JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 105 из 203The whole army was frustrated but at least they could look forward with a mixture of fear and eagerness to the inevitable battle that gave their present discomforts some purpose. The South Essex did not share the anticipation. It had been disgraced at Valdelacasa, its colour shamefully lost, and the men of the Battalion had no stomach for another fight. The South Essex was sullen and bitter. Every man in it would wish the deserters well.
Harper reappeared with his men, all of them armed, all of them looking apprehensively at Sharpe. One of them asked nervously if the deserters would be shot.
“I don’t know,” Sharpe snapped. “Lead on, Kirby.”
They walked down the hill into the poorest section of the town, into a tangle of alleyways where half-dressed children played in the filth that was hurled from the night-buckets into the roadway. Washing hung between the high balconies, obscuring the light, and the closeness of the walls seemed to heighten the stench. It was a smell the men had first encountered in Lisbon, and they had become accustomed to it even though its source made walking through the streets after dark a risky and nauseating business. The men were silent and resentful, following Sharpe reluctantly to a duty they had no wish to perform.
“Here, sir.” Kirby pointed to a building that was little more than a hovel. It had partly collapsed, and the rest looked as if it could fall at any moment. Sharpe turned to the men. “You wait here. Sergeant, Peters, come with me.”
Peters was from the South Essex. Sharpe had noted him as a sensible man, older than most, and he needed someone from the deserters’ own Battalion so that no-one could think that the green-jacketed Riflemen had ganged up on the South Essex.
He pushed open the door. He had half expected someone to be waiting with a gun but instead he found himself looking at a room of unimaginable squalor. The four men were on the floor, two of them lying, the others sitting by the dead embers of a fire. Light filtered thickly through holes that had once been windows and through the broken roof and upper floors. The men were dressed in rags.
Sharpe crossed to the two sick men. He crouched and looked at their faces; they were white and shivering, the pulse beat almost gone. He turned to the others.
“Who are you?”
“Corporal Moss, sir.” The man had a fortnight’s growth of beard and his cheeks were sunken. They had obviously not been eating. “This is Private Ibbotson.” He pointed to his companion. “And those are Privates Campbell and Trapper, sir.
Harper reappeared with his men, all of them armed, all of them looking apprehensively at Sharpe. One of them asked nervously if the deserters would be shot.
“I don’t know,” Sharpe snapped. “Lead on, Kirby.”
They walked down the hill into the poorest section of the town, into a tangle of alleyways where half-dressed children played in the filth that was hurled from the night-buckets into the roadway. Washing hung between the high balconies, obscuring the light, and the closeness of the walls seemed to heighten the stench. It was a smell the men had first encountered in Lisbon, and they had become accustomed to it even though its source made walking through the streets after dark a risky and nauseating business. The men were silent and resentful, following Sharpe reluctantly to a duty they had no wish to perform.
“Here, sir.” Kirby pointed to a building that was little more than a hovel. It had partly collapsed, and the rest looked as if it could fall at any moment. Sharpe turned to the men. “You wait here. Sergeant, Peters, come with me.”
Peters was from the South Essex. Sharpe had noted him as a sensible man, older than most, and he needed someone from the deserters’ own Battalion so that no-one could think that the green-jacketed Riflemen had ganged up on the South Essex.
He pushed open the door. He had half expected someone to be waiting with a gun but instead he found himself looking at a room of unimaginable squalor. The four men were on the floor, two of them lying, the others sitting by the dead embers of a fire. Light filtered thickly through holes that had once been windows and through the broken roof and upper floors. The men were dressed in rags.
Sharpe crossed to the two sick men. He crouched and looked at their faces; they were white and shivering, the pulse beat almost gone. He turned to the others.
“Who are you?”
“Corporal Moss, sir.” The man had a fortnight’s growth of beard and his cheeks were sunken. They had obviously not been eating. “This is Private Ibbotson.” He pointed to his companion. “And those are Privates Campbell and Trapper, sir.