JК
Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 207 из 244A troop of fifty green-coated dragoons appeared way off to the west where their commander spotted the wagon and turned his men in forthe attack. The wagon driver stopped the vehicle and was waiting with a knife poised in case he needed to cut the traces. "We takes the horses," he advised Sharpe, "and leaves the Frenchies to ransack the wagon. That'll keep the buggers busy while we makes off." His horses munched the grass contentedly while Sharpe measured the range to the French dragoons whose copper helmets glinted gold in the sunlight.
Then, just when he had decided that he might be forced to take the wagon driver's advice and retreat, a squadron of blue-coated cavalrymen intervened. The newcomers were British light dragoons who tempted the French into a running fight of sword against sabre.
The driver put away his knife and clicked his tongue, provoking the horses forward. The riflemen scrambled back aboard as the wagon swayed on towards a tree line that obscured the source of the growing powder smoke whitening the southern sky.
Then a crash of heavy guns sounded to the north and Sharpe twisted on the wagon's box to see that the rim of the British-held plateau was thick with smoke as the main batteries fired thunderous volleys towards the east. "Frogs are attacking the village again," Sharpe said.
"Nasty place to fight," Harper said. "Be glad we're out here instead, boys."
"And pray the buggers don't cut us off out here," Sergeant Latimer added gloomily.
"You've got to die somewhere, ain't that right, Mister Sharpe?" Perkins called out.
"Make it your own bed, Perkins, with Miranda beside you," Sharpe answered. "Are you looking after that girl?"
"She's not complaining, Mister Sharpe," Perkins said, thereby provoking a chorus of teasing jeers. Perkins still lacked his green jacket and was touchy about the loss of the coat with its distinguishing black armband denoting that he was a Chosen Man, a compliment that was paid only to the best and most reliable riflemen.
The wagon lurched onto a deep-rutted farm track that led south through the trees towards the distant villages overrun by the French. The Seventh Division was marching north from the woods, going back to the plateau, while the newly arrived Light Division deployed across the broader road that led back into Portugal. The retiring battalions marched slowly, forced to the snail's pace by the number of wounded in their ranks, but at least they marched undefeated beneath flying colours.
The wagon driver hauled on the reins to stop the horses among the trees where the Light Division had established a temporary depot.
Then, just when he had decided that he might be forced to take the wagon driver's advice and retreat, a squadron of blue-coated cavalrymen intervened. The newcomers were British light dragoons who tempted the French into a running fight of sword against sabre.
The driver put away his knife and clicked his tongue, provoking the horses forward. The riflemen scrambled back aboard as the wagon swayed on towards a tree line that obscured the source of the growing powder smoke whitening the southern sky.
Then a crash of heavy guns sounded to the north and Sharpe twisted on the wagon's box to see that the rim of the British-held plateau was thick with smoke as the main batteries fired thunderous volleys towards the east. "Frogs are attacking the village again," Sharpe said.
"Nasty place to fight," Harper said. "Be glad we're out here instead, boys."
"And pray the buggers don't cut us off out here," Sergeant Latimer added gloomily.
"You've got to die somewhere, ain't that right, Mister Sharpe?" Perkins called out.
"Make it your own bed, Perkins, with Miranda beside you," Sharpe answered. "Are you looking after that girl?"
"She's not complaining, Mister Sharpe," Perkins said, thereby provoking a chorus of teasing jeers. Perkins still lacked his green jacket and was touchy about the loss of the coat with its distinguishing black armband denoting that he was a Chosen Man, a compliment that was paid only to the best and most reliable riflemen.
The wagon lurched onto a deep-rutted farm track that led south through the trees towards the distant villages overrun by the French. The Seventh Division was marching north from the woods, going back to the plateau, while the newly arrived Light Division deployed across the broader road that led back into Portugal. The retiring battalions marched slowly, forced to the snail's pace by the number of wounded in their ranks, but at least they marched undefeated beneath flying colours.
The wagon driver hauled on the reins to stop the horses among the trees where the Light Division had established a temporary depot.