JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 104 из 242Win or lose, Williamson, I promise to send you home as soon as I can by the first bloody ship we find. All you have to do is fight me.” Sharpe walked to one of the lines and put his toes against it. This was how the pugilists fought, they toed the line and then punched it out with bare fists until one man dropped in bloody, battered exhaustion. „Fight me properly, mind,” Sharpe said, „no dropping after the first hit. You’ll have to draw blood to prove you’re trying. Hit me on the nose, that’ll do it.” He waited. Williamson licked his lips.
„Come on!” Sharpe snarled. „Fight me!”
„You’re an officer,” Williamson said.
„Not now, I’m not. And no one’s watching. Just you and me, Williamson, and you don’t like me and I’m giving you a chance to thump me. And you do it properly and I’ll have you home by summer.” He did not know how he would keep that promise, but nor did he think he would have to try, for Williamson, he knew, was remembering the epic fight between Harper and Sharpe, a fight that had left both men reeling, yet Sharpe had won it and the riflemen had watched it and they learned something about Sharpe that day.
And Williamson did not want to learn the lesson again. „I won’t fight an officer,” he said with assumed dignity.
Sharpe turned his back, picked up his jacket. „Then find Sergeant Harper,” he said, „and tell him you’re to do the same punishment as Sims and Gataker.” He turned back. „On the double!”
Williamson ran. His shame at refusing the fight might make him more dangerous, but it would also diminish his influence over the other men who, even though they would never know what had happened in the woods, would sense that Williamson had been humiliated. Sharpe buckled his belt and walked slowly back. He worried about his men, worried that he would lose their loyalty, worried that he was proving a bad officer. He remembered Bias Vivar and wished he had the Spanish officer’s quiet ability to enforce obedience through sheer presence, but perhaps that effortless authority came with experience. At least none of his men had deserted. They were all present, except for Tarrant and the few who were back in Coimbra’s military hospital recovering from the fever.
It was a month now since Oporto had fallen. The fort on the hilltop was almost finished and, to Sharpe’s surprise, the men had enjoyed the hard labor. Daniel Hagman was walking again, albeit slowly, but he was mended enough to work and Sharpe placed a kitchen table in the sun where, one by one, Hagman stripped, cleaned and oiled every rifle.
„Come on!” Sharpe snarled. „Fight me!”
„You’re an officer,” Williamson said.
„Not now, I’m not. And no one’s watching. Just you and me, Williamson, and you don’t like me and I’m giving you a chance to thump me. And you do it properly and I’ll have you home by summer.” He did not know how he would keep that promise, but nor did he think he would have to try, for Williamson, he knew, was remembering the epic fight between Harper and Sharpe, a fight that had left both men reeling, yet Sharpe had won it and the riflemen had watched it and they learned something about Sharpe that day.
And Williamson did not want to learn the lesson again. „I won’t fight an officer,” he said with assumed dignity.
Sharpe turned his back, picked up his jacket. „Then find Sergeant Harper,” he said, „and tell him you’re to do the same punishment as Sims and Gataker.” He turned back. „On the double!”
Williamson ran. His shame at refusing the fight might make him more dangerous, but it would also diminish his influence over the other men who, even though they would never know what had happened in the woods, would sense that Williamson had been humiliated. Sharpe buckled his belt and walked slowly back. He worried about his men, worried that he would lose their loyalty, worried that he was proving a bad officer. He remembered Bias Vivar and wished he had the Spanish officer’s quiet ability to enforce obedience through sheer presence, but perhaps that effortless authority came with experience. At least none of his men had deserted. They were all present, except for Tarrant and the few who were back in Coimbra’s military hospital recovering from the fever.
It was a month now since Oporto had fallen. The fort on the hilltop was almost finished and, to Sharpe’s surprise, the men had enjoyed the hard labor. Daniel Hagman was walking again, albeit slowly, but he was mended enough to work and Sharpe placed a kitchen table in the sun where, one by one, Hagman stripped, cleaned and oiled every rifle.