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Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 89 из 203“What?”
“When I saw the colour being lost, I made a resolution. I also made a promise to a dying man.” It sounded desperately melodramatic but it was the truth. “I promised to replace that colour with an Eagle.”
There was a moment of silence. Lawford whistled softly. “It’s never been done.”
“There’s no difference between that and them taking a colour.” That was easily said, but he knew that the French would not make the job as easy for him as Simmerson had for them. In the last six years the French had appeared on the battlefield with new standards. In place of the old colours they now carried gilded eagles mounted on poles. It was said that each Eagle was personally presented to the Regiment by the Emperor himself, and the standards were therefore more than just a symbol of the Regiment, they were a symbol of all France’s pride in their new order. To take an Eagle was to make Bonaparte wince in person. Sharpe felt the anger rise in him.
“I don’t mind replacing Simmerson’s flag with an Eagle. But I’m bloody angry that I have to carve my way through a company of French Grenadiers just to stay in the army.”
Lawford said nothing. He knew that Sharpe spoke the truth; the only thing that could stop the officials in Whitehall singling out Sharpe for punishment was if the Rifleman performed a deed of such undoubted merit that they would look foolish to make him a scapegoat. Privately Lawford thought Sharpe had done more than enough, he had regained a colour, captured a gun, but the account of his deeds would be muddied in London by Simmerson’s telling. No, he had to do more, go further, risk his life in an attempt to keep his job.
Sharpe laughed ironically. He slapped his empty scabbard. “Someone once said that in this job you’re only as good as your last battle.” He paused. “Unless of course you have money or influence.”
“Yes, Richard, unless you have money or influence.”
Sharpe grinned. “Thank you, sir. I’ll go and join the happy throng. I presume my Riflemen come with me?”
Lawford nodded. “Good luck.” He watched Sharpe go. If any man could pluck an Eagle from the French, he thought that the newly made Captain, Richard Sharpe, was that man. Lawford stood in the window and looked down into the street. He saw Sharpe step into the sunlight and put the battered shako on his head; a huge Sergeant was waiting in the shade, the kind of man Lawford would happily wager a hundred guineas on in a bare-fisted prize fight, and he watched as the Sergeant walked up to Sharpe.
“When I saw the colour being lost, I made a resolution. I also made a promise to a dying man.” It sounded desperately melodramatic but it was the truth. “I promised to replace that colour with an Eagle.”
There was a moment of silence. Lawford whistled softly. “It’s never been done.”
“There’s no difference between that and them taking a colour.” That was easily said, but he knew that the French would not make the job as easy for him as Simmerson had for them. In the last six years the French had appeared on the battlefield with new standards. In place of the old colours they now carried gilded eagles mounted on poles. It was said that each Eagle was personally presented to the Regiment by the Emperor himself, and the standards were therefore more than just a symbol of the Regiment, they were a symbol of all France’s pride in their new order. To take an Eagle was to make Bonaparte wince in person. Sharpe felt the anger rise in him.
“I don’t mind replacing Simmerson’s flag with an Eagle. But I’m bloody angry that I have to carve my way through a company of French Grenadiers just to stay in the army.”
Lawford said nothing. He knew that Sharpe spoke the truth; the only thing that could stop the officials in Whitehall singling out Sharpe for punishment was if the Rifleman performed a deed of such undoubted merit that they would look foolish to make him a scapegoat. Privately Lawford thought Sharpe had done more than enough, he had regained a colour, captured a gun, but the account of his deeds would be muddied in London by Simmerson’s telling. No, he had to do more, go further, risk his life in an attempt to keep his job.
Sharpe laughed ironically. He slapped his empty scabbard. “Someone once said that in this job you’re only as good as your last battle.” He paused. “Unless of course you have money or influence.”
“Yes, Richard, unless you have money or influence.”
Sharpe grinned. “Thank you, sir. I’ll go and join the happy throng. I presume my Riflemen come with me?”
Lawford nodded. “Good luck.” He watched Sharpe go. If any man could pluck an Eagle from the French, he thought that the newly made Captain, Richard Sharpe, was that man. Lawford stood in the window and looked down into the street. He saw Sharpe step into the sunlight and put the battered shako on his head; a huge Sergeant was waiting in the shade, the kind of man Lawford would happily wager a hundred guineas on in a bare-fisted prize fight, and he watched as the Sergeant walked up to Sharpe.