Sharpe's Siege, book quotes
Sharpe's Social Graces
‘One of the Wiltshire Sharpes, perhaps?’ Ford seemed eager to place the Rifleman in a comforting social context.
‘Middlesex,’ Sharpe said.
‘Do mind your head,’ Ford smiled as he waved Sharpe under the break of the poopdeck. ‘I can’t quite place the Middlesex Sharpes.’
‘My mother was a whore, I was born in a common lodging-house, and I joined the Army as a private. Does that make it easier?’
A mounted infantry captain, red coat bright, galloped up the track towards Sharpe. His voice, as he curbed his spirited horse, was peremptory with a staff officer’s vicarious authority. ‘Who the devil are you? What are you doing here?’
‘My name is Sharpe, my rank is Major, and you call me “sir”.’
Sharpe's Marines
‘It’s all bloody madness, Sharpe. Marines have got the pox so they want you instead.’
Sharpe: ‘Single-handed efforts, sir? Your Marines are poxed, my Battalion can’t come, what am I supposed to do? Train cows to fight?’
‘If we go at this pace,’ Frederickson said, ‘we’ll overtake the Marines.’ ‘It had occurred to me,’ Sharpe said mildly.
And in all honesty, Bampfylde persuaded himself, he had captured the Teste de Buch. It had been his plan, his execution, and, though the Rifles had undoubtedly reached the fort first and taken possession of the gate and ramparts, the Marines, in exploring the labyrinthine tunnels and store-rooms, had discovered six French gunners hiding in a latrine. The existence of those men proved that the Rifles had not possessed all the fortress, and that it had been the Marines, under Bampfylde’s command, who had achieved that task.
Sharpe's Dentistry
‘So your tooth still isn’t pulled?’ Sharpe asked. ‘That’s right, sir.’ ‘Then I’ll damn well pull it now,’ Sharpe said. Harper took a step backwards. He was four inches taller than Sharpe’s six feet, with muscles to match his size, while on his shoulders were slung a rifle and his fearful seven-barrelled gun, but over his broad, swollen face there suddenly appeared a look of sheer terror.
‘What we need,’ Sharpe said, ‘is blood.’ He was reckoning that the fort would not refuse entry to a mortally wounded man, but mortal wounds were usually foul with blood and, in search of it, both officers looked instinctively to Patrick Harper.
Who stared back with a slow and horrified understanding. ‘No! Holy Mother, no!’ ‘It has to come out, Patrick.’ Sharpe spoke in a voice of sweet reason.
‘It doesn’t hurt, man!’ Frederickson took out his two false teeth and grinned at Harper. ‘See?’ ‘That was done with a sword, sir. Not bloody pincers!’ ‘We could do it with a sword.’ Sharpe said it helpfully. ‘Oh, Mary mother of God! Christ!’ Harper, seeing nothing but evil intent on on his officers’ faces, knew that he must mutiny or suffer.
Sweet William (to the American Captain):
‘It would distress me to kill you. I have a certain sympathy for your Republic.’
Sharpe's Skeleton
‘Nothing’s going to come, William. I feel it in my bones.’
‘You have a reliable skeleton?’
‘It’s never wrong,’ Sharpe said.
The enemy came at midday.
Sharpe's Passion
‘There’s something I should have told you,’ Sharpe said uncertainly.
‘You have an unnatural passion for my beauty.’ Frederickson blew steam from a mug of tea. ‘I understand it.’