Sharpes Sword   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

Sharpe lookedat Harper. That’s it. Bastard got away.“

“Not next time, sir.” Harper twisted around and stared over the river. A knot of officers were in the shelter of the houses on the far bank, another group of men, unmolested by the French gunners, were carrying Windham’s body up the hill. Harper could see the foxhounds following the sad cortege. As he watched, so the gunners fired again at the bridge. They would let the British take away their dead, but they would still not yield passage of the river. Harper nodded at the bridge. “Don’t think we can go back, sir.”

“No.”

“Not a bad wee city to be stuck in, sir.”

“What?” Sharpe had only been half listening. He had been thinking of Delmas. The Frenchman had murdered Windham, and probably murdered McDonald too. A man who killed while still on parole was a murderer.

“I said it’s not a bad wee city…‘

“I heard you, Patrick.” Sharpe looked at the Sergeant, remembering the fight. “Thank you.”

“For what? Do you think we should join the lads?”

“Yes.”

They scrambled down the hill to join the few Riflemen who, like themselves, were marooned on the northern bank of the river. One of them had retrieved Sharpe’s rifle and carried it all the way across the bridge. He gave it back to his Captain. “What do we do now, sir?”

“Now?” Sharpe listened. Faintly he could hear a rhythmic booming, a sound overlaid with a slight, tinny melody. “Hear that?”

They listened. Parry Jenkins grinned. “It’s a band!”

Sharpe slung his rifle. “I think we should join in.” He guessed that the Sixth Division was making their formal entry into the city; bands playing and colours flying, and he pointed down the river bank to the east. “That way, lads, then up into the city.” The route would take them far from the French cannons pointing across the wasted south-western corner of the city. “And listen, lads!” They looked at him. “Just stay together, you understand? We’re not supposed to be here and the bloody Provosts would just love a chance to put a real soldier in chains.” They grinned at him. “Come on!”

He was wiping the blood from his big sword as he led them along the river bank and then up into a steep alleyway which pointed towards the two Cathedrals on the hilltop. They were behind the houses from which the Spanish civilians had fired at Delmas, where the priest had checked their fire, and Sharpe thought he recognised the tall, grey-haired figure that climbed ahead of him.