Sharpes Eagle   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

It was not that the men did not know how to load and fire their muskets; it was simply that they did it with a painful slowness and a dedication to the drill book that was rigorously imposed by the Sergeants. There were officially twenty drill movements for the loading and firing of a musket; five of them alone applied to how the steel ramrod should be used to thrust ball and charge down the barrel, and the Battalion’s insistence on doing it by the book meant that Sharpe had timed their two demonstration shots at more than thirty seconds each. He had three hours, at the most, to speed them up to twenty seconds a shot and he could understand Harper’s reaction to the task. The Sergeant was openly scornful.

“God help us if we ever have to skirmish alongside this lot! The French will eat them for breakfast!” He was right. The company was not even trained well enough to stand in the battle-line, let alone skirmish with the Light troops out in front of the enemy. Sharpe hushed Harper as a mounted Captain trotted across to them. It was Lennox, Captain of the Light Company, and he grinned down on Sharpe.

“Terrifying, isn’t it?”

Sharpe was not sure how to reply. To agree might seem to be criticising the grizzled Scot, who seemed friendly enough. Sharpe gave a non-committal answer and Lennox swung himself out of the saddle to stand beside him.

“Don’t worry, Sharpe. I know how bad they are, but his Eminence insists on doing it this way. If he left it to me I’d have the bastards doing it properly, but if we break one little regulation then it’s three hours’ drill with full packs.” He looked quizzically at Sharpe. “You were at Assaye?” Sharpe nodded and Lennox grinned again. “Aye, I remember you. You made a name for yourself that day. I was with the 78th.”

“They made a name for themselves too.”

Lennox was pleased with the compliment. Sharpe remembered the Indian field and sight of the Highland Regiment marching in perfect order to assault the Mahratta lines. Great gaps were blown in the kilted ranks as they calmly marched into the artillery storm but the Scotsmen had done their job, slaughtered the gunners, and daringly reloaded in the face of a huge mass of enemy infantry that did not have the courage to counter-attack the seemingly invincible Regiment. Lennox shook his head.

“I know what you’re thinking, Sharpe. What the devil am I doing here with this lot?” He did not wait for an answer. “I’m an old man, I was retired, but the wife died, the half pay wasn’t stretching, and they needed officers for Sir Henry bloody Simmerson. So here I am. Do you know Leroy?”

“Leroy?”

“Thomas Leroy. He’s a Captain here, too. He’s good. Forrest is a decent fellow. But the rest! Just because they put on a fancy uniform they think they’re warriors. Look at that one!”

He pointed to Christian Gibbons who was riding his black horse onto the field. “Lieutenant Gibbons?” Sharpe asked.

“You’ve met then?” Lennox laughed. „I’ll say nothing about Mr Gibbons, then, except that he’s Simmerson’s nephew, he’s interested in nothing but women, and he’s an arrogant little bastard. Bloody English! Begging your pardon, Sharpe.“

Sharpe laughed. “We’re not all that bad.” He watched as Gibbons walked his horse delicately to within a dozen paces and stopped. The Lieutenant stared superciliously at the two officers. So this, Sharpe thought, is Simmerson’s nephew? “Are we needed here, sir?”

Lennox shook his head. “No, Mr Gibbons, we are not. I’ll leave Knowles and Denny with Lieutenant Sharpe while he works his miracles.” Gibbons touched his hat and spurred his horse away. Lennox watched him go. “Can’t do any wrong, that one. Apple of the Colonel’s bloodshot eye.” He turned and waved at the company. “I’ll leave you Lieutenant Knowles and Ensign Denny, they’re both good lads but they’ve learned wrong from Simmerson. You’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. He checked the flint, it was new and well seated in its jaws, so he primed and cocked the gun.