trò chơi hay nhất trên thế giới

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datatime: 2022-11-27 17:46:20 Author:FRqKFTIT

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

'Yes.' Sharpe's shoulder hurt like the devil. 'Where's the boy?'

Lossow swore in German, stood up, flinched as he put his weight on his left leg. Sharpe looked at him. 'Are you - hurt?'

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

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

'Yes.' Sharpe's shoulder hurt like the devil. 'Where's the boy?'

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.

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.'

'Yes.' Sharpe's shoulder hurt like the devil. 'Where's the boy?'

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.

'Sunday, sir.'

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

'Is that Mass?'

Lossow stood up, wiped blood from his hands. 'We must get out of here!'

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

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.'

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

'It'll wait.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You want to go?'

'Ja. Not easy, my friend.'

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

Lossow stood up, wiped blood from his hands. 'We must get out of here!'

'Yes, sir.'

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