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Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 44 из 244One of those gorgeously sashed sergeants came towards Sharpe, evidently to inquire what authority the riflemen possessed, but Harper did not wait for explanations. "Move, you bastards!" he bellowed in his Donegal accent. "You're in a war now, not guarding the royal pisspot. Behave like the good whores we all are and open up, now!"
"And I can remember when you didn't want to be a sergeant," Sharpe said to Harper under his breath as the startled guards at last obeyed the greenjacket Sergeant's command. "Are you coming, Major?" Sharpe asked Hogan.
"I'll wait here, Richard."
"Come on then, Pat," Sharpe said, and the two men began inspecting the company's front rank. An inevitable band of small mocking boys from the town fell into step behind the two greenjackets and pretended to be officers, but a thump on the ear from the Irishman's fist sent the boldest boy snivelling away and the others dispersed rather than face more punishment.
Sharpe inspected the muskets rather than the men, though he made sure that he looked into each soldier's eyes in an attempt to gauge what kind of confidence and willingness these men had. The soldiers returned his inspection resentfully, and no wonder, Sharpe thought, for many of these guards were Irishmen who must have been feeling all kinds of confusion at being attached to the British army. They had volunteered for the Real Companпa Irlandesa to protect a Most Catholic King, yet here they were being harried by the army of a Protestant monarch. Worse still, many of them would be avid Irish patriots, fierce for their country as only exiles can be, yet now they were being asked to fight alongside the ranks of that country's foreign oppressors. Yet, as Sharpe walked down the rank, he sensed more nervousness than anger and he wondered if these men were simply fearful of being asked to become proper soldiers for, if their muskets were any indication, the Real Companпa Irlandesa had long abandoned any pretensions to soldiering. Their muskets were a disgrace. The men carried the serviceable and sturdy Spanish-issue musket with its straight-backed hammer; however these guns were anything but serviceable, for there was rust on the locks and fouling caked inside the barrels. Some of them had no flints, others had no leather flint-seatings, while one gun did not even have the doghead screw to hold the flint in place. "Did you ever fire this musket, son?" Sharpe asked the soldier.
"No, sir."
"Have you ever fired a musket, son?"
The boy looked nervously towards his own sergeant. "Answer the officer, lad!" Harper growled.
"Once, sir. One day," the soldier said. "Just the once.
"And I can remember when you didn't want to be a sergeant," Sharpe said to Harper under his breath as the startled guards at last obeyed the greenjacket Sergeant's command. "Are you coming, Major?" Sharpe asked Hogan.
"I'll wait here, Richard."
"Come on then, Pat," Sharpe said, and the two men began inspecting the company's front rank. An inevitable band of small mocking boys from the town fell into step behind the two greenjackets and pretended to be officers, but a thump on the ear from the Irishman's fist sent the boldest boy snivelling away and the others dispersed rather than face more punishment.
Sharpe inspected the muskets rather than the men, though he made sure that he looked into each soldier's eyes in an attempt to gauge what kind of confidence and willingness these men had. The soldiers returned his inspection resentfully, and no wonder, Sharpe thought, for many of these guards were Irishmen who must have been feeling all kinds of confusion at being attached to the British army. They had volunteered for the Real Companпa Irlandesa to protect a Most Catholic King, yet here they were being harried by the army of a Protestant monarch. Worse still, many of them would be avid Irish patriots, fierce for their country as only exiles can be, yet now they were being asked to fight alongside the ranks of that country's foreign oppressors. Yet, as Sharpe walked down the rank, he sensed more nervousness than anger and he wondered if these men were simply fearful of being asked to become proper soldiers for, if their muskets were any indication, the Real Companпa Irlandesa had long abandoned any pretensions to soldiering. Their muskets were a disgrace. The men carried the serviceable and sturdy Spanish-issue musket with its straight-backed hammer; however these guns were anything but serviceable, for there was rust on the locks and fouling caked inside the barrels. Some of them had no flints, others had no leather flint-seatings, while one gun did not even have the doghead screw to hold the flint in place. "Did you ever fire this musket, son?" Sharpe asked the soldier.
"No, sir."
"Have you ever fired a musket, son?"
The boy looked nervously towards his own sergeant. "Answer the officer, lad!" Harper growled.
"Once, sir. One day," the soldier said. "Just the once.