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Harper strode across the encampment, a wriggling, screaming body held tightly under his arm. The sound of wailing was evident to all as he approached and Harris looked up over the top of his glasses from his sewing. His buttons had come loose again, and it was not worth tempting his officer’s wrath to leave them dangling.
“Did you see Ramona?” Harper asked in exasperation as he climbed up the slope.
“She went down to get the washing, sarge. Only a few minutes ago.” Harris answered, cutting a thread with his teeth.
“What’s up with the young one?” Hagman emerged from his tent, his hair hanging loose over his shoulders.
“If I knew that, would I be asking for Ramona?” Harper retorted.
Little Patrick screwed his face up further and wailed, big fat tears running down his cheeks and his fists clenched in rage and pain.
“Is it his teeth?” Hagman asked. “I’ve a small tot of brandy here if he needs.”
“I’m the one who bloody needs the brandy,” Harper responded. “He has most of his teeth already, surely?”
“He’s nearly one, so there are more to come in,” offered Harris.
“He can’t be hungry anyway, he just ate.” Harper looked back down the slope to where men were starting to congregate in an open sandy space. “Bloody hell, and there’s parade starting soon.”
He shifted his son up in his arms. Little Patrick was now screaming, his cheeks red and hot, his plump hands clenched and waving dangerously near his father’s face as he was held tightly to the rough green of the jacket.
“Well, are you going to help me or what?” Harper demanded, leaning his face away from a flailing fist.
“Come here, little babba, come on over to Dan.” The old poacher’s voice was soft and gentle as he stood up and held out his blackened hands. But all he got for his troubles was a foot thumping into his arm, a leg shooting out and smashing into his chest, and another high pitched wail that would pierce the hearing of any rifleman in the vicinity.
“Ah, what’s the story, little one? What’s the matter?” Harper asked more gently now. He held on tight and hurriedly checked the boy over as he would a raging animal. The little boy curled his face into his father’s jacket and held his foot out from his body, his pudgy toes spread out.
“Ah, Pádraigín, is it your foot?”
Harper’s large hand enveloped his son’s foot, and the young boy kicked out once more in pain. Harper saw a tiny black shard assaulting his son’s skin, piercing the soft underbelly of his small, innocent foot.
“Ah, mo chuisle, your chosín is sore, isn’t it now? Come here now, dada will sort that for you.”
He made to try to kiss his son’s foot, as if he could suck the shard out. But young Patrick was having none of it. He screamed, his body now rigid, and Harper struggled to contain him as his son’s small, stocky limbs once more thrashed out.
“He’s got his father’s strength, that’s for sure.” A sardonic Cooper curled his lip and watched the scene without offering a helping hand. “And his stubbornness too.”
He dodged a foot roughly aimed at him, this time from the father. But Harper was not able to aim straight or hard with a struggling, tantrumming toddler in his arms.
“Just give me a hand will you?” he demanded. “He’s a scealp in his foot, and you’re not helping just standing there.”
“A what?”
“A scealp - look, see for yourself.” Harper held out his son’s foot towards the chosen men, nearly allowing the wriggling child to drop to the ground in the process. He caught him, manhandling him around so they could see the pudgy little sole. The men crowded around to take a look.
“Ah, a spile. That’ll be sore right enough,” came Hagman’s measured answer.
“What are you talking about? That’s a splinter.” Perkins found his face too close to the young boy’s flailing arms and had to take a quick step backwards.
“I’d call it a sliver, myself,” jutted in Cooper.
“Listen, I don’t care what any of you would bloody call it - I just need to get it out of my son’s foot.” Harper looked at them in expectation.
“Yes, Sarge.” Hagman nodded gravely. “Hold him there and let me take a look.”
Harper hooked his foot around a small milking stool, pulling it over. He gingerly sat down, still holding his son tight and trying to shush him as he held the leg outwards.
Hagman took a careful look, screwing up his eyes at the black shard sticking out of the boy’s soft footbed.
“It’s right stuck in there.” He turned to his companions. “Perkins – get me a needle. And hot water.”
“Nah, there’s no need for that.” Cooper leaned over, pushing Hagman out of the way. “Let me have a go. It just needs a couple of careful thumbs, that’s all.”
Cooper crouched in front of the child, Harper’s eyes watching his every move. Cooper sniffed and rolled up his sleeves. He then placed his thumbs together but facing outwards, so that his blackened nails could come together either side of the small black splinter. He stuck his tongue out in concentration as he slowly pushed the tips of his thumbs together. Little Patrick brought his other leg back and let out an almighty kick, slamming his heel onto Cooper’s bent fingers.
Cooper leapt back with a yowl, shaking his hand.
“Bloody hell, Sarge! That’s my trigger hand!” He turned away, sucking his thumb as he went.
Little Patrick’s screams continued and his whole body shook with pain and frustration.
“Let me have a go, Sarge.” Harris stepped forward confidently and bent down over little Patrick’s foot. Harper had hardly had time to ask what he was going to do when Harris’s head quickly whipped back.
“Bloody hell, Sarge, hold on to him, please!” he whined, one hand clasped over his left eye.
A small foot had made contact with his face, his glasses mercifully not broken but hanging askew from one ear.
“Patrick, you little fecker, come here.” Harper once more grasped his son, holding him more tightly and wishing he had another pair of hands himself just to help keep control of his son’s small but powerful body.
“Anyone else want a go?” he asked, looking around.
“Perkins, you hold the water.” Hagman took from Harris a small thin needle and settled into a crouch in front of the milking stool. He looked to Harper as if for an order to proceed before a night attack.
Harper nodded. Hagman was careful and gentle, and always a good shot. He would be able for this type of combat.
Little Patrick filled his lungs and roared as his foot was placed into the water. Hagman sang gently, trying to bring some small consolation. After a short minute, he drew it out and Harper shifted his son under his arm. Now there were two strong hands holding the chubby leg down, not letting the foot move at all. Hagman hummed softly as he carefully pushed the needle into the top layer of skin, just to the side of the splinter, just close enough to loosen its grip. Little Patrick cried ever the harder, but his father and Hagman held fast.
“Nearly there, Sarge. It’s nearly out. One more try.” Hagman’s hand was steady as the needle slid in once more.
It all happened in a split moment. One second Harper was holding tight onto his wriggling son, and the next the legs of the milking stool had given way, leaving Harper leaning precariously backwards.
Little Patrick gave a strong twist, throwing his body away from the pain and causing his father to pitch to one side.
As he fell, Harper’s large boots bashed into Perkins, sloshing hot water from the bowl onto the rifleman’s hands.
Perkins then stumbled just as Hagman flicked the needle up into the air, causing them to collapse backwards. They shouted in surprise as hot water slopped over them both, soaking their hair, faces and tunics.
As they did so, Harper fell backwards off the milking stool, going head over heels in the mud as he held his son up out of danger.
“Are you men alright, there?”
Ramona’s voice was half scolding and half amused as she took in the sight of the Chosen Men and her son.
Her husband was on his arse in the mud, holding up an undamaged child. Perkins and Hagman were sitting back on the ground, soaking wet in a puddle of steaming water, spluttering and laughing in the same breath. Cooper was still angrily sucking his finger, and Harris sat with his eye covered by his hand, his glasses hanging from one ear.
They all looked up in surprise, and little Patrick giggled and wriggled again as he saw his mother.
“Ven aquí, mi amor,” Ramona muttered, shaking her head and trying to hide her smile as she scooped up her son and wiped the tears from his cheeks.
“I don’t know what is going on, but you’ll need to smarten up, all of you,” Ramona commented drily. “You have company.”
She gestured with her head to where a stony-faced, green-jacketed officer was making his way over the grass towards them all.
Ramona nodded and greeted him with a respectful smile as she walked away down the slope, her son now safely ensconced in her arms. Behind her, five men hurriedly brushed down their uniforms as best they could. Sharpe drew to a halt in front of them and took in their sorry appearance.
“You men are a disgrace.” His voice was harsh.
“Well, sir, it was like this,” said Harper as he pulled himself up from the ground. “There was an emergency surgery needed, and it took all of us to manage it, so it did.”
Sharpe’s face remained impassive as Harper recounted their brave attempts to save young Patrick’s foot.
“Think you’re bloody surgeons now, do you?” he commented with a scoff.
“We did get it out, sir,” said Perkins.
“He might need some little boots now that he’s walking and running around,” Harris helpfully suggested, his eyelid beginning to swell and turn a beautiful shade of purple.
“He’s alright. His feet need to toughen up on the ground, that’s all,” responded Hagman, pushing his wet hair out of his face.
Harper just looked over his shoulder at his wife and son, heading down the slope towards the river. The thought hit him hard. The day little Patrick’s feet toughened up was the day his babyhood would be over.
Sharpe drew up his lip and smiled a sardonic smile. “Well, it sounds like you had the situation covered. I’d expect nothing less, seeing as you’re supposed to be the best. Wouldn’t know it, looking at you.”
His face resumed its usual demanding expression. “Now move, all of you. Parade starts in ten minutes. Get yourselves clean, you’re not to let the company down.”
“Yes, sir. No, sir. Wouldn’t do that, sir.”
The men grabbed their equipment, attempted to wipe themselves dry on their jacket sleeves, and then turned as one to make their way towards the parade ground.
Sharpe pulled Harper aside, his expression still serious and his eyebrows raised and questioning.
“Sorry about that, sir. He was in a bad way, sir, believe me.” Harper was contrite.
Sharpe’s face softened slightly. “Little Patrick’s birthday coming up, is it?”
“Yes, sir.” Harper nodded. “It’s very good of you to remember that. He’ll be one next week, sir.”
“Then there’ll be a pair of boots for him from me.”
Surprise and pleasure crossed Harper’s face. “Thank you, sir. He’ll be the best dressed boy this side of the Douro.”
He stood to attention before turning to follow the rest of the men heading towards their inspection.
“And Harper?”
Harper turned again at the sound of his name, wondering what his officer’s serious tone was still for.
“Sir?” he enquired.
“Put Patrick’s name down for the Rifles now – looks like he can take on a crack company already.”
Harper split into a beaming smile and saluted again. “Will do, sir!”
And with that, Sharpe watched his men hurry down to the parade ground. He shook his head in bemusement, and finally allowed a wide grin to slide across his face as he followed them.