JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 183 из 242Sir Edward, exultant at this easy victory, went to the parapet to look at the retreating enemy and he stood there, gold braid catching the smoke-dimmed sun, watching the enemy column disintegrate and run away, but a few stubborn Frenchmen still fired and suddenly Sir Edward gasped, clapped a hand to his elbow and Sharpe saw that the sleeve of the General’s elegant red coat was torn and that a jagged piece of white bone was showing through theripped wool and bloody mangled flesh.
„Jesus!” Paget swore. He was in terrible pain. The ball had shattered his elbow and seared up through his biceps. He was half bent over with the agony and very pale.
„Take him down to the doctors,” Hill ordered. „You’ll be all right, Ned.”
Paget forced himself to stand straight. An aide had taken off a neckcloth and was trying to bind his General’s wound, but Paget shook him off. „The command is yours,” he said to Hill through clenched teeth.
„So it is,” Hill acknowledged.
„Keep firing!” Sharpe shouted at his men. It did not matter that the rifle barrels were almost too hot to touch, what mattered was to drive the remaining French back down the hill or, better still, to kill them. Another rush of feet announced that more reinforcements had arrived at the seminary for the French had yet to find any way of stopping the traffic across the river. The British artillery, kings of this battlefield, were hammering any French gunner who dared show his face. Every few moments a brave French crew would run to the abandoned guns on the quay in hope of putting a round shot into one of the barges, but every time they were struck by spherical case and even by canister, for the new British battery, down at the water’s edge, was close enough to use the deadly ammunition across the river. The musket balls flared from the cannons’ mouths like duck shot, killing six or seven men at a time, and after a while the French gunners abandoned their efforts and just hid in the houses at the back of the quay.
And then, quite suddenly, there were no Frenchmen firing on the northern slope. The grass was horrid with dead men and wounded men and with fallen muskets and with little flickering fires where the musket wadding had set light to the grass, but the survivors had fled to the Amarante road in the valley. The single tree looked as though it had been attacked by locusts. A drum trundled down the hill, making a rattling noise. Sharpe saw a French flag through the smoke, but could not see whether the staff was topped by an eagle. „Stop firing!” Hill called.
„Clean your barrels!” Sharpe shouted. „Check your flints!” For the French would be back. Of that he was certain. They would be back.
CHAPTER 9
More men came to the seminary. A score of Portuguese civilians arrived with hunting guns and bags of ammunition, escorted by a plump priest who was cheered by the redcoats when he arrived in the garden with a bell-mouthed blunderbuss like those carried by stage-coach drivers to repel highwaymen.
„Jesus!” Paget swore. He was in terrible pain. The ball had shattered his elbow and seared up through his biceps. He was half bent over with the agony and very pale.
„Take him down to the doctors,” Hill ordered. „You’ll be all right, Ned.”
Paget forced himself to stand straight. An aide had taken off a neckcloth and was trying to bind his General’s wound, but Paget shook him off. „The command is yours,” he said to Hill through clenched teeth.
„So it is,” Hill acknowledged.
„Keep firing!” Sharpe shouted at his men. It did not matter that the rifle barrels were almost too hot to touch, what mattered was to drive the remaining French back down the hill or, better still, to kill them. Another rush of feet announced that more reinforcements had arrived at the seminary for the French had yet to find any way of stopping the traffic across the river. The British artillery, kings of this battlefield, were hammering any French gunner who dared show his face. Every few moments a brave French crew would run to the abandoned guns on the quay in hope of putting a round shot into one of the barges, but every time they were struck by spherical case and even by canister, for the new British battery, down at the water’s edge, was close enough to use the deadly ammunition across the river. The musket balls flared from the cannons’ mouths like duck shot, killing six or seven men at a time, and after a while the French gunners abandoned their efforts and just hid in the houses at the back of the quay.
And then, quite suddenly, there were no Frenchmen firing on the northern slope. The grass was horrid with dead men and wounded men and with fallen muskets and with little flickering fires where the musket wadding had set light to the grass, but the survivors had fled to the Amarante road in the valley. The single tree looked as though it had been attacked by locusts. A drum trundled down the hill, making a rattling noise. Sharpe saw a French flag through the smoke, but could not see whether the staff was topped by an eagle. „Stop firing!” Hill called.
„Clean your barrels!” Sharpe shouted. „Check your flints!” For the French would be back. Of that he was certain. They would be back.
CHAPTER 9
More men came to the seminary. A score of Portuguese civilians arrived with hunting guns and bags of ammunition, escorted by a plump priest who was cheered by the redcoats when he arrived in the garden with a bell-mouthed blunderbuss like those carried by stage-coach drivers to repel highwaymen.