Sharpe's Regiment

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Regimental Sergeant Major MacLaird was a powerful man and the pressure of his fingers, where they gripped Major Richard Sharpe's left hand, was painful. The RSM's eyes opened slowly. 'I'll not cry, sir.

'No.

'They'll not say they saw me cry, sir.

'No.

A tear rolled down the side of the RSM's face. His shako had fallen. It lay a foot from his head.

Sharpe, leaving his left hand in the Sergeant Major's grip, gently pulled back the red jacket.

'Our Father, which art in heaven. MacLaird's voice choked suddenly. He lay on the hard flints of the roadway. Some of the dark flints were flecked with his blood. 'Oh, Christ!

Sharpe was staring into the ruin of the Sergeant Major's belly. MacLaird's filthy shirt had been driven into the wound that welled with gleaming, bright blood. Sharpe let the jacket fall gently onto the horror. There was nothing to be done.

'Sir, the RSM's voice was weak, 'please, sir? Sharpe was embarrassed. He knew what this hard man, who had bullied and whored and done his duty, wanted. Sharpe saw the struggle on the strong man's face not to show weakness in death and he gripped MacLaird's hand as if he could help this last moment of a soldier's pride. MacLaird stared at the officer. 'Sir?

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