JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 17 из 203”
The doctor forced the blades back into the box and Sharpe suddenly realised that it was a bleeding machine. Instead of the old-fashioned lancet in the vein Sir Henry preferred the modern scarifier that was supposed to be faster and more effective. The doctor placed the box on the Colonel’s arm, glanced nervously at his patient, then pressed the trigger.
“Ah! That’s better!” Sir Henry closed his eyes and smiled momentarily. A trickle of blood ran down his arm and escaped the towel that the doctor was dabbing at the flow.
“Again, Parton, again!”
The doctor shook his head. “But, Sir Henry… “
Simmerson cuffed the doctor with his free hand. “Don’t argue with me! Damn it, man, bleed me!” He looked at Hogan. “Always too much spleen after a flogging, Captain.”
“That’s very understandable, sir,” Hogan said in his Irish brogue, and Simmerson looked at him suspiciously. The box clicked again , the blades gouged into the plump arm, and more blood trickled onto the sheets. Hogan caught Sharpe’s eye and there was the glimmer of a smile that could too easily turn into laughter. Sharpe looked back to Sir Henry Simmerson, who was pulling on his shirt.
“You must be Captain Hogan?”
“Yes, sir.” Hogan nodded amiably.
Simmerson turned to Sharpe. “And who the devil are you?”
“Lieutenant Sharpe, sir. 95th Rifles.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a damned disgrace, that’s what you are!”
Sharpe said nothing. He stared over the Colonel’s shoulder, through the window, at the far blue hills where the French were gathering their strength.
“Forrest!” Simmerson had stood up. “Forrest!”
The door opened and the Major, who must have been waiting for the summons, came in. He smiled timorously at Sharpe and Hogan and then turned to Simmerson. “Colonel?”
“This officer will need a new uniform. Provide it, please, and arrange to have the money deducted from his pay.”
“No.” Sharpe spoke flatly. Simmerson and Forrest turned to stare at him. For a moment Sir Henry said nothing; he was not used to being contradicted, and Sharpe kept going. “I am an officer of the 95th Rifles and I will wear their uniform so long as I have that honour.”
Simmerson began to go red and his fingers fluttered at his side. “Damn you, Sharpe! You’re a disgrace! You’re not a soldier, you’re a crossing sweeper! You’re under my orders now and I’m ordering you to be back here in fifteen minutes… “
“No, sir.” This time Hogan had spoken.
The doctor forced the blades back into the box and Sharpe suddenly realised that it was a bleeding machine. Instead of the old-fashioned lancet in the vein Sir Henry preferred the modern scarifier that was supposed to be faster and more effective. The doctor placed the box on the Colonel’s arm, glanced nervously at his patient, then pressed the trigger.
“Ah! That’s better!” Sir Henry closed his eyes and smiled momentarily. A trickle of blood ran down his arm and escaped the towel that the doctor was dabbing at the flow.
“Again, Parton, again!”
The doctor shook his head. “But, Sir Henry… “
Simmerson cuffed the doctor with his free hand. “Don’t argue with me! Damn it, man, bleed me!” He looked at Hogan. “Always too much spleen after a flogging, Captain.”
“That’s very understandable, sir,” Hogan said in his Irish brogue, and Simmerson looked at him suspiciously. The box clicked again , the blades gouged into the plump arm, and more blood trickled onto the sheets. Hogan caught Sharpe’s eye and there was the glimmer of a smile that could too easily turn into laughter. Sharpe looked back to Sir Henry Simmerson, who was pulling on his shirt.
“You must be Captain Hogan?”
“Yes, sir.” Hogan nodded amiably.
Simmerson turned to Sharpe. “And who the devil are you?”
“Lieutenant Sharpe, sir. 95th Rifles.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a damned disgrace, that’s what you are!”
Sharpe said nothing. He stared over the Colonel’s shoulder, through the window, at the far blue hills where the French were gathering their strength.
“Forrest!” Simmerson had stood up. “Forrest!”
The door opened and the Major, who must have been waiting for the summons, came in. He smiled timorously at Sharpe and Hogan and then turned to Simmerson. “Colonel?”
“This officer will need a new uniform. Provide it, please, and arrange to have the money deducted from his pay.”
“No.” Sharpe spoke flatly. Simmerson and Forrest turned to stare at him. For a moment Sir Henry said nothing; he was not used to being contradicted, and Sharpe kept going. “I am an officer of the 95th Rifles and I will wear their uniform so long as I have that honour.”
Simmerson began to go red and his fingers fluttered at his side. “Damn you, Sharpe! You’re a disgrace! You’re not a soldier, you’re a crossing sweeper! You’re under my orders now and I’m ordering you to be back here in fifteen minutes… “
“No, sir.” This time Hogan had spoken.