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Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 106 из 203” Moss was being punctilious and polite, as though it could save him from his fate. Dust lay heavy in the air; the room was filled with the stench of illness and ordure.
“Why are you in Oropesa?”
“Came to rejoin the Regiment, sir,” Moss said, but it was said too quickly. There was silence. Ibbotson sat by the dead fire and stared at the ground between his knees. He was the only one with a weapon, a bayonet held in his left hand, and Sharpe guessed that he did not approve of what was happening.
“Where are your weapons?”
“Lost ‘em, sir. And the uniforms.” Moss was eager to please.
“You mean you sold them.”
Moss shrugged. “Yes, sir.”
“And you drank away the money?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a sudden noise in the next room, and Sharpe whirled to face the doorway. There was nothing there. Moss shook his head. “Rats, sir. Bloody armies of them.”
Sharpe looked back to the deserters. Ibbotson was now staring at him, the frightening stare of a crazed fanatic. For a moment Sharpe wondered if he was planning to use the bayonet.
“What are you doing here, Ibbotson? You don’t want to rejoin the Regiment.”
The man said nothing. Instead he lifted his right arm that had been hidden behind his body. There was no hand, just a stump wrapped in blood-soaked rags.
“Ibbs got in a fight, sir,” Moss said. “Lost ‘is ’and. He’s no use to anyone no more, sir. ”E’s right-handed, you see,“ he added lamely.
“You mean he’s no use to the French.”
There was silence. The dust hung thick in the air. “That’s right.” Ibbotson had spoken. He had an educated voice. Moss tried to quieten him but Ibbotson ignored the Corporal. “We would have been with the French a week ago but these fools decided to drink.”
Sharpe stared at him. It was strange to hear a cultured voice coming from the rags, stubble and blood-soaked bandages. The man was ill, he probably had gangrene, but it hardly mattered now. By admitting they were running towards the enemy Ibbotson had condemned all four. If they had been caught trying to get to a neutral country they might have been sent, as Sharpe might be, to the garrison in the West Indies, where the fever would kill them anyway, but there was only one punishment for men who deserted to the enemy. Corporal Moss knew it. He looked up at Sharpe and pleaded. “Honest, sir, we didn’t know what we was doing.
“Why are you in Oropesa?”
“Came to rejoin the Regiment, sir,” Moss said, but it was said too quickly. There was silence. Ibbotson sat by the dead fire and stared at the ground between his knees. He was the only one with a weapon, a bayonet held in his left hand, and Sharpe guessed that he did not approve of what was happening.
“Where are your weapons?”
“Lost ‘em, sir. And the uniforms.” Moss was eager to please.
“You mean you sold them.”
Moss shrugged. “Yes, sir.”
“And you drank away the money?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a sudden noise in the next room, and Sharpe whirled to face the doorway. There was nothing there. Moss shook his head. “Rats, sir. Bloody armies of them.”
Sharpe looked back to the deserters. Ibbotson was now staring at him, the frightening stare of a crazed fanatic. For a moment Sharpe wondered if he was planning to use the bayonet.
“What are you doing here, Ibbotson? You don’t want to rejoin the Regiment.”
The man said nothing. Instead he lifted his right arm that had been hidden behind his body. There was no hand, just a stump wrapped in blood-soaked rags.
“Ibbs got in a fight, sir,” Moss said. “Lost ‘is ’and. He’s no use to anyone no more, sir. ”E’s right-handed, you see,“ he added lamely.
“You mean he’s no use to the French.”
There was silence. The dust hung thick in the air. “That’s right.” Ibbotson had spoken. He had an educated voice. Moss tried to quieten him but Ibbotson ignored the Corporal. “We would have been with the French a week ago but these fools decided to drink.”
Sharpe stared at him. It was strange to hear a cultured voice coming from the rags, stubble and blood-soaked bandages. The man was ill, he probably had gangrene, but it hardly mattered now. By admitting they were running towards the enemy Ibbotson had condemned all four. If they had been caught trying to get to a neutral country they might have been sent, as Sharpe might be, to the garrison in the West Indies, where the fever would kill them anyway, but there was only one punishment for men who deserted to the enemy. Corporal Moss knew it. He looked up at Sharpe and pleaded. “Honest, sir, we didn’t know what we was doing.