JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 115 из 213He was blinking, almost unable to speak. Hogan was impatient. “What is it?”
“He’s not there, sir.”
“You’re sure?”
Price nodded, took a deep breath. “But he was shot, sir. Really bad, sir.”
Hogan felt a chill spread through him. There was a silence for a few seconds. “Shot?”
“Bad, sir. And he’s not in the wards.”
“Oh, God.” Huckfield shook his head, unwilling to believe it.
Hogan had held to a live Sharpe, a Sharpe chasing Leroux, a Sharpe who could help him, and he could not adjust to the new information. If Sharpe had been shot, and was not in the officers’ wards, then he was… „Who saw it?“
“A dozen French wounded, sir. They told the British officers. And the priest.”
“Priest?”
“Upstairs, sir.”
Hogan ran, the same path that Sharpe had run, and he took the stairs two at a time, his sword rapping the stone, and he ran to Curtis’ rooms. It seemed to Price and Huckfield, left outside, that he was in the rooms a long time.
Curtis told his story, what there was of it, of how he had opened the door and found a French officer. “Terribly wounded, he looked. Blood from top to toe. He pushed me in, turned and fired, and then he closed the door. He went out the window.” He gestured to the tall window that opened onto the back street. “There was a man there, with a spare horse, and a cloak.”
“So he’s gone.”
“Clean away.”
“And Sharpe?”
Curtis clasped his hands, then extended the fingers as if in prayer. “He screamed, screamed terribly. Then he stopped. I opened the door again.” He shrugged.
Hogan dared hardly use the word. “Dead?”
Curtis shrugged. “I don’t know.” There was not much hope in the old man’s voice.
Hogan insisted on going back over the story, harrying it, as if some detail might emerge that would somehow change the ending, but it was with a harsh expression that he left Curtis’ door and walked, slowly, down the curved staircase. He offered no explanations to Price, but just went back to the surgeons. He bullied them, ordered them, used all the weight of Headquarters, but still no news emerged. One of them had treated an officer with a bullet wound and the man had survived, a Lieutenant in the Portuguese Army, but they were quite sure they had seen no bullet-wounded British officers. “We had a few privates.”
“Ye Gods! A Rifle Officer! Captain Sharpe!”
“Him?” The last surgeon shrugged. “We’d have been told about him.
“He’s not there, sir.”
“You’re sure?”
Price nodded, took a deep breath. “But he was shot, sir. Really bad, sir.”
Hogan felt a chill spread through him. There was a silence for a few seconds. “Shot?”
“Bad, sir. And he’s not in the wards.”
“Oh, God.” Huckfield shook his head, unwilling to believe it.
Hogan had held to a live Sharpe, a Sharpe chasing Leroux, a Sharpe who could help him, and he could not adjust to the new information. If Sharpe had been shot, and was not in the officers’ wards, then he was… „Who saw it?“
“A dozen French wounded, sir. They told the British officers. And the priest.”
“Priest?”
“Upstairs, sir.”
Hogan ran, the same path that Sharpe had run, and he took the stairs two at a time, his sword rapping the stone, and he ran to Curtis’ rooms. It seemed to Price and Huckfield, left outside, that he was in the rooms a long time.
Curtis told his story, what there was of it, of how he had opened the door and found a French officer. “Terribly wounded, he looked. Blood from top to toe. He pushed me in, turned and fired, and then he closed the door. He went out the window.” He gestured to the tall window that opened onto the back street. “There was a man there, with a spare horse, and a cloak.”
“So he’s gone.”
“Clean away.”
“And Sharpe?”
Curtis clasped his hands, then extended the fingers as if in prayer. “He screamed, screamed terribly. Then he stopped. I opened the door again.” He shrugged.
Hogan dared hardly use the word. “Dead?”
Curtis shrugged. “I don’t know.” There was not much hope in the old man’s voice.
Hogan insisted on going back over the story, harrying it, as if some detail might emerge that would somehow change the ending, but it was with a harsh expression that he left Curtis’ door and walked, slowly, down the curved staircase. He offered no explanations to Price, but just went back to the surgeons. He bullied them, ordered them, used all the weight of Headquarters, but still no news emerged. One of them had treated an officer with a bullet wound and the man had survived, a Lieutenant in the Portuguese Army, but they were quite sure they had seen no bullet-wounded British officers. “We had a few privates.”
“Ye Gods! A Rifle Officer! Captain Sharpe!”
“Him?” The last surgeon shrugged. “We’d have been told about him.