JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 27 из 242„Get to the trees!”
Tarrant was in pain, shouting protests and leaving a trail of blood on the road. Sharpe pulled him into the trees and let him drop, then stood beside the road and shouted at his men to form a line at the wood’s edge. „Count them, Sergeant,” he called to Harper, „count them!” The Portuguese infantry mingled with the riflemen and began reloading their muskets. Sharpe unslung his rifle and fired at a cavalryman who was wheeling his horse on the river bank, ready to pursue. The horse reared, throwing its rider. Other dragoons had drawn their long straight swords, evidently intent on a vengeful pursuit, but then a French officer shouted at the cavalrymen to stay where they were. He at least understood that a charge into thick trees where infantry was loaded and ready was tantamount to suicide. He would wait for his own infantry to catch up.
Daniel Hagman took out the scissors that had cut Sharpe’s hair and sliced Tarrant’s breeches away from the wounded hip. Blood spilled down as Hagman cut, then the old man grimaced. „Reckon he’s lost the joint, sir.”
„He can’t walk?”
„He won’t walk never again,” Hagman said. Tarrant swore viciously. He was one of Sharpe’s troublemakers, a sullen man from Hertfordshire who never lost a chance to become drunk and vicious, but when he was sober he was a good marksman who did not lose his head in battle. „You’ll be all right, Ned,” Hagman told him, „you’ll live.”
„Carry me,” Tarrant appealed to his friend, Williamson.
„Leave him!” Sharpe snapped. „Take his rifle, ammunition and sword.”
„You can’t just leave him here,” Williamson said, and obstructed Hagman so that he could not unbuckle his friend’s cartridge box.
Sharpe seized Williamson by the shoulder and hauled him away. „I said leave him!” He did not like it, but he could not be slowed down by the weight of a wounded man, and the French would tend for Tarrant better than any of Sharpe’s men could. The rifleman would go to a French army hospital, be treated by French doctors and, if he did not die from gangrene, would probably be exchanged for a wounded French prisoner. Tarrant would go home, a cripple, and most likely end in the parish workhouse. Sharpe pushed through the trees to find Harper. Carbine bullets pattered through the branches, leaving shreds of leaf sifting down the shafts of sunlight behind them. „Anyone missing?” Sharpe asked Harper.
„No, sir. What happened to Tarrant?”
„Bullet in the hip,” Sharpe said, „he’ll have to stay here.
Tarrant was in pain, shouting protests and leaving a trail of blood on the road. Sharpe pulled him into the trees and let him drop, then stood beside the road and shouted at his men to form a line at the wood’s edge. „Count them, Sergeant,” he called to Harper, „count them!” The Portuguese infantry mingled with the riflemen and began reloading their muskets. Sharpe unslung his rifle and fired at a cavalryman who was wheeling his horse on the river bank, ready to pursue. The horse reared, throwing its rider. Other dragoons had drawn their long straight swords, evidently intent on a vengeful pursuit, but then a French officer shouted at the cavalrymen to stay where they were. He at least understood that a charge into thick trees where infantry was loaded and ready was tantamount to suicide. He would wait for his own infantry to catch up.
Daniel Hagman took out the scissors that had cut Sharpe’s hair and sliced Tarrant’s breeches away from the wounded hip. Blood spilled down as Hagman cut, then the old man grimaced. „Reckon he’s lost the joint, sir.”
„He can’t walk?”
„He won’t walk never again,” Hagman said. Tarrant swore viciously. He was one of Sharpe’s troublemakers, a sullen man from Hertfordshire who never lost a chance to become drunk and vicious, but when he was sober he was a good marksman who did not lose his head in battle. „You’ll be all right, Ned,” Hagman told him, „you’ll live.”
„Carry me,” Tarrant appealed to his friend, Williamson.
„Leave him!” Sharpe snapped. „Take his rifle, ammunition and sword.”
„You can’t just leave him here,” Williamson said, and obstructed Hagman so that he could not unbuckle his friend’s cartridge box.
Sharpe seized Williamson by the shoulder and hauled him away. „I said leave him!” He did not like it, but he could not be slowed down by the weight of a wounded man, and the French would tend for Tarrant better than any of Sharpe’s men could. The rifleman would go to a French army hospital, be treated by French doctors and, if he did not die from gangrene, would probably be exchanged for a wounded French prisoner. Tarrant would go home, a cripple, and most likely end in the parish workhouse. Sharpe pushed through the trees to find Harper. Carbine bullets pattered through the branches, leaving shreds of leaf sifting down the shafts of sunlight behind them. „Anyone missing?” Sharpe asked Harper.
„No, sir. What happened to Tarrant?”
„Bullet in the hip,” Sharpe said, „he’ll have to stay here.