JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 111 из 203Today’s modern siege artillery would punch through the seemingly solid walls and bring the stones tumbling into the steep streetsin devastating avalanches. Sweat stung his eyes, dripped onto his green jacket, trickled down his spine. He felt curiously light-hearted, not at all a fit state to watch deserters blown into eternity, and as he stared at the castle he thought of Josefina and somehow, in the morning light, the bargain did not seem such a bad one. She was his for as long as she needed him but, in return, she offered him her happiness and vivacity. And when the arrangement ends? A good soldier, he knew, always planned for the battle after the one ahead, but he could make no plans for the moment when Josefina would take herself away.
He looked at Gibbons, who paraded on his horse with the Light Company. Simmerson was mounted in the centre of the square next to General ‘Daddy’ Hill who, with his staff, had come to fulfill his duty of watching execution done. Gibbons sat, stony faced, and stared straight ahead. As soon as this parade was done Sharpe knew he would return to the safety of his uncle’s side, and the Lieutenant had spoken no word to Sharpe, just ridden his horse over to the company, turned it, and sat still. There was no need for words. Sharpe could feel the hatred almost radiating from the man, the determination for revenge, for Sharpe had not only gained the promotion Gibbons wanted but worse than that the Rifleman had the girl too. Sharpe knew the matter was unresolved.
Fourteen men, all guilty of minor crimes, marched into the square and were stood facing the trees. Their punishment was to act as the firing squad, and as the men stood there, their muskets grounded, they stared with fascination at the two newly dug graves and the crude wooden coffins that waited for Ibbotson and Moss. The other two prisoners had died in the night. Sharpe half wondered whether Parton, the Battalion’s doctor, had helped them on their way rather than force the Battalion to watch two desperately sick men lashed to the trees and shot to pieces. Sharpe had seen many executions. As a child he had watched a public hanging and listened to the excitement of the crowd as the victims jerked and twitched on the gallows. He had seen men blown from the muzzles of decorated brass cannon, their bodies shredded into the Indian landscape, he had watched comrades tortured by the Tippoo’s women, fed to wild beasts, he had hung men by a casual roadside himself, yet most often he had seen men shot in the full panoply of ritual execution. He had never enjoyed the spectacle; he supposed no sensible man did, but he knew it was necessary. Somehow this execution was subtly different.
He looked at Gibbons, who paraded on his horse with the Light Company. Simmerson was mounted in the centre of the square next to General ‘Daddy’ Hill who, with his staff, had come to fulfill his duty of watching execution done. Gibbons sat, stony faced, and stared straight ahead. As soon as this parade was done Sharpe knew he would return to the safety of his uncle’s side, and the Lieutenant had spoken no word to Sharpe, just ridden his horse over to the company, turned it, and sat still. There was no need for words. Sharpe could feel the hatred almost radiating from the man, the determination for revenge, for Sharpe had not only gained the promotion Gibbons wanted but worse than that the Rifleman had the girl too. Sharpe knew the matter was unresolved.
Fourteen men, all guilty of minor crimes, marched into the square and were stood facing the trees. Their punishment was to act as the firing squad, and as the men stood there, their muskets grounded, they stared with fascination at the two newly dug graves and the crude wooden coffins that waited for Ibbotson and Moss. The other two prisoners had died in the night. Sharpe half wondered whether Parton, the Battalion’s doctor, had helped them on their way rather than force the Battalion to watch two desperately sick men lashed to the trees and shot to pieces. Sharpe had seen many executions. As a child he had watched a public hanging and listened to the excitement of the crowd as the victims jerked and twitched on the gallows. He had seen men blown from the muzzles of decorated brass cannon, their bodies shredded into the Indian landscape, he had watched comrades tortured by the Tippoo’s women, fed to wild beasts, he had hung men by a casual roadside himself, yet most often he had seen men shot in the full panoply of ritual execution. He had never enjoyed the spectacle; he supposed no sensible man did, but he knew it was necessary. Somehow this execution was subtly different.