JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 49 из 203The French commander probably did not believe what was happening and, at the very least, it would provide him with an amusing story to tell when he rejoined Victor’s army. Sharpe wondered what Simmerson would do when it finally dawned on him that the French would not attack. Probably the Colonel would claim that he had scared the enemy away.
The Ensigns pulled the leather covers from the South Essex colours, unfurled them, and hoisted them into their sockets. They made a brave sight even in the middle of this comedy, and Sharpe felt the familiar pang of loyalty. The first raised was the King’s Colour, a great Union Jack with the Regiment’s number in the centre, and next the South Essex’s own standard, a yellow flag emblazoned with the crest and with the Union flag stitched in the upper corner. It was impossible to see the flags, the morning sun shining through them, and not be moved. They were the Regiment; should only a handful of men be left on a battlefield, the rest slaughtered, the Regiment still existed“ if the colours flew and defied the enemy. They were a rallying point in the smoke and chaos of battle, but more than that; there were men who would hardly fight for England’s King and Country but they would fight for the colours, for their Regiment’s honour, for the gaudy flags that cost a few guineas and were carried in the centre of the line by the youngest Ensigns and guarded by veteran Sergeants armed with long wicked-bladed pikes. Sharpe had known as many as ten men to carry the colours in battle, replacing the dead, picking up the flags even though they knew that then they became the enemy’s prime target. Honour was all. The flags of the South Essex were new and gleaming, the Regimental Colour devoid of battle honours, neither was torn by bullet or roundshot, but seeing them filled Sharpe with a sudden emotion, and it changed the farce of Simmerson’s mad hopes into an affair of honour.
The South Essex followed the Regimienta towards the horsemen. Like the Spanish the British line was a hundred and fifty yards wide, its four ranks tipped with bayonets, the company officers riding or walking with drawn swords. The Spanish had halted, some four hundred yards up the road, and Simmerson had no choice but to stop the Battalion to find out what the Regimienta intended. Hogan joined Sharpe and nodded at the two Regiments.
“Not joining in the battle?”
“I think it’s a private party. Captain Sterritt and I are guarding the bridge.”
Sterritt, a mild man, smiled nervously at Sharpe and Hogan.
The Ensigns pulled the leather covers from the South Essex colours, unfurled them, and hoisted them into their sockets. They made a brave sight even in the middle of this comedy, and Sharpe felt the familiar pang of loyalty. The first raised was the King’s Colour, a great Union Jack with the Regiment’s number in the centre, and next the South Essex’s own standard, a yellow flag emblazoned with the crest and with the Union flag stitched in the upper corner. It was impossible to see the flags, the morning sun shining through them, and not be moved. They were the Regiment; should only a handful of men be left on a battlefield, the rest slaughtered, the Regiment still existed“ if the colours flew and defied the enemy. They were a rallying point in the smoke and chaos of battle, but more than that; there were men who would hardly fight for England’s King and Country but they would fight for the colours, for their Regiment’s honour, for the gaudy flags that cost a few guineas and were carried in the centre of the line by the youngest Ensigns and guarded by veteran Sergeants armed with long wicked-bladed pikes. Sharpe had known as many as ten men to carry the colours in battle, replacing the dead, picking up the flags even though they knew that then they became the enemy’s prime target. Honour was all. The flags of the South Essex were new and gleaming, the Regimental Colour devoid of battle honours, neither was torn by bullet or roundshot, but seeing them filled Sharpe with a sudden emotion, and it changed the farce of Simmerson’s mad hopes into an affair of honour.
The South Essex followed the Regimienta towards the horsemen. Like the Spanish the British line was a hundred and fifty yards wide, its four ranks tipped with bayonets, the company officers riding or walking with drawn swords. The Spanish had halted, some four hundred yards up the road, and Simmerson had no choice but to stop the Battalion to find out what the Regimienta intended. Hogan joined Sharpe and nodded at the two Regiments.
“Not joining in the battle?”
“I think it’s a private party. Captain Sterritt and I are guarding the bridge.”
Sterritt, a mild man, smiled nervously at Sharpe and Hogan.