JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 175 из 203He had never heard anything but military sense from his nephew, the boy understood all his problems, agreed with his solutions, and if Sir Henry had found it temporarily impossible to give his nephew a deserved Captaincy, then at least he could keep him away from that damned Sharpe and use him as a trusted adviser and confidant. A new Battalion appeared in the French line, almost opposite the South Essex, and Simmerson opened the telescope and looked at them.
“That’s strange.”
“Sir?” Simmerson handed the telescope to his nephew. The fresh Battalion marching from behind the Cascajal was dressed in white jackets with red turnbacks and collars. Simmerson had never seen troops like them.
“Major Forrest!”
“Sir?”
Simmerson pointed to the new troops who were forming a column. “Do you know who they are?”
“No, sir.”
“Find out.”
The Colonel watched Forrest spur his horse down the line. “Going to see Sharpe. Thinks he knows it all.” But not for long, thought Simmerson; this battle would see the end of military adventurers like Sharpe and Wellesley and return the army to prudent men, officers of sense, men like Sir Henry Simmerson. He turned and watched the shells exploding among the KGL and the Guards. The Battalions were lying flat, and most of the French shots exploded harmlessly or bounced over their heads. Every now and then, though, there was a puff of smoke in the centre of the ranks, and Simmerson could see the Sergeants pulling the mangled dead from the line and closing up the gaps. The skirmish line was forward, lying in the long grass by the stream, a futile gesture in the face of the imminent French attack. Forrest came back. “Major?”
“Captain Sharpe tells me they’re from the German Division, sir. Thinks they’re probably the Dutch Battalions.”
Simmerson laughed. “Germans fighting Germans, eh? Let ‘em kill each other!” Forrest did not laugh.
“Captain Sharpe asks that the Light Company go forward, sir. He thinks the Dutchmen will attack this part of the line.”
Simmerson said nothing. He watched the French, and certainly the Dutch, if that was who they were, were very nearly opposite the South Essex. A second Battalion formed a separate column behind the first, but Simmerson had no intention of letting his Battalion get involved in the death struggle of Wellesley’s army. The King’s German Legion could fight the Dutchmen of the German Division while Simmerson would at least save one Battalion from disaster.
“Sir?” Forrest prompted him.
Simmerson waved down the interruption.
“That’s strange.”
“Sir?” Simmerson handed the telescope to his nephew. The fresh Battalion marching from behind the Cascajal was dressed in white jackets with red turnbacks and collars. Simmerson had never seen troops like them.
“Major Forrest!”
“Sir?”
Simmerson pointed to the new troops who were forming a column. “Do you know who they are?”
“No, sir.”
“Find out.”
The Colonel watched Forrest spur his horse down the line. “Going to see Sharpe. Thinks he knows it all.” But not for long, thought Simmerson; this battle would see the end of military adventurers like Sharpe and Wellesley and return the army to prudent men, officers of sense, men like Sir Henry Simmerson. He turned and watched the shells exploding among the KGL and the Guards. The Battalions were lying flat, and most of the French shots exploded harmlessly or bounced over their heads. Every now and then, though, there was a puff of smoke in the centre of the ranks, and Simmerson could see the Sergeants pulling the mangled dead from the line and closing up the gaps. The skirmish line was forward, lying in the long grass by the stream, a futile gesture in the face of the imminent French attack. Forrest came back. “Major?”
“Captain Sharpe tells me they’re from the German Division, sir. Thinks they’re probably the Dutch Battalions.”
Simmerson laughed. “Germans fighting Germans, eh? Let ‘em kill each other!” Forrest did not laugh.
“Captain Sharpe asks that the Light Company go forward, sir. He thinks the Dutchmen will attack this part of the line.”
Simmerson said nothing. He watched the French, and certainly the Dutch, if that was who they were, were very nearly opposite the South Essex. A second Battalion formed a separate column behind the first, but Simmerson had no intention of letting his Battalion get involved in the death struggle of Wellesley’s army. The King’s German Legion could fight the Dutchmen of the German Division while Simmerson would at least save one Battalion from disaster.
“Sir?” Forrest prompted him.
Simmerson waved down the interruption.