JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 17 из 242Musket balls were necking the river now and some were striking the fugitives on the brokenbridge.
„What the hell can we do?” Harper asked.
„Nothing,” Sharpe said harshly, „except get out of here.” He turned his back on the dying crowd and led his men eastward down the river wharf. Scores of other people were doing the same thing, gambling that the French would not yet have captured the city’s inland suburbs. The sound of musketry was constant in the streets and the Portuguese guns across the river were now firing at the French in the lower streets so that the hammering of the big guns was punctuated by the noise of breaking masonry and splintering rafters.
Sharpe paused where the wharf ended to make sure all his men were there and he looked back at the bridge to see that so many folk had been forced off its end that the bodies were now jammed in the gap and the water was piling up behind them and foaming white across their heads. He saw a blue-coated Portuguese soldier step on those heads to reach the barge on which the drawbridge had been mounted. Others followed him, skipping over the drowning and the dead. Sharpe was far enough away that he could no longer hear the screams.
„What happened?” Dodd, usually the quietest of Sharpe’s men, asked.
„God was looking the other way,” Sharpe said and looked at Harper. „All here?”
„All present, sir,” Harper said. The big Ulsterman looked as if he had been weeping. „Those poor wee children,” he said resentfully.
„There was nothing we could do,” Sharpe said curtly, and that was true, though the truth of it did not make him feel any better. „Williamson and Tarrant are on a charge,” he told Harper.
„Again?”
„Again,” Sharpe said, and wondered at the idiocy of the two men who would rather have snatched a drink than escape from the city, even if that drink had meant imprisonment in France. „Now come on!” He followed the civilian fugitives who, arriving at the place where the river’s wharf was blocked by the ancient city wall, had turned up an alleyway. The old wall had been built when men fought in armor and shot at each other with crossbows, and the lichen-covered stones would not have stood two minutes against a modern cannon and as if to mark that redundancy the city had knocked great holes in the old ramparts. Sharpe led his men through one such gap, crossed the remnants of a ditch and then hurried into the wider streets of the new town beyond the walls.
„Crapauds!” Hagman warned Sharpe. „Sir! Up the hill!” Sharpe looked to his left and saw a troop of French cavalry riding to cut off the fugitives.
„What the hell can we do?” Harper asked.
„Nothing,” Sharpe said harshly, „except get out of here.” He turned his back on the dying crowd and led his men eastward down the river wharf. Scores of other people were doing the same thing, gambling that the French would not yet have captured the city’s inland suburbs. The sound of musketry was constant in the streets and the Portuguese guns across the river were now firing at the French in the lower streets so that the hammering of the big guns was punctuated by the noise of breaking masonry and splintering rafters.
Sharpe paused where the wharf ended to make sure all his men were there and he looked back at the bridge to see that so many folk had been forced off its end that the bodies were now jammed in the gap and the water was piling up behind them and foaming white across their heads. He saw a blue-coated Portuguese soldier step on those heads to reach the barge on which the drawbridge had been mounted. Others followed him, skipping over the drowning and the dead. Sharpe was far enough away that he could no longer hear the screams.
„What happened?” Dodd, usually the quietest of Sharpe’s men, asked.
„God was looking the other way,” Sharpe said and looked at Harper. „All here?”
„All present, sir,” Harper said. The big Ulsterman looked as if he had been weeping. „Those poor wee children,” he said resentfully.
„There was nothing we could do,” Sharpe said curtly, and that was true, though the truth of it did not make him feel any better. „Williamson and Tarrant are on a charge,” he told Harper.
„Again?”
„Again,” Sharpe said, and wondered at the idiocy of the two men who would rather have snatched a drink than escape from the city, even if that drink had meant imprisonment in France. „Now come on!” He followed the civilian fugitives who, arriving at the place where the river’s wharf was blocked by the ancient city wall, had turned up an alleyway. The old wall had been built when men fought in armor and shot at each other with crossbows, and the lichen-covered stones would not have stood two minutes against a modern cannon and as if to mark that redundancy the city had knocked great holes in the old ramparts. Sharpe led his men through one such gap, crossed the remnants of a ditch and then hurried into the wider streets of the new town beyond the walls.
„Crapauds!” Hagman warned Sharpe. „Sir! Up the hill!” Sharpe looked to his left and saw a troop of French cavalry riding to cut off the fugitives.