JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 125 из 203Hill seemed to be asking the questions and Sharpe saw Forrest turn in his saddle and point in the direction of the Light Company. The pointed arm turned into a beckoning one. ”Captain Sharpe!“
Sharpe marched across the parade ground as though he were the Regimental Sergeant Major on a Royal parade. Damn Simmerson. He might as well have his face rubbed in the dirt. He cracked to a halt, saluted, and waited. Hill looked down on him, his round face shadowed by his large cocked hat.
“Captain Sharpe?”
“Sir!”
“You paraded the Battalion? Is that correct?”
“Sir!” Sharpe had learned as a Sergeant that repeating the word ‘sir’ with enough force and precision could get a man through most meetings with senior officers. Hill realised it too. He looked at his watch and then back at Sharpe. “The parade is thirty minutes early. Why?”
“The men seemed bored, sir. I thought some drill would do them good, so Captain Leroy and myself brought them out.”
Hill smiled; he liked the answer. He looked at the ranks standing immobile in the sunlight. “Tell me, Captain, did anyone refuse to parade?”
“Refuse, sir?” Sharpe sounded surprised. “No, sir.”
Hill looked at him keenly. “Not one man, Captain?”
“No, sir. Not one man.” Sharpe dared not look at Simmerson. Once more the Colonel was looking foolish. He had cried ‘mutiny’ to a General of Division only to find that a junior Captain had paraded the men. Sharpe sensed
Simmerson shifting uneasily on his saddle as Hill looked down shrewdly. “You surprise me, Captain.”
“Surprise, sir?”
Hill smiled. He had dealt with enough Sergeants in his life to know the game Sharpe was playing. “Yes, Captain. You see your Colonel received a letter saying that the men were refusing to parade. That’s called mutiny.”
Sharpe turned innocent eyes on Simmerson. “A letter, sir? Refusing to parade?” Simmerson glared at him; he would have killed Sharpe on the spot if he had dared. Sharpe looked back to Hill and let his expression change from innocent surprise to slow dawning of awareness. “I think that must be a prank, sir. You know how playful the lads get when they’re ready for battle.”
Hill laughed. He’d been beaten by enough Sergeants to know when to stop playing the game. “Good! Well, what a to-do about nothing! Today seems to be the South Essex’s day! This is the second parade I’ve attended in twelve hours. I think it’s time I inspected your men, Sir Henry.” Simmerson said nothing. Hill turned back to Sharpe. “Thank you, Captain. 95th, eh?”
“Yes, sir.
Sharpe marched across the parade ground as though he were the Regimental Sergeant Major on a Royal parade. Damn Simmerson. He might as well have his face rubbed in the dirt. He cracked to a halt, saluted, and waited. Hill looked down on him, his round face shadowed by his large cocked hat.
“Captain Sharpe?”
“Sir!”
“You paraded the Battalion? Is that correct?”
“Sir!” Sharpe had learned as a Sergeant that repeating the word ‘sir’ with enough force and precision could get a man through most meetings with senior officers. Hill realised it too. He looked at his watch and then back at Sharpe. “The parade is thirty minutes early. Why?”
“The men seemed bored, sir. I thought some drill would do them good, so Captain Leroy and myself brought them out.”
Hill smiled; he liked the answer. He looked at the ranks standing immobile in the sunlight. “Tell me, Captain, did anyone refuse to parade?”
“Refuse, sir?” Sharpe sounded surprised. “No, sir.”
Hill looked at him keenly. “Not one man, Captain?”
“No, sir. Not one man.” Sharpe dared not look at Simmerson. Once more the Colonel was looking foolish. He had cried ‘mutiny’ to a General of Division only to find that a junior Captain had paraded the men. Sharpe sensed
Simmerson shifting uneasily on his saddle as Hill looked down shrewdly. “You surprise me, Captain.”
“Surprise, sir?”
Hill smiled. He had dealt with enough Sergeants in his life to know the game Sharpe was playing. “Yes, Captain. You see your Colonel received a letter saying that the men were refusing to parade. That’s called mutiny.”
Sharpe turned innocent eyes on Simmerson. “A letter, sir? Refusing to parade?” Simmerson glared at him; he would have killed Sharpe on the spot if he had dared. Sharpe looked back to Hill and let his expression change from innocent surprise to slow dawning of awareness. “I think that must be a prank, sir. You know how playful the lads get when they’re ready for battle.”
Hill laughed. He’d been beaten by enough Sergeants to know when to stop playing the game. “Good! Well, what a to-do about nothing! Today seems to be the South Essex’s day! This is the second parade I’ve attended in twelve hours. I think it’s time I inspected your men, Sir Henry.” Simmerson said nothing. Hill turned back to Sharpe. “Thank you, Captain. 95th, eh?”
“Yes, sir.