JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 123 из 203He turned to the men in the yard and spoke in a reasonable voice.
“We’re not going. We decided that and we must keep to it!” His voice, like the dead Ibbotson’s, was educated. He turned to Sharpe. “The Sergeants can go, sir, but we’re not. It isn’t fair.”
Sharpe ignored him. This was not the time to discuss whether Simmerson’s discipline was fair or unfair. Discipline, at moments like this, was not open to discussion. It existed, and that was that. He turned back to the Sergeants.
“Come on! Move yourselves!”
The Sergeants, a dozen of them, came sheepishly to the fire. Sharpe was suddenly aware of the scorching heat of the blaze; added to the sun it was breaking his back into a prickly sweat. The Sergeants shuffled to a halt. Sharpe spoke loudly. “You’ve got two minutes. I want everyone on parade, in this yard, properly dressed. The men to be flogged wearing shirts and trousers only. Grenadier Company by the gate, the rest formed on them. Move!”
They hesitated. Sharpe took a step towards them and they suddenly snapped into action. He turned and walked into the crowded men. “On your feet! You’re on parade! Hurry up!”
The burly man tried one last protest, and Sharpe whipped round on him. “You want more bloody executions? Move!”
It was all over. Some of the drunker men needed kicking onto their feet but the little fight had gone out of them. Leroy joined Sharpe and, with the Sergeants, they dressed the companies. The men looked a mess. Their uniforms were unbrushed, spotted with sawdust, their belts stained and muskets dirty. Some of the men were pale with drink. Sharpe had rarely seen a Battalion in worse parade order, but that was better than a mutinous rabble being chased by the efficient German cavalry.
Leroy swung open the gates, Sharpe gave the order, and the Battalion marched out in formation to line up on the Light Company. Forrest was outside. His mouth dropped as the first company emerged. He had a handful of officers and other Sergeants with him, and they ran to their companies and shouted orders. The Battalion began to march crisply; the Sergeant Major hammered them into place, stood them at ease, stood the ranks easy. Sharpe marched up to Forrest’s horse, snapped to attention, and saluted.
“Battalion on parade, sir!”
Forrest looked down on him. “What happened?”
“Happened, sir? Nothing.”
“But I was told they refused to parade.”
Sharpe pointed at the Battalion. The men were pulling their uniforms into shape, brushing the worst dirt off their jackets, punching their shakoes into shape.
“We’re not going. We decided that and we must keep to it!” His voice, like the dead Ibbotson’s, was educated. He turned to Sharpe. “The Sergeants can go, sir, but we’re not. It isn’t fair.”
Sharpe ignored him. This was not the time to discuss whether Simmerson’s discipline was fair or unfair. Discipline, at moments like this, was not open to discussion. It existed, and that was that. He turned back to the Sergeants.
“Come on! Move yourselves!”
The Sergeants, a dozen of them, came sheepishly to the fire. Sharpe was suddenly aware of the scorching heat of the blaze; added to the sun it was breaking his back into a prickly sweat. The Sergeants shuffled to a halt. Sharpe spoke loudly. “You’ve got two minutes. I want everyone on parade, in this yard, properly dressed. The men to be flogged wearing shirts and trousers only. Grenadier Company by the gate, the rest formed on them. Move!”
They hesitated. Sharpe took a step towards them and they suddenly snapped into action. He turned and walked into the crowded men. “On your feet! You’re on parade! Hurry up!”
The burly man tried one last protest, and Sharpe whipped round on him. “You want more bloody executions? Move!”
It was all over. Some of the drunker men needed kicking onto their feet but the little fight had gone out of them. Leroy joined Sharpe and, with the Sergeants, they dressed the companies. The men looked a mess. Their uniforms were unbrushed, spotted with sawdust, their belts stained and muskets dirty. Some of the men were pale with drink. Sharpe had rarely seen a Battalion in worse parade order, but that was better than a mutinous rabble being chased by the efficient German cavalry.
Leroy swung open the gates, Sharpe gave the order, and the Battalion marched out in formation to line up on the Light Company. Forrest was outside. His mouth dropped as the first company emerged. He had a handful of officers and other Sergeants with him, and they ran to their companies and shouted orders. The Battalion began to march crisply; the Sergeant Major hammered them into place, stood them at ease, stood the ranks easy. Sharpe marched up to Forrest’s horse, snapped to attention, and saluted.
“Battalion on parade, sir!”
Forrest looked down on him. “What happened?”
“Happened, sir? Nothing.”
“But I was told they refused to parade.”
Sharpe pointed at the Battalion. The men were pulling their uniforms into shape, brushing the worst dirt off their jackets, punching their shakoes into shape.