Sharpe's Fortress: Richard Sharpe and the Siege of Gawilghur, December 1803 by Bernard Cornwell |
![Sharpe's Tiger: Richard Sharpe and the Siege of Seringapatam, 1799 [Sharpe 1]](http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51QC3tlkmRL._SL500_SS90_.jpg)
Sharpe's Tiger: Richard Sharpe and the Siege of Seringapatam, 1799 [Sharpe 1] by Bernard Cornwell |
Sharpe's Trafalgar: Richard Sharpe and the Battle of Trafalgar, 21 October 1805 by Bernard Cornwell |
by Bernard Cornwell
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Sharpe's Rifles: Richard Sharpe and the French Invasion of Galicia, January 1809 by Bernard Cornwell |
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Praise for Bernard Cornwell and the Sharpe series 'Cornwell describes military action brilliantly. He evokes all the sights and sounds and smells while managing to describe the fluctuations of the battle with enough vim to keep you in suspense!The Sharpe novels are wonderfully urgent and alive.' Daily Telegraph 'Cornwell has maintained a marvellously high standard throughout the series!brilliantly lucid and compellingly exciting.' Evening Standard 'Bernard Cornwell knows his man, knows how to harness his qualities to the services of good fiction, and does not miss a trick!Sharpe and his creator are national treasures.' Sunday Telegraph 'The insubordinate, sarcastic and oversexed Richard Sharpe returns!Cornwell delivers the usual mix of strategy and strength -- classic battle scenes and plenty of fisticuffs.' Daily Mirror
--This text refers to the
Paperback
edition.
Excerpted from Sharpe's Triumph by Bernard Cornwell. Copyright © 1999. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
It was not Sergeant Richard Sharpe's fault. He was not in charge. He
was junior to at least a dozen men, including a major, a captain, a
subadar and two jemadars, yet he still felt responsible. He felt responsible,
angry, hot, bitter and scared. Blood crusted on his face where a thou-
sand flies crawled. There were even flies in his open mouth.
But he dared not move.
The humid air stank of blood and of the rotted egg smell made by
powder smoke. The very last thing he remembered doing was thrusting
his pack, haversack and cartridge box into the glowing ashes of a fire,
and now the ammunition from the cartridge box exploded. Each blast
of powder fountained sparks and ashes into the hot air. A couple of
men laughed at the sight. They stopped to watch it for a few seconds,
poked at the nearby bodies with their muskets, then walked on.
Sharpe lay still. A fly crawled on his eyeball and he forced himself
to stay absolutely motionless. There was blood on his face and more
was junior to at least a dozen men, including a major, a captain, a
subadar and two jemadars, yet he still felt responsible. He felt responsible,
angry, hot, bitter and scared. Blood crusted on his face where a thou-
sand flies crawled. There were even flies in his open mouth.
But he dared not move.
The humid air stank of blood and of the rotted egg smell made by
powder smoke. The very last thing he remembered doing was thrusting
his pack, haversack and cartridge box into the glowing ashes of a fire,
and now the ammunition from the cartridge box exploded. Each blast
of powder fountained sparks and ashes into the hot air. A couple of
men laughed at the sight. They stopped to watch it for a few seconds,
poked at the nearby bodies with their muskets, then walked on.
Sharpe lay still. A fly crawled on his eyeball and he forced himself
to stay absolutely motionless. There was blood on his face and more
blood had puddled in his right ear, though it was drying now. He
blinked, fearing that the small motion would attract one of the killers,
but no one noticed.
Chasalgaon. That's where he was. Chasalgaon; a miserable, thorn-
walled fort on the frontier of Hyderabad, and because the Rajah of
Hyderabad was a British ally the fort had been garrisoned by a hundred
sepoys of the East India Company and fifty mercenary horsemen from
Mysore, only when Sharpe arrived half the sepoys and all of the
horsemen had been out on patrol.
Sharpe had come from Seringapatam, leading a detail of six privates
and carrying a leather bag stuffed with rupees, and he had been greeted
by Major Crosby who commanded at Chasalgaon. The Major proved
to be a plump, red-faced, bilious man who disliked the heat and hated
Chasalgaon, and he had slumped in his canvas chair as he unfolded
Sharpe's orders. He read them, grunted, then read them again. `Why
the hell did they send you?' he finally asked.
`No one else to send, sir.'
Crosby frowned at the order. `Why not an officer?'
`No officers to spare, sir.'
`Bloody responsible job for a sergeant, wouldn't you say?'
`Won't let you down, sir,' Sharpe said woodenly, staring at the
leprous yellow of the tent's canvas a few inches above the Major's
head.
`You'd bloody well better not let me down,' Crosby said, pushing
the orders into a pile of damp papers on his camp table. `And you
look bloody young to be a sergeant.'
`I was born late, sir,' Sharpe said. He was twenty-six, or thought he
was, and most sergeants were much older.
Crosby, suspecting he was being mocked, stared up at Sharpe, but
there was nothing insolent on the Sergeant's face. A good-looking man,
Crosby thought sourly. Probably had the bibbis of Seringapatam falling
out of their saris, and Crosby, whose wife had died of the fever ten
years before and who consoled himself with a two-rupee village whore
every Thursday night, felt a pang of jealousy. `And how the devil do you
expect to get the ammunition back to Seringapatam?' he demanded.
`Hire ox carts, sir.' Sharpe had long perfected the way to address
unhelpful officers. He gave them precise answers, added nothing
unnecessary and always sounded confident.
--This text refers to the
Paperback
edition.
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