JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 63 из 203” The Sergeant waspanting, still holding the pike, which was bloodied for half its length. “Yourself?”
“I’m fine. Well done. And thank you.”
Harper shook the compliment off but grinned at his Lieutenant. “It was a rare one, sir. At least we got one back.”
Sharpe turned to look at the colour. It hung above the company, tattered and blood-stained, lost and regained.
An officer was below it and Sharpe recognised Leroy, morose, solitary Captain Leroy, whom Lennox had described as the only other decent soldier in the Battalion. His face was masked in blood, and Sharpe pushed through the ranks towards him.
“Sir?”
“Well done, Sharpe. This is a miserable shambles.” The Captain’s voice was strange, the accent unusual, and Sharpe remembered he came from America; one of the small band of loyalists who still fought for the Mother country. Sharpe indicated Leroy’s head.
“Are you hurt badly?”
“That’s just a scratch. I’ve been cut in the leg though.”
Sharpe looked down. Leroy’s thigh was smothered in blood. “What happened?”
“I was at the colours. Thank God you came, though Simmerson deserves to lose both. The bastard.”
Sharpe looked towards the bridge. Little could be seen of it because the field between was still full of French horsemen. There were puffs of smoke and the crackle of musketry, so someone had organised a scratch defence, but the Chasseurs were no longer fighting. Bugles called them from the slaughter, back up the road to where they formed ranks round their three trophies. They should feel proud of themselves, thought Sharpe; four hundred light cavalry had broken two Regiments, captured three colours, and all because of the stupidity and pride of Simmerson and the Spanish Colonel. He wondered where Simmerson was. He had not been in the group round the colours unless his dead body lay in one of the heaps. He turned to Leroy.
“Have you seen Simmerson?”
“God knows what happened to him. Forrest was there.”
“Dead?”
Leroy shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Lennox?”
“I haven’t seen him. He was in the square.”
Sharpe looked round the field. It was an appalling sight. The spot where they stood, where the colours had been fought for, was ringed with bodies. There were wounded men, stirring and crying, horses that lay on their sides, coughed blood, and beat the soil in a frantic tattoo. Sharpe found a Sergeant.
“Get those horses shot, Sergeant.”
“Sir?” The man stared dumbly at Sharpe.
“I’m fine. Well done. And thank you.”
Harper shook the compliment off but grinned at his Lieutenant. “It was a rare one, sir. At least we got one back.”
Sharpe turned to look at the colour. It hung above the company, tattered and blood-stained, lost and regained.
An officer was below it and Sharpe recognised Leroy, morose, solitary Captain Leroy, whom Lennox had described as the only other decent soldier in the Battalion. His face was masked in blood, and Sharpe pushed through the ranks towards him.
“Sir?”
“Well done, Sharpe. This is a miserable shambles.” The Captain’s voice was strange, the accent unusual, and Sharpe remembered he came from America; one of the small band of loyalists who still fought for the Mother country. Sharpe indicated Leroy’s head.
“Are you hurt badly?”
“That’s just a scratch. I’ve been cut in the leg though.”
Sharpe looked down. Leroy’s thigh was smothered in blood. “What happened?”
“I was at the colours. Thank God you came, though Simmerson deserves to lose both. The bastard.”
Sharpe looked towards the bridge. Little could be seen of it because the field between was still full of French horsemen. There were puffs of smoke and the crackle of musketry, so someone had organised a scratch defence, but the Chasseurs were no longer fighting. Bugles called them from the slaughter, back up the road to where they formed ranks round their three trophies. They should feel proud of themselves, thought Sharpe; four hundred light cavalry had broken two Regiments, captured three colours, and all because of the stupidity and pride of Simmerson and the Spanish Colonel. He wondered where Simmerson was. He had not been in the group round the colours unless his dead body lay in one of the heaps. He turned to Leroy.
“Have you seen Simmerson?”
“God knows what happened to him. Forrest was there.”
“Dead?”
Leroy shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Lennox?”
“I haven’t seen him. He was in the square.”
Sharpe looked round the field. It was an appalling sight. The spot where they stood, where the colours had been fought for, was ringed with bodies. There were wounded men, stirring and crying, horses that lay on their sides, coughed blood, and beat the soil in a frantic tattoo. Sharpe found a Sergeant.
“Get those horses shot, Sergeant.”
“Sir?” The man stared dumbly at Sharpe.