JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 41 из 203”
Harper bellowed orders. The Spanish muleteers, their rest disturbed, looked curiously as the Riflemen pulled on their packs and formed ranks.
“Bayonets, Sergeant.”
The order was given and the long, brass-handled sword-bayonets rasped from the scabbards. Each blade was twenty-three inches long, each sharp and brilliant in the sun. Simmerson looked nervously at the weapons. “What the devil are you doing, Sharpe?”
“Only one thing to do, sir.”
Simmerson looked left and right at Forrest and Hogan, but they offered him no help. “Are you proposing we should simply carry on, Sharpe?”
It’s what you should have proposed, thought Sharpe, but instead he nodded. “Isn’t that what you intended, sir?”
Simmerson was not sure. Wellesley had impressed on him the need for speed, but there was also the duty not to offend a touchy ally. But what if the bridge should already be occupied by the French? He looked at the Riflemen, grim in their dark uniforms, and then at the Spanish who lolled in the roadway smoking cigarettes. “Very well.”
“Sir.” Sharpe turned away to Harper. “Four ranks, Sergeant.”
Harper took a deep breath. “Company! Double files to the right!”
There were times when Sharpe’s men, for all their tattered uniforms, knew how to startle a Militia Colonel. With a snap and a precision that would have done credit to the Guards, the even-numbered files stepped backwards; the whole company, without another word of command, turned to the right and instead of two ranks there were now four facing towards the Spanish. Harper had paused for a second while the movement was carried out. “Quick march!”
They marched. Their boots crashed onto the road scattering mules and muleteers before them. The priest took one look, kicked his heels, and the donkey bolted into the field.
“Come on, you bastards!” Harper shouted. “March as if you mean it!”
They did. They pushed their tempo up to the Light Infantry quick march and stamped with their boots so that the dust flew up. Behind them the South Essex were formed and following, before them the Regimienta split apart into the fields, the officers running from the white-walled inn and screaming at the Riflemen. Sharpe ignored them. The Spanish Colonel, a vision of golden lace, appeared at the inn doorway to see his Regiment in tatters. The men had scattered into the fields and the British were on their way to the bridge. The Colonel was without his boots and in his hand he held a glass of wine. As they drew level with the inn Sharpe turned to his men.
Harper bellowed orders. The Spanish muleteers, their rest disturbed, looked curiously as the Riflemen pulled on their packs and formed ranks.
“Bayonets, Sergeant.”
The order was given and the long, brass-handled sword-bayonets rasped from the scabbards. Each blade was twenty-three inches long, each sharp and brilliant in the sun. Simmerson looked nervously at the weapons. “What the devil are you doing, Sharpe?”
“Only one thing to do, sir.”
Simmerson looked left and right at Forrest and Hogan, but they offered him no help. “Are you proposing we should simply carry on, Sharpe?”
It’s what you should have proposed, thought Sharpe, but instead he nodded. “Isn’t that what you intended, sir?”
Simmerson was not sure. Wellesley had impressed on him the need for speed, but there was also the duty not to offend a touchy ally. But what if the bridge should already be occupied by the French? He looked at the Riflemen, grim in their dark uniforms, and then at the Spanish who lolled in the roadway smoking cigarettes. “Very well.”
“Sir.” Sharpe turned away to Harper. “Four ranks, Sergeant.”
Harper took a deep breath. “Company! Double files to the right!”
There were times when Sharpe’s men, for all their tattered uniforms, knew how to startle a Militia Colonel. With a snap and a precision that would have done credit to the Guards, the even-numbered files stepped backwards; the whole company, without another word of command, turned to the right and instead of two ranks there were now four facing towards the Spanish. Harper had paused for a second while the movement was carried out. “Quick march!”
They marched. Their boots crashed onto the road scattering mules and muleteers before them. The priest took one look, kicked his heels, and the donkey bolted into the field.
“Come on, you bastards!” Harper shouted. “March as if you mean it!”
They did. They pushed their tempo up to the Light Infantry quick march and stamped with their boots so that the dust flew up. Behind them the South Essex were formed and following, before them the Regimienta split apart into the fields, the officers running from the white-walled inn and screaming at the Riflemen. Sharpe ignored them. The Spanish Colonel, a vision of golden lace, appeared at the inn doorway to see his Regiment in tatters. The men had scattered into the fields and the British were on their way to the bridge. The Colonel was without his boots and in his hand he held a glass of wine. As they drew level with the inn Sharpe turned to his men.