JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 120 из 213Already the breathing wasshallow, the skin palloring, and the pulse going. The sooner he died, the better, for the rest of his life would be pain. It would be a short life. The wound would abscess, the rot would set in, and he would be buried within the week. The surgeon, irritated with himself for his thoroughness, heaved up Sharpe’s side and saw that there was no exit wound. Instead he saw the flogging scars. A troublemaker come to a bad end. “Take him downstairs. Next!”
They bandaged him, stripped him naked, and his clothes, such as they were, were tossed into a corner where they could be searched at leisure. Many men hid coins in the seams of their clothes and the orderlies reaped a tidy reward for their work. One of them looked at the pale face. “Who is he?”
“Dunno. French, I suppose.” Sharpe’s overalls were French.
“Don’t be stupid. French don’t flog their buggers.”
„They do!“
„They bloody don’t!“
“Doesn’t bloody matter. He’s dying. Give ‘im to Connelley. That’s what the doctor said. ”
Sergeant Harper could have told them that Sharpe was a British officer, but Sergeant Harper was unconscious in a ward, and Sharpe had borne no marks of rank, just the scars of a flogging that had been given him by Obadiah Hakeswill in an Indian village years before. He looked like a private, he was treated as a private, and he was carried down the damp steps to the cellar where the doctors left their hopeless cases to die. The death room.
Sergeant Michael Connelley, dying himself of alcoholic poisoning, heard the steps and turned his huge, fatty bulk round. “What you got?”
“Dunno, Sarge. Could be a frog, could be one of ours, but he ain’t saying.”
Connelley looked at the face, at the bandage, and tapped a quick sign of the cross on his chest. “Poor sod. At least he’s quiet. All right, boys, down the far end. We’ve some wee space left.” Connelley sat down on his bench, tipped the rum bottle to his face, and watched as the new man was carried into the darkness of the dank, bricked cellar. “Any money on him?”
“No, sarge. Poor as a bloody Irishman.”
“You watch yourself!” Connelley growled. He spat on the floor. They should have put me with the officers upstairs. There’s some rare money up there.“ He drank again.
They pushed Sharpe into the wall, laying him on a thin, lumpy straw palliasse, and his head was in the low space where the brick arch met the floor.
They bandaged him, stripped him naked, and his clothes, such as they were, were tossed into a corner where they could be searched at leisure. Many men hid coins in the seams of their clothes and the orderlies reaped a tidy reward for their work. One of them looked at the pale face. “Who is he?”
“Dunno. French, I suppose.” Sharpe’s overalls were French.
“Don’t be stupid. French don’t flog their buggers.”
„They do!“
„They bloody don’t!“
“Doesn’t bloody matter. He’s dying. Give ‘im to Connelley. That’s what the doctor said. ”
Sergeant Harper could have told them that Sharpe was a British officer, but Sergeant Harper was unconscious in a ward, and Sharpe had borne no marks of rank, just the scars of a flogging that had been given him by Obadiah Hakeswill in an Indian village years before. He looked like a private, he was treated as a private, and he was carried down the damp steps to the cellar where the doctors left their hopeless cases to die. The death room.
Sergeant Michael Connelley, dying himself of alcoholic poisoning, heard the steps and turned his huge, fatty bulk round. “What you got?”
“Dunno, Sarge. Could be a frog, could be one of ours, but he ain’t saying.”
Connelley looked at the face, at the bandage, and tapped a quick sign of the cross on his chest. “Poor sod. At least he’s quiet. All right, boys, down the far end. We’ve some wee space left.” Connelley sat down on his bench, tipped the rum bottle to his face, and watched as the new man was carried into the darkness of the dank, bricked cellar. “Any money on him?”
“No, sarge. Poor as a bloody Irishman.”
“You watch yourself!” Connelley growled. He spat on the floor. They should have put me with the officers upstairs. There’s some rare money up there.“ He drank again.
They pushed Sharpe into the wall, laying him on a thin, lumpy straw palliasse, and his head was in the low space where the brick arch met the floor.