eart out?” Sharpe asked, looking directly into the young man's questioning green eyes.

“Beggin' yer pardon, Sir, but I've grown up with the stories of the finest soldier ever to wear the King's uniform,” Jamie explained, “You're all Uncle Pat ever talks about and me mam' was telling me stories even 'afore that. Sir Angus would tell me everything he would hear at Lords about the 'bloody rogue Richard Sharpe' and how Wellington raised him from the gutter. Ever since I can remember I've wanted to be just like you.”

“I can think of a lot better things to be than just like me,” Sharpe countered, “Better than bein' a villain, rogue, murderer, and thief who was in the wrong place at the right time”

“His Grace said you would say something like that,” Jamie argued, “I think it best you read the next letter, Sir.”

Sharpe looked long and hard at the third envelope he still held in his hands, puzzled by the address written in a fine script 'To Colonel Sir Richard Sharpe'.

Westminster, 6th July, 1821

Sir,

Some years ago when you saved my life, I repaid your good turn with a right bad one when I gave you a field commission. I cannot speak for you, but my faith in what I did on that day has well borne out. Never have I served with a finer officer. Your service to King and country has been unflagging and for that you have the thanks of your King, your General and a grateful nation.

By now, you will have found out that you have a son. I knew who he was from the first moment I laid eyes on him from across the parade grounds. Lieutenant Sir James Richard MacKinnon Sharpe is a fine officer and natural born leader who enjoys the admiration, loyalty and trust of all who have served with him since the day he put on the green jacket of the 95th Rifles. He has earned the right to carry the name of the man whose blood runs in his veins as he follows his father's path. He is his father's son in every way imaginable. As such, I have carried out the necessary actions for him to legally do so. Your objections be damned, Richard. I will not permit any chance of bloody-mindedness on your part to adversely affect his future nor thwart his heart's desire; to serve under his father’s command.

Fortuitous for Jamie, I once again find it necessary to call you back to active service. I can only hope that perhaps you might be tiring of the life of a farmer. I have found the need to resurrect a position occupied at differing times by Major Hogan and Major Munro. In fact, I have elevated the position by establishing the Office of Military Intelligence. As such, I am ordering you to active duty to assume the position of Commander of this new office. You cannot refuse the appointment as you will see upon inspection of the Letters of Patent and other documents that Lieutenant Sharpe carries with him. This is not a request from Horse Guard, but a commission from His Majesty. Yes, Richard, you are to be knighted and therefore subject to Royal Commission. I can now order you as I see fit.

I expect you to call on me as soon as you arrive in London for your Investiture on 8th August. Everything is arranged. Until then, Lieutenant Sharpe will serve as your aide de camps. He has been fully briefed and should be able to answer any questions you may have concerning your assignment as well as the ceremony for Investiture. He will also assist you in designating your Grant of Arms with Crest as he is quite good at such artistry. Until then, use the time for the two of you to become acquainted. You will be pleased that you did. And do try to keep him away from the ladies. He seems to like them a bit too well, as they do him.

I have the honor to be, &c
WELLINGTON

“That blood-eh bastard!,” Sharpe roared at the ceiling, “He’s gone off and done me up right smart this time, he ‘as. Will I never be free from him?”
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Sharpe's Sergeant