Sharpe's Training by Sharpiefan: Richard Sharpe
TITLE: Sharpe's Training
AUTHOR: sharpiefan
CHARACTERS: Sharpe
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Sharpe remembers Flanders and India
DISCLAIMER: The Sharpe series belongs to Bernard Cornwell. I may borrow the characters occasionally, but I do take care of them.
CHALLENGE PROMPT: First Times
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Indian part of this is based on Sharpe’s Tiger. The rest comes from my imagination.
The first time Sharpe had fired a musket, he hadn’t known what to expect. “Lean into it,” Sergeant Bowaters said from behind him, pacing up and down the ranks of new recruits. “Just squeeze the trigger.” That last bit was unnecessary; Sharpe knew from talk in the barrack-room how unreliable a musket actually was. Whether you pulled the trigger or squeezed it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference to where the bullet would end up. All the same, he took the Sergeant’s advice.
He wasn’t quite sure when the flint fell, but the flash in the pan caught him by surprise and he jerked the muzzle up slightly. There was a second’s delay before the powder in the breech of the firelock went off, spitting the bullet out in a cloud of white smoke. Sharpe blinked, still holding the gun in his shoulder.
“Recover!” Bowaters called from behind him, and Sharpe automatically straightened up, letting the musket fall across his body to the position of port arms. That was the first time he’d fired a firelock.
The first time he’d killed with one was in a confused mess in Flanders, with the French coming out of the fog. There wasn’t much to the battle, as he’d later come to realise. But it was bad enough for a young sixteen year old, who’d found himself in the army as a safer bet than trying to evade the hangman’s rope for the rest of his life.
He’d fired two shots, fumbling with his ramrod and nearly losing it before he got the second shot off. Just after the second shot fired, he’d been gratified to hear an anguished cry from the mess of smoke and fog that hid the enemy from him. It was probably not even his shot that had killed the man, but it felt as though it was, and he was glad he hadn’t been able to see the man fall.
The first time he killed properly, in battle, it was in the dusty heat of India. Bowaters was dead now, killed by the fever shortly after the 33rd arrived in India. And it was Sergeant Hakeswill who had replaced him. He’d rejoined the regiment from his recruiting shortly before they left England, but had gone into one of the other companies. With Bowaters’ death, however, he had transferred to the Light Company, there to become the bane of the men’s lives.
Their enemy were soldiers of the Tippoo Sultan. Brave buggers to a point, but not real soldiers, not like the redcoats - or even the blue-coated French soldiers. Sharpe wondered if he’d ever have a chance of fighting proper soldiers.
It was an officer that Sharpe killed. He’d fired the gun, but they hadn’t been told to reload, just to go forward. And as they broke through the smoke Sharpe saw the officer trying to rally his men to stand. It was too late; Sharpe shoved his fixed bayonet forward, catching the Indian’s neck. The officer tried to swing his sabre, but Sharpe’s musket got in its way. He never knew how, afterwards. He kicked the man between the legs and swung the musket butt at his head, the reversed the gun again and stabbed down at him with the bayonet. It was pure anger and frustration that killed the Indian, not all the careful training he’d had back in England.
The first time he killed with a rifle he was wearing a green jacket. And, miracle of miracles, he had an officer’s sash round his waist. It was at a place called Vimeiro, and the 95th were skirmishing out in front of the Army, alongside the 60th. The French skirmishers were advancing in seemingly superior numbers, confident in their ability when the first shots rang out, the sound of the Baker rifles somehow different from the sound of the muskets the French carried.
The man Sharpe brought down was a sergeant with a gun, urging his men forwards. The Riflemen nearby were reloading, unaware of the danger that he presented to them, and Sharpe brought his loaded rifle into his shoulder and leaned forwards into the shot. A voice on the wind carried a memory to him: “Squeeze the trigger,” Sergeant Bowaters said, pacing up and down the ranks of new recruits. Sharpe aimed the rifle, let out half a breath and squeezed the trigger gently. This time, he knew what to expect and kept the weapon steady. The bullet left the muzzle, punching through the cloud of white smoke and the blue-coated Frenchman fell.
Sharpe had come full circle and was here, in Portugal, to fight proper soldiers. All the experiences of his soldier’s life so far had led to this one battle, and would lead to who knew how many battles in the years to come. It had been Sharpe’s training.
AUTHOR: sharpiefan
CHARACTERS: Sharpe
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Sharpe remembers Flanders and India
DISCLAIMER: The Sharpe series belongs to Bernard Cornwell. I may borrow the characters occasionally, but I do take care of them.
CHALLENGE PROMPT: First Times
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Indian part of this is based on Sharpe’s Tiger. The rest comes from my imagination.
The first time Sharpe had fired a musket, he hadn’t known what to expect. “Lean into it,” Sergeant Bowaters said from behind him, pacing up and down the ranks of new recruits. “Just squeeze the trigger.” That last bit was unnecessary; Sharpe knew from talk in the barrack-room how unreliable a musket actually was. Whether you pulled the trigger or squeezed it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference to where the bullet would end up. All the same, he took the Sergeant’s advice.
He wasn’t quite sure when the flint fell, but the flash in the pan caught him by surprise and he jerked the muzzle up slightly. There was a second’s delay before the powder in the breech of the firelock went off, spitting the bullet out in a cloud of white smoke. Sharpe blinked, still holding the gun in his shoulder.
“Recover!” Bowaters called from behind him, and Sharpe automatically straightened up, letting the musket fall across his body to the position of port arms. That was the first time he’d fired a firelock.
The first time he’d killed with one was in a confused mess in Flanders, with the French coming out of the fog. There wasn’t much to the battle, as he’d later come to realise. But it was bad enough for a young sixteen year old, who’d found himself in the army as a safer bet than trying to evade the hangman’s rope for the rest of his life.
He’d fired two shots, fumbling with his ramrod and nearly losing it before he got the second shot off. Just after the second shot fired, he’d been gratified to hear an anguished cry from the mess of smoke and fog that hid the enemy from him. It was probably not even his shot that had killed the man, but it felt as though it was, and he was glad he hadn’t been able to see the man fall.
The first time he killed properly, in battle, it was in the dusty heat of India. Bowaters was dead now, killed by the fever shortly after the 33rd arrived in India. And it was Sergeant Hakeswill who had replaced him. He’d rejoined the regiment from his recruiting shortly before they left England, but had gone into one of the other companies. With Bowaters’ death, however, he had transferred to the Light Company, there to become the bane of the men’s lives.
Their enemy were soldiers of the Tippoo Sultan. Brave buggers to a point, but not real soldiers, not like the redcoats - or even the blue-coated French soldiers. Sharpe wondered if he’d ever have a chance of fighting proper soldiers.
It was an officer that Sharpe killed. He’d fired the gun, but they hadn’t been told to reload, just to go forward. And as they broke through the smoke Sharpe saw the officer trying to rally his men to stand. It was too late; Sharpe shoved his fixed bayonet forward, catching the Indian’s neck. The officer tried to swing his sabre, but Sharpe’s musket got in its way. He never knew how, afterwards. He kicked the man between the legs and swung the musket butt at his head, the reversed the gun again and stabbed down at him with the bayonet. It was pure anger and frustration that killed the Indian, not all the careful training he’d had back in England.
The first time he killed with a rifle he was wearing a green jacket. And, miracle of miracles, he had an officer’s sash round his waist. It was at a place called Vimeiro, and the 95th were skirmishing out in front of the Army, alongside the 60th. The French skirmishers were advancing in seemingly superior numbers, confident in their ability when the first shots rang out, the sound of the Baker rifles somehow different from the sound of the muskets the French carried.
The man Sharpe brought down was a sergeant with a gun, urging his men forwards. The Riflemen nearby were reloading, unaware of the danger that he presented to them, and Sharpe brought his loaded rifle into his shoulder and leaned forwards into the shot. A voice on the wind carried a memory to him: “Squeeze the trigger,” Sergeant Bowaters said, pacing up and down the ranks of new recruits. Sharpe aimed the rifle, let out half a breath and squeezed the trigger gently. This time, he knew what to expect and kept the weapon steady. The bullet left the muzzle, punching through the cloud of white smoke and the blue-coated Frenchman fell.
Sharpe had come full circle and was here, in Portugal, to fight proper soldiers. All the experiences of his soldier’s life so far had led to this one battle, and would lead to who knew how many battles in the years to come. It had been Sharpe’s training.