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Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 30 из 203“Do you want a cartridge count, sir?”
“No, we’ll get on.” He knew the men could be trusted not to sell more than a handful of cartridges. He looked at the huge Irishman. “How many cartridges would you have, Sergeant.”
Harper’s face was sublimely honest. “Eighty, sir.”
“Show me your powder horn.”
Harper smiled. “I thought you might like a drop of something tonight, sir?”
“Let’s get on, then.” Sharpe grinned at Harper’s discomfiture. In addition to the eighty rounds, twenty more than the rest of the army carried, Riflemen also carried a horn of fine powder that made for better shooting when there was time to use it. “All right, Sergeant. Ten minutes fast, then we’ll march easy.”
At midday they found Major Forrest with his small, mounted advance party waving to them from a stand of trees that grew between the road and the stream Harper had been hoping for. The Major led the Riflemen to the spot he had chosen for them. “I thought, Sharpe, that it might be best if you were some way from the Colonel?”
“Don’t worry, sir.” Sharpe grinned at the nervous Major. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
Forrest was still worried. He looked at Sharpe’s men, who were already hacking at the branches. “Sir Henry insists on fires being built in straight lines, Sharpe.”
Sharpe held up his hands. “Not a flame out of place, sir, I promise you.”
An hour later the Battalion arrived, and the men threw themselves onto the ground and rested their heads on their packs. Some went to the stream and sat with blistered, swollen feet in the cool water. Sentries were posted, weapons stacked, the smell of tobacco drifted through the trees, and a desultory game of football started far away from the pile of baggage that marked the temporary officers’ mess. Last to arrive were the wives and children, mixed with the Portuguese muleteers and their animals, Hogan and his mules, and the herd of cattle, driven by hired labour, that would provide the evening meals until the last beast was killed.
In the somnolent afternoon Sharpe felt restless. He had no family to write to and no desire to join Harper vainly tempting non-existent fish with his maggots. Hogan was sleeping, snoring gently in a patch of shade, so Sharpe got up from the grass, took his rifle, and strolled towards the picquet line and beyond. It was a beautiful day. No cloud disturbed the sky, the water in the stream flowed clear, a whisper of a breeze stirred the grass and flickered the pale leaves of the olive trees.
“No, we’ll get on.” He knew the men could be trusted not to sell more than a handful of cartridges. He looked at the huge Irishman. “How many cartridges would you have, Sergeant.”
Harper’s face was sublimely honest. “Eighty, sir.”
“Show me your powder horn.”
Harper smiled. “I thought you might like a drop of something tonight, sir?”
“Let’s get on, then.” Sharpe grinned at Harper’s discomfiture. In addition to the eighty rounds, twenty more than the rest of the army carried, Riflemen also carried a horn of fine powder that made for better shooting when there was time to use it. “All right, Sergeant. Ten minutes fast, then we’ll march easy.”
At midday they found Major Forrest with his small, mounted advance party waving to them from a stand of trees that grew between the road and the stream Harper had been hoping for. The Major led the Riflemen to the spot he had chosen for them. “I thought, Sharpe, that it might be best if you were some way from the Colonel?”
“Don’t worry, sir.” Sharpe grinned at the nervous Major. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
Forrest was still worried. He looked at Sharpe’s men, who were already hacking at the branches. “Sir Henry insists on fires being built in straight lines, Sharpe.”
Sharpe held up his hands. “Not a flame out of place, sir, I promise you.”
An hour later the Battalion arrived, and the men threw themselves onto the ground and rested their heads on their packs. Some went to the stream and sat with blistered, swollen feet in the cool water. Sentries were posted, weapons stacked, the smell of tobacco drifted through the trees, and a desultory game of football started far away from the pile of baggage that marked the temporary officers’ mess. Last to arrive were the wives and children, mixed with the Portuguese muleteers and their animals, Hogan and his mules, and the herd of cattle, driven by hired labour, that would provide the evening meals until the last beast was killed.
In the somnolent afternoon Sharpe felt restless. He had no family to write to and no desire to join Harper vainly tempting non-existent fish with his maggots. Hogan was sleeping, snoring gently in a patch of shade, so Sharpe got up from the grass, took his rifle, and strolled towards the picquet line and beyond. It was a beautiful day. No cloud disturbed the sky, the water in the stream flowed clear, a whisper of a breeze stirred the grass and flickered the pale leaves of the olive trees.