JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 12 из 213It would be the first bloodless victory of Wellington’s summer campaign, and then Sharpe remembered it would not be quite bloodless. The makeshift fortresses left in the city would have to be reduced so that Wellington could pour his supplies and reinforcements across the long Roman bridge. The city of gold would have to be fought for so that the bridge, built so long ago by the Romans, could help a new army in a modern war.
Sharpe wondered that a bridge so old still stood. The parapets of the roadway were crenellated, like a castle wall, and almost in the centre of the bridge was a handsome small fortress arched above the road. The French had not garrisoned the tiny fort, leaving it in the possession of a statue of a bull. Colonel Windham also stared at the bridge and shook his head. “Bloody awful, eh Sharpe?”
“Awful, sir?”
“More damned arches than bones in a rabbit! An English bridge would be just two arches, ain’t I right? Not all that waste of damned good stone! Still, I suppose the Spanish thought they were bloody clever just to get it across, what?”
Leroy, his face still terribly scarred from Badajoz, answered in his laconic voice. “The Romans built it, sir.”
“The Romans!” Windham grinned happily. “Every damned bridge in this country was built by the Romans. If they hadn’t been here the Spanish would probably never cross a river!” He laughed at the idea. “Good, that! I must write it home to Jessica.” He let his reins drop onto his horse’s neck. “Waste of time this. No damn frogs are going to try and cross the bridge. Still, I suppose the lads could do with a rest.” He yawned, then looked at Sharpe. “Your Company can keep an eye on things, Sharpe.”
Sharpe did not answer. The Colonel frowned. “Sharpe?”
But Sharpe was turning away from the Colonel, unslinging his rifle. “Light Company!”
By God! And wasn’t instinct always right? Sharpe was pulling back the flint of his rifle, moving ahead of Windham’s horse while to his right, down in the small valley which approached the southern end of the bridge was Delmas.
Sharpe had seen the movement in the corner of his eye and then, in a moment of shock, recognised the baggy pantaloons, the brass helmet, and only a rifle could stop the Frenchman now. Only a rifle had the range to kill the fugitive whom Sharpe’s instincts had said not to trust. Damn the parole!
“Good God!” Colonel Windham saw Delmas. “Good God! His parole! God damn him!”
God might well damn Delmas, but only a Rifleman could stop him reaching the bridge and the safety of the French forts on the far side.
Sharpe wondered that a bridge so old still stood. The parapets of the roadway were crenellated, like a castle wall, and almost in the centre of the bridge was a handsome small fortress arched above the road. The French had not garrisoned the tiny fort, leaving it in the possession of a statue of a bull. Colonel Windham also stared at the bridge and shook his head. “Bloody awful, eh Sharpe?”
“Awful, sir?”
“More damned arches than bones in a rabbit! An English bridge would be just two arches, ain’t I right? Not all that waste of damned good stone! Still, I suppose the Spanish thought they were bloody clever just to get it across, what?”
Leroy, his face still terribly scarred from Badajoz, answered in his laconic voice. “The Romans built it, sir.”
“The Romans!” Windham grinned happily. “Every damned bridge in this country was built by the Romans. If they hadn’t been here the Spanish would probably never cross a river!” He laughed at the idea. “Good, that! I must write it home to Jessica.” He let his reins drop onto his horse’s neck. “Waste of time this. No damn frogs are going to try and cross the bridge. Still, I suppose the lads could do with a rest.” He yawned, then looked at Sharpe. “Your Company can keep an eye on things, Sharpe.”
Sharpe did not answer. The Colonel frowned. “Sharpe?”
But Sharpe was turning away from the Colonel, unslinging his rifle. “Light Company!”
By God! And wasn’t instinct always right? Sharpe was pulling back the flint of his rifle, moving ahead of Windham’s horse while to his right, down in the small valley which approached the southern end of the bridge was Delmas.
Sharpe had seen the movement in the corner of his eye and then, in a moment of shock, recognised the baggy pantaloons, the brass helmet, and only a rifle could stop the Frenchman now. Only a rifle had the range to kill the fugitive whom Sharpe’s instincts had said not to trust. Damn the parole!
“Good God!” Colonel Windham saw Delmas. “Good God! His parole! God damn him!”
God might well damn Delmas, but only a Rifleman could stop him reaching the bridge and the safety of the French forts on the far side.