JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 90 из 203The two men talked for a moment, and thenthe big Sergeant clapped the officer’s back and uttered a whoop of joy that Lawford could hear two floors above.
“Lawford!”
“Sir?” Lawford crossed to the other room and took the despatch from Wellesley’s hand. The General rattled the quill in the ink-pot.
“Did you explain to him?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wellesley shook his head. “Poor devil. What did he say?”
“He said he’d take his chance, sir.”
Wellesley grunted. “We all have to do that.” He picked up another piece of paper. “My God! They’ve sent us four cases of gum ammoniac, three of Glauber’s salts, and two hundred assorted stump-caps! They think I’m running a bloody hospital instead of an army!”
CHAPTER 11
The boots of the Coldstream Guards rang on the flagstones, echoing hollowly in the darkness, fading down the steep street to be replaced by the leading companies of the 3rd Guards. They were followed by the first Battalion of the 61st, the second of the 83rd, and then by four full Battalions of the crack King’s German Legion. Sharpe, standing in a church porch, watched the Germans march past.
“They’re good troops, sir.”
Forrest, shivering despite a greatcoat, peered into the darkness. “What are they?”
“King’s German Legion.”
Forrest thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. “I’ve not seen them before.”
“You wouldn’t have, sir.” The Germans were a foreign corps of the army, and the law said they were allowed no nearer the British mainland than the Isle of Wight. Overhead the church clock struck three times. Three o’clock on the morning of Monday, 17th July, 1809, and the British army was leaving Plasencia. A company of the 60th went past, another German unit, with the incongruous title of the Royal American Rifles. Forrest saw Sharpe staring ruefully at the marching Riflemen with their green jackets and black belts.
“Homesick, Sharpe?”
Sharpe grinned in the darkness. “I’d rather it was the other Rifle Regiment, sir.” He yearned for the sanity of the 95th rather than the worsening suspicion and moroseness that was infecting Simmerson’s Battalion.
Forrest shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sharpe.”
“Don’t be, sir. I’m a Captain at last.”
Forrest ignored the statement. “He showed me the letter, you know.” Sharpe knew. Forrest kept apologising and had mentioned the letter twice already.
“Lawford!”
“Sir?” Lawford crossed to the other room and took the despatch from Wellesley’s hand. The General rattled the quill in the ink-pot.
“Did you explain to him?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wellesley shook his head. “Poor devil. What did he say?”
“He said he’d take his chance, sir.”
Wellesley grunted. “We all have to do that.” He picked up another piece of paper. “My God! They’ve sent us four cases of gum ammoniac, three of Glauber’s salts, and two hundred assorted stump-caps! They think I’m running a bloody hospital instead of an army!”
CHAPTER 11
The boots of the Coldstream Guards rang on the flagstones, echoing hollowly in the darkness, fading down the steep street to be replaced by the leading companies of the 3rd Guards. They were followed by the first Battalion of the 61st, the second of the 83rd, and then by four full Battalions of the crack King’s German Legion. Sharpe, standing in a church porch, watched the Germans march past.
“They’re good troops, sir.”
Forrest, shivering despite a greatcoat, peered into the darkness. “What are they?”
“King’s German Legion.”
Forrest thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. “I’ve not seen them before.”
“You wouldn’t have, sir.” The Germans were a foreign corps of the army, and the law said they were allowed no nearer the British mainland than the Isle of Wight. Overhead the church clock struck three times. Three o’clock on the morning of Monday, 17th July, 1809, and the British army was leaving Plasencia. A company of the 60th went past, another German unit, with the incongruous title of the Royal American Rifles. Forrest saw Sharpe staring ruefully at the marching Riflemen with their green jackets and black belts.
“Homesick, Sharpe?”
Sharpe grinned in the darkness. “I’d rather it was the other Rifle Regiment, sir.” He yearned for the sanity of the 95th rather than the worsening suspicion and moroseness that was infecting Simmerson’s Battalion.
Forrest shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sharpe.”
“Don’t be, sir. I’m a Captain at last.”
Forrest ignored the statement. “He showed me the letter, you know.” Sharpe knew. Forrest kept apologising and had mentioned the letter twice already.