Sharpe's Rifles by Bernard Cornwell Page B

himself as something far worse; a

bullying man who would use the small authority of his rank to frighten men. In fact, the very

kind of officer Sharpe had most hated when he himself was under their embittered authority. He

felt remorse for all the mistakes he had made with these men, and wondered how to make amends. He

was too proud to apologize, so instead he made an embarrassed confession to the Sergeant. “I

wasn’t sure any of the men would follow me up that hill.”
    Williams grunted, half in amusement and half in understanding. “Those lads would, sir. You’ve

got the cream of the Battalion there.”
    “The cream?” Sharpe could not hide his surprise.
    “The rogues, anyway.” Williams grinned. “Not me, sir. I was never much of a one for a scrap. I

always hoped I’d never have to earn my pay, like.” He laughed. “But these boys, sir, most of them

are right bastards.” The words were said with a kind of admiration. “Stands to reason, sir, if

you think about it. I watched the lads when those crapauds attacked at the bridge, sir. Some were

just ready to give up, but not these lads. They made sure they got away. You’ve got the tough

ones, sir. Except for me. I was just lucky. But if you give these lads a chance to fight, sir,

they’ll follow you.”
    “They followed you, too,” Sharpe said. “I saw you on that hilltop. You were good.”
    Williams touched the chevrons on his right sleeve. “I’d be ashamed of the stripes if I didn’t

muck in. But no, sir, it was you. Bloody madness, it was, to charge that hill. But it

worked!”
    Sharpe shrugged the compliment away, but he recognized it for one and was secretly rather

pleased. He might not be a born officer, but by God he was a born soldier. He was the son of a

whore, bereft of God, but a God-damned soldier.
    There were spades and shovels in the village that, taken back to the mouth of the canyon, were

used to dig graves for the French dead.
    Vivar walked with Sharpe to where the shallow graves were being scraped from the hard earth.

The Spaniard stopped by one of the Dragoons who had died in the cavalry charge and whose body had

since been stripped naked. The skin of the dead man’s body was as white as the churned snow,

while his face had been turned brown by exposure to wind and sun. The bloodied face was framed by

pigtails.
    ”Cadenettes,“ Vivar said abruptly. ”That’s what they call those. What do you call them,

braids?“
    “Pigtails.”
    “It’s their mark.” He sounded bitter. “Their mark of being special, an elite.”
    “Like the rosemary in your men’s hats?”
    “No, not like that at all.” Vivar’s abrupt denial checked the words between the two men. They

stood in embarrassed silence above the enemy dead.
    Sharpe, feeling uncomfortable, broke the silence. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible for

dismounted cavalry to break horsemen.”
    The praise delighted the Major. “Nor would I have believed it possible for infantry to take

that hill. It was stupid of you, Lieutenant, very stupid, and more brave that I could have

dreamed possible. I thank you.”
    Sharpe, as ever made awkward by a compliment, tried to shrug it away. “It was my

Riflemen.”
    “They did it to please you, I think?” Vivar spoke meaningfully, trying to offer Sharpe some

reassurance. When the Englishman offered no response, the Spaniard’s voice became more intense.

“Men always behave best when they know what is expected of them. Today you showed them what you

wanted, and it was simple victory.”
    Sharpe muttered something about luck.
    Vivar ignored the evasion. “You led them, Lieutenant, and they knew what was expected of them.

Men should always know what their officers expect of them. I give my Cazadores three rules. They

must not steal unless they will die for not stealing, they must look after their horses before

themselves, and they must fight like heroes. Three rules