JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 147 из 242„I should never have sent Williamson to do that job,” he said bitterly.
„Why not?” Harper said. „You weren’t to know he’d run.”
„I don’t like losing men,” Sharpe said bitterly.
„It’s not your fault!” Harper protested.
„Then whose is it?” Sharpe asked angrily. Williamson had vanished into the French ranks, presumably to join Christopher, and the only small consolation was that he had not been able to take his rifle with him.
But it was still failure, and Sharpe knew it. „Best get under cover,” he told Harper. „Because they’ll start that damn gun again soon.”
The howitzer fired ten minutes before the hour was up, though as no one on the hilltop possessed a watch they did not realize it. The shell struck a boulder just below the lowest redoubt and ricocheted up into the sky where it exploded in a gout of gray smoke, flame and whistling shards of shattered casing. One scrap of hot iron buried itself in the stock of Dodd’s rifle, the rest rattled on rocks.
Sharpe, still reproaching himself for Williamson’s desertion, was watching the main road in the far valley. There was dust there and he could just make out horsemen riding from the northwest, from the Oporto road. Was it a mortar coming? If it was, he thought, then he would have to think about making an escape. Maybe, if they went fast, they could break through the dragoon cordon to the west and get into the high ground where the rocky terrain would make things hard for horsemen, but it would likely prove a bloody passage for the first half-mile. Unless he could try it at night? But if that was a mortar approaching then it would be in action long before nightfall. He stared at the distant road, cursing the shortcomings of Christopher’s telescope, and persuaded himself that he could see no kind of vehicle, whether gun carnage or mortar wagon, among the horsemen, but they were very far off and he could not be certain.
„Mister Sharpe, sir?” It was Dan Hagman. „Can I have a go at the bastards?”
Sharpe was still brooding over his failure and his first instinct was to tell the old poacher not to waste his time. Then he became aware of the odd atmosphere on the hill. His men were embarrassed because of Williamson. Many of them probably feared that Sharpe, in his anger, would punish them all for one man’s sin, and others, very few, might have wanted to follow Williamson, but most probably felt that the desertion was a reproach to them all. They were a unit, they were friends, they were proud of each other, and one of them had deliberately thrown that comradeship away.
„Why not?” Harper said. „You weren’t to know he’d run.”
„I don’t like losing men,” Sharpe said bitterly.
„It’s not your fault!” Harper protested.
„Then whose is it?” Sharpe asked angrily. Williamson had vanished into the French ranks, presumably to join Christopher, and the only small consolation was that he had not been able to take his rifle with him.
But it was still failure, and Sharpe knew it. „Best get under cover,” he told Harper. „Because they’ll start that damn gun again soon.”
The howitzer fired ten minutes before the hour was up, though as no one on the hilltop possessed a watch they did not realize it. The shell struck a boulder just below the lowest redoubt and ricocheted up into the sky where it exploded in a gout of gray smoke, flame and whistling shards of shattered casing. One scrap of hot iron buried itself in the stock of Dodd’s rifle, the rest rattled on rocks.
Sharpe, still reproaching himself for Williamson’s desertion, was watching the main road in the far valley. There was dust there and he could just make out horsemen riding from the northwest, from the Oporto road. Was it a mortar coming? If it was, he thought, then he would have to think about making an escape. Maybe, if they went fast, they could break through the dragoon cordon to the west and get into the high ground where the rocky terrain would make things hard for horsemen, but it would likely prove a bloody passage for the first half-mile. Unless he could try it at night? But if that was a mortar approaching then it would be in action long before nightfall. He stared at the distant road, cursing the shortcomings of Christopher’s telescope, and persuaded himself that he could see no kind of vehicle, whether gun carnage or mortar wagon, among the horsemen, but they were very far off and he could not be certain.
„Mister Sharpe, sir?” It was Dan Hagman. „Can I have a go at the bastards?”
Sharpe was still brooding over his failure and his first instinct was to tell the old poacher not to waste his time. Then he became aware of the odd atmosphere on the hill. His men were embarrassed because of Williamson. Many of them probably feared that Sharpe, in his anger, would punish them all for one man’s sin, and others, very few, might have wanted to follow Williamson, but most probably felt that the desertion was a reproach to them all. They were a unit, they were friends, they were proud of each other, and one of them had deliberately thrown that comradeship away.