JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 112 из 203It was not that Moss and Ibbotson did not deserve to die, they had deserted, planned to join the enemy, and there could be no end for them other than the firing squad. Yet coming on top of the fight at the bridge, coming on top of Simmerson’s floggings, his repeated condemnation of his men for losing the colour, the execution was seen by the Battalion as summing up Simmerson’s contempt and hatred for them. Sharpe had rarely felt such sullen resentment from any troops.
In the distance, threading its way through the crowds of British and Spanish spectators, the Provost-Marshal’s party appeared, prisoners and guard. Forrest walked his horse forward of Simmerson.
“Talion! Fix Bayonets!”
Blades scraped out of scabbards and steel rippled round the ranks of the companies. The men must die with due ceremony. Sharpe watched Gibbons bend down to talk to the sixteen-year-old Ensign Denny.
“Your first execution, Mr Denny?”
The youngster nodded. He was pale and apprehensive, like the younger soldiers in the ranks. Gibbons chuckled. “Best target practice the men can have!”
“Quiet!” Sharpe glared at his officers. Gibbons smiled secretly.
“Talion!” Forrest’s horse edged sideways. The Major calmed it. “Shoulder arms!”
The lines of men became tipped with bayonets. There was silence. The prisoners wore trousers and shirts, no jackets, and Sharpe supposed them to be half full of rough brandy or rum. A Chaplain walked with them, the mumble of his words just carrying to Sharpe, but the prisoners seemed to take no notice of him as they were marched to the trees. The drama moved inexorably forward. Moss and Ibbotson were tied to the trunks, blindfolded, and Forrest stood the firing squad to attention. Ibbotson, the son of the vicarage, was nearest to Sharpe, and he could see the man’s lips moving frenetically. Was he praying? Sharpe could not hear the words.
Forrest gave no commands. The firing party had been rehearsed to obey signals rather than orders, and they presented and aimed to jerks of the Major’s sword. Suddenly Ibbotson’s voice came clear and loud, the educated tones filled with desperation, and Sharpe recognised the words. “We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep… „Forrest dropped the sword, the muskets banged, the bodies jerked maniacally, and a flock of birds burst screeching from the branches. Two Lieutenants ran forward with drawn pistols, but the musket balls had done their work and the bodies hung with crushed and bloodied chests in front of the lingering white musket smoke.
A murmur, barely audible, went through the ranks of the Battalion. Sharpe turned on his men.
In the distance, threading its way through the crowds of British and Spanish spectators, the Provost-Marshal’s party appeared, prisoners and guard. Forrest walked his horse forward of Simmerson.
“Talion! Fix Bayonets!”
Blades scraped out of scabbards and steel rippled round the ranks of the companies. The men must die with due ceremony. Sharpe watched Gibbons bend down to talk to the sixteen-year-old Ensign Denny.
“Your first execution, Mr Denny?”
The youngster nodded. He was pale and apprehensive, like the younger soldiers in the ranks. Gibbons chuckled. “Best target practice the men can have!”
“Quiet!” Sharpe glared at his officers. Gibbons smiled secretly.
“Talion!” Forrest’s horse edged sideways. The Major calmed it. “Shoulder arms!”
The lines of men became tipped with bayonets. There was silence. The prisoners wore trousers and shirts, no jackets, and Sharpe supposed them to be half full of rough brandy or rum. A Chaplain walked with them, the mumble of his words just carrying to Sharpe, but the prisoners seemed to take no notice of him as they were marched to the trees. The drama moved inexorably forward. Moss and Ibbotson were tied to the trunks, blindfolded, and Forrest stood the firing squad to attention. Ibbotson, the son of the vicarage, was nearest to Sharpe, and he could see the man’s lips moving frenetically. Was he praying? Sharpe could not hear the words.
Forrest gave no commands. The firing party had been rehearsed to obey signals rather than orders, and they presented and aimed to jerks of the Major’s sword. Suddenly Ibbotson’s voice came clear and loud, the educated tones filled with desperation, and Sharpe recognised the words. “We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep… „Forrest dropped the sword, the muskets banged, the bodies jerked maniacally, and a flock of birds burst screeching from the branches. Two Lieutenants ran forward with drawn pistols, but the musket balls had done their work and the bodies hung with crushed and bloodied chests in front of the lingering white musket smoke.
A murmur, barely audible, went through the ranks of the Battalion. Sharpe turned on his men.