JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 205 из 213”
Hogan looked at the dead in the valley, at the prisoners, and he looked at the survivors of the King’s German Legion Heavy Dragoons who walked their horses back from the unsuccessfulattack on the remaining two French Battalions. The Germans had won a great victory, at great price, and the valley was stinking of blood. Hogan looked at the book, then at Sharpe. “Thank you, Richard.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Sharpe was taking Leroux’s overalls. He had worn overalls exactly like these until the fight in the Irish College. Now he had killed another Chasseur Colonel. Leroux’s overalls still had the silver buttons down their legs and Sharpe grinned as he held them up. He wiped his sword clean on them.
Leroux’s sister had once asked Sharpe if he enjoyed killing and he had given her no answer. He could have replied that sometimes it was terrible, that often it was sad, that usually it happened without any emotion, but that sometimes, rarely, like this day, there were no regrets. He picked up his own sword, the crude sword that had won the fight, and smiled at Harper. “Breakfast?”
EPILOGUE
Salamanca was honeyed gold in the sunlight. A city built like Rome on hills above a river.
The morning sunlight slanted the shadows long in the Great Plaza. The wounded, two days after the great battle at the Arapiles, still died in the hospital.
Sharpe stood on the Roman Bridge and stared down at the sinuous green weeds. He knew it was foolish to be here, maybe a waste of time, but he waited.
A company of Spanish soldiers was marched across the bridge. The officer grinned at him, waved a cigar. The men looked curiously at the two swords that hung by the grim Rifleman’s side.
A farmer drove cattle past him. Two priests went the other way, arguing violently, and Sharpe paced slowly behind them, stopped at the small fortress arched over the roadway, and walked slowly back.
The clock on the hill struck ten.
A cavalry Sergeant drove a dozen remounts into the river. They drank while he rubbed them down. The edge of the river was very shallow. Children played there, running easily to a small island, and their voices carried up to the bridge.
She might not even come this way, he thought, but she did.
Two liveried servants first, mounted on horseback, then the dark blue coach with its four white horses, and after that another coach that he presumed was for luggage or servants.
He pushed against the stone of the parapet, watched the servants ride past, then the four white horses, and then the barouche, its cover up, was opposite him.
She saw him.
He had to walk a few paces to where the barouche had stopped. He looked up. “I tried to see you.
Hogan looked at the dead in the valley, at the prisoners, and he looked at the survivors of the King’s German Legion Heavy Dragoons who walked their horses back from the unsuccessfulattack on the remaining two French Battalions. The Germans had won a great victory, at great price, and the valley was stinking of blood. Hogan looked at the book, then at Sharpe. “Thank you, Richard.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Sharpe was taking Leroux’s overalls. He had worn overalls exactly like these until the fight in the Irish College. Now he had killed another Chasseur Colonel. Leroux’s overalls still had the silver buttons down their legs and Sharpe grinned as he held them up. He wiped his sword clean on them.
Leroux’s sister had once asked Sharpe if he enjoyed killing and he had given her no answer. He could have replied that sometimes it was terrible, that often it was sad, that usually it happened without any emotion, but that sometimes, rarely, like this day, there were no regrets. He picked up his own sword, the crude sword that had won the fight, and smiled at Harper. “Breakfast?”
EPILOGUE
Salamanca was honeyed gold in the sunlight. A city built like Rome on hills above a river.
The morning sunlight slanted the shadows long in the Great Plaza. The wounded, two days after the great battle at the Arapiles, still died in the hospital.
Sharpe stood on the Roman Bridge and stared down at the sinuous green weeds. He knew it was foolish to be here, maybe a waste of time, but he waited.
A company of Spanish soldiers was marched across the bridge. The officer grinned at him, waved a cigar. The men looked curiously at the two swords that hung by the grim Rifleman’s side.
A farmer drove cattle past him. Two priests went the other way, arguing violently, and Sharpe paced slowly behind them, stopped at the small fortress arched over the roadway, and walked slowly back.
The clock on the hill struck ten.
A cavalry Sergeant drove a dozen remounts into the river. They drank while he rubbed them down. The edge of the river was very shallow. Children played there, running easily to a small island, and their voices carried up to the bridge.
She might not even come this way, he thought, but she did.
Two liveried servants first, mounted on horseback, then the dark blue coach with its four white horses, and after that another coach that he presumed was for luggage or servants.
He pushed against the stone of the parapet, watched the servants ride past, then the four white horses, and then the barouche, its cover up, was opposite him.
She saw him.
He had to walk a few paces to where the barouche had stopped. He looked up. “I tried to see you.