JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 70 из 203Hogan asked after Lennox but Sharpe had no news, and he wondered whether the Scotsman was lying dead on the field. Then there was the clatter of hooves and Sharpe saw Lieutenant Christian Gibbons ride onto the bridge behind Hogan. The blond lieutenant stared down at the Engineer.
“I thought you were under arrest, Captain, and confined?”
Hogan looked up at the arrogant Lieutenant. “I needed a piss.”
Sharpe laughed. Hogan waved, wished him luck, and turned back to the convent leaving Sharpe facing Gibbons across the water. The Lieutenant’s uniform was clean and pristine.
“You’re under arrest, Sharpe, and I am ordered to tell you that Sir Henry will request a General Court Martial.”
Sharpe laughed. It was the only possible response, and it enraged the Lieutenant. “It’s no laughing matter! You are ordered to surrender your sword to me.”
Sharpe looked at the water. “Will you fetch it, Gibbons? Or shall I bring it to you?”
Gibbons ignored the comment. He had been given a message to deliver and was determined to reach the end, whatever the difficulties. “And you are ordered to return the Regimental Colour.”
It was unbelievable. Sharpe could scarcely credit his ears. He stood on the shattered bridge in the searing heat while behind him were rows of wounded men whose cries could clearly be heard, yet Simmerson had sent his nephew to demand that Sharpe surrender his sword and hand over the colour.
“Why was the bridge blown up?”
“It is not your business, Sharpe.”
“It damn well is, Gibbons, I’m on the wrong bloody side of it.” He looked at the elegant Lieutenant, whose uniform was quite unstained by any blood or earth. He suspected Simmerson’s uniform would be the same. “Were you going to abandon the wounded, Gibbons? Was that it?”
The Lieutenant looked at Sharpe with distaste. “Will you please fetch the colour, Sharpe, and throw it to this side of the bridge?”
“Go away, Gibbons.” Sharpe spoke with an equal disdain. “Get your precious uncle to talk with me, not his lapdog. As for the colour? It stays here. You deserted it and I fought for it. My men fought for it and it stays with us till you get us back across the river. Do you understand?” His voice was rising with anger. “So tell that to your fat windbag! He gets his colour with us. And tell him the French are coming back for another attack. They want that colour and that’s why I’m keeping my sword, Gibbons, so that I can fight for it!” He drew the thirty-five inches of steel.
“I thought you were under arrest, Captain, and confined?”
Hogan looked up at the arrogant Lieutenant. “I needed a piss.”
Sharpe laughed. Hogan waved, wished him luck, and turned back to the convent leaving Sharpe facing Gibbons across the water. The Lieutenant’s uniform was clean and pristine.
“You’re under arrest, Sharpe, and I am ordered to tell you that Sir Henry will request a General Court Martial.”
Sharpe laughed. It was the only possible response, and it enraged the Lieutenant. “It’s no laughing matter! You are ordered to surrender your sword to me.”
Sharpe looked at the water. “Will you fetch it, Gibbons? Or shall I bring it to you?”
Gibbons ignored the comment. He had been given a message to deliver and was determined to reach the end, whatever the difficulties. “And you are ordered to return the Regimental Colour.”
It was unbelievable. Sharpe could scarcely credit his ears. He stood on the shattered bridge in the searing heat while behind him were rows of wounded men whose cries could clearly be heard, yet Simmerson had sent his nephew to demand that Sharpe surrender his sword and hand over the colour.
“Why was the bridge blown up?”
“It is not your business, Sharpe.”
“It damn well is, Gibbons, I’m on the wrong bloody side of it.” He looked at the elegant Lieutenant, whose uniform was quite unstained by any blood or earth. He suspected Simmerson’s uniform would be the same. “Were you going to abandon the wounded, Gibbons? Was that it?”
The Lieutenant looked at Sharpe with distaste. “Will you please fetch the colour, Sharpe, and throw it to this side of the bridge?”
“Go away, Gibbons.” Sharpe spoke with an equal disdain. “Get your precious uncle to talk with me, not his lapdog. As for the colour? It stays here. You deserted it and I fought for it. My men fought for it and it stays with us till you get us back across the river. Do you understand?” His voice was rising with anger. “So tell that to your fat windbag! He gets his colour with us. And tell him the French are coming back for another attack. They want that colour and that’s why I’m keeping my sword, Gibbons, so that I can fight for it!” He drew the thirty-five inches of steel.