JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 185 из 242Most of his riflemen had used the lull in the fight to load their newly cleaned barrels with leather-wrapped balls and prime powder which meant their first shots ought to be lethally accurate. After that, as the French pressed closer and the noise rose and the smoke thickened, they would use cartridges, leave the leather patches in their butt traps and so sacrifice accuracy for speed. Sharpe now loaded his own rifle, using a patch, but no sooner had he returned the ramrod to its slots than General Hill was beside him.
„I’ve never fired a rifle,” Hill said.
„Very like a musket, sir,” Sharpe said, embarrassed at being singled out by a general.
„May I?” Hill reached for the weapon and Sharpe yielded it. „It’s rather beautiful,” Hill said wistfully, caressing the Baker’s flank, „not nearly as cumbersome as a musket.”
„It’s a lovely thing,” Sharpe said fervently.
Hill aimed the gun down the hill, seemed about to cock and fire, then suddenly handed it back to Sharpe. „I’d dearly like to try it,” he said, „but if I missed my aim then the whole army would know about it, eh? And I’d never live that down.” He spoke loudly and Sharpe understood he had been an unwitting participant in a little piece of theater. Hill had not really been interested in the rifle, but rather in taking the men’s minds away from the threat beneath them. In the process he had subtly flattered them by suggesting they could do something he could not, and he had left them grinning. Sharpe thought about what he had just seen. He admired it, but he also admired Sir Arthur Wellesley who would never have resorted to such a display. Sir Arthur would ignore the men and the men, in turn, would fight like demons to gain his grudging approval.
Sharpe had never wasted much time worrying why some men were born to be officers and others not. He had jumped the gap, but that did not make the system any less unfair. Yet to complain of the world’s unfairness was the same as grumbling that the sun was hot or that the wind sometimes changed its direction. Unfairness existed, it always had and it always would, and the miracle, to Sharpe’s eyes, was that some men like Hill and Wellesley, though they had become wealthy and privileged through unfair advantages, were nevertheless superb at what they did. Not all generals were good, many were downright bad, but Sharpe had usually been lucky and found himself commanded by men who knew their business. Sharpe did not care that Sir Arthur Wellesley was the son of an aristocrat and had purchased his way up the ladder of promotion and was as cold as a lawyer’s sense of charity. The long-nosed bugger knew how to win and that was what mattered.
And what mattered now was to beat these Frenchmen.
„I’ve never fired a rifle,” Hill said.
„Very like a musket, sir,” Sharpe said, embarrassed at being singled out by a general.
„May I?” Hill reached for the weapon and Sharpe yielded it. „It’s rather beautiful,” Hill said wistfully, caressing the Baker’s flank, „not nearly as cumbersome as a musket.”
„It’s a lovely thing,” Sharpe said fervently.
Hill aimed the gun down the hill, seemed about to cock and fire, then suddenly handed it back to Sharpe. „I’d dearly like to try it,” he said, „but if I missed my aim then the whole army would know about it, eh? And I’d never live that down.” He spoke loudly and Sharpe understood he had been an unwitting participant in a little piece of theater. Hill had not really been interested in the rifle, but rather in taking the men’s minds away from the threat beneath them. In the process he had subtly flattered them by suggesting they could do something he could not, and he had left them grinning. Sharpe thought about what he had just seen. He admired it, but he also admired Sir Arthur Wellesley who would never have resorted to such a display. Sir Arthur would ignore the men and the men, in turn, would fight like demons to gain his grudging approval.
Sharpe had never wasted much time worrying why some men were born to be officers and others not. He had jumped the gap, but that did not make the system any less unfair. Yet to complain of the world’s unfairness was the same as grumbling that the sun was hot or that the wind sometimes changed its direction. Unfairness existed, it always had and it always would, and the miracle, to Sharpe’s eyes, was that some men like Hill and Wellesley, though they had become wealthy and privileged through unfair advantages, were nevertheless superb at what they did. Not all generals were good, many were downright bad, but Sharpe had usually been lucky and found himself commanded by men who knew their business. Sharpe did not care that Sir Arthur Wellesley was the son of an aristocrat and had purchased his way up the ladder of promotion and was as cold as a lawyer’s sense of charity. The long-nosed bugger knew how to win and that was what mattered.
And what mattered now was to beat these Frenchmen.