JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 216 из 223He walked against the tide of the invading Division, edging his way across the plank bridge that rose and fell with the small waves of the estuary. It was for this bridge that his men had taken the Teste de Buch. They had drawn the enemy to the wrong place so that the bridge could be built undisturbed.
The bridge was nearly a quarter-mile in length and had to resist the massive rise and fall of ocean tides. Seamen, under naval officers, manned windlasses that governed the anchors of the moored boats. The windlasses balanced the long bridge against the currents of river and ocean and against the vast, surging tide that swept into the Adour.
The bridge, guarded by a fleet of brigs, was a miracle of engineering.
And the man who had built it waited on the southern sea-wall where a vast capstan, built into a cage of wooden beams, could compensate the roadway’s cables against the estuary’s tidefall. Colonel Elphinstone, standing on the capstan’s platform, watched the dirty, blood- and powder-stained Rifleman approach. The expression on Elphinstone’s face was one of sheer disbelief that slowly turned to pleasure. “He said you were captured!”
The small rain stung Sharpe’s face as he looked up to the colonel. “Who, sir?”
“Bampfylde.” Elphinstone’s eyes took in the blood on Sharpe’s thigh and head. “You escaped!”
“We all did, sir. Every last goddamn man that Bampfylde abandoned. Except for the dead, of course. There were twenty-seven dead, sir.” Sharpe paused, remembering that more had died since his last count. Two of the wounded had died on the Thuella and had been slid into a grey sea. And Sharpe supposed that the American Rifleman, Taylor, must be numbered with the dead, even though he lived and was even now sailing westwards.
“Maybe thirty, sir. But the French sent a brigade against us, and we fought the bastards to a standstill, sir.” Sharpe heard the anger in his own voice and knew that this honest man did not deserve it. “I’m sorry, sir. I need a horse.”
“You need a rest.” Elphinstone, with surprising agility for a heavy, middle-aged man, swung himself down the cage of beams. “A brigade, you say?”
“A demi-brigade,” Sharpe said. “But with artillery.”
“Good God Almighty.”
Sharpe turned to watch a Battalion of Portuguese infantry scramble down the sea-wall towards the rope-held planks. “I see Bampfylde brought you the chasse-marees. The bastard did something right.”
“He says he took the fort!” Elphinstone said. “He said you went inland and were defeated.”
“Then he’s a poxed, lying bastard. We took the fort.
The bridge was nearly a quarter-mile in length and had to resist the massive rise and fall of ocean tides. Seamen, under naval officers, manned windlasses that governed the anchors of the moored boats. The windlasses balanced the long bridge against the currents of river and ocean and against the vast, surging tide that swept into the Adour.
The bridge, guarded by a fleet of brigs, was a miracle of engineering.
And the man who had built it waited on the southern sea-wall where a vast capstan, built into a cage of wooden beams, could compensate the roadway’s cables against the estuary’s tidefall. Colonel Elphinstone, standing on the capstan’s platform, watched the dirty, blood- and powder-stained Rifleman approach. The expression on Elphinstone’s face was one of sheer disbelief that slowly turned to pleasure. “He said you were captured!”
The small rain stung Sharpe’s face as he looked up to the colonel. “Who, sir?”
“Bampfylde.” Elphinstone’s eyes took in the blood on Sharpe’s thigh and head. “You escaped!”
“We all did, sir. Every last goddamn man that Bampfylde abandoned. Except for the dead, of course. There were twenty-seven dead, sir.” Sharpe paused, remembering that more had died since his last count. Two of the wounded had died on the Thuella and had been slid into a grey sea. And Sharpe supposed that the American Rifleman, Taylor, must be numbered with the dead, even though he lived and was even now sailing westwards.
“Maybe thirty, sir. But the French sent a brigade against us, and we fought the bastards to a standstill, sir.” Sharpe heard the anger in his own voice and knew that this honest man did not deserve it. “I’m sorry, sir. I need a horse.”
“You need a rest.” Elphinstone, with surprising agility for a heavy, middle-aged man, swung himself down the cage of beams. “A brigade, you say?”
“A demi-brigade,” Sharpe said. “But with artillery.”
“Good God Almighty.”
Sharpe turned to watch a Battalion of Portuguese infantry scramble down the sea-wall towards the rope-held planks. “I see Bampfylde brought you the chasse-marees. The bastard did something right.”
“He says he took the fort!” Elphinstone said. “He said you went inland and were defeated.”
“Then he’s a poxed, lying bastard. We took the fort.