JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 183 из 203He had expected defeat, and in its place saw victory; he had expected the French to carve their way through the British line as though it did not exist, and instead the British were driving twice their number in bloody chaos before them, and with them went his dreams and hopes.
Except the British went too far. The new French columns opened their fire, the Germans and the Guards were split apart and broken, and a new French attack, even bigger than the first, was driving its way forward from the stream. The cheers of the British had gone, the drums were back, and the Union flags were falling back in chaos before the triumphant Eagles. He had been right after all. He turned to point out his perspicacity to Christian Gibbons but instead of his nephew he found himself looking into the eyes of a strange Lieutenant Colonel; or not so strange? He had an idea that he had seen the man before but could not place him. He was about to ask the man what he wanted, but the strange, elegant Lieutenant Colonel spoke first.
“You are relieved, Sir Henry. The Battalion is mine.”
“What… „The man did-not wait to argue. He turned to a smiling Forrest and rapped out a stream of orders. The Battalion was halting, turning, heading back for the battle. Simmerson rode up behind the man and shouted a protest, but the Lieutenant Colonel wheeled on him with a drawn sword and bared teeth, and Sir Henry decided that this was no place for an argument and reined in his horse instead. The new man then looked at Gibbons.
“Who are you, Lieutenant?”
“Gibbons, sir.”
“Ah yes. I remember. Of the Light Company?”
“Yes, sir.” Gibbons flashed a frantic look at his uncle, but Simmerson was staring at the advancing French. The new Colonel hit Gibbons’ horse with the flat of his sword.
“Then join the Light Company, Mr. Gibbons! Hurry! They need help, even yours!”
The French advanced across a plain that was dotted with bodies, hung about by smoke, but tantalisingly empty of troops. Sir Henry sat his horse and watched the South Essex march towards the battle, saw another Battalion, the 48th, hurrying into the path of the enemy, and from the far side of the gaping hole other British Battalions marched desperately to make a thin screen in front of the massing Eagles. Staff officers kicked up dust as they galloped down the slope; the long six-pounders reared back on their trails as they pounded the enemy; British cavalry hovered menacingly to stop the enemy’s horsemen trying to exploit the shattered British Battalions. The battle was still not lost. Sir Henry looked round the hilltop and felt terribly alone.
Except the British went too far. The new French columns opened their fire, the Germans and the Guards were split apart and broken, and a new French attack, even bigger than the first, was driving its way forward from the stream. The cheers of the British had gone, the drums were back, and the Union flags were falling back in chaos before the triumphant Eagles. He had been right after all. He turned to point out his perspicacity to Christian Gibbons but instead of his nephew he found himself looking into the eyes of a strange Lieutenant Colonel; or not so strange? He had an idea that he had seen the man before but could not place him. He was about to ask the man what he wanted, but the strange, elegant Lieutenant Colonel spoke first.
“You are relieved, Sir Henry. The Battalion is mine.”
“What… „The man did-not wait to argue. He turned to a smiling Forrest and rapped out a stream of orders. The Battalion was halting, turning, heading back for the battle. Simmerson rode up behind the man and shouted a protest, but the Lieutenant Colonel wheeled on him with a drawn sword and bared teeth, and Sir Henry decided that this was no place for an argument and reined in his horse instead. The new man then looked at Gibbons.
“Who are you, Lieutenant?”
“Gibbons, sir.”
“Ah yes. I remember. Of the Light Company?”
“Yes, sir.” Gibbons flashed a frantic look at his uncle, but Simmerson was staring at the advancing French. The new Colonel hit Gibbons’ horse with the flat of his sword.
“Then join the Light Company, Mr. Gibbons! Hurry! They need help, even yours!”
The French advanced across a plain that was dotted with bodies, hung about by smoke, but tantalisingly empty of troops. Sir Henry sat his horse and watched the South Essex march towards the battle, saw another Battalion, the 48th, hurrying into the path of the enemy, and from the far side of the gaping hole other British Battalions marched desperately to make a thin screen in front of the massing Eagles. Staff officers kicked up dust as they galloped down the slope; the long six-pounders reared back on their trails as they pounded the enemy; British cavalry hovered menacingly to stop the enemy’s horsemen trying to exploit the shattered British Battalions. The battle was still not lost. Sir Henry looked round the hilltop and felt terribly alone.