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Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 66 из 203A huge, dirty plume of smoke, boiling with ancient dust, rose over the ruined spans, the water seethed, far up and down stream the stones fell into the green depths; only slowly did silencefollow the thunder, the river rearrange itself to the new pattern of stones on its bed, the black smoke drift slowly westwards like a small, low, malevolent storm cloud. Hogan need not have worried. Forty feet had been ripped from the bridge, Wellesley was safe from marauding cavalry to his south, and Sharpe and his men were now marooned on the wrong side of the Tagus.
Captain Leroy collapsed on the grass. Sharpe wondered if he had been hit by some stray and freakishly driven stone chip from the bridge but the Captain shook his head.
“It’s my leg. Don’t worry, Sharpe, I’ll manage.” Leroy nodded towards the smoking ruin of the bridge. “Why the hell did they do that?”
Sharpe wished he knew. Had it been a mistake? Hogan surely would have waited for Sharpe and his swollen company of two hundred men to reach the safety of the other bank before lighting the fuses that ran into the base of the pier? He stared across the river but there was no sense to be made of the activity he could see, the men parading in companies; he thought he could see Simmerson on his grey horse surrounded by officers, staring at the destruction wrought to the bridge.
“Sir, sir.” Gataker, the Rifleman, was calling him. The French Chasseur officer had arrived, a Captain, with a suntanned face split by a large black moustache. Sharpe walked to him and saluted. The Frenchman returned the salute and looked round at the carnage.
“Congratulations on your fight, Monsieur.” He spoke perfect English; courteously, gravely, with respect. Sharpe acknowledged the compliment.
“You have our congratulations, too. You have won a notable victory, sir.” The words felt stilted and inept. It was extraordinary how men could claw savagely at each other, fight like demented fiends, yet in a few moments become polite, generous even about the damage an enemy had inflicted. The French Captain smiled briefly.
“Thank you, M’sieu.” He paused a moment, looked at the bodies lying near the bridge, and when he turned back to Sharpe his expression had changed; it had become less formal and more curious. “Why did you come across the river?”
Sharpe shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The Frenchman dismounted and looped his reins on his wrist. “You were unlucky.” He smiled at Sharpe. “But you and your men fought well and now this?” He nodded at the bridge.
Sharpe shrugged again. The Chasseur Captain with the big moustache looked at him for a moment.
Captain Leroy collapsed on the grass. Sharpe wondered if he had been hit by some stray and freakishly driven stone chip from the bridge but the Captain shook his head.
“It’s my leg. Don’t worry, Sharpe, I’ll manage.” Leroy nodded towards the smoking ruin of the bridge. “Why the hell did they do that?”
Sharpe wished he knew. Had it been a mistake? Hogan surely would have waited for Sharpe and his swollen company of two hundred men to reach the safety of the other bank before lighting the fuses that ran into the base of the pier? He stared across the river but there was no sense to be made of the activity he could see, the men parading in companies; he thought he could see Simmerson on his grey horse surrounded by officers, staring at the destruction wrought to the bridge.
“Sir, sir.” Gataker, the Rifleman, was calling him. The French Chasseur officer had arrived, a Captain, with a suntanned face split by a large black moustache. Sharpe walked to him and saluted. The Frenchman returned the salute and looked round at the carnage.
“Congratulations on your fight, Monsieur.” He spoke perfect English; courteously, gravely, with respect. Sharpe acknowledged the compliment.
“You have our congratulations, too. You have won a notable victory, sir.” The words felt stilted and inept. It was extraordinary how men could claw savagely at each other, fight like demented fiends, yet in a few moments become polite, generous even about the damage an enemy had inflicted. The French Captain smiled briefly.
“Thank you, M’sieu.” He paused a moment, looked at the bodies lying near the bridge, and when he turned back to Sharpe his expression had changed; it had become less formal and more curious. “Why did you come across the river?”
Sharpe shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The Frenchman dismounted and looped his reins on his wrist. “You were unlucky.” He smiled at Sharpe. “But you and your men fought well and now this?” He nodded at the bridge.
Sharpe shrugged again. The Chasseur Captain with the big moustache looked at him for a moment.