Bernard Cornwell
We have honour, Sharpe. That is our private strength, our honour. Were Soldiers, you and I. We cannot expect riches, or dignity, or continual victory. We will die, probably, in battle, or in a fever ward, and no one will remember us, so all that is left is honour.Major Kearsey — Bernard Cornwell war There are, very crudely, two factions in the Cortes. One side are the traditionalists. Theyre comprised of the monarchists, the pious, and the old-fashioned. Theyre called the serviles. Its an insulting nickname, like calling a man a Tory. Serviles means the slaves, and they wish to see the king restored and the church triumphant. They are the faction of landlords, privilege, and aristocracy. The serviles are opposed by the liberalles, who are so called because they are forever talking about liberty. The liberalles want to see a Spain in which the peoples wishes are more influential than the decrees of a tyrannical church or the whim of a despotic king. His Brittanic Majestys government has no official view in these discussions. We merely wish to see a Spanish government willing to pursue the war against Napoleon.Lord William Pumphrey, p. 162 — Bernard Cornwell war You are like the Spanish, Captain Sharpe, confused. Cadiz is filled with politicians and lawyers and the encourage confusion. They argue. Should we be a Republic? Or perhaps a monarchy? Do we want a Cortes? And if so, should it have one chamber or two? Some want a parliament like Britains. Others insist that Spain is best ruled by God and by a king. They squabble about these like children, but in truth there is only one real argument. The argument, is whether Spain fights France or not? Exactly. And you, believe Spain should fight against France? You know what the French have done to our country? The women raped, the children killed, the churches desecrated? Yes, I believe we should fight.Captain Fernando Galiana and Captain Richard Sharpe, p. 202 — Bernard Cornwell truth The real noise was of musketry, the pounding cough of volley fire, the relentless noise, and if he listened hard he could hear the balls striking on muskets and pounding into flesh. He could also hear the cries of the wounded and the screams of officers horses put down by the balls. And he was amazed, as he always was, by the courage of the French. They were being struck hard, yet they stayed. They stayed behind a straggling heap of dead men, they edged aside to let the wounded crawl behind, they reloaded and fired, and all the time the volleys kept coming.Captain Richard Sharpe, p. 300 — Bernard Cornwell time They were the despised of England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. They were drunks and thieves, the scourings of gutters and jails. They wore the red coat because no one else wanted them, or because they were so desperate that they had no choice. They were the scum of Britain, but they could fight. They had always fought, but in the army, they were told how to fight with discipline. They discovered sergeants and officers who valued them. They punished them too, of course, and swore at them, and cursed them, and whipped their backs bloody, and cursed them again, but valued them. They even loved them, and officers worth five thousand pounds a year were fighting alongside them now. The redcoats were doing what they did best, what they were paid a shilling a day less stoppages to do: they were killing.Narrator, p. 317 — Bernard Cornwell love Let me tell you about the English War Bow, Joscelyn. It is a simple thing, med of yew, a peasants tool, really. My huntsman can use one, but he is the only man in Berat who has ever mastered the weapon. Why do you think that is? Ill tell you anyway. It takes years, Joscelyn, many years to master the yew bow. Ten years? Probably that long, and after ten years a man can send an arrow clean through armor at two hundred paces. Splat! A thousand ecus of man, armor, and weaponry fallen to a peasants bow. And it isnt luck, Joscelyn. My huntsman can put an arrow through a bracelet at a hundred paces. He can pierce mail coat at two hundred. Ive seen him put an arrow through an oak door at a hundred and fifty, and the door was three inches thick!The Count of Berat, p. 111 — Bernard Cornwell war
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