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Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 26 из 244The French, he was sure, had wished trouble on himand now, with God's good help, he would wish some evil back on them. He would welcome the Real Companпa Irlandesa with honeyed words and extravagant promises, then give the bastards Richard Sharpe.
The girl clung to Rifleman Perkins. She was hurt inside, she was bleeding and limping, but she had insisted on coming out of the hovel to watch the two Frenchmen die. Indeed she taunted the two men, spitting and screaming at them, then laughed as one of the two captives dropped to his knees and lifted his bound hands towards Sharpe. "He says he wasn't raping the girl, sir," Harris translated.
"So why were the bastard's trousers round his ankles?" Sharpe asked, then looked at his eight-man firing squad. Usually it was hard to find men willing to serve on firing squads, but there had been no difficulty this time. "Present!" Sharpe called.
" Non, Monsieur, je vous prie! Monsieur! " the kneeling Frenchman called. Tears ran down his face.
Eight riflemen lined their sights on the two Frenchmen. The other captive spat his derision and kept his head high. He was a handsome man, though his face was bruised from Harris's ministrations. The first man, realizing that his begging was to go unanswered, dropped his head and sobbed uncontrollably. "Maman ," he called pathetically, "Maman !" Brigadier General Loup, back in his fur-edged saddle, watched the executions from fifty yards away.
Sharpe knew he had no legal right to shoot prisoners. He knew he might even be endangering his career by this act, but then he thought of the small, blood-blackened bodies of the raped and murdered children. "Fire!" he called.
The eight rifles snapped. Smoke gusted to form an acrid, filthy-smelling cloud that obscured the skeins of blood splashing high on the hovel's stone wall as the two bodies were thrown hard back, then recoiled forward to flop onto the ground. One of the men twitched for a few seconds, then went still.
"You're a dead man, Sharpe!" Loup shouted.
Sharpe raised his two fingers to the Brigadier, but did not bother to turn round. "The bloody Frogs can bury those two," he said of the executed prisoners, "but we'll collapse the houses on the Spanish dead. They are Spanish, aren't they?" he asked Harris.
Harris nodded. "We're just inside Spain, sir. Maybe a mile or two. That's what the girl says."
Sharpe looked at the girl. She was no older than Perkins, maybe sixteen, and had dank, dirty, long black hair, but clean her up, he thought, and she would be a pretty enough thing, and immediately Sharpe felt guilty for the thought. The girl was in pain.
The girl clung to Rifleman Perkins. She was hurt inside, she was bleeding and limping, but she had insisted on coming out of the hovel to watch the two Frenchmen die. Indeed she taunted the two men, spitting and screaming at them, then laughed as one of the two captives dropped to his knees and lifted his bound hands towards Sharpe. "He says he wasn't raping the girl, sir," Harris translated.
"So why were the bastard's trousers round his ankles?" Sharpe asked, then looked at his eight-man firing squad. Usually it was hard to find men willing to serve on firing squads, but there had been no difficulty this time. "Present!" Sharpe called.
" Non, Monsieur, je vous prie! Monsieur! " the kneeling Frenchman called. Tears ran down his face.
Eight riflemen lined their sights on the two Frenchmen. The other captive spat his derision and kept his head high. He was a handsome man, though his face was bruised from Harris's ministrations. The first man, realizing that his begging was to go unanswered, dropped his head and sobbed uncontrollably. "Maman ," he called pathetically, "Maman !" Brigadier General Loup, back in his fur-edged saddle, watched the executions from fifty yards away.
Sharpe knew he had no legal right to shoot prisoners. He knew he might even be endangering his career by this act, but then he thought of the small, blood-blackened bodies of the raped and murdered children. "Fire!" he called.
The eight rifles snapped. Smoke gusted to form an acrid, filthy-smelling cloud that obscured the skeins of blood splashing high on the hovel's stone wall as the two bodies were thrown hard back, then recoiled forward to flop onto the ground. One of the men twitched for a few seconds, then went still.
"You're a dead man, Sharpe!" Loup shouted.
Sharpe raised his two fingers to the Brigadier, but did not bother to turn round. "The bloody Frogs can bury those two," he said of the executed prisoners, "but we'll collapse the houses on the Spanish dead. They are Spanish, aren't they?" he asked Harris.
Harris nodded. "We're just inside Spain, sir. Maybe a mile or two. That's what the girl says."
Sharpe looked at the girl. She was no older than Perkins, maybe sixteen, and had dank, dirty, long black hair, but clean her up, he thought, and she would be a pretty enough thing, and immediately Sharpe felt guilty for the thought. The girl was in pain.