JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 86 из 203Sir?” Simmerson was overwhelmed by the information. To be called a Battalion of Detachments? It was unthinkable! He stammered a protest. Wellesley interrupted him.
“I will furnish you with a list of officers, sir. Are you telling me you have promised promotion already?”
Simmerson nodded. Wellesley looked at the sheet of paper he was holding. “To whom, Sir Henry, did you give command of the Light Company?”
“To Lieutenant Gibbons, sir.”
“Your nephew?” Wellesley paused to make sure that Simmerson answered. The Colonel nodded bleakly. Wellesley turned to Gibbons.
“You concurred in your uncle’s order to advance a skirmish line against cavalry?”
Gibbons was trapped. He licked his lips, shrugged, and finally agreed. Wellesley shook his head.
“Then you are plainly not a fit person to lead a Light Company. No, Sir Henry, I am giving you one of the finest skirmishers in the British army to lead your Light troops. I have gazetted him Captain.”
Simmerson said nothing. Gibbons was pale with anger. Lawford grinned at Sharpe, and the Rifleman felt the flutter of hope. The General flicked his gaze to Sharpe and back to Simmerson.
“I can think of few men, Sir Henry, who are better leaders of Light Troops in battle than Captain Sharpe.”
He soared, he had done it, he had escaped! It did not matter that it was with Simmerson, he had become a Captain! Captain Sharpe! He could hardly hear the rest of Wellesley’s words, the victory was complete, the enemy routed! He was a Captain. What did it matter that the gazette was an artificial promotion, pending the acceptance of the Horse Guards? It would do for a while. A Captain! Captain Richard Sharpe of the Battalion of Detachments.
Wellesley was bringing the interview to a close. Simmer-son made one final effort. “I shall write—“ Simmerson was indignant, desperately clinging to whatever shreds of dignity he could rescue from the torrent of Wellesley’s disdain. ”I shall write to Whitehall, sir, and they will know the truth of this!“
“You may do what you like, sir, but you will kindly let me get on with waging a war. Good day.”
Lawford opened the door. Simmerson clapped on his cocked hat, and the four officers turned to go. Wellesley spoke.
“Captain Sharpe!”
“Sir?” It was the first time he had been called ‘Captain’. “A word with you.”
Lawford closed the door on the other three. Wellesley looked at Sharpe, his expression still grim. “You disobeyed an order.”
“Yes, sir.
“I will furnish you with a list of officers, sir. Are you telling me you have promised promotion already?”
Simmerson nodded. Wellesley looked at the sheet of paper he was holding. “To whom, Sir Henry, did you give command of the Light Company?”
“To Lieutenant Gibbons, sir.”
“Your nephew?” Wellesley paused to make sure that Simmerson answered. The Colonel nodded bleakly. Wellesley turned to Gibbons.
“You concurred in your uncle’s order to advance a skirmish line against cavalry?”
Gibbons was trapped. He licked his lips, shrugged, and finally agreed. Wellesley shook his head.
“Then you are plainly not a fit person to lead a Light Company. No, Sir Henry, I am giving you one of the finest skirmishers in the British army to lead your Light troops. I have gazetted him Captain.”
Simmerson said nothing. Gibbons was pale with anger. Lawford grinned at Sharpe, and the Rifleman felt the flutter of hope. The General flicked his gaze to Sharpe and back to Simmerson.
“I can think of few men, Sir Henry, who are better leaders of Light Troops in battle than Captain Sharpe.”
He soared, he had done it, he had escaped! It did not matter that it was with Simmerson, he had become a Captain! Captain Sharpe! He could hardly hear the rest of Wellesley’s words, the victory was complete, the enemy routed! He was a Captain. What did it matter that the gazette was an artificial promotion, pending the acceptance of the Horse Guards? It would do for a while. A Captain! Captain Richard Sharpe of the Battalion of Detachments.
Wellesley was bringing the interview to a close. Simmer-son made one final effort. “I shall write—“ Simmerson was indignant, desperately clinging to whatever shreds of dignity he could rescue from the torrent of Wellesley’s disdain. ”I shall write to Whitehall, sir, and they will know the truth of this!“
“You may do what you like, sir, but you will kindly let me get on with waging a war. Good day.”
Lawford opened the door. Simmerson clapped on his cocked hat, and the four officers turned to go. Wellesley spoke.
“Captain Sharpe!”
“Sir?” It was the first time he had been called ‘Captain’. “A word with you.”
Lawford closed the door on the other three. Wellesley looked at Sharpe, his expression still grim. “You disobeyed an order.”
“Yes, sir.