Sharpes Sword   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

The body-men protested as Huckfield began slitting at the grey shrouds,but Hogan snapped at them to be quiet, and he and Price watched as face after face was revealed. None were Sharpe. Hogan turned back to the body-man. “Have any been buried yet?”

“Lord, yes. Two cart loads this afternoon, sir.”

So Sharpe was buried in a common grave with his enemies. Hogan felt the beginnings of a sob and he swallowed, stamped his feet as if it were cold, and looked at Price. “It’s your Company now, Lieutenant.”

“No, sir.”

Hogan’s voice was gentle. “Yes. You’d better march in the morning. You’ll find the Battalion at San Christobal. You’ll have to tell Major Forrest.”

Price shook his head obstinately. “Shouldn’t we find him, sir? I mean the least we can do is dig a decent grave.”

“You mean, dig up the French dead?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hogan shook his head. “Fire a volley over the grave tomorrow morning. That’ll do.”

It was all, Hogan thought as he walked slowly back to the Headquarters, that Sharpe might have wanted. No, that was not right. He did not know what Sharpe wanted, except success, and to prove that a man who came from the gutter could compete with anyone, be as good as the most privileged, and perhaps it was better that he should find peace now rather than strive after that remote dream, and then Hogan dismissed that thought as well. It was not better. Sharpe had been turbulent, ambitious, but one day, Hogan supposed, that restlessness would have found satisfaction. Then, curiously, Hogan found himself resenting Sharpe, resenting him because he had been killed and was thus denying his friendship to those who still lived. Hogan could not imagine being without Sharpe. Just when life seemed to reach an even keel the Rifleman could be relied on to upset things, stir them up, make excitement from dullness, and now it was all gone. A friend was dead.

Hogan wearily climbed the steps of the Headquarters and the officers were coming from the Dining Room as he went into the hallway. Wellington saw Hogan’s face and stopped. “Major?”

“Richard Sharpe’s dead, sir.”

“No.”

Hogan nodded. “I’m sorry, my lord.” He told what he knew.

Wellington listened in silence. He remembered Sharpe as a Sergeant. They had covered many miles together and much time. He saw the distress on Hogan’s face, understood it, but did not know what words to say. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Hogan. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, sir.” It suddenly struck Hogan that life hereafter would seem anti-climactic, inadequate, and dull.