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Aug. 10th, 2006 03:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bodldopsA ficlet, because it won't go away, and if I write it I won't think about it anymore. Geeze.
Just over the ridge, a man was dying.
This wasn't anything new, hardly the first man who's ever died in this long horror of a war, but he was one of them, one of the proud South Essex, and there wasn't a thing they could do.
"God save Ireland." Sergeant Harper muttered to himself, grimly, as he watched green-coated Riflemen strip their dead French enemies of any prizes they might be hiding. Today's bit of business was a dirty, desperate affair, only brought about because the Frogs had wandered over a hill they weren't expected from and they, the battered Battalion of the South Essex, were lagging behind the main army and just close enough to the Frenchies that they'd been sent into action by a panicked officer in lace.
To distract himself from the sounds of the dying (eleven dead, counting the man bleeding out just over the ridge, not a bad butcher's bill, but God knows it's more than he likes), he set picquets.
Then to sooth his temper, he re-set them with a curse and a growl that some of the older veterans grinned at wearily.
He liked the man who's guts had been re-arranged by a a hunk of granite sent flying by a French cannon ball that had done no other damage. RSM MacLaird, not an Irishman, more's the pity, but a strong, sturdy man that never flinched in the face of the French columns and their infernal drums. But now he was dying due to rotten luck, and the Major was with him. And he, Harper, was left to sort out what remained of His Majesty's South Essex Batallion.
By God, Mary, and all the saints, it was cold up here. The wind, unfelt during battle, freshened and knifed right through clothing, finding all the little loose seams and tears. The ground was rock-strewn and soggy, both from rain and from blood.
What a horrible place to die. What a horrible place to live, come to that. Harper sighed, and thought of his native Donegal, green and lovely.
"Sergeant Harper!" It was Sharpe, grim as death and twice as savage, storming over the ridge. The Englishman had re-set the picquets again, Harper noted, vaguely amused. Seems not a one of them could get it right today. Still, someone had to handle the furious Major, and by God, he was just the man to do it. Now and ever.
Wow. That little bit of nothing refused to go away, even if it really isn't much of anything. *eyes it* Why can't I get inspiration for the next great American novel like that, huh?
Anyway. Can breathe, mostly, now. This makes me happy. Also, test is tomorrow. This... is not such great news. Ah well. Do it and be done with.
Just over the ridge, a man was dying.
This wasn't anything new, hardly the first man who's ever died in this long horror of a war, but he was one of them, one of the proud South Essex, and there wasn't a thing they could do.
"God save Ireland." Sergeant Harper muttered to himself, grimly, as he watched green-coated Riflemen strip their dead French enemies of any prizes they might be hiding. Today's bit of business was a dirty, desperate affair, only brought about because the Frogs had wandered over a hill they weren't expected from and they, the battered Battalion of the South Essex, were lagging behind the main army and just close enough to the Frenchies that they'd been sent into action by a panicked officer in lace.
To distract himself from the sounds of the dying (eleven dead, counting the man bleeding out just over the ridge, not a bad butcher's bill, but God knows it's more than he likes), he set picquets.
Then to sooth his temper, he re-set them with a curse and a growl that some of the older veterans grinned at wearily.
He liked the man who's guts had been re-arranged by a a hunk of granite sent flying by a French cannon ball that had done no other damage. RSM MacLaird, not an Irishman, more's the pity, but a strong, sturdy man that never flinched in the face of the French columns and their infernal drums. But now he was dying due to rotten luck, and the Major was with him. And he, Harper, was left to sort out what remained of His Majesty's South Essex Batallion.
By God, Mary, and all the saints, it was cold up here. The wind, unfelt during battle, freshened and knifed right through clothing, finding all the little loose seams and tears. The ground was rock-strewn and soggy, both from rain and from blood.
What a horrible place to die. What a horrible place to live, come to that. Harper sighed, and thought of his native Donegal, green and lovely.
"Sergeant Harper!" It was Sharpe, grim as death and twice as savage, storming over the ridge. The Englishman had re-set the picquets again, Harper noted, vaguely amused. Seems not a one of them could get it right today. Still, someone had to handle the furious Major, and by God, he was just the man to do it. Now and ever.
Wow. That little bit of nothing refused to go away, even if it really isn't much of anything. *eyes it* Why can't I get inspiration for the next great American novel like that, huh?
Anyway. Can breathe, mostly, now. This makes me happy. Also, test is tomorrow. This... is not such great news. Ah well. Do it and be done with.
