3.8
Sharpe's Triumph: Richard Sharpe and the Battle of Assaye, September 1803 (Richard Sharpe Adventure Series)(Library Binding)
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Sharpe's Triumph
By Bernard Cornwell Blackstone AudiobooksCopyright © 2001 Bernard Cornwell
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780786119080
Chapter One
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 thousand 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.
"With what? Promises?"
"Money, sir." Sharpe tapped his haversack where he had the bag of rupees.
"Christ, they trust you with money?"
Sharpe decided not to respond to that question, but just stared impassively at the canvas. Chasalgaon, he decided, was not a happy place. It was a small fort built on a bluff above a river that should have been overflowing its banks, but the monsoon had failed and the land was cruelly dry. The fort had no ditch, merely a wall made of cactus thorn with a dozen wooden fighting platforms spaced about its perimeter. Inside the wall was a beaten-earth parade ground where
Sharpe's Triumph
By Bernard Cornwell Blackstone AudiobooksCopyright © 2001 Bernard Cornwell
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780786119080
Chapter One
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 thousand 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.
"With what? Promises?"
"Money, sir." Sharpe tapped his haversack where he had the bag of rupees.
"Christ, they trust you with money?"
Sharpe decided not to respond to that question, but just stared impassively at the canvas. Chasalgaon, he decided, was not a happy place. It was a small fort built on a bluff above a river that should have been overflowing its banks, but the monsoon had failed and the land was cruelly dry. The fort had no ditch, merely a wall made of cactus thorn with a dozen wooden fighting platforms spaced about its perimeter. Inside the wall was a beaten-earth parade ground where
Historical - GeneralWar & MilitaryAudio Adult: Books On TapeUnabridged Audio - Fiction/General
RELEASED2001
PUBLISHERBlackstone Audio, Inc.
LANGUAGEEN
Bernard Cornwell (born February 23, 1944) is an English author of historical novels, known for his meticulous research and engaging storytelling. Born in London, England, to a Canadian airman father and a mother in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, he was adopted by a family in Essex belonging to the Peculiar People sect. Cornwell attended London University and worked as a teacher before joining the BBC, where he spent a decade, eventually becoming Head of Current Affairs in Northern Ireland. Bernard Cornwell is renowned for his long-running series of novels, including the *Sharpe* series about Napoleonic Wars rifleman Richard Sharpe, the *Saxon Stories* (also known as *The Last Kingdom* series), which explores the unification of England, the *Warlord Chronicles* set in Arthurian Britain, and the *Grail Quest* series, which delves into a 14th-century search for the Holy Grail during the Hundred Years' War. Cornwell has written historical novels primarily based on English history, in five series, and one series of contemporary thriller novels. A notable feature of his historical novels is an end note on how they match or differ from history. He has also written a nonfiction book on the battle of Waterloo. Three of his historical novel series have been adapted for television: the *Sharpe* series by ITV, *The Last Kingdom* by BBC, and *The Winter King* for MGM+. ([Source][1]) [1]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bernard_Cornwell
3.8
Sharpe's Triumph: Richard Sharpe and the Battle of Assaye, September 1803 (Richard Sharpe Adventure Series)(Library Binding)
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Sharpe's Triumph
By Bernard Cornwell Blackstone AudiobooksCopyright © 2001 Bernard Cornwell
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780786119080
Chapter One
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 thousand 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.
"With what? Promises?"
"Money, sir." Sharpe tapped his haversack where he had the bag of rupees.
"Christ, they trust you with money?"
Sharpe decided not to respond to that question, but just stared impassively at the canvas. Chasalgaon, he decided, was not a happy place. It was a small fort built on a bluff above a river that should have been overflowing its banks, but the monsoon had failed and the land was cruelly dry. The fort had no ditch, merely a wall made of cactus thorn with a dozen wooden fighting platforms spaced about its perimeter. Inside the wall was a beaten-earth parade ground where
Sharpe's Triumph
By Bernard Cornwell Blackstone AudiobooksCopyright © 2001 Bernard Cornwell
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780786119080
Chapter One
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 thousand 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.
"With what? Promises?"
"Money, sir." Sharpe tapped his haversack where he had the bag of rupees.
"Christ, they trust you with money?"
Sharpe decided not to respond to that question, but just stared impassively at the canvas. Chasalgaon, he decided, was not a happy place. It was a small fort built on a bluff above a river that should have been overflowing its banks, but the monsoon had failed and the land was cruelly dry. The fort had no ditch, merely a wall made of cactus thorn with a dozen wooden fighting platforms spaced about its perimeter. Inside the wall was a beaten-earth parade ground where
Historical - GeneralWar & MilitaryAudio Adult: Books On TapeUnabridged Audio - Fiction/General
RELEASED2001
PUBLISHERBlackstone Audio, Inc.
LANGUAGEEN
Bernard Cornwell (born February 23, 1944) is an English author of historical novels, known for his meticulous research and engaging storytelling. Born in London, England, to a Canadian airman father and a mother in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force, he was adopted by a family in Essex belonging to the Peculiar People sect. Cornwell attended London University and worked as a teacher before joining the BBC, where he spent a decade, eventually becoming Head of Current Affairs in Northern Ireland. Bernard Cornwell is renowned for his long-running series of novels, including the *Sharpe* series about Napoleonic Wars rifleman Richard Sharpe, the *Saxon Stories* (also known as *The Last Kingdom* series), which explores the unification of England, the *Warlord Chronicles* set in Arthurian Britain, and the *Grail Quest* series, which delves into a 14th-century search for the Holy Grail during the Hundred Years' War. Cornwell has written historical novels primarily based on English history, in five series, and one series of contemporary thriller novels. A notable feature of his historical novels is an end note on how they match or differ from history. He has also written a nonfiction book on the battle of Waterloo. Three of his historical novel series have been adapted for television: the *Sharpe* series by ITV, *The Last Kingdom* by BBC, and *The Winter King* for MGM+. ([Source][1]) [1]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bernard_Cornwell
