Sharpe's Gold

Good lad. Good lad.

- We've got 'em going now. - They're well away.

Vite par ici!

Allez!

Where the hell have they got to?

- I can hear the drums. - That's not exactly enough.

Rifles!

Look at it. Clean through the whole bloody lot.

Argh.

Well, will you look at this.

Our absent friends.

Look at it all!

Come on. Sergeant, come here.

Get out of my way.

- Where did you get to? - Up at the top, sir, as ordered.

- And you sat tight? - We was all set to move, just as soon as...

But you didn't. - We would've done, sir...

You were to head them off. Clear orders to block their way. They were done.

They'd have surrendered. Hundreds of prisoners.

Did you take money?

- What's he saying? - Were you paid to do it?

I was not, sir.

The only money I'd take off a Frenchman is like this.

Wait for me!

Come on! Come on!

They were saving themselves.

Well, you know, dead men gather no loot.

Brave soldiers ofthe South Essex Regiment.

Get your men together, Sergeant,

we're going back to camp.

No, sir.

- What did you say? - I refuse your orders.

- You shouldn't have done that. - You took the king's shilling, Sergeant.

He can have it back! I were no bigger than him there.

This is better. I've got lots more stashed. We all have.

So no more orders, Sharpe.

- Major Sharpe. - Not from you, Sharpe,

nor no bugger else.

- We're off, ain't we? Yes!

- The provosts'll get ye. - We'll be offwhere they can't.

With the wild fellas in the hills.

- They'll sell us women, grub and booze. Yeah!

So bugger the King and his shilling!

- (Redcoats cheer) - It's your last chance.

I think it's your last chance to join us.

Look at your men, Sharpe.

The whole, horrible dirty bunch.

Look at him there,

the scally licking his chops.

Sergeant Rodd.

Private Rodd.

Deserter Rodd.

When the provosts catch you, it'll be 200 lashes.

And then you'll hang.

Anybody?

Look at that. Look at that.

Ooh, look at that.

Cor, look at this.

- I hate that song. - Oh, aye?

- What's up wi' it? - It's on the side ofthe deserters.

It's only a song, lad.

- Do you think the provosts'll really catch them? - They catch a lot ofthem.

- The provosts are muck. - Private Skillicorn! (Tuts)

No, no, they are. They're thief-takers, so that makes them thieves themselves.

Skillicorn doesn't say much, but when he does you have to listen.

Sing that song again.

Ha ha!

That'll do it now, lads.

I can hear dinner.

Good day. I take it you're provosts.

And what do you claim to be?

Riflemen.

Half your equipment's French.

It's better.

What on earth's that?

It's a seven-barrelled volley gun.

Made by Mr Nock of London.

I gave it to him. He's the only one that can handle it.

And you are?

Major Sharpe. South Essex.

And you?

Lieutenant Ayres...sir.

Provosts catching looters, eh?

Yes, sir.

Brave work.

Better than fighting.

Soldier. - Wait a minute.

What the hell are you doing? - They haven't gone.

Who's missing?

Oh, please, please!

Oh, Skillicorn!

- This one ofyour men? - I'll deal with him, Lieutenant.

No, you won't. He's going to hang.

- Sir, it's a wild chicken. Just a wild thing. Wild?!

Nobody lives here. It's deserted.

He's a looter.

Hang him!

I'll tell you where there's looters...

Stop!

You're not going to hang him.

Oh, yes. And you will watch it.

Let him go, Lieutenant.

- Are you mad? - I said let him go!

Have your thief, Major.

He took my chicken.

You stupid bastard.

- Why did he hit me? - If he hadn't, I would have.

You've landed him in the shite. Grab your rifle.

Go on, grab your rifle.

You'll be lucky to save your neck.

Come on, lads. Come along. Come on.

Richard Sharpe.

Major Munro.

Now, you've not to enquire what I've been doing since we last met because it's secret, as usual.

And I shan't enquire what you've been doing because I know already.

You're in black trouble, laddie.

- How bad is it? - I could use words like "dire" and "dreadful",

- but that'd cheer you up. - Major Sharpe, sir?

His Lordship will see you now.

I won't bloody apologise.

If it's an order, you will.

You'll grovel, cringe, squirm and toady to Lieutenant Ayres.

He screamed his head offto the provost marshal

and the provost marshal screamed his head off to my lord.

Major Sharpe.

- Sir. - Did you threaten Lieutenant Ayres with a rifle?

Yes, sir.

Some years ago, you saved my life.

I was glad to, sir.

I shouldn't like to think you'd trade on my support.

Never, sir.

Evidences for impending courts martial.

Four score ofthem for my attention.

Am I to add another?

If you must, sir.

I often envy Napoleon, do I not, Munro?

You're wrong. He's losing, you're winning.

Still, he has the Imperial Guard and disciplined soldiers.

I have the scum ofthe Earth.

They fight well, sir.

Oh, yes - thieves, drunkards, jailbirds. I've drilled them into heroes.

But when the battle's done, they turn back into drunken vagabonds.

They rape, plunder, and run!

Not all, sir.

- Yours just kill wild chickens. - And now I'm to invade France with them.

Well, I'll line the roads with provosts to keep them in order.

Provosts, Major Sharpe!

For any infraction, to hang them on the spot.

And if any man defies my provosts, or, worse still, should turn a gun on one...

Apologise to Lieutenant Ayres.

Very good, sir.

He's waiting.

Disgraceful, Sharpe. Disgraceful.

All I have to say, and in particular to you, sir,

the Provost Marshal, is that my behaviour was utterly inexcusable.

I imperilled Ayres' authority and overstepped my own.

I apologise.

Oh, you do?

Yes, sir. Unreservedly, sir.

I very much regret my part in it, sir.

As I'm sure Lieutenant Ayres does his.

I do, sir. Yes, I do.

What have you got to regret in this, Ayres, eh?

Is there more to this than meets the er...

Gentlemen, I'm sure honour is now satisfied.

- Feel better? - Shamed.

- I'd not go through it again. - You were lucky, man.

His Lordship wanted you chopped up in bits. Did you not notice?

- Was it enough? - For what?

France. When it happens, I want to be in it, not stuck in some...

As the Lord disposes. The one above, not him in Headquarters.

I can't pray.

Washed in the blood ofthe Lamb, ye should be, notjust the blood ofthe French.

- Where are we? - Eh, sarge, know the way?

Sarge?

Do you know the way, or what?

Which way now, then, sarge?

Ifwe keep the sun on our backs during the heat ofthe day...

- We bloody die. - ..we'll be going north.

Keep that on!

- Why, sarge? - We don't want them to think we're frogs.

- Who? - Anyone we run across.

But if it's provosts, they'll have us spotted.

- That's right. - Nah, the provosts don't come this far.

All right, lads.

Act friendly.

Er...

Buenas tardes, amigo.

Amigos, inglés.

You talk English?

Sarge...

Drop your guns. Drop 'em.

Amigo...