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Sharpe and the Prettymen. Fic of many chapters. No.l.

Chapter Text

Title Richard Sharpe and the Prettymen
Author [info]bluegerl
Crosspost to [info]sharpe_thinking
Category FPF/S Pairing: Richard Sharpe/ Frank Hopkins from Hidalgo, Plus The Chosen Men, James Purefoy, Gerard Butler, Jake Gyllenhaal, Daniel Craig and others.
Rating NC 17 Touch of bondage.
Chapters 20. completed.
Disclaimer. This is all imagination. It has nothing whatsoever to do with poor Mr Cornwell and his books, I have only borrowed his lovely men in green. The other gentlemen's names are just to toy with with no malice aforethought. I hope no-one will be offended, and no-one will ever make money from it! All mistakes are mine. Absolutely!

Previous Chapters Here, 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.  16.17 18  19  and listed at the beginning of chapter 1.


Chapter 20 Richard Sharpe and the Prettymen

Morning reluctantly wept over a sleeping camp. Sentries crouched under sodden cloaks, clutching their rifles beneath dry armpits. The six wettest guards were on duty outside the wooden building that housed the four prisoners, each chained to a wall out of reach of the other.

Major Sharpe woke to the drip-drip of water on his tent roof, and the gentle snoring of a well-sorted fancy Colonel, still decorated with a tassel from one of his golden aiguillettes. He was so pleased to be back in a camp without the godawful responsibilty of having to maltreat four senior officers, who were way up there beyond his... wait though - they wouldn't be so senior later, would they? Stripped of all rank, publicly, accused and found guilty of treason, attempted murder? No, not attempted, they actually hadn't tried, thanks to Frank's and his efforts.

Richard (still Major Probationary) Sharpe lay back in his small camp bed, made even smaller with the body of a very senior Colonel... Richard's sniggers woke the Colonel, who reached out a long arm and pulled the golden body of a very happy man back on to his chest, and within reach of a very hot, happy cock. Richard's dangly bit, Not shiny and not decorated with gold thread, immediately stopped being dangly and sprang upright to attention like the good soldier it was. Frank Hopkins' mouth reached for Richard's, his hands grasping for firm smooth buttocks. Richard banged his knees trying to lift one leg high enough to enable him to sit on his Colonel. He succeeded, enjoyably and very energetically. The camp bed suffered severe concussion, and creaked loudly in protest at the gymnastics being performed. A passing wet sentry paused, listened to the mounting cries, and when they finally roared in unison, he smiled knowingly, and moved quietly on.

Courts Martial required the wearing of full uniform by everyone who was present. General Wellington appeared in his dress jacket, sashed, decorated, pimpled with medals, and his feathered cocked hat sat upright on its stand. Major Hogan had merely changed his cravat, it appeared, a powdering of snuff still colouring the blue stripe on his collar. Richard snorted. Patrick would have spotted that and had it off in a second. Hogan needed a nursemaid more than he did. He'd taken the greatest care over his appearance this morning. He really was at the smartest he had ever been, thanks to the now getting dressed person of Colonel Hopkins, for the loan of a freshly washed linen shirt.

The Courtroom Table, as it had now become, was covered in a large sheet of canvas, hiding the legs usually visible below. Five chairs sat behind neatly placed sheets of paper. Quills and ink before. Very regimented. Sandboxes one, each two chairs. Sandbox, one, large, before the central chair.

Several large volumes were piled on a small chest behind, against the tent wall. A table held flasks, water bottles and drinking vessels covered with cloths.

At ten of the morning precisely, the tent door was held back, and the Courts Martial officers filed silently in. They took their places, leaving one chair beside the central one, vacant.

General Wellington looked up, nodded at the Sergeant-at-Arms waiting just inside the tent. Four still slightly more polished, but grey-faced men trooped in, hands bound. Richard grinned to himself as he noticed the state of Capts. Craig and Butler's boots. Tut tut, filthy dirty, disgraceful... They were pushed into sitting upon four folding stools, and their gags removed. A pause at the tent door, and the Colonel in the Intelligence Corps, in his full glory, glided past Richard’s figure squatting in his chair, and slid into the vacant chair beside the General. The gavel rapped on its block of firewood.

"The Court will come to order... " Richard sat to attention at the back wall of the tent, and listened to the charge.

"...Charged with treason against the person of his Majesty King George III of England, his officers, and his country, by reason of your attempting to assassinate one of the aforesaid Majesty's most favoured Officers in His Majesty's Army. In so doing you also attempted to seduce...”

Richard sat further up to attention, listening intently, "other officers of His Majesty's Army, debase the honour and name of the Regiment to which you have had the honour of being commissioned...." the Adjutant's voice droned on and on. Richard, who hadn't had a great deal of sleep, being as the bed was a bit small for a big fella like himself...when playing host to another big fella, began to feel his attention wander, his eyes feel heavy, and this weren't a bad chair he were sitting in...

He felt a nudge, looked up and found the Courts Martial had proceeded quite a way. The Col. Winstanley was now asked to stand, his hands were loosed, and he had to place his hand on the Bible to swear. He still looked ... well, handsome, his height and his well-shaped round head, the dark springing curls framing a face of strength in bone. His eyes, large and still lustrous, despite, Richard hoped, some sleepless nights of the sort he didn't usually suffer, stared defiantly at the General.

"I will not swear on this book or any other. This so-called Courts Martial is a farce. It is unorthodox, it has no qualified lawyers present, neither for the prosecution nor the defence. I will not speak.” He paused, waiting for a response. None came, he continued,

“If you wish to proceed with this ridiculous nonsense, then I demand to be sent to London, post haste, to appear before some rather more prominent and qualified Officers. I will be represented by my own legitimate lawyers in front of a proper Judge. I also demand that my two adjutants, Craig and Butler, be allowed to accompany me. They are on my personal staff, and I am responsible for them. Capt Gyllenhaal is of no matter. He has not been of much assistance in the past, and was on the point of being dismissed by Their Lordships. I now withdraw from this scenario. Good Day, gentlemen."

Richard felt the tension in the tent screw itself into a knot... what would the bastard try and do? He felt for his sword, and held it firm, ready. The bastard was not going to walk out of here, no way, over Major Sharpe's live and very resisting body. He felt the Sergeant bang his fist on the tent behind him. The door opened and four large, armed and determined men in the red and green uniforms stood across the width of the tent. Craig had turned on his stool and his pale mad eyes wavered, became despairing. He turned back toward the desk, shoulders slumping and his hands stilling.

Butler hadn't moved an inch. He sat, staring forward as he had done during the whole of the proceedings. He neither moved a foot, changed a leg, or even clenched a fist when the charges against him had been read. He seemed to have retreated into a silent world, where only commands from his Col. Winstanley penetrated. Richard had never seen anyone with such dark control. He shivered, despite the warmth in the crowded tent.

WInstanley remained standing. He turned back to face the desk, his face lifted, slightly mocking, still exuding a confidence Richard was sure he could not possibly feel. He looked sure, unafraid. Surely there were doubts in his mind?

Nosey sat back in his chair, cradling the quill between his fingers, pressing the feather down along the curve of his thumb. He looked back, up at Winstanley. Long, cold, expressionless. Richard knew that look. That was a bastard of a look, it chilled you right through, took any thought of cockiness or cheap confidence right out and chucked it on the soil-heap. It could freeze a man to death. Col. Winstanley stared back. Then Major Hogan let out a sneeze. He had been going purple for a small while, trying to hold it in. The sudden noise broke the tension. Winstanley held out his hands to be rebound, then turning, nodded to his two confederates. They rose, and the three marched from the tent, surrounded by the military guards.

Major Sharpe made to move, then he saw Capt. Gyllenhaal, almost forgotten in a chair to one side. He also rose, bowed politely to the Court, and walked quietly from the tent. He caught Richard's eye as he passed, and gave a small shrug of his shoulders. He smiled in a friendly fashion, and Richard found himself smiling back. He couldn't really dislike young Jake, although his wrists remembered being tied rather too tightly to a bed bar. He hoped Gyllenhaal got off lightly and was posted somewhere not too unpleasant.

Wellington's voice came clearly over the small hubbub, closing the court proceedings and declaring the Courts Martial at an end. The Prettymen were to escape the clutches of this small portion of the King's Army, and would be sent for trial at a far higher, more senior and less manoeverable court than this.

In a way Richard was relieved. Frank had explained last night that it would be far better, as the Lords in London could call on not only the Army staff, but the Navy as well. Frank had seen no mention of Navy personnel in the yellow book, Viscount Blakeney had been concentrating where he knew his way. Wives, lovers, courtesans, Army Mess Rooms, as well as whores, sodomisers, even bestials had all been under his gaze, found in and around his military connections, and thence into his notebook. Winstanley had known where to look, and where the money lay. It would be a great relief to quite a few members of the upper classes with army associations to find a certain silence suddenly occurring.

Major Hogan came across to pat Richard on the back.

"Ye did a grand job, me laddie, a grand job. But then, that's why we pick on you, isn't it, me laddie? My little innocent-faced, dirtyminded little bugger. He is a bugger, isn't he, Frank?" and he cocked a very knowing, very blue eye at the still exceedingly elegant Colonel Hopkins. "You'd be agreeing wit me now, would you not, that this is one fine bugger, Hopkins... but then, you would know, of course."

He clapped Major (still bloody Probationary) Sharpe on the shoulder, then grasping his shoulders in both big hands, he pulled Richard to him. Major Sharpe found himself being well and truly bussed by a hairy, snuff-smelling, wet mouth that gave him thought. Somewhere in the tiny back of his mind, the names of Nosey and Hogan linked themselves, with a question mark.

Frank pulled Richard away.

"I'm getting out of this fancy gear now, and I need some help with the buttons. Patrick is away busy somewhere where I sent him, so I think I shall need your nice fingers, Richard. Come on, my rather large accommodation is over there. The Prettyman was going to be set up very prettily, but we can make use of his large, soft, clean bed, and the wardrobe with - who hung them up? The white silk shirts, and smooth underdrawers..." He smiled at a grinning Hogan, who winked back. "Come along Major randy Sharpe, come and prove what Major Hogan has just inferred, that you are indeed, a very fine bugger!"

Two men, one a Colonel, one a still waiting to be confirmed Major, walked, arms around each other toward a tent erected in a secluded corner. There was a time and a place for everything and really pretty men should be in ... in their rightful places.