JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 158 из 203He would look like someone from a slaughterhouse but he felt better and grinned in the darkness as he dropped to one knee and ran his hands swiftly across Berry’s pockets and pouches. Revenge, he decided, felt good and he pulled coins from the dead man’s tunic and thrust them into his own pockets. He walked away from the body towards the sound of the rifles, walked slowly uphill to where the flashes spat bullets towards the French, and sank down beside Harper. The Sergeant looked at him and then turned back to face the hilltop and pulled his trigger. Smoke puffed from the pan, belched from the barrel, and Sharpe saw a Voltigeur fall backwards into a fire. Harper grinned with satisfaction.
“He’s been annoying me, that one, so he has. Been jumping around like a regular little Napoleon.”
Sharpe stared at the hilltop. It was like the paintings of hell he had seen in Portuguese and Spanish churches. Smoke rolled redly in weird patches across the hilltop, thickly where the column was pushing deeper through the fires that marked the British lines, and thinly where small groups fought the skirmishers who tried to clear the hilltop. Hundreds of small fires lit the battle, muskets pumped smoke and flame into the night, the whole accompanied by the shouts of the French and the cries of the wounded. The French skirmishers had suffered badly from the Riflemen. Harper had lined them in the shadows on the hill’s edge and they picked off the blue figures who ran through the fires long before the French were close enough to use their muskets with any accuracy. Sharpe pulled his own rifle forward and reached down for a cartridge.
“Any problems?”
Harper shook his head and grinned. “Target practice.”
“The rest of the company?”
The Sergeant jerked his head backwards. “Most of them are down below with Mr. Knowles, sir. I told him they weren’t needed here.”
For an instant Sharpe wondered whether anyone had seen him murder Berry but he dismissed the thought. He trusted his instinct, an instinct that warned him of the enemy and on this night every man had been his enemy until Berry had died. No-one had seen him. Harper grunted as he rammed another bullet into his rifle.
“What happened, sir?”
Sharpe grinned wolfishly and said nothing. He was reliving the instant of Berry’s death, feeling the satisfaction, the relief of the pain of Josefina’s ordeal. Who had said revenge was stale and unprofitable? They were wrong. He primed the rifle, cocked it, and slid it forward but no Voltigeurs were in sight. The battle had passed off to the left, where it flashed and thundered in the darkness.
“He’s been annoying me, that one, so he has. Been jumping around like a regular little Napoleon.”
Sharpe stared at the hilltop. It was like the paintings of hell he had seen in Portuguese and Spanish churches. Smoke rolled redly in weird patches across the hilltop, thickly where the column was pushing deeper through the fires that marked the British lines, and thinly where small groups fought the skirmishers who tried to clear the hilltop. Hundreds of small fires lit the battle, muskets pumped smoke and flame into the night, the whole accompanied by the shouts of the French and the cries of the wounded. The French skirmishers had suffered badly from the Riflemen. Harper had lined them in the shadows on the hill’s edge and they picked off the blue figures who ran through the fires long before the French were close enough to use their muskets with any accuracy. Sharpe pulled his own rifle forward and reached down for a cartridge.
“Any problems?”
Harper shook his head and grinned. “Target practice.”
“The rest of the company?”
The Sergeant jerked his head backwards. “Most of them are down below with Mr. Knowles, sir. I told him they weren’t needed here.”
For an instant Sharpe wondered whether anyone had seen him murder Berry but he dismissed the thought. He trusted his instinct, an instinct that warned him of the enemy and on this night every man had been his enemy until Berry had died. No-one had seen him. Harper grunted as he rammed another bullet into his rifle.
“What happened, sir?”
Sharpe grinned wolfishly and said nothing. He was reliving the instant of Berry’s death, feeling the satisfaction, the relief of the pain of Josefina’s ordeal. Who had said revenge was stale and unprofitable? They were wrong. He primed the rifle, cocked it, and slid it forward but no Voltigeurs were in sight. The battle had passed off to the left, where it flashed and thundered in the darkness.