![]() ![]() 'Dead, poor fellow.'Ĭhrist, thought Sharpe, Christ and a thousand deaths. 'Good God.' He knelt by Charles, felt for a pulse, and opened one of the Captain's eyelids. 'Just a bruise.' Lossow saw the midshipman's head. Lossow swore in German, stood up, flinched as he put his weight on his left leg. Sharpe turned round, blood flecking his uniform, and his face grim. A priest, lost in the depths of the choir, mumbled beyond the window light, and Sharpe saw Harper cross himself. 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. 'Perhaps they can rig another telegraph, sir?' Lossow stood up, wiped blood from his hands. He doubted if the gun would fire again, not today the iron barrels had a limited life and the gun had achieved its purpose. '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.
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