Over the hills and far away... Who: Sharpe and greeter Where: Waterloo, then the Hotel lobby When:Thursday evening What: Sharpe arrives Status:Incomplete
The end of one thing is generally the beginning of another. And so they had thought it was when the overly ambitious Frenchman abdicated his throne and went into exile on the island of Elba. They thought that they were rid of him forever, the war was done, time to forge ahead into more peaceful times, with the Bourbon monarchy restored once more. Richard Sharpe had believed it to be so. He had quitted the army, bid farewell to Patrick Harper - and to Hagman and Harris - and gone to Normandie and the farm, and to his Lucille. He left England with few qualms for after all, his wife - and how very much he loathed using that term to describe Jane now - was the concubine of Lord Rossandale, and had stolen all his hard earned money. Although given the opportunity, he would not hesitate to get it back. The money, not the woman. What use had he for her that had betrayed him so? None whatsoever.
And things were good. Very good. Until the Corsican escaped his bondage, rousing the people into a frenzy once more, rallying them to join with him once more. Lucille did not wish him to go. But Richard Sharpe was a soldier. And he realized that it was his duty to do so, to defeat Bonaparte once and for all. Or there would be no peace for any of them.
And so it began, this hundred days - for that is all it was. This last breath, gasp, this moment in time which came and went so very quickly - and all for naught. But nothing would ever be the same for Richard again.
The final blow came in Belgium, where he had been made an aide to the Prince of Orange - otherwise known as "Silly Billy" - and made Lt. Colonel of the 5th Belgian Light Dragoons. "Silly Billy" was an incompetent twit, who was responsible for the deaths of many men, and it was only due to the combat skills of Sharpe that a French breakthrough was prevented. As a reward for his actions, Wellington gave him command of the Prince of Wales Own Volunteers (formerly the South Essex Regiment) for the remainder of the battle.
The outcome of this battle is well known, of course - Napoleon was defeated, soundly, for a variety of reasons. And Sharpe saw him - both he and Harper both - before he rode away. And they were satisfied that they had done so. But when the smoke of battle had cleared, a heavy price had been paid, for both Hagman and Harris were among the casualties. The war was over at last, it was time to move on.
"Where will you be going, Richard?" Patrick asked in his lilting Irish brogue, as they walked across the battlefield together. A fine mist was gathering, an early morning portent of the day to come, foggy and uncertain.
At one time that would have been an easy question to answer - return to Normandie and Lucille. But things had changed in the last hundred days. The farm was no more, and Lucille had gone somewhere else, never to return. So where was he to go? The Army didn't seem the place for him at the moment, nor did England.
"Come back with me to the old sod," Harper said impulsively, "You know Ramona would love to see you. There'll be much to be done."
Richard heard the words with a choking in his throat, which prevented him from expressing himself at that moment. Of course he could do that, and perhaps he should. But a restlessness deep in his soul told him that something else was waiting for him, something as yet unimagined. Something to fill the yearning in his heart, left empty by the treacheries of women, and the vagaries of war.
He let a few beats go by, his eyes intent upon the ground, stepping around the bodies of the fallen where they still lay, the swirling mist adding to the surrealness of the situation. Could he do it? Should he do it? He raised one weary hand to his blonde head, hefting his rifle up as he did so, before turning toward Harper.
"Pat," he began, but whatever he might have been going to say was swallowed up by the realization that he could not see his friend, the fog between them having thickened to the point of being well nigh impenetrable. "Pat?" he repeated, reaching out toward his best friend. But he was not there.
Surprised, Sharpe began to cautiously feel his way about, and it seemed as if the terrain were suddenly changing, inexplicably so. He felt his hackles rise, as he raised his voice, crying out, "Pat!" But to no avail. No answering cry did he receive.
And then as suddenly as it had sprung up, the fog was gone. And he found himself - not on a battlefield in Belgium, but in the lobby of an elegant hotel. Something was definitely amiss here. He cocked his rifle carefully, as he moved across the lobby floor, but somehow he instinctively knew that the French were not responsible for his present predicament.