JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 114 из 213Priceshook his head.
“No Leroux, sir.” Price sketched in the afternoon’s events.
“What have you done since?”
It did not add up to much. Lieutenant Price had searched the San Cayetano again, then La Merced, and afterwards taken the Company back to their billets in the hope that Sharpe might have turned up. There was no Sharpe, no Harper, just a lost Lieutenant Price. Hogan looked at his watch. “Good God! You’ve lost him for four hours?” Price nodded. Hogan shouted. “Corporal!”
A head came round the door. “Sir?”
“Daily reports, are they in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything odd, apart from the forts. Quick, man!”
It did not take long. A shooting and a fight at the hospital, one Frenchman had escaped and the town guard had been alerted, but there was no sign of the fugitive.
“Come on, man!” Hogan pulled on his jacket, snatched his hat, and led Lieutenant Price down to the Irish College.
Sergeant Huckfield, who had gone with Price as far as Headquarter’s front door, joined them and it was he who pounded on the gate that was still shut against the revenge of the townspeople. It did not take long to hear the story from the guards in the gate-lodge. There had been a chase. One man was wounded, probably in the wards, as to the other? The guards shrugged. “Dunno, sir.”
Hogan pointed at Price. “Officers’ wards. Search them. Sergeant?”
Huckfield stiffened. “Sir?”
“Other ranks’ wards. Find Sergeant Harper. Go!”
Leroux at liberty. The thought haunted Hogan. He could not believe that Sharpe had failed, he needed to find the Rifleman because, he thought, surely Sharpe could throw light on the episode. It was impossible that Leroux was free!
The surgeons were still at work, dealing now with the less wounded men, taking out scraps of stone that the bombardment had splintered and driven into French defenders. Hogan went from room to room and none could remember a Rifle Captain. One remembered Sergeant Harper. “Out of his senses, sir.”
“You mean mad?”
“No. In a faint. God knows when he’ll recover.”
“And his officer?”
“I didn’t see an officer, sir.”
Was Sharpe still on Leroux’s trail? It was a hope, at least, and Hogan clung to it. Sergeant Huckfield had found Harper, had shaken the huge Irishman’s shoulder, but Harper was still dead to the world, still snoring, still unable to say a thing.
Lieutenant Price came down the curving stairs.
“No Leroux, sir.” Price sketched in the afternoon’s events.
“What have you done since?”
It did not add up to much. Lieutenant Price had searched the San Cayetano again, then La Merced, and afterwards taken the Company back to their billets in the hope that Sharpe might have turned up. There was no Sharpe, no Harper, just a lost Lieutenant Price. Hogan looked at his watch. “Good God! You’ve lost him for four hours?” Price nodded. Hogan shouted. “Corporal!”
A head came round the door. “Sir?”
“Daily reports, are they in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything odd, apart from the forts. Quick, man!”
It did not take long. A shooting and a fight at the hospital, one Frenchman had escaped and the town guard had been alerted, but there was no sign of the fugitive.
“Come on, man!” Hogan pulled on his jacket, snatched his hat, and led Lieutenant Price down to the Irish College.
Sergeant Huckfield, who had gone with Price as far as Headquarter’s front door, joined them and it was he who pounded on the gate that was still shut against the revenge of the townspeople. It did not take long to hear the story from the guards in the gate-lodge. There had been a chase. One man was wounded, probably in the wards, as to the other? The guards shrugged. “Dunno, sir.”
Hogan pointed at Price. “Officers’ wards. Search them. Sergeant?”
Huckfield stiffened. “Sir?”
“Other ranks’ wards. Find Sergeant Harper. Go!”
Leroux at liberty. The thought haunted Hogan. He could not believe that Sharpe had failed, he needed to find the Rifleman because, he thought, surely Sharpe could throw light on the episode. It was impossible that Leroux was free!
The surgeons were still at work, dealing now with the less wounded men, taking out scraps of stone that the bombardment had splintered and driven into French defenders. Hogan went from room to room and none could remember a Rifle Captain. One remembered Sergeant Harper. “Out of his senses, sir.”
“You mean mad?”
“No. In a faint. God knows when he’ll recover.”
“And his officer?”
“I didn’t see an officer, sir.”
Was Sharpe still on Leroux’s trail? It was a hope, at least, and Hogan clung to it. Sergeant Huckfield had found Harper, had shaken the huge Irishman’s shoulder, but Harper was still dead to the world, still snoring, still unable to say a thing.
Lieutenant Price came down the curving stairs.