Sharpe's Sword

'God damn it, Sharpe! Hurry, man!'

'Yes, sir.' Sharpe made no attempt to hurry. He painstakingly read the piece of paper, knowing that his slowness irritated Lieutenant-Colonel Windham. The Colonel slapped a booted leg with his riding crop.

'We haven't got all day, Sharpe! There's a war to win.'

'Yes, sir.' Sharpe repeated the words in a patient, stubborn tone. He would not hurry. This was his revenge on Windham for allowing Captain Delmas to have parole. He tipped the paper so that the firelight illuminated the black ink.

'I, the undersigned, Paul Delmas, Captain in the Fifth Regiment of Dragoons, taken prisoner by the English Forces on 14th June, 1812, undertake upon my Honour not to seek to Escape nor to Remove myself from Captivity without Permission, and not pass any Knowledge to the French Forces or their Allies, until I have been Exchanged, Rank for Rank, or Otherwise Released from this Bond. Signed, Paul Delmas. Witnessed by me, Joseph Forrest, Major in His Britannic Majesty's South Essex Regiment.'
Colonel Windham rapped with his crop again, the noise loud in the predawn chill. 'Dammit, Sharpe!'

'Seems to be in order, Sir.'

'Order! Blood and hounds, Sharpe! Who are you to say what's in order! Good God! I say it's in order! I do! Remember me, Sharpe? Your commanding officer?'

Sharpe grinned. 'Yes, sir.' He handed the parole up to Windham who took it with elaborate courtesy.

'Thank you, Mr. Sharpe. We have your gracious permission to get bloody moving?'

'Carry on, sir.' Sharpe grinned again. He had come to like Windham in the six months that the Colonel had commanded the South Essex, a regard that was also held by the Colonel for his wayward and brilliant Captain of the Light Company. Now, though, Windham still seethed with impatience.