JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 113 из 213”
Sergeant McGovern, slow and Scottish, stood up and stretched his arms. He marched formally to Private Batten and kicked his ankles. “On your feet.”
“What for?” Batten dropped into the aggrieved tone of surprise that was his main defence against an aggravating world.
“Because I’m going to smash your bloody face in.”
Batten edged away from the Scotsman and looked at Lieutenant Price’s back. “Hey! Lieutenant, sir!”
Price did not look round. “Carry on, Sergeant.”
The men laughed. Batten looked up at McGovern. “Sarge?”
“Shut your bloody face.”
“But, Sarge?”
“Shut it, or get up.”
Batten subsided into what he considered injured but righteous dignity. He busied himself with his right nostril, keeping his remarks just out of the Company’s hearing. Sergeant McGovern crossed to the Lieutenant and stood formally at attention. Price looked up. “Sergeant?”
“It’s a bit strange, sir.”
“Yes.” They both watched Huckfield cross the ditch of the central fort. Price suddenly realised that McGovern, formal always, was still at attention. “Stand easy, Sergeant. Stand easy.”
“Sir!” McGovern let his shoulders drop an eighth of an inch. “Thank you, sir.”
Price looked at his watch. A quarter to four. He did not know what to do and felt helpless without Sharpe or Harper to guide him. He knew that the Scottish Sergeant was hinting that a decision ought to be made and he knew McGovern was right. He stared at the San Cayetano, saw Huckfield’s red jacket appear on a parapet, then disappear, and after a long wait Huckfield came to the top of the crude breach and spread his hands emptily. Price sighed. “We wait till five, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Major Hogan had waited for Sharpe, first at the ravine’s head, then at Headquarters, but the fate of Colonel Leroux was not the Irishman’s only concern. Wellington, now that the forts were taken, was eager to be out of the city. He wanted reports from the north, from the east, and Hogan worked late through the afternoon.
It was not till half past six that Lieutenant Price, awed by approaching Headquarters on his own responsibility, entered Hogan’s room. The Major looked up, smelt trouble, and frowned. “Lieutenant?”
“It’s Sharpe, sir.”
“Captain Sharpe?”
Price nodded miserably. “We’ve lost him, sir.”
“No Leroux?” Hogan had almost forgotten Leroux. He had assumed that it was now Sharpe’s problem while he could concentrate on discovering what fresh levies of troops were joining Marmont.
Sergeant McGovern, slow and Scottish, stood up and stretched his arms. He marched formally to Private Batten and kicked his ankles. “On your feet.”
“What for?” Batten dropped into the aggrieved tone of surprise that was his main defence against an aggravating world.
“Because I’m going to smash your bloody face in.”
Batten edged away from the Scotsman and looked at Lieutenant Price’s back. “Hey! Lieutenant, sir!”
Price did not look round. “Carry on, Sergeant.”
The men laughed. Batten looked up at McGovern. “Sarge?”
“Shut your bloody face.”
“But, Sarge?”
“Shut it, or get up.”
Batten subsided into what he considered injured but righteous dignity. He busied himself with his right nostril, keeping his remarks just out of the Company’s hearing. Sergeant McGovern crossed to the Lieutenant and stood formally at attention. Price looked up. “Sergeant?”
“It’s a bit strange, sir.”
“Yes.” They both watched Huckfield cross the ditch of the central fort. Price suddenly realised that McGovern, formal always, was still at attention. “Stand easy, Sergeant. Stand easy.”
“Sir!” McGovern let his shoulders drop an eighth of an inch. “Thank you, sir.”
Price looked at his watch. A quarter to four. He did not know what to do and felt helpless without Sharpe or Harper to guide him. He knew that the Scottish Sergeant was hinting that a decision ought to be made and he knew McGovern was right. He stared at the San Cayetano, saw Huckfield’s red jacket appear on a parapet, then disappear, and after a long wait Huckfield came to the top of the crude breach and spread his hands emptily. Price sighed. “We wait till five, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Major Hogan had waited for Sharpe, first at the ravine’s head, then at Headquarters, but the fate of Colonel Leroux was not the Irishman’s only concern. Wellington, now that the forts were taken, was eager to be out of the city. He wanted reports from the north, from the east, and Hogan worked late through the afternoon.
It was not till half past six that Lieutenant Price, awed by approaching Headquarters on his own responsibility, entered Hogan’s room. The Major looked up, smelt trouble, and frowned. “Lieutenant?”
“It’s Sharpe, sir.”
“Captain Sharpe?”
Price nodded miserably. “We’ve lost him, sir.”
“No Leroux?” Hogan had almost forgotten Leroux. He had assumed that it was now Sharpe’s problem while he could concentrate on discovering what fresh levies of troops were joining Marmont.