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datatime: 2022-11-27 03:59:35 Author:LruNKoLt

Harper kicked the fallen beam. 'Perhaps they can rig another telegraph, sir?'

Sharpe felt ashamed. This was Harper's religion. 'I'm sorry.'

The Sergeant pointed to the head. 'Rest of him's over the wall, sir. Poor wee thing.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Ja. Not easy, my friend.'

'Amen to that, sir.' Harper had infinitely more patience.

'You don't sound hopeful, my friend?'

Christ, thought Sharpe, Christ and a thousand deaths. Damn the bloody French, damn the bloody gunner, and he might as well have stayed in the warm bed with his arms round the girl. Footsteps sounded in the doorway and he swivelled anxiously, but it was only a squad of bare-headed Portuguese soldiers, muskets slung, who dipped their fingers in the holy water and clattered up the aisle to the priest and his service.

Harper kicked the fallen beam. 'Perhaps they can rig another telegraph, sir?'

'What day is it?'

'You want to go?'

Harper kicked the fallen beam. 'Perhaps they can rig another telegraph, sir?'

The Sergeant pointed to the head. 'Rest of him's over the wall, sir. Poor wee thing.'

'What day is it?'

'What day is it?'

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.

'Yes, sir.'

'It'll wait.'

Harper kicked the fallen beam. 'Perhaps they can rig another telegraph, sir?'

'It'll wait.'

The Sergeant pointed to the head. 'Rest of him's over the wall, sir. Poor wee thing.'

'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.'

'Is that Mass?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Ja. Not easy, my friend.'

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