Sharpes Havoc   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

Vicente arranged for a mason from the village to brick up the wine cellar’s entrance, and while that was being done, and while Dodd scrubbed the coppers with sand and vinegar, Sharpe took Williamson up into the woods. He was tempted to flog the man, for he was very close to hating Williamson, but Sharpe had once been flogged himself and he was reluctant to inflict the same punishment. Instead he found an open space between some laurels and used his sword to scratch two lines in the mossy turf. The lines were a yard long and a yard apart. „You don’t like me, do you, Williamson?”

Williamson said nothing. He just stared at the lines with red eyes. He knew what they were.

„What are my three rules, Williamson?”

Williamson looked up sullenly. He was a big man, heavy-faced with long side whiskers, a broken nose and smallpox scars. He came from Leicester where he had been convicted of stealing two candlesticks from St. Nicholas’s Church and offered the chance to enlist rather than hang. „Don’t thieve,” he said in a low voice, „don’t get drunk and fight proper.”

„Are you a thief?”

„No, sir.”

„You bloody are, Williamson. That’s why you’re in the army. And you got drunk without permission. But can you fight?”

„You know I can, sir.”

Sharpe unbuckled his sword belt and let it and the weapon drop, then took off his shako and green jacket and threw them down. „Tell me why you don’t like me,” he demanded.

Williamson stared off into the laurels.

„Come on!” Sharpe said. „Say what you bloody like. You’re not going to be punished for answering a question.”

Williamson looked back at him. „We shouldn’t be here!” he blurted out.

„You’re right.”

Williamson blinked at that, but carried on. „Ever since Captain Murray died, sir, we’ve been out on our own! We should be back with the battalion. It’s where we belong. You were never our officer, sir. Never!”

„I am now.”

„It ain’t right.”

„So you want to go home to England?”

„The battalion’s there, so I do, aye.”

„But there’s a war on, Williamson. A bloody war. And we’re stuck in it. We didn’t ask to be here, don’t even want to be here, but we are. And we’re staying.” Williamson looked at Sharpe resentfully, but said nothing. „But you can go home, Williamson,” Sharpe said and the heavy face looked up, interested. „There are three ways for you to go home. One, we get orders for England. Two, you get wounded so badly that they send you home. And three, you put your feet on the scratch and you fight me.