JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 155 из 203He watched the South Essex form small nervous groupsthat kept splitting up and reforming. No-one knew what was happening. To their right another Battalion was in equal disarray, and behind Sharpe could hear the steady sound of the French advancing at a trot.
“The French!” He had no more breath. Harper had disappeared. Sharpe hurdled a fire and ran full tilt into a Sergeant who held on to him and supported him as he gasped for breath.
“What’s happening, sir?”
“French column. Coming this way.”
The Sergeant was bewildered. “Why didn’t the first line stop them?”
Sharpe looked at him, astonished. “You are the first line!”
“No-one told us!”
Sharpe looked round him. Men ran to and fro looking for their Sergeants or officers, a mounted officer rode forward through the fires. Sharpe could not see who it was, and disappeared towards the column. Sharpe heard a shout, the scream of the horse as muskets fired, and the thump of the beast falling. The musket flashes showed where the French were, and Sharpe, with a pang of satisfaction, heard the crisp sound of the Bakers at the hill’s edge.
Then the column was visible, their white trousers showing in the firelight, angling across their front and aiming at the centre of the British line. Sharpe screamed the orders. “Present. Fire!” A few muskets banged, the white smoke swallowed immediately in the darkness, and Sharpe was alone. The men had fled at the sight of the massive column. Sharpe ran after them, beating at men with his sword. “You’re safe here! Stand still!” But it was no good. The South Essex, like the Battalion next to them, had broken and panicked and were streaming back towards the fires in their rear, where Sharpe could see men forming in companies, the ranks tipped with bayonets.
It was chaos. Sharpe cut across the fugitives, making for the edge of the hill and the darkness where his Riflemen lay hidden. He found Knowles, with a group of the company, and pushed them ahead to join Harper, but most of the Battalion was running back. The French fired their first volley, a massive rolling thunder of shots that cracked the night with smoke and flame, and cut a swathe in the troops ahead of them. The Battalion ran blindly back towards the safety of the next line of fires, Sharpe crashed into fugitives, shook them off, struggled towards the comparative peace of the edge of the hill. A voice shouted, “What’s happening?” Sharpe turned. Berry was there, his jacket undone, his sword drawn, his black hair falling over his fleshy face. Sharpe stopped, crouched, and growled.
“The French!” He had no more breath. Harper had disappeared. Sharpe hurdled a fire and ran full tilt into a Sergeant who held on to him and supported him as he gasped for breath.
“What’s happening, sir?”
“French column. Coming this way.”
The Sergeant was bewildered. “Why didn’t the first line stop them?”
Sharpe looked at him, astonished. “You are the first line!”
“No-one told us!”
Sharpe looked round him. Men ran to and fro looking for their Sergeants or officers, a mounted officer rode forward through the fires. Sharpe could not see who it was, and disappeared towards the column. Sharpe heard a shout, the scream of the horse as muskets fired, and the thump of the beast falling. The musket flashes showed where the French were, and Sharpe, with a pang of satisfaction, heard the crisp sound of the Bakers at the hill’s edge.
Then the column was visible, their white trousers showing in the firelight, angling across their front and aiming at the centre of the British line. Sharpe screamed the orders. “Present. Fire!” A few muskets banged, the white smoke swallowed immediately in the darkness, and Sharpe was alone. The men had fled at the sight of the massive column. Sharpe ran after them, beating at men with his sword. “You’re safe here! Stand still!” But it was no good. The South Essex, like the Battalion next to them, had broken and panicked and were streaming back towards the fires in their rear, where Sharpe could see men forming in companies, the ranks tipped with bayonets.
It was chaos. Sharpe cut across the fugitives, making for the edge of the hill and the darkness where his Riflemen lay hidden. He found Knowles, with a group of the company, and pushed them ahead to join Harper, but most of the Battalion was running back. The French fired their first volley, a massive rolling thunder of shots that cracked the night with smoke and flame, and cut a swathe in the troops ahead of them. The Battalion ran blindly back towards the safety of the next line of fires, Sharpe crashed into fugitives, shook them off, struggled towards the comparative peace of the edge of the hill. A voice shouted, “What’s happening?” Sharpe turned. Berry was there, his jacket undone, his sword drawn, his black hair falling over his fleshy face. Sharpe stopped, crouched, and growled.