JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 201 из 203And now this? The candles danced in the draught, the red wine was rich and deep, and he wondered where the road they must take in tomorrow’s cold dawn would lead. If Bonaparte was to be defeated, then tomorrow’s march could last for years before it ended at the gates of Paris.
The Captain left and Wellesley tapped the table. The conversation tailed away and they looked at their hooknosed General, who lifted the paper into the air. “The Austrians have made peace with Bonaparte.” He waited for the exclamations to die down. “Effectively, gentlemen, we are on our own. We can expect more French troops, maybe even Napoleon himself, and even more enemies at home.” Sharpe thought of Simmerson, already on the way home, planning to conspire in Parliament and in the smoking rooms of London against Wellesley and the British army in the Peninsula. “But, gentlemen, we have beaten three Marshals this year so let the rest come on!”
The officers pounded the table and raised their glasses. In the town a clock struck eight o’clock and, abruptly, Sir Arthur Wellesley got to his feet and held up his wineglass. “I see the cigars are here and the evening is getting on. We leave early so, gentlemen, I give you the King.”
Sharpe scraped his chair back, took the glass, and joined in the murmuring. “The King, God bless him.”
He was sitting down again, looking forward to the brandy and one of the General’s cigars, when he noticed that Wellesley was still standing. He straightened up, cursing his lack of social manners and hoping that the others would not see his blushing. Wellesley waited for him. “I remember one other battle, gentlemen, which almost matched our recent victory in carnage. After Assaye I had to thank a young Sergeant; today we salute the same man, a Captain.” He raised his glass to Sharpe, who was convulsed with embarrassment. He watched the officers smile at him, raise their glasses to him, and he looked down at the silver eagle. He wished Josefina could see him at this moment, that she could hear Wellesley’s toast. He only half heard it himself.
“Gentlemen. I give you Sharpe’s Eagle.”
HISTORICAL NOTE
Sir Arthur Wellesley (who was soon to become, thanks to the events of July 27th and 28th, 1809, Viscount Wellington of Talavera) lost 5365 dead and wounded in the battle. About 15 percent of those casualties were killed outright on the field. French casualties numbered 7268 and there were also about 600 to add to the ‘butcher’s bill’. The French also lost seventeen guns but, alas, no Eagle.
The Captain left and Wellesley tapped the table. The conversation tailed away and they looked at their hooknosed General, who lifted the paper into the air. “The Austrians have made peace with Bonaparte.” He waited for the exclamations to die down. “Effectively, gentlemen, we are on our own. We can expect more French troops, maybe even Napoleon himself, and even more enemies at home.” Sharpe thought of Simmerson, already on the way home, planning to conspire in Parliament and in the smoking rooms of London against Wellesley and the British army in the Peninsula. “But, gentlemen, we have beaten three Marshals this year so let the rest come on!”
The officers pounded the table and raised their glasses. In the town a clock struck eight o’clock and, abruptly, Sir Arthur Wellesley got to his feet and held up his wineglass. “I see the cigars are here and the evening is getting on. We leave early so, gentlemen, I give you the King.”
Sharpe scraped his chair back, took the glass, and joined in the murmuring. “The King, God bless him.”
He was sitting down again, looking forward to the brandy and one of the General’s cigars, when he noticed that Wellesley was still standing. He straightened up, cursing his lack of social manners and hoping that the others would not see his blushing. Wellesley waited for him. “I remember one other battle, gentlemen, which almost matched our recent victory in carnage. After Assaye I had to thank a young Sergeant; today we salute the same man, a Captain.” He raised his glass to Sharpe, who was convulsed with embarrassment. He watched the officers smile at him, raise their glasses to him, and he looked down at the silver eagle. He wished Josefina could see him at this moment, that she could hear Wellesley’s toast. He only half heard it himself.
“Gentlemen. I give you Sharpe’s Eagle.”
HISTORICAL NOTE
Sir Arthur Wellesley (who was soon to become, thanks to the events of July 27th and 28th, 1809, Viscount Wellington of Talavera) lost 5365 dead and wounded in the battle. About 15 percent of those casualties were killed outright on the field. French casualties numbered 7268 and there were also about 600 to add to the ‘butcher’s bill’. The French also lost seventeen guns but, alas, no Eagle.