of scrap metal, Monsewer, strapped to a sabot and a charge. One and a half pounds
of powder per round. Find a dozen women in the town and have them sew up the bags.
Maybe your wife can help, Monsewer?" He leered at Joubert who showed no reaction. Dodd
could smell a man's weakness, and the oddly attractive Simone Joubert was undoubtedly
her husband's weakness, for she clearly despised him and he, just as clearly, feared
losing her.
“I want thirty bags of grape for each gun by this time tomorrow,” Dodd ordered.
“But the barrels, Major!”Joubert protested.
“You mean they'll be scratched?” Dodd jeered.
"What do you want, Monsewer? A scratched bore and a live regiment? Or a clean gun and a
row of dead men? By tomorrow, thirty rounds of canister per gun, and if there ain't room
in the limbers then throw out that bloody round shot.
Might as well spit cherrystones as fire those pebbles."
Dodd slammed down the limber's lid. Even if the guns fired makeshift grapeshot he was not
certain that they were worth keeping. Every battalion in India had such close-support
artillery, but in Dodd's opinion the guns only served to slow down a regiment's
manoeuvres. The weapons themselves were cumbersome, and the livestock needed to haul
them was a nuisance, and if he were ever given his own compoo he would strip the regiments
of field guns for if a battalion of infantry could not defend itself with fire locks what
use was it? But he was stuck with the five guns, so he would use them as giant shotguns and
open fire at three hundred yards. The gunners would moan about the damage to their barrels,
but damn the gunners.
Dodd inspected the howitzer, found it as clean as the other guns, and nodded to the
gunner-sub adar He offered no compliment, for Dodd did not believe in praising men for
merely doing their duty.
I Praise was due to those who exceeded their duty, punishment for those I who fell
short, and silence must serve the rest.
I Once the five guns had been inspected Dodd walked slowly down the white-jacketed
infantry ranks where he looked every man in the ; eye and did not change his grim
expression once, even though the soldiers had taken particular care to be well turned out
for their new commanding officer. Captain Joubert followed a pace behind Dodd and there
was something ludicrous about the conjunction of the tall, long-legged Dodd and the
diminutive Joubert who needed to scurry to keep up with the Englishman. Once in a while
the Frenchman would make a comment.
“He's a good man, sir,” he might say as they passed a soldier, but Dodd ignored all the
praise and, after a while, Joubert fell silent and just scowled at Dodd's back. Dodd sensed
the ; Frenchman's dislike, but did not care.
Dodd showed no reaction to the regiment's appearance, though all the same he was
impressed. These men were smart and their weapons were as clean as those of his own sepoys
who, re-issued with white jackets, now paraded as an extra company at the regiment's
left flank where, in British regiments, the skirmishers paraded. East India Company
battalions had no skirmishers, for it was believed that sepoys were i' no good at the
task, but Dodd had decided to make his loyal sepoys into the finest skirmishers in
India. Let them prove the Company , wrong, and in the proving they could help destroy the
Company.
Most of the men looked up into Dodd's eyes as he walked by, although few of them looked at
him for long, but instead glanced quickly away. Joubert saw the reaction, and
sympathized with it for there was something distinctly unpleasant about the
Englishman's long sour face that edged on the frightening. Probably, Joubert decided,
this Englishman was a flogger. The English were notorious for using the whip on their
own men, reducing redcoats' backs to welters of broken flesh and gleaming blood, but
Joubert was quite wrong about Dodd.
Major Dodd had never flogged a
of powder per round. Find a dozen women in the town and have them sew up the bags.
Maybe your wife can help, Monsewer?" He leered at Joubert who showed no reaction. Dodd
could smell a man's weakness, and the oddly attractive Simone Joubert was undoubtedly
her husband's weakness, for she clearly despised him and he, just as clearly, feared
losing her.
“I want thirty bags of grape for each gun by this time tomorrow,” Dodd ordered.
“But the barrels, Major!”Joubert protested.
“You mean they'll be scratched?” Dodd jeered.
"What do you want, Monsewer? A scratched bore and a live regiment? Or a clean gun and a
row of dead men? By tomorrow, thirty rounds of canister per gun, and if there ain't room
in the limbers then throw out that bloody round shot.
Might as well spit cherrystones as fire those pebbles."
Dodd slammed down the limber's lid. Even if the guns fired makeshift grapeshot he was not
certain that they were worth keeping. Every battalion in India had such close-support
artillery, but in Dodd's opinion the guns only served to slow down a regiment's
manoeuvres. The weapons themselves were cumbersome, and the livestock needed to haul
them was a nuisance, and if he were ever given his own compoo he would strip the regiments
of field guns for if a battalion of infantry could not defend itself with fire locks what
use was it? But he was stuck with the five guns, so he would use them as giant shotguns and
open fire at three hundred yards. The gunners would moan about the damage to their barrels,
but damn the gunners.
Dodd inspected the howitzer, found it as clean as the other guns, and nodded to the
gunner-sub adar He offered no compliment, for Dodd did not believe in praising men for
merely doing their duty.
I Praise was due to those who exceeded their duty, punishment for those I who fell
short, and silence must serve the rest.
I Once the five guns had been inspected Dodd walked slowly down the white-jacketed
infantry ranks where he looked every man in the ; eye and did not change his grim
expression once, even though the soldiers had taken particular care to be well turned out
for their new commanding officer. Captain Joubert followed a pace behind Dodd and there
was something ludicrous about the conjunction of the tall, long-legged Dodd and the
diminutive Joubert who needed to scurry to keep up with the Englishman. Once in a while
the Frenchman would make a comment.
“He's a good man, sir,” he might say as they passed a soldier, but Dodd ignored all the
praise and, after a while, Joubert fell silent and just scowled at Dodd's back. Dodd sensed
the ; Frenchman's dislike, but did not care.
Dodd showed no reaction to the regiment's appearance, though all the same he was
impressed. These men were smart and their weapons were as clean as those of his own sepoys
who, re-issued with white jackets, now paraded as an extra company at the regiment's
left flank where, in British regiments, the skirmishers paraded. East India Company
battalions had no skirmishers, for it was believed that sepoys were i' no good at the
task, but Dodd had decided to make his loyal sepoys into the finest skirmishers in
India. Let them prove the Company , wrong, and in the proving they could help destroy the
Company.
Most of the men looked up into Dodd's eyes as he walked by, although few of them looked at
him for long, but instead glanced quickly away. Joubert saw the reaction, and
sympathized with it for there was something distinctly unpleasant about the
Englishman's long sour face that edged on the frightening. Probably, Joubert decided,
this Englishman was a flogger. The English were notorious for using the whip on their
own men, reducing redcoats' backs to welters of broken flesh and gleaming blood, but
Joubert was quite wrong about Dodd.
Major Dodd had never flogged a
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