JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 156 из 242They stopped by a stream and made a breakfast of stale bread and smoked meat so tough that the men joked aboutre-soling their boots, then grumbled because Sharpe would not let them light a fire and so make tea. Sharpe carried a crust to the summit of a nearby hill and searched the landscape with the small telescope. He saw no enemy, indeed he saw no one at all. A deserted cottage lay further up the valley where the stream ran and there was a church bell tower a mile or so to the south, but there were no people. Vicente joined him. „You think there might be French here?”
„I always think that,” Sharpe said.
„And do you think the British have gone home?” Vicente asked.
„No.”
„Why not?”
Sharpe shrugged. „If we wanted to go home,” he said, „we’d have gone after Sir John Moore’s retreat.”
Vicente stared south. „I know we could not have defended the village,” he said.
„I wish we could have done.”
„It is just that they are my people.” Vicente shrugged.
„I know,” Sharpe said, and he tried to imagine the French army in the dales of Yorkshire or in the streets of London. He tried to imagine the cottages burning, the alehouses sacked and the women screaming, but he could not envisage that horror. It seemed oddly impossible. Harper could doubtless imagine his home being violated, could probably recall it, but Sharpe could not.
„Why do they do it?” Vicente asked with a genuine note of anguish.
Sharpe collapsed the telescope then scuffed the earth with the toe of his right boot. On the day after they had climbed to the watchtower he had dried the rain-soaked boots in front of the fire, but he had left them too close and the leather had cracked. „There are no rules in war,” he said uncomfortably.
„There are rules,” Vicente insisted.
Sharpe ignored the protest. „Most soldiers aren’t saints. They’re drunks, thieves, rogues. They’ve failed at everything, so they join the army or else they’re forced to join by some bastard of a magistrate. Then they’re given a weapon and told to kill. Back home they’d be hanged for it, but in the army they’re praised for it, and if you don’t hold them hard then they think any killing is permitted. Those lads,”-he nodded down the hill to the men grouped under the cork oaks-”know damn well they’ll be punished if they step out of line. But if I let them off the leash? They’d run this country ragged, then make a mess of Spain and they’d never stop till someone killed them.” He paused, knowing he had been unfair to his men. „Mind you, I like them,” he went on.
„I always think that,” Sharpe said.
„And do you think the British have gone home?” Vicente asked.
„No.”
„Why not?”
Sharpe shrugged. „If we wanted to go home,” he said, „we’d have gone after Sir John Moore’s retreat.”
Vicente stared south. „I know we could not have defended the village,” he said.
„I wish we could have done.”
„It is just that they are my people.” Vicente shrugged.
„I know,” Sharpe said, and he tried to imagine the French army in the dales of Yorkshire or in the streets of London. He tried to imagine the cottages burning, the alehouses sacked and the women screaming, but he could not envisage that horror. It seemed oddly impossible. Harper could doubtless imagine his home being violated, could probably recall it, but Sharpe could not.
„Why do they do it?” Vicente asked with a genuine note of anguish.
Sharpe collapsed the telescope then scuffed the earth with the toe of his right boot. On the day after they had climbed to the watchtower he had dried the rain-soaked boots in front of the fire, but he had left them too close and the leather had cracked. „There are no rules in war,” he said uncomfortably.
„There are rules,” Vicente insisted.
Sharpe ignored the protest. „Most soldiers aren’t saints. They’re drunks, thieves, rogues. They’ve failed at everything, so they join the army or else they’re forced to join by some bastard of a magistrate. Then they’re given a weapon and told to kill. Back home they’d be hanged for it, but in the army they’re praised for it, and if you don’t hold them hard then they think any killing is permitted. Those lads,”-he nodded down the hill to the men grouped under the cork oaks-”know damn well they’ll be punished if they step out of line. But if I let them off the leash? They’d run this country ragged, then make a mess of Spain and they’d never stop till someone killed them.” He paused, knowing he had been unfair to his men. „Mind you, I like them,” he went on.