JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 230 из 242They had plundered all the country north of the Douro: they had ransacked houses and churches, raped women, killed men and strutted like the cocks of the dunghill, but now they had been whipped, broken and chased, and the distant sound of the two cannon told them that their ordeal was not yet over. And above them, on the rock-strewn hill crests, they could see dozens of bitter men who just waited for a straggler and then the knives would be sharpened, the fires lit, and every Frenchman in the army had heard the stories of the horribly mutilated corpses found in the highlands.
Sharpe just watched them. Every now and then the bridge arch would be cleared so that a recalcitrant horse could be coaxed over the narrow span. Riders were peremptorily ordered to climb down from their saddles and two hussars were on hand to blindfold the horses and lead them across the stone remnant. The rain eased and then became heavy again. It was getting dark, an unnatural dusk brought by black cloud and veils of rain. A general, his uniform heavy with sodden braid, followed his blindfolded horse across the bridge. The water seethed white far below him, bouncing off the rocks of the ravine, twisting in pools, foaming on down to the Cavado. The General hurried off the bridge and then had trouble remounting his horse. The ordenanqa jeered him and hurled a volley of rocks, but the missiles merely bounced on the bluff’s lower slopes and rolled harmlessly toward the road.
Hogan was watching the French bunched behind the bridge through his telescope which he constantly wiped clear of water. „Where are you, Mister Christopher?” he asked bitterly.
„Maybe the bastard’s gone ahead,” Harper said tonelessly. „If I was him, sir, I’d be in the front. Get away, that’s what he wants to do.”
„Maybe,” Sharpe acknowledged, „maybe.” He thought Harper was probably right and that Christopher might already be in Spain with the French vanguard, but there was no way of knowing that.
„We’ll watch till nightfall, Richard,” Hogan suggested in a flat voice that could not hide his disappointment.
Sharpe could see a mile back down the road which was crammed thick as the men, women, horses and mules shuffled toward the bottleneck of the Saltador. Two stretchers were carried over the bridge, the sight of the wounded men prompting shouts of triumph from the orde-nanqa on the bluff. Another man, his leg broken, limped over on a makeshift crutch. He was in agony, but it was better to struggle on with blistered hands and a bleeding leg than fall behind and be caught by the partisans. His crutch slipped on the bridge’s stone and he fell heavily, and his predicament provoked another flurry of curses from the ordenanqa.
Sharpe just watched them. Every now and then the bridge arch would be cleared so that a recalcitrant horse could be coaxed over the narrow span. Riders were peremptorily ordered to climb down from their saddles and two hussars were on hand to blindfold the horses and lead them across the stone remnant. The rain eased and then became heavy again. It was getting dark, an unnatural dusk brought by black cloud and veils of rain. A general, his uniform heavy with sodden braid, followed his blindfolded horse across the bridge. The water seethed white far below him, bouncing off the rocks of the ravine, twisting in pools, foaming on down to the Cavado. The General hurried off the bridge and then had trouble remounting his horse. The ordenanqa jeered him and hurled a volley of rocks, but the missiles merely bounced on the bluff’s lower slopes and rolled harmlessly toward the road.
Hogan was watching the French bunched behind the bridge through his telescope which he constantly wiped clear of water. „Where are you, Mister Christopher?” he asked bitterly.
„Maybe the bastard’s gone ahead,” Harper said tonelessly. „If I was him, sir, I’d be in the front. Get away, that’s what he wants to do.”
„Maybe,” Sharpe acknowledged, „maybe.” He thought Harper was probably right and that Christopher might already be in Spain with the French vanguard, but there was no way of knowing that.
„We’ll watch till nightfall, Richard,” Hogan suggested in a flat voice that could not hide his disappointment.
Sharpe could see a mile back down the road which was crammed thick as the men, women, horses and mules shuffled toward the bottleneck of the Saltador. Two stretchers were carried over the bridge, the sight of the wounded men prompting shouts of triumph from the orde-nanqa on the bluff. Another man, his leg broken, limped over on a makeshift crutch. He was in agony, but it was better to struggle on with blistered hands and a bleeding leg than fall behind and be caught by the partisans. His crutch slipped on the bridge’s stone and he fell heavily, and his predicament provoked another flurry of curses from the ordenanqa.