JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 218 из 223We fought them till we had no bullets left, then we fought with steel, Bampfylde. And we won!” Sharpe took another step towards the naval captain who, terrified, stepped backwards.
“He told me…” Bampfylde began, but could not go on.
“Who told you what?”
Bampfylde’s eyes went past Sharpe and the Rifleman turned to see the Comte de Maquerre, a girl on his arm, standing with Colonel Wigram. The Comte looked at Sharpe as though he saw a revenant come from the tomb. Sharpe, who had not expected to find the Comte, stared with equal disbelief.
Then, to both minds, came the shared knowledge of treachery and the Comte de Maquerre panicked. He ran.
The Comte ran towards the bridge that led to the north bank of the Adour-where a handful of French troops retreated from the First Division. There should have been more French troops there, Calvet’s troops, enough troops to turn the river into blood, but de Maquerre had been fooled by the story of a landing and so Calvet’s troops had been frittered away at Arcachon. The Comte de Maquerre had unwittingly served Wellington well, but he was a traitor and so he ran.
Sharpe ran after him.
Colonel Wigram raised a hand as if to call for prudent decorum in front of ladies, but Sharpe pushed the man down the sea-wall and into the mud.
De Maquerre leaped down the sloping wall, miraculously kept his footing on the slippery river’s edge, and climbed on to the bridge.
“Stop him!” Sharpe bellowed it.
Portuguese infantrymen crossing the bridge saw a tall, distinguished officer in British uniform being chased by a dirty, tattered wretch. They made way for the Comte.
Sharpe banged his wounded thigh as he clambered on to the roadway. Blood ran warm on his thigh as he snarled at men to make way. “Stop him!”
A jittery horse, made nervous by the strange road across which it was being led blindfolded, checked de Maquerre’s panicked flight. It swerved its rump into the Frenchman’s path and the Comte was forced to leap for the safety of one of the moored chasse-marees. He turned as he landed on the deck, saw he could run no further, and drew his sword.
Sharpe jumped forward from the planks on to the boat’s deck and drew his own sword.
The Comte de Maquerre, seeing the filth and blood of battle on Sharpe, sensed that the fight was lost before it began. He lowered his slim blade. “I surrender, Major.”
“They hang spies,” Sharpe said, “you bastard.
“He told me…” Bampfylde began, but could not go on.
“Who told you what?”
Bampfylde’s eyes went past Sharpe and the Rifleman turned to see the Comte de Maquerre, a girl on his arm, standing with Colonel Wigram. The Comte looked at Sharpe as though he saw a revenant come from the tomb. Sharpe, who had not expected to find the Comte, stared with equal disbelief.
Then, to both minds, came the shared knowledge of treachery and the Comte de Maquerre panicked. He ran.
The Comte ran towards the bridge that led to the north bank of the Adour-where a handful of French troops retreated from the First Division. There should have been more French troops there, Calvet’s troops, enough troops to turn the river into blood, but de Maquerre had been fooled by the story of a landing and so Calvet’s troops had been frittered away at Arcachon. The Comte de Maquerre had unwittingly served Wellington well, but he was a traitor and so he ran.
Sharpe ran after him.
Colonel Wigram raised a hand as if to call for prudent decorum in front of ladies, but Sharpe pushed the man down the sea-wall and into the mud.
De Maquerre leaped down the sloping wall, miraculously kept his footing on the slippery river’s edge, and climbed on to the bridge.
“Stop him!” Sharpe bellowed it.
Portuguese infantrymen crossing the bridge saw a tall, distinguished officer in British uniform being chased by a dirty, tattered wretch. They made way for the Comte.
Sharpe banged his wounded thigh as he clambered on to the roadway. Blood ran warm on his thigh as he snarled at men to make way. “Stop him!”
A jittery horse, made nervous by the strange road across which it was being led blindfolded, checked de Maquerre’s panicked flight. It swerved its rump into the Frenchman’s path and the Comte was forced to leap for the safety of one of the moored chasse-marees. He turned as he landed on the deck, saw he could run no further, and drew his sword.
Sharpe jumped forward from the planks on to the boat’s deck and drew his own sword.
The Comte de Maquerre, seeing the filth and blood of battle on Sharpe, sensed that the fight was lost before it began. He lowered his slim blade. “I surrender, Major.”
“They hang spies,” Sharpe said, “you bastard.