JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 71 из 203There had been no time to clean the blade, and Gibbons could scarcely take his eyes off the crusted blood. “And Gibbons. If you want this you can bloody well come and get it yourself.” He turned away from the Lieutenant, back to the wounded and dead, back to where Harper was waiting with a distressed face.
“Sergeant?”
“We found Captain Lennox, sir. He’s bad.”
Sharpe followed Harper through the rows of wounded, who stared at him dumbly. There was so little he could do! He could bind up wounds but there was no way to dull the pain. He needed brandy, a doctor, help. And now Lennox.
The Scotsman was white, his face drawn with pain, but he nodded and grinned when Sharpe squatted beside him. Sharpe felt a pang of guilt when he remembered the last words he had spoken to the Captain of the Light Company only a few feet from this spot. They had been ‘enjoy yourself. Lennox grinned through the pain.
“I told you he was mad, Richard. Now this. I’m dying.” He spoke matter-of-factly. Sharpe shook his head.
“You’re not. You’ll be all right. They’re making rafts. We’ll get you home, to a doctor, you’ll be all right.”
It was Lennox’s turn to shake his head. It moved with agonising slowness, and he bit his lip as a fresh stab of pain shot through him. The lower half of his body was soaked in blood, and Sharpe did not dare pull at the soaked and torn uniform for fear of making the wound worse. Lennox breathed a long sigh.
“Don’t cheat me, Sharpe. I’m dying and I know it.” His Scottish accent was thicker. He looked up into Sharpe’s face. “The fool tried to make me form a skirmish line.”
“Me too.”
Lennox nodded slowly. He frowned slightly. “I was caught early on. Bastard laid me open with a sabre, right in the belly. I couldna‘ do a thing.” He looked up again. “What happened?”
Sharpe told him. Told how the Spanish had broken the British square by seeking safety inside, how the survivors had rallied and beaten off the French attack, of the carbine fire and the loss of the colour. When he spoke of the King’s Colour Lennox flinched in pain. The disgrace of it hurt more than the ripped open body that was killing him.
“Sir! Sir!” A private was calling Sharpe, but he waved him away. Lennox was trying to say something but the private insisted. “Sir!”
Sharpe turned and saw three Chasseurs trotting towards him. The hour must be up.
“More trouble?” Lennox grinned weakly.
“Yes. But it can wait.”
Lennox’s hand gripped Sharpe’s. “No. I can wait. I’ll not die yet. Listen.
“Sergeant?”
“We found Captain Lennox, sir. He’s bad.”
Sharpe followed Harper through the rows of wounded, who stared at him dumbly. There was so little he could do! He could bind up wounds but there was no way to dull the pain. He needed brandy, a doctor, help. And now Lennox.
The Scotsman was white, his face drawn with pain, but he nodded and grinned when Sharpe squatted beside him. Sharpe felt a pang of guilt when he remembered the last words he had spoken to the Captain of the Light Company only a few feet from this spot. They had been ‘enjoy yourself. Lennox grinned through the pain.
“I told you he was mad, Richard. Now this. I’m dying.” He spoke matter-of-factly. Sharpe shook his head.
“You’re not. You’ll be all right. They’re making rafts. We’ll get you home, to a doctor, you’ll be all right.”
It was Lennox’s turn to shake his head. It moved with agonising slowness, and he bit his lip as a fresh stab of pain shot through him. The lower half of his body was soaked in blood, and Sharpe did not dare pull at the soaked and torn uniform for fear of making the wound worse. Lennox breathed a long sigh.
“Don’t cheat me, Sharpe. I’m dying and I know it.” His Scottish accent was thicker. He looked up into Sharpe’s face. “The fool tried to make me form a skirmish line.”
“Me too.”
Lennox nodded slowly. He frowned slightly. “I was caught early on. Bastard laid me open with a sabre, right in the belly. I couldna‘ do a thing.” He looked up again. “What happened?”
Sharpe told him. Told how the Spanish had broken the British square by seeking safety inside, how the survivors had rallied and beaten off the French attack, of the carbine fire and the loss of the colour. When he spoke of the King’s Colour Lennox flinched in pain. The disgrace of it hurt more than the ripped open body that was killing him.
“Sir! Sir!” A private was calling Sharpe, but he waved him away. Lennox was trying to say something but the private insisted. “Sir!”
Sharpe turned and saw three Chasseurs trotting towards him. The hour must be up.
“More trouble?” Lennox grinned weakly.
“Yes. But it can wait.”
Lennox’s hand gripped Sharpe’s. “No. I can wait. I’ll not die yet. Listen.