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Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 107 из 203We waited ‘ere, sir… „
“Shut your teeth, Moss!” Ibbotson glared at him then turned to Sharpe; his hand moved the bayonet higher but it was only to emphasise his remarks. “We’re going to lose this war. Any fool can see that! There are more French armies than Britain could raise in a hundred years. Look at you!” His voice was filled with scorn. “You might beat one General, then another, but they’ll keep coming! And they’ll win! And do you know why? Because they have an idea. It’s called freedom, and justice, and equality!” He stopped abruptly, his eyes blazing.
“What are you, Ibbotson?” Sharpe asked.
“A man.”
Sharpe smiled at the dramatic challenge in the answer. The argument wasn’t new, Rifleman Tongue could be relied on to trot it out most nights, but Sharpe was curious why an educated man like Ibbotson should be in the ranks of the army and preaching the French shibboleths of freedom.
“You’re educated Ibbotson. Where are you from?”
Ibbotson did not answer. He stared at Sharpe, clutching his bayonet. There was silence. Behind him Sharpe heard Harper and Peters shuffle their feet on the hard earth floor. Moss cleared his throat and beckoned at Ibbotson. “E’s a vicar’s son, sir.” He said it as if it explained everything.
Sharpe looked at Ibbotson. The son of a vicarage? Perhaps the father had died or the family was too large, and penury could lie at the end of both those roads. But what fate had driven Ibbotson to join the army? To pit his puny strength against the drunks and hardened criminals who were the usual scrapings gathered by the recruiting parties? Ibbotson stared back at him and then, to Sharpe’s disgust, began to cry. He let go of the bayonet and buried his face in the crook of his left elbow, and Sharpe wondered if he were suddenly thinking of a vicarage garden beside a church and a long-lost mother baking bread in the ripeness of an English summer. He turned to Harper.
“They’re under arrest, Sergeant. You’ll have to carry those two.”
He stepped outside the hovel into the foetid alleyway. “Kirby?”
“Sir?”
“You can go.” The man ran off. Sharpe did not want him to face the four deserters whose arrest he had caused. “You others. Inside.”
He stared up between the narrowing walls at the patch of sky. Swallows flashed across the opening, the colours were deepening into night, and tomorrow there would be executions. But first there was Josefina. Harper came to the door. “We’re ready, sir.”
“Then let’s go.”
CHAPTER 13
Sharpe woke with a start, sat up, instinctively reached for a weapon and then, realising where he was, sank back on the pillow.
“Shut your teeth, Moss!” Ibbotson glared at him then turned to Sharpe; his hand moved the bayonet higher but it was only to emphasise his remarks. “We’re going to lose this war. Any fool can see that! There are more French armies than Britain could raise in a hundred years. Look at you!” His voice was filled with scorn. “You might beat one General, then another, but they’ll keep coming! And they’ll win! And do you know why? Because they have an idea. It’s called freedom, and justice, and equality!” He stopped abruptly, his eyes blazing.
“What are you, Ibbotson?” Sharpe asked.
“A man.”
Sharpe smiled at the dramatic challenge in the answer. The argument wasn’t new, Rifleman Tongue could be relied on to trot it out most nights, but Sharpe was curious why an educated man like Ibbotson should be in the ranks of the army and preaching the French shibboleths of freedom.
“You’re educated Ibbotson. Where are you from?”
Ibbotson did not answer. He stared at Sharpe, clutching his bayonet. There was silence. Behind him Sharpe heard Harper and Peters shuffle their feet on the hard earth floor. Moss cleared his throat and beckoned at Ibbotson. “E’s a vicar’s son, sir.” He said it as if it explained everything.
Sharpe looked at Ibbotson. The son of a vicarage? Perhaps the father had died or the family was too large, and penury could lie at the end of both those roads. But what fate had driven Ibbotson to join the army? To pit his puny strength against the drunks and hardened criminals who were the usual scrapings gathered by the recruiting parties? Ibbotson stared back at him and then, to Sharpe’s disgust, began to cry. He let go of the bayonet and buried his face in the crook of his left elbow, and Sharpe wondered if he were suddenly thinking of a vicarage garden beside a church and a long-lost mother baking bread in the ripeness of an English summer. He turned to Harper.
“They’re under arrest, Sergeant. You’ll have to carry those two.”
He stepped outside the hovel into the foetid alleyway. “Kirby?”
“Sir?”
“You can go.” The man ran off. Sharpe did not want him to face the four deserters whose arrest he had caused. “You others. Inside.”
He stared up between the narrowing walls at the patch of sky. Swallows flashed across the opening, the colours were deepening into night, and tomorrow there would be executions. But first there was Josefina. Harper came to the door. “We’re ready, sir.”
“Then let’s go.”
CHAPTER 13
Sharpe woke with a start, sat up, instinctively reached for a weapon and then, realising where he was, sank back on the pillow.