major richard sharpe

[ today sees sharpe without his uniform jacket, but instead wearing only simple shirtsleeves and a black kerchief. miss faith does such excellent stitching; he feels favoured to wear such a gift.

he spends a great deal of his day working on a small patch of garden just to side of house 43, and although his back is bowed to the work he remains visible from the village path. he works on his knees, weeding and tending and gladly sinking his fingers into the earth. it gives him time to think. to ruminate. to come to terms with his grudges and regrets. and then he pauses, pushes to his feet, and leans on a shovel. a long swig of cool water from his canteen gets him thinking...

he fetches his journal, addressing it with humble verve: ] Any of you lot willing to part with a large barrel? Water-tight, preferably. I can trade for it, and we can barter over drinks. [ ... ] The odd crate or two wouldn't go amiss, neither.

[ later, still jacketless, he moseys the negligible distance from home to good spirits, where he rewards his hard work with rich dark ale. he sits at the bar, kerchief undone, and allows himself to speak comfortably with any who might care to chat. his nasty black eye has just about healed, and he's grown keen to make the best of his time in spite of his accumulated grudges. even those uninterested in barrels can come and have a gab. ]

[ 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. ]

[ despite muddy vowels and yorkshire drawls, sharpe's voice is remarkably calm when it bursts across the journals in the morning. he needs something to take his mind off other aspects of his life. and so -- this is the major speaking, not just the man: ]

Good day to you -- to the New Feathers and the old alike. My name is Sharpe. And as I understand it, ammunition is scarce in this place. For any in need of bullets, I'll have a pretty pile of cartridges as soon as I'm done rolling'em. I don't much mind sharing. [ a pause. ] They're 0.61 inch lead balls with a greased patch. But if that won't do, missions are a fine way to requisition more shot. The points are worth spending. A soldier can hoard his ammunition if he likes, but all the bullets in the bloody world can't improve a piss-poor shot. For that? Practice is what's needed. [ and practice is what he wanted.

oh and he might as well ask: ] Any soul got an axe I can make use of? Only for the day.

[ after bungling his way through any on-book communication, he'll get to work; with certain social turmoils still troubling his soul, he certainly needs the distraction. first, he'll be keeping busy behind the barracks. stripped down to his braces and cavalry trousers, he clears excess brush from the treeline and puts to good use some of the trees that were downed by the recent storm. moran mentioned a firing range and sharpe wants to see this dream realized.

the afternoon brings a small change of scenery. he will later be sitting by the fountain, rolling cartridge shot. the powder can get messy; as such, it's a job he prefers to do outdoors. the added ability to people-watch doesn't hurt, either.

hell. if you're lucky? you might even catch him humming. ]