Christmas in Adrados
Well, tonight is the winter solstice, and Christmas is drawing nearer... and I want to share one of my favourite Sharpe scenes.
Quote:
Sharpe turned to see them leave and was intrigued by a strange sight in the courtyard of the upper cloister. A group of Riflemen were tying strips of white cloth to the bare hornbeam that had broken through the tiles. They were in fine spirits, laughing and playful, and one man was hoisted piggy-back onto a comrade’s shoulders so he could put an especially large ribbon on the topmost twig. Metal glinted on the bare twigs, buttons perhaps, cut from captured uniforms, and Sharpe did not understand it. He went down the narrow ramp and beckoned Cross to him.
‘What are they doing?’
‘They’re Germans, sir.’ Cross gave the explanation as if it answered all Sharpe’s puzzlement.
‘So? What are they doing?’ Cross was no Frederickson. He was slower, less intelligent, and far more fearful of responsibility. Yet he was fiercely protective towards his men and now he seemed to think that Sharpe disapproved of the oddly decorated tree.
‘It’s a German custom, sir. It’s harmless.’
‘I’m sure it’s harmless! But what the devil are they doing?
Cross frowned. ‘Well it’s Christmas, sir! They always do it at Christmas.’
‘They tie white ribbons on trees every Christmas?’
‘Not just that, sir. Anything. They usually like an evergreen, sir, and they put it in their billet and decorate it. Small presents, carved angels, all kinds of things.’
‘Why?’ Sharpe still watched them, as did men of his own Company, who had not seen anything like it. It seemed that Cross had never thought to ask why, but Frederickson had come into the upper cloister and heard Sharpe’s question.
‘Pagan, sir. It’s because the old German Gods were all forest Gods. This is part of the winter solstice.’
‘You mean they’re worshipping the old Gods?’
Frederickson nodded. ‘You never know who’s in charge up there, do you?’ He grinned. ‘The priests say that the tree represents the one on which Christ will be crucified, but that’s bloody nonsense. This is just a good old-fashioned offering to the old Gods. They’ve been doing it since before the Romans.’
Sharpe looked at the tree. ‘I like it. It looks good. What happens next? Do we sacrifice a virgin?’
He had spoken loud enough for the men to hear him, to laugh, and they were pathetically pleased because Major Sharpe had liked their tree and had made a joke.
Quote:
Sharpe turned to see them leave and was intrigued by a strange sight in the courtyard of the upper cloister. A group of Riflemen were tying strips of white cloth to the bare hornbeam that had broken through the tiles. They were in fine spirits, laughing and playful, and one man was hoisted piggy-back onto a comrade’s shoulders so he could put an especially large ribbon on the topmost twig. Metal glinted on the bare twigs, buttons perhaps, cut from captured uniforms, and Sharpe did not understand it. He went down the narrow ramp and beckoned Cross to him.
‘What are they doing?’
‘They’re Germans, sir.’ Cross gave the explanation as if it answered all Sharpe’s puzzlement.
‘So? What are they doing?’ Cross was no Frederickson. He was slower, less intelligent, and far more fearful of responsibility. Yet he was fiercely protective towards his men and now he seemed to think that Sharpe disapproved of the oddly decorated tree.
‘It’s a German custom, sir. It’s harmless.’
‘I’m sure it’s harmless! But what the devil are they doing?
Cross frowned. ‘Well it’s Christmas, sir! They always do it at Christmas.’
‘They tie white ribbons on trees every Christmas?’
‘Not just that, sir. Anything. They usually like an evergreen, sir, and they put it in their billet and decorate it. Small presents, carved angels, all kinds of things.’
‘Why?’ Sharpe still watched them, as did men of his own Company, who had not seen anything like it. It seemed that Cross had never thought to ask why, but Frederickson had come into the upper cloister and heard Sharpe’s question.
‘Pagan, sir. It’s because the old German Gods were all forest Gods. This is part of the winter solstice.’
‘You mean they’re worshipping the old Gods?’
Frederickson nodded. ‘You never know who’s in charge up there, do you?’ He grinned. ‘The priests say that the tree represents the one on which Christ will be crucified, but that’s bloody nonsense. This is just a good old-fashioned offering to the old Gods. They’ve been doing it since before the Romans.’
Sharpe looked at the tree. ‘I like it. It looks good. What happens next? Do we sacrifice a virgin?’
He had spoken loud enough for the men to hear him, to laugh, and they were pathetically pleased because Major Sharpe had liked their tree and had made a joke.