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Sharpes Gold :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 140 из 179The telegraph was well made, jointed and bolted, and as the French ball spun off into the unknown it ripped itself completely from its base like a tree torn bodily by a hurricane. The boy, holding on to a rope, was spun into the air, screaming until another halliard whiplashed round his neck and tore his head horribly from his shoulders. His blood sprayed the four men falling backwards, and then the mast, still unbroken, pounded back on to the ramparts, killing Charles instantly, broke itself in a great fracture, bounced like a falling cane, and stopped still.
'Sweet Jesus. Harper stood up, 'Are you all right, sir?
'Yes. Sharpe's shoulder hurt like the devil. 'Where's the boy?
The Sergeant pointed to the head. 'Rest of him's over the wall, sir. Poor wee thing.
Lossow swore in German, stood up, flinched as he put his weight on his left leg. Sharpe looked at him. 'Are you — hurt?
'Just a bruise. Lossow saw the midshipman's head. 'Good God. He knelt by Charles, felt for a pulse, and opened one of the Captain's eyelids. 'Dead, poor fellow.
Harper looked over the ramparts, at the drifting smoke. 'Just four shots. That's good shooting. There was a reluctant respect in his voice.
Lossow stood up, wiped blood from his hands. 'We must get out of here!
Sharpe turned to him. 'We must persuade Cox to let us out.
'Ja. Not easy, my friend.
Harper kicked the fallen beam. 'Perhaps they can rig another telegraph, sir?
Sharpe shrugged. 'And who works it? Maybe, I don't know. He glanced at the battery, its embrasure plugged, and he knew that the French gunners would be celebrating. They deserved it. He doubted if the gun would fire again, not today; the iron barrels had a limited life and the gun had achieved its purpose. 'Come on. Let's see Cox.
'You don't sound hopeful, my friend?
Sharpe turned round, blood flecking his uniform, and his face grim. 'We'll get out. With or without him, we'll get out.
CHAPTER 20
Light, like carved silver, slashed the cathedral's gloom, slanted across the crouching grey pillars, splintered o(T brass and paint, drowned the votive candles that burned before the statues, inched its way over the broad, worn flagstones as the sun moved higher, and Sharpe waited. A priest, lost in the depths of the choir, mumbled beyond the window light, and Sharpe saw Harper cross himself.
'What day is it?
'Sunday, sir.
'Is that Mass?
'Yes, sir.
'You want to go?
'It'll wait.
Lossow's heels clicked in the side aisle; he came from behind a pillar, blinked in the sunlight.
'Sweet Jesus. Harper stood up, 'Are you all right, sir?
'Yes. Sharpe's shoulder hurt like the devil. 'Where's the boy?
The Sergeant pointed to the head. 'Rest of him's over the wall, sir. Poor wee thing.
Lossow swore in German, stood up, flinched as he put his weight on his left leg. Sharpe looked at him. 'Are you — hurt?
'Just a bruise. Lossow saw the midshipman's head. 'Good God. He knelt by Charles, felt for a pulse, and opened one of the Captain's eyelids. 'Dead, poor fellow.
Harper looked over the ramparts, at the drifting smoke. 'Just four shots. That's good shooting. There was a reluctant respect in his voice.
Lossow stood up, wiped blood from his hands. 'We must get out of here!
Sharpe turned to him. 'We must persuade Cox to let us out.
'Ja. Not easy, my friend.
Harper kicked the fallen beam. 'Perhaps they can rig another telegraph, sir?
Sharpe shrugged. 'And who works it? Maybe, I don't know. He glanced at the battery, its embrasure plugged, and he knew that the French gunners would be celebrating. They deserved it. He doubted if the gun would fire again, not today; the iron barrels had a limited life and the gun had achieved its purpose. 'Come on. Let's see Cox.
'You don't sound hopeful, my friend?
Sharpe turned round, blood flecking his uniform, and his face grim. 'We'll get out. With or without him, we'll get out.
CHAPTER 20
Light, like carved silver, slashed the cathedral's gloom, slanted across the crouching grey pillars, splintered o(T brass and paint, drowned the votive candles that burned before the statues, inched its way over the broad, worn flagstones as the sun moved higher, and Sharpe waited. A priest, lost in the depths of the choir, mumbled beyond the window light, and Sharpe saw Harper cross himself.
'What day is it?
'Sunday, sir.
'Is that Mass?
'Yes, sir.
'You want to go?
'It'll wait.
Lossow's heels clicked in the side aisle; he came from behind a pillar, blinked in the sunlight.