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Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 29 из 203He took off his pack and pouches, glad to be rid of the eighty pounds of weight, and sat beside Harper, who was leaning back and staring into the clear sky. “A hot day for a march, Sergeant.”
“It will be, sir, so it will. But better than that damned cold last winter.”
Sharpe grinned. “You managed to keep warm enough.”
“We did what we could, sir, we did what we could. You remember the Holy Father in the Friary?” Sharpe nodded but there was no way to stop Patrick Harper once he was launched into a good story. “He told us there was no drink in the place! No drink, and we were as cold as the sea in winter! It was a terrible thing to hear a man of God lie so.”
“You taught him a lesson,“ Sarge Pendleton, the baby of the company, just seventeen and a thief from the streets of Bristol, grinned over the road at the Irishman. Harper nodded. ”We did, lad. You remember? No priest runs out of drink and we found it. My God, a barrel big enough to drown an army’s thirst and it did us that night. And we tipped the Holy Father head first into the wine to teach him that lying is a mortal sin.“ He laughed at the memory. ”I could do with a drop right now.“ He looked innocently round the men resting on the verges. ”Would anyone have a drop?“
There was silence. Sharpe leaned back and hid his smile. He knew what Harper was doing and he could guess what would happen next. The Rifles were one of the few Regiments that could pick and choose its recruits, rejecting all but the best, but even so it suffered from the besetting sin of the whole army: drunkenness. Sharpe guessed there were at least half a dozen bottles of wine within a few paces, and Harper was going to find them. He heard the Sergeant get to his feet. “Right! Inspection.”
“Sergeant!” That was Gataker, too fly for his own good. “You inspected the water bottles this morning! You know we haven’t got any.”
“I know you haven’t any in your water bottles but that’s not the same thing, is it?” There was still no response! „Lay your ammunition out! Now!“
There were groans. Both the Portuguese and the Spanish would gladly sell wine to a man in exchange for a handful of cartridges made with the British gunpowder, the finest in the world, and it was a fair bet that if any man had less than his eighty rounds then Harper would find a bottle hid deep in that man’s pack. Sharpe heard the sound of rummaging and scuffling. He opened his eyes to see seven bottles had magically appeared. Harper stood over them triumphantly. “We share these out tonight. Well done, lads, I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” He turned to Sharpe.
“It will be, sir, so it will. But better than that damned cold last winter.”
Sharpe grinned. “You managed to keep warm enough.”
“We did what we could, sir, we did what we could. You remember the Holy Father in the Friary?” Sharpe nodded but there was no way to stop Patrick Harper once he was launched into a good story. “He told us there was no drink in the place! No drink, and we were as cold as the sea in winter! It was a terrible thing to hear a man of God lie so.”
“You taught him a lesson,“ Sarge Pendleton, the baby of the company, just seventeen and a thief from the streets of Bristol, grinned over the road at the Irishman. Harper nodded. ”We did, lad. You remember? No priest runs out of drink and we found it. My God, a barrel big enough to drown an army’s thirst and it did us that night. And we tipped the Holy Father head first into the wine to teach him that lying is a mortal sin.“ He laughed at the memory. ”I could do with a drop right now.“ He looked innocently round the men resting on the verges. ”Would anyone have a drop?“
There was silence. Sharpe leaned back and hid his smile. He knew what Harper was doing and he could guess what would happen next. The Rifles were one of the few Regiments that could pick and choose its recruits, rejecting all but the best, but even so it suffered from the besetting sin of the whole army: drunkenness. Sharpe guessed there were at least half a dozen bottles of wine within a few paces, and Harper was going to find them. He heard the Sergeant get to his feet. “Right! Inspection.”
“Sergeant!” That was Gataker, too fly for his own good. “You inspected the water bottles this morning! You know we haven’t got any.”
“I know you haven’t any in your water bottles but that’s not the same thing, is it?” There was still no response! „Lay your ammunition out! Now!“
There were groans. Both the Portuguese and the Spanish would gladly sell wine to a man in exchange for a handful of cartridges made with the British gunpowder, the finest in the world, and it was a fair bet that if any man had less than his eighty rounds then Harper would find a bottle hid deep in that man’s pack. Sharpe heard the sound of rummaging and scuffling. He opened his eyes to see seven bottles had magically appeared. Harper stood over them triumphantly. “We share these out tonight. Well done, lads, I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” He turned to Sharpe.