JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 23 из 203You’ve got a sprinkling of old soldiers, that’ll help, and good luck to you, Sharpe, you’ll need it!” He grunted as he heaved himself into the saddle. “Welcome to the madhouse, Sharpe!”
Sharpe was left with the company, its junior officers, and the ranks of dumb faces that stared at him as though fearful of some new torment devised by their Colonel. He walked to the front of the company, watching the red faces that bulged over the constricting stocks and glistened with sweat in the relentless heat, and faced them. His own jacket was unbuttoned, shirt open, and he wore no hat. To the men of the South Essex he was like a visitor from another continent. “You’re in a war now. When you meet the French a lot of you are going to die. Most of you.” They were appalled by his words. „I’ll tell you why.“
He pointed over the eastern horizon. “The French are over there, waiting for you.” Some of the men looked that way, as though they expected to see Bonaparte himself coming through the olive trees on the outskirts of Castelo Branco. “They’ve got muskets and they can all fire three or four shots a minute. Aimed at you. And they’re going to kill you because you’re so damned slow. If you don’t kill them first then they will kill you, it is as simple as that. You.” He pointed to a man in the front rank. “Bring me your musket!”
At least he had their attention and some of them would understand the simple fact that the side which pumped out the most bullets stood the best chance of winning. He took the man’s musket, a handful of ammunition, and discarded his rifle. He held the musket over his head and went right back to the beginnings.
“Look at it! One India Pattern musket. Fifty-five and a quarter inches long with a thirty-nine-inch barrel. It fires a ball three-quarters of an inch wide, nearly as wide as your thumb, and it kills Frenchmen!” There was a nervous laugh but they were listening. “But you won’t kill any Frenchmen with it. You’re too slow! In the time it takes you to fire two shots, the enemy will probably manage three. And, believe me, the French are slow. So, this afternoon, you will learn to fire three shots in a minute. In time you’ll fire four shots every minute and if you’re really good you should manage five!”
The company watched as he loaded the musket. It had been years since he had fired a smooth-bore musket, but compared to the Baker Rifle it was ridiculously easy. There were no grooves in the barrel to grip the bullet and no need to force the ramrod with brute force or even hammer it down. A musket was fast to load, which was why most of the army used it instead of the slower, but much more accurate, rifle.
Sharpe was left with the company, its junior officers, and the ranks of dumb faces that stared at him as though fearful of some new torment devised by their Colonel. He walked to the front of the company, watching the red faces that bulged over the constricting stocks and glistened with sweat in the relentless heat, and faced them. His own jacket was unbuttoned, shirt open, and he wore no hat. To the men of the South Essex he was like a visitor from another continent. “You’re in a war now. When you meet the French a lot of you are going to die. Most of you.” They were appalled by his words. „I’ll tell you why.“
He pointed over the eastern horizon. “The French are over there, waiting for you.” Some of the men looked that way, as though they expected to see Bonaparte himself coming through the olive trees on the outskirts of Castelo Branco. “They’ve got muskets and they can all fire three or four shots a minute. Aimed at you. And they’re going to kill you because you’re so damned slow. If you don’t kill them first then they will kill you, it is as simple as that. You.” He pointed to a man in the front rank. “Bring me your musket!”
At least he had their attention and some of them would understand the simple fact that the side which pumped out the most bullets stood the best chance of winning. He took the man’s musket, a handful of ammunition, and discarded his rifle. He held the musket over his head and went right back to the beginnings.
“Look at it! One India Pattern musket. Fifty-five and a quarter inches long with a thirty-nine-inch barrel. It fires a ball three-quarters of an inch wide, nearly as wide as your thumb, and it kills Frenchmen!” There was a nervous laugh but they were listening. “But you won’t kill any Frenchmen with it. You’re too slow! In the time it takes you to fire two shots, the enemy will probably manage three. And, believe me, the French are slow. So, this afternoon, you will learn to fire three shots in a minute. In time you’ll fire four shots every minute and if you’re really good you should manage five!”
The company watched as he loaded the musket. It had been years since he had fired a smooth-bore musket, but compared to the Baker Rifle it was ridiculously easy. There were no grooves in the barrel to grip the bullet and no need to force the ramrod with brute force or even hammer it down. A musket was fast to load, which was why most of the army used it instead of the slower, but much more accurate, rifle.