JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 38 из 203“You’ve got a scrap ahead of you. We sent the Light Dragoons down south and they tell us there’s a sizable bunch of Frenchies down there with some horse artillery. They’ve been trying to flush the partisans out of the hills but they’re moving back east now, like us, so good luck!” He turned his horse away, then looked back. “And, Richard?”
“Sir?”
“Sir Arthur asked to be remembered.”
“He did?”
Lawford looked down on Sharpe. “You’re an idiot.” He spoke cheerfully. “Shall I remember you to the General? It’s the done thing, you know.” He grinned, raised his hat and turned away. Sharpe watched him go, the apprehension of the cold dawn suddenly dissipated by the rush of friendship. Hogan joined him.
“Friends in high places?”
“Old friend. We were in India.”
Hogan said nothing. He was staring across the field, his jaw sagging in astonishment, and Sharpe followed his gaze. “My God.”
The Regimienta had arrived. Two trumpeters in powdered wigs led the procession. They were mounted on glossy black horses, bedecked in uniforms that were a riot of gold and silver, their trumpets festooned with ribbons, tassels, and banners.
“Hell’s teeth.” The voice came from the ranks. “The Fairies are on our side.”
The colours came next, two flags covered in armorial bearings, threaded with gold, tasselled, looped, crowned, curlicued, emblazoned, carried by horsemen whose mounts stepped delicately high as though the earth was scarcely fit to carry such splendid creations. The officers came next. They should have delighted the soul of Sir Henry Simmerson, for everything that could be polished had been burnished to an eye-hurting intensity, whether of leather, or bronze, silver or gold. Epaulettes of twisted golden strands were encrusted with semi-precious stones; their coats were piped with silver threads, frogged and plumed, sashed and shining. It was a dazzling display.
The men came next, a shambling mess, rattled onto the field by energetic but erratic drummers. Sharpe was appalled. All he had heard of the Spanish army seemed to be true in the Regimienta; their weapons looked dull and uncared for, there was no spirit in their bearing, and Madrid seemed suddenly a long way off if this was the quality of the allies who would help clear the road. There was a renewed energy from the Spanish drummers as the two trumpeters challenged the sky with a resounding fanfare. Then silence.
“Now what?” Hogan muttered.
Speeches.
“Sir?”
“Sir Arthur asked to be remembered.”
“He did?”
Lawford looked down on Sharpe. “You’re an idiot.” He spoke cheerfully. “Shall I remember you to the General? It’s the done thing, you know.” He grinned, raised his hat and turned away. Sharpe watched him go, the apprehension of the cold dawn suddenly dissipated by the rush of friendship. Hogan joined him.
“Friends in high places?”
“Old friend. We were in India.”
Hogan said nothing. He was staring across the field, his jaw sagging in astonishment, and Sharpe followed his gaze. “My God.”
The Regimienta had arrived. Two trumpeters in powdered wigs led the procession. They were mounted on glossy black horses, bedecked in uniforms that were a riot of gold and silver, their trumpets festooned with ribbons, tassels, and banners.
“Hell’s teeth.” The voice came from the ranks. “The Fairies are on our side.”
The colours came next, two flags covered in armorial bearings, threaded with gold, tasselled, looped, crowned, curlicued, emblazoned, carried by horsemen whose mounts stepped delicately high as though the earth was scarcely fit to carry such splendid creations. The officers came next. They should have delighted the soul of Sir Henry Simmerson, for everything that could be polished had been burnished to an eye-hurting intensity, whether of leather, or bronze, silver or gold. Epaulettes of twisted golden strands were encrusted with semi-precious stones; their coats were piped with silver threads, frogged and plumed, sashed and shining. It was a dazzling display.
The men came next, a shambling mess, rattled onto the field by energetic but erratic drummers. Sharpe was appalled. All he had heard of the Spanish army seemed to be true in the Regimienta; their weapons looked dull and uncared for, there was no spirit in their bearing, and Madrid seemed suddenly a long way off if this was the quality of the allies who would help clear the road. There was a renewed energy from the Spanish drummers as the two trumpeters challenged the sky with a resounding fanfare. Then silence.
“Now what?” Hogan muttered.
Speeches.