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Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
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Sharpe shook his head. "God knows, sir."
"Because they jump like fleas, sir, when you shoot at them," Harper offered. "But don't worry yourself about that one, sir." Harper had seen the look of worry on Runciman's face. "He's a good voltigeur, that one. He's dead."
Wellington was not far away from Sharpe and Runciman. The General was sitting on his horse on the bloody dip of land where the road crossed the ridge between the church and the rocks, and behind him was nothing except the army's baggage and ammunition park. To the north and west his divisions guarded the plateau against the French threat, but here, in the centre, where the enemy had so nearly broken through, there was nothing left. There were no more reserves and he would not thin the ridge's other defenders and so open a back door to French victory. The battle would have to be won by his Highlanders and Irishmen, and so far they were rewarding his faith by retaking the village house by bloody house and cattle shed by burning cattle shed.
Then the grey infantry struck from the flank.
Sharpe saw the wolf-tail banner in the smoke. For a second he froze. He wanted to pretend he had not seen it. He wanted an excuse, any excuse, not to go down that awful slope to a village so reeking with death that the air alone was enough to make a man vomit. He had fought once already inside Fuentes de Onoro, and once was surely enough, but his hesitation was only for a heartbeat. He knew there was no excuse. His enemy had come to Fuentes de Onoro to claim victory and Sharpe must stop him. He turned. "Sergeant Harper! My compliments to Captain Donaju and ask him to form column. Go on! Hurry!" Sharpe looked at his men, his handful of good men from the bloody, fighting 95th. "Load up, lads. Time to go to work."
"What are you doing, Sharpe?" Runciman asked.
"You want to beat our court of inquiry, General?" Sharpe asked.
Runciman gaped at Sharpe, not understanding why the question had been asked. "Why, yes, of course," he managed to say.
"Then go over to Wellington, General," Sharpe said, "and ask his Lordship's permission to lead the Real Companпa Irlandesa into battle."
Runciman blanched. "You mean…?" he began, but could not articulate the horror. He glanced down at the village that had been turned into a slaughterhouse. "You mean…?" he began again and then his mouth fell slackly open at the very thought of going down into that smoking hell.
"I'll ask if you don't," Sharpe said. "For Christ's sake, sir! Gallantry forgives everything! Gallantry means you're a hero. Gallantry gets you a wife.
Sharpe shook his head. "God knows, sir."
"Because they jump like fleas, sir, when you shoot at them," Harper offered. "But don't worry yourself about that one, sir." Harper had seen the look of worry on Runciman's face. "He's a good voltigeur, that one. He's dead."
Wellington was not far away from Sharpe and Runciman. The General was sitting on his horse on the bloody dip of land where the road crossed the ridge between the church and the rocks, and behind him was nothing except the army's baggage and ammunition park. To the north and west his divisions guarded the plateau against the French threat, but here, in the centre, where the enemy had so nearly broken through, there was nothing left. There were no more reserves and he would not thin the ridge's other defenders and so open a back door to French victory. The battle would have to be won by his Highlanders and Irishmen, and so far they were rewarding his faith by retaking the village house by bloody house and cattle shed by burning cattle shed.
Then the grey infantry struck from the flank.
Sharpe saw the wolf-tail banner in the smoke. For a second he froze. He wanted to pretend he had not seen it. He wanted an excuse, any excuse, not to go down that awful slope to a village so reeking with death that the air alone was enough to make a man vomit. He had fought once already inside Fuentes de Onoro, and once was surely enough, but his hesitation was only for a heartbeat. He knew there was no excuse. His enemy had come to Fuentes de Onoro to claim victory and Sharpe must stop him. He turned. "Sergeant Harper! My compliments to Captain Donaju and ask him to form column. Go on! Hurry!" Sharpe looked at his men, his handful of good men from the bloody, fighting 95th. "Load up, lads. Time to go to work."
"What are you doing, Sharpe?" Runciman asked.
"You want to beat our court of inquiry, General?" Sharpe asked.
Runciman gaped at Sharpe, not understanding why the question had been asked. "Why, yes, of course," he managed to say.
"Then go over to Wellington, General," Sharpe said, "and ask his Lordship's permission to lead the Real Companпa Irlandesa into battle."
Runciman blanched. "You mean…?" he began, but could not articulate the horror. He glanced down at the village that had been turned into a slaughterhouse. "You mean…?" he began again and then his mouth fell slackly open at the very thought of going down into that smoking hell.
"I'll ask if you don't," Sharpe said. "For Christ's sake, sir! Gallantry forgives everything! Gallantry means you're a hero. Gallantry gets you a wife.