JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 57 из 203They wanted to run, they wanted the safety of the other bank, but Sharpe could also see two steady Sergeants who had seen battle before and calmly waited for orders.
“We’re going forward. To the colours.” Some of the faces were white with fear. “There’s nothing to be frightened about. As long as you stay in ranks. Understand? You must stay in ranks.” He spoke simply and forcibly. Some of the men still looked towards the fugitives and the bridge. “If anyone breaks ranks they will be shot.” Now they looked at him. Harper grinned. “And no-one fires without my orders. No-one.” They understood. He unslung his rifle, threw it to Pendleton and drew his great killing blade. “Forward!”
He walked a few paces in front listening to Harper call out the dressing and rhythm of the advance. He hurried. There was little time, and he guessed that the first two hundred yards would be easy enough. They advanced over the flat, open ground, unencumbered by horsemen. The difficult stretch was the final hundred paces when the company would have to keep in ranks while they stepped over the dead and wounded and when the French would realise the danger and challenge them. He wondered how much time had elapsed since the fatal Spanish volley; it could only be minutes, yet suddenly he was feeling again the sensations of battle. There was a familiar detachment; he knew it would last until the first volley or blow, and he noticed irrelevant details; it seemed as if the ground were moving beneath him rather than he walking on the dusty, cracked soil of early summer. He saw each sparse blade of pale grass; there were ants scurrying round white specks in the dirt. The fight round the colours seemed far away, the sounds tiny, and he wanted to close the gap. There were the beginnings of excitement, elation even, at the nearness of battle. Some men were fulfilled by music, others by trade; there were men who took pleasure in working the soil, but Sharpe’s instincts were for this. For the danger of battle. He had been a soldier half his life, he knew the discomforts, the injustices, he knew the half-pitying glances of men whose business let them sleep safe at night, but they did not know this. He knew that not all soldiers felt it; he could feel ashamed of it if he gave himself time to think, but this was not the time.
The French were being held. Someone had organised the survivors of the British square, and there was a kneeling front rank, its muskets jammed into the turf, bayonets reaching up at the chests of the horses. The sabres cut ineffectively at the angled muskets; there were shouts, screams of men and horses, a veil of powder smoke in which flashes of flame and steel ringed the colours.
“We’re going forward. To the colours.” Some of the faces were white with fear. “There’s nothing to be frightened about. As long as you stay in ranks. Understand? You must stay in ranks.” He spoke simply and forcibly. Some of the men still looked towards the fugitives and the bridge. “If anyone breaks ranks they will be shot.” Now they looked at him. Harper grinned. “And no-one fires without my orders. No-one.” They understood. He unslung his rifle, threw it to Pendleton and drew his great killing blade. “Forward!”
He walked a few paces in front listening to Harper call out the dressing and rhythm of the advance. He hurried. There was little time, and he guessed that the first two hundred yards would be easy enough. They advanced over the flat, open ground, unencumbered by horsemen. The difficult stretch was the final hundred paces when the company would have to keep in ranks while they stepped over the dead and wounded and when the French would realise the danger and challenge them. He wondered how much time had elapsed since the fatal Spanish volley; it could only be minutes, yet suddenly he was feeling again the sensations of battle. There was a familiar detachment; he knew it would last until the first volley or blow, and he noticed irrelevant details; it seemed as if the ground were moving beneath him rather than he walking on the dusty, cracked soil of early summer. He saw each sparse blade of pale grass; there were ants scurrying round white specks in the dirt. The fight round the colours seemed far away, the sounds tiny, and he wanted to close the gap. There were the beginnings of excitement, elation even, at the nearness of battle. Some men were fulfilled by music, others by trade; there were men who took pleasure in working the soil, but Sharpe’s instincts were for this. For the danger of battle. He had been a soldier half his life, he knew the discomforts, the injustices, he knew the half-pitying glances of men whose business let them sleep safe at night, but they did not know this. He knew that not all soldiers felt it; he could feel ashamed of it if he gave himself time to think, but this was not the time.
The French were being held. Someone had organised the survivors of the British square, and there was a kneeling front rank, its muskets jammed into the turf, bayonets reaching up at the chests of the horses. The sabres cut ineffectively at the angled muskets; there were shouts, screams of men and horses, a veil of powder smoke in which flashes of flame and steel ringed the colours.