“How far can you carry it?” Sergeant Harper asked as he looked at the saddle bag, lately stolen from a group of now mostly deceased French dispatch riders.
When his captain, over whose shoulder the bag was now hung, didn’t answer, he prompted, “Really now, is it not a wee bit heavy, sir?”
“I’ll carry it as far as I damn well have too so I can sling it at Hogan and be done with this whole bloody mess,” Sharpe replied irritably.
He tested his leg, leaning more weight on it and grimaced. It hurt, but he’d manage, he always did.
At least this time it was just bruising; he’d had enough cuts and shots to that damn leg through the years to leave it aching when the weather was cold and damp.
"Just let me take it for a bit, sir,” Harper persisted.
He had knew how stubborn Sharpe was, how he could push himself until he was too damn sick or exhausted to stand and still be arguing the whole time that he was fine.
Harper was having none of it. He’d told the other chosen men that he’d look after him and that was what he’d do.
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