greenjacketed | SHARPE'S TEA ⚔ WRITTEN | VOICE

[ he's snug in a corner of the tea shop, with both a brew and a book in hand. the tea is strong; it's uncreamed and unsweetened, and yet it still somehow lacks the bite he's grown accustomed to through flanders, portugal, and spain. instead, this mug is as lightly spiced as the mugs he'd nursed on lonely nights in india. he'd been so much younger, then. and so much more foolish.

another sip and then it's time to get to it. in practice, his message has an intended audince of very few. but fear of his own sentimentality demands that he not approach anyone directly. and so he writes publicly, his script slanty and rough. unpracticed. it takes him a long time to carve out even a brief sentence: ]

Won't be around for a few days --- heading out, took the bloody shilling, got orders to march, &ct.
-- MJR R. SHARPE

[ he loops his pencil 'round the ampersand a few more times, chagrined by its childish slopes. he's no writer. not by any man's account. he's a soldier, he thinks. he knows when to kill and when not to kill, although that line was painfully blurred on the just-passed draft. he should know how to follow orders and protect the colours. but what on earth is a soldiering man to do with orders he didn't understand and no colours to speak of? it gives him a notion. a question, at least.

switching to voice: ] I suppose the village does not have a flag of its own, eh? Don't seeem proper. Perhaps it would've done no good in that last [ shit-hole/dungheap/disaster ] battle. But in future...?

[ he hesitates. he waits. and he lives his day as anxiously as any other day spent waiting to be deployed. a mission, this time? aye. perhaps it'll sooth his nerves and erase from his mind the bloody great cock-up of vaskoth. finally -- if the journal or the tea-shop won't do, feel free to encounter him elsewhere. he's bound to be in good spirits come the evening -- but he bloody well won't drink a drop. not the night before. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Autonomous on the field and after they are but men.

[Military discipline is something she's heard of. Seen in shades with a few students that have relatives in the service. An accusation had been levied at her family of such a thing- but it was utter bullshit. A good deal of rules does not a disciplined household make. Keeping to them, that did. ]

A'course, it's always different with the rifles. Chosen men for a reason, aye? Never have to worry 'bout them much. But the other men...

[ a soft hiss-like sound. sharpe shouldn't go into it. not here. not now. not when it brought him so close to that original insult. ]

My lads are good lads. Difficult, to start off with. Scoundrels and wastrels the lot. But good lads.

...are cut of a different cloth, yes?

[Scoundrels and wastrels. Common by comparison to the rest of the army, perhaps? There's tension here that has her pulling back, just a bit. Not in what is said but in what isn't. Better to sidle on to a different branch of conversation.]

[ he shakes his head. ] Aren't given the opportunity to show what cloth they are made of.

Ah.

[Far from eloquent, she knows. But she can't think of anything to say that wouldn't be ignorant.]

Here's how it's meant to be, lass. The common soldier comes from the bottom dregs of society, or else he's a young sap who didn't know no better at the time of taking the king's shilling. Prehaps to escape heartbreak or else to impress his sweetheart. But -- nine bloody times out of ten -- your common soldier is a man who couldn't afford to live on any other account. Your successful businessmen and your carpenters and your farmers won't join up. Why make less while upping their chances of being killed?

[ he taps the tabletop. ] Meanwhile, officers are on the other side of the great divide. Gentlemen and lords. Capable of purchasing their commissions and -- it is assumed -- capable of leading the men of lesser lives.

[ of course, that doesn't mean they were all bad officers. sharpe has personally known many great, courageous, inspiring men. in fact, he himself is more anomalous for being up from the ranks and still able to function in a command position. ]

If it is not too much for me to ask...to which of these categories do you fall, Major?

[An officer, yes, but one that holds a rifle but is not meant to. It's an entirely different world of expectations, far removed from her experiences and knowledge. It might be too much to ask. She isn't certain how long he'll humor her curiosity.]

Neither. [ actually? he nearly smiles. for this is something he is not ashamed of. he wears this fact proudly -- or else he would have tried harder to perfect his speech and mend his jacket's worn elbows. ] I were once a common soldier, Miss Adele. Until I were pulled up from the ranks to join the officers.

I take it this is not commonly done.

[Classism in the military prevents it, or that's how it seems as Sharpe speaks of his army.]

It's not commonly achieved.

[ he stresses it as his own victory -- not somone else's machination. ]

And all the more remarkable for it. [A beat.] Might I ask how it was you achieved your promotion?

Battlefield commission, ma'am. [ which...doesn't explain much. but how to put it in words? ]

Went above and beyond the call of duty. That's all.

[ there. no details. ]

[And none more will be asked of him. It's more than she's expected, really.]

Then whoever it is that goes with you on this mission should be in excellent hands.

And so will I, I hope. So will I.

[ he stands -- for good, this time. ] But I should rest before we march. If it's right with you, Miss Adele, I'll be taking my leave...

[She does as well, it's only polite.]

I'll not keep you Major Sharpe. Rest well, and good luck tomorrow.

SHARPE'S TEA ⚔ WRITTEN | VOICE | ACTION

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