Sharpe's Eagle Read Online Free PDF

such a soldier-to-soldier way, that

Simmerson was desperately trying to find an answer that did not make him sound foolish. He looked

at Hogan for a moment. "But that would be my decision!"
    "How right you are, sir, how true!" Hogan spoke emphatically and warmly. "Normally, that is.

But I think the General had it in his mind, sir, that you would be so burdened with the problems

of our Spanish allies and then, sir, there are the exigencies of engineering that Lieutenant

Sharpe understands." He leaned forward con-spiratorially. "I need men to fetch and carry, sir.

You understand."
    Simmerson smiled, then gave a bray of a laugh. Hogan had taken him off the hook. He pointed at

Sharpe. "He dresses like a common labourer, eh Forrest? A labourer!" He was delighted with his

joke and repeated it to himself as he pulled on his vast scarlet and yellow jacket. "A labourer!

Eh, Forrest?" The Major smiled dutifully. He resembled a long-suffering vicar continually

assailed by the sins of an unrepentant flock, and when Simmerson's back was turned he gave Sharpe

an apologetic look. Simmerson buckled his belt and turned back to Sharpe. "Done much soldiering

then, Sharpe? Apart from fetching and carrying?"
    "A little, sir."
    Simmerson chuckled. "How old are you?"
    "Thirty-two, sir." Sharpe stared rigidly ahead.
    "Thirty-two, eh? And still only a Lieutenant? What's the matter, Sharpe?

Incompetence?"
    Sharpe saw Forrest signalling to the Colonel but he ignored the movements. "I joined in the

ranks, sir."
    Forrest dropped his hand. The Colonel dropped his mouth. There were not many men who made the

jump from Sergeant to Ensign, and those who did could rarely be accused of incompetence. There

were only three qualifications that a common soldier needed to be given a commission. First he

must be able to read and write, and Sharpe had learned his letters in the Sultan Tippoo's prison

to the accompaniment of the screams of other British prisoners being tortured. Secondly the man

had to perform some act of suicidal bravery and Sharpe knew that Simmerson was wondering what he

had done. The third qualification was extraordinary luck, and Sharpe sometimes wondered whether

that was not a two-edged sword. Simmerson snorted.
    "You're not a gentleman then, Sharpe?"
    "No, sir."
    "Well you could try to dress like one, eh? Just because you grew up in a pigsty that doesn't

mean you have to dress like a pig?"
    "No, sir." There was nothing else to say.
    Simmerson slung his sword over his vast belly. "Who commissioned you, Sharpe?"
    "Sir Arthur Wellesley, sir."
    Sir Henry gave a bray of triumph. "I knew it! No standards, no standards at all! I've seen

this army, its appearance is a disgrace! You can't say that of my men, eh? You cannot fight

without discipline!" He looked at Sharpe. "What makes a good soldier, Sharpe?"
    "The ability to fire three rounds a minute in wet weather, sir." Sharpe invested his answer

with a tinge of insolence. He knew the reply would annoy Simmerson. The South Essex was a new

Battalion and he doubted whether musketry was up to the standard of other, older Battalions. Of

all the European armies only the British practised with live ammunition but it took weeks,

sometimes months, for a soldier to learn the complicated drill of loading and firing a musket

fast, ignoring the panic, just concentrating on out-shooting the enemy.
    Sir Henry had not expected the answer and he stared thoughtfully at the scarred Rifleman. To

be honest, and Sir Henry did not enjoy being honest with himself, he was afraid of the army he

had encountered in Portugal. Until now Sir Henry had thought soldiering was a glorious affair of

obedient men in drill-straight lines, their scarlet coats shining in the sun, and instead he had

been met by casual, unkempt officers who mocked his Militia training. Sir Henry had dreamed of

leading his Battalion into battle, mounted on his charger, sword aloft, gaining