JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 123 из 242They patrolled the valleys on either side, had another strong picquet to the south and dismounted men watching from the wood’s edge. Sharpe, seeing the dragoons tighten their noose, knew that if he and his men tried to escape they would become meat for the horsemen. Harper, his broad face glistening with sweat, gazed down at the cavalry. „There’s something I’ve noticed, sir,” he said, „ever since we joined up with you in Spain.”
„What’s that?”
„That we’re always outnumbered and surrounded.”
Sharpe had been listening, not to Harper, but to the day itself. „Notice anything?” he asked.
„That we’re surrounded and outnumbered, sir?”
„No.” Sharpe paused to listen again, then frowned. „Wind’s in the east, isn’t it?”
„More or less.”
„No sound of gunfire, Pat.”
Harper listened. „Good God and you’re right, sir.”
Vicente had noticed the same thing and came to the watchtower where Sharpe had set up his command post. „There’s no noise from Amarante,” the Portuguese Lieutenant said unhappily.
„So they’ve finished fighting there,” Harper commented.
Vicente made the sign of the cross which was admission enough that he suspected the Portuguese army that had been holding the bridge over the Tamega had been defeated.
„We don’t know what’s happening,” Sharpe said, trying to cheer Vicente up, but in truth that admission was almost as depressing as the thought that Amarante had fallen. So long as the distant thunder of the guns had sounded from the east then so long had they known there were still forces fighting the French, had known that the war itself was continuing and that there was hope that one day they could rejoin some friendly forces, but the morning’s silence was ominous. And if the Portuguese were gone from Amarante, then what of the British in Coimbra and Lisbon? Were they boarding ships in the broad mouth of the Tagus, ready to be convoyed home? Sir John Moore’s army had been chased out of Spain, so was the smaller British force in Lisbon now scuttling away? Sharpe felt a sudden and horrid fear that he was the last British officer in northern Portugal and the last morsel to be devoured by an insatiable enemy. „It doesn’t mean anything,” he lied, seeing the same fear of being stranded on his companions’ faces. „Sir Arthur Wellesley’s coming.”
„We hope,” Harper said.
„Is he good?” Vicente asked.
„The very bloody best,” Sharpe said fervently and then, seeing that his words had not really encouraged hope, he made Harper busy.
„What’s that?”
„That we’re always outnumbered and surrounded.”
Sharpe had been listening, not to Harper, but to the day itself. „Notice anything?” he asked.
„That we’re surrounded and outnumbered, sir?”
„No.” Sharpe paused to listen again, then frowned. „Wind’s in the east, isn’t it?”
„More or less.”
„No sound of gunfire, Pat.”
Harper listened. „Good God and you’re right, sir.”
Vicente had noticed the same thing and came to the watchtower where Sharpe had set up his command post. „There’s no noise from Amarante,” the Portuguese Lieutenant said unhappily.
„So they’ve finished fighting there,” Harper commented.
Vicente made the sign of the cross which was admission enough that he suspected the Portuguese army that had been holding the bridge over the Tamega had been defeated.
„We don’t know what’s happening,” Sharpe said, trying to cheer Vicente up, but in truth that admission was almost as depressing as the thought that Amarante had fallen. So long as the distant thunder of the guns had sounded from the east then so long had they known there were still forces fighting the French, had known that the war itself was continuing and that there was hope that one day they could rejoin some friendly forces, but the morning’s silence was ominous. And if the Portuguese were gone from Amarante, then what of the British in Coimbra and Lisbon? Were they boarding ships in the broad mouth of the Tagus, ready to be convoyed home? Sir John Moore’s army had been chased out of Spain, so was the smaller British force in Lisbon now scuttling away? Sharpe felt a sudden and horrid fear that he was the last British officer in northern Portugal and the last morsel to be devoured by an insatiable enemy. „It doesn’t mean anything,” he lied, seeing the same fear of being stranded on his companions’ faces. „Sir Arthur Wellesley’s coming.”
„We hope,” Harper said.
„Is he good?” Vicente asked.
„The very bloody best,” Sharpe said fervently and then, seeing that his words had not really encouraged hope, he made Harper busy.