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Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 52 из 203” Sharpe noticed that Hogan had broadened his Irish accent. “Tell your Colonel from me that the sooner he gets back over the bridge the sooner we can put a hole in it, and the sooner we get home. And, no, I will not instruct Lieutenant Sharpe to commit suicide. Good day, sir.”
Gibbons wrenched his horse round, tearing at its mouth with the bit, and clapped his spurs into its side, shouted something unintelligible at Sharpe or Hogan, and galloped back towards the impotent square in spurts of dust. Sterritt turned to them, appalled.
“You can’t refuse an order!”
Hogan’s patience snapped. Sharpe had never heard the little Irishman lose his temper but the events had exasperated him. “Don’t you bloody understand? Do you know what a skirmish line is? It’s a line of men scattered in front of the enemy. They’ll be ridden down like scarecrows! Christ! What does he think he’s doing?”
Sterritt blanched in front of Hogan’s anger. He tried to placate the Engineer. “But someone’s got to do something.”
“You’re quite right. They’ve got to get back over the bloody bridge and stop wasting our time!”
Some of Sterritt’s company began tittering. Sharpe felt his own patience snap. He ignored Sterritt’s presence.
“Quiet!”
An embarrassed silence settled over the end of the bridge. It was broken by the giggling of the three Spanish women.
“We can start with them.” Hogan turned to them and shouted in Spanish. They looked at him, at each other, but he shouted again, insisting. Reluctantly they walked their horses past the Riflemen, past the officers, and back to the north bank.
“That’s three less to get over the bridge anyway.” Hogan looked at the sky. “It must be midday already.”
The French must have been as bored as anyone else. Sharpe heard the notes of a bugle and watched as they formed into four squadrons. They still faced the bridge, their leading squadron about three hundred yards beyond the Spanish square. Instead of the two long lines they efficiently made ranks of ten men; their commander ironically saluted the squares with his sword, and gave the order to move. The horsemen went into a trot; they circled towards the Spanish, kept on circling; they were turning to ride away, back up the hill and off to the east where they would rejoin Marshal Victor and his army waiting for Wellesley’s advance.
The disaster happened when the French were at the closest point where a wide turn would take them to the Regimienta de la Santa Maria.
Gibbons wrenched his horse round, tearing at its mouth with the bit, and clapped his spurs into its side, shouted something unintelligible at Sharpe or Hogan, and galloped back towards the impotent square in spurts of dust. Sterritt turned to them, appalled.
“You can’t refuse an order!”
Hogan’s patience snapped. Sharpe had never heard the little Irishman lose his temper but the events had exasperated him. “Don’t you bloody understand? Do you know what a skirmish line is? It’s a line of men scattered in front of the enemy. They’ll be ridden down like scarecrows! Christ! What does he think he’s doing?”
Sterritt blanched in front of Hogan’s anger. He tried to placate the Engineer. “But someone’s got to do something.”
“You’re quite right. They’ve got to get back over the bloody bridge and stop wasting our time!”
Some of Sterritt’s company began tittering. Sharpe felt his own patience snap. He ignored Sterritt’s presence.
“Quiet!”
An embarrassed silence settled over the end of the bridge. It was broken by the giggling of the three Spanish women.
“We can start with them.” Hogan turned to them and shouted in Spanish. They looked at him, at each other, but he shouted again, insisting. Reluctantly they walked their horses past the Riflemen, past the officers, and back to the north bank.
“That’s three less to get over the bridge anyway.” Hogan looked at the sky. “It must be midday already.”
The French must have been as bored as anyone else. Sharpe heard the notes of a bugle and watched as they formed into four squadrons. They still faced the bridge, their leading squadron about three hundred yards beyond the Spanish square. Instead of the two long lines they efficiently made ranks of ten men; their commander ironically saluted the squares with his sword, and gave the order to move. The horsemen went into a trot; they circled towards the Spanish, kept on circling; they were turning to ride away, back up the hill and off to the east where they would rejoin Marshal Victor and his army waiting for Wellesley’s advance.
The disaster happened when the French were at the closest point where a wide turn would take them to the Regimienta de la Santa Maria.