JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 121 из 213There was a pile of dirty blankets under the single window, a small grating at the very top of the arch, and the orderly spread one on the naked body that had curled its legs into the foetal position. There you are, Sarge, all yours.“
“And in good hands he is, too.” Connelley was not an unkind man. Few would want his job, yet he did not mind. He tried to make the last hours of his dying charges as gentle as he could, yet even in death he expected men to have standards. Especially if there were Frenchmen dying in his room. Then he would lecture the wounded British, admonish them to die like men, not to disgrace themselves in front of the enemy. “You’ll be getting a proper funeral, will you not?” he would say, “with the whole regiment and reversed arms, the proper honours, and you’re making a noise like a wee girl. Shame on you, man, and will you not die well?”
He gestured to the other end of the room and spoke to the orderlies. “There is a dead one up there.”
It was cold in the death room. Connelley drank steadily. Some men breathed noisily, some moaned, and some talked. The big Sergeant prowled the central aisle from time to time, carrying a water bucket and ladle, and he would feel the feet of the patients to see if they had died. He came to Sharpe and crouched beside him. The breathing was shallow, moaning slightly in his throat, and Connelley put a hand on the naked shoulder and it was cold. “Ah, you poor man. You’ll catch your death!” He lumbered to the window, found another blanket, shook it as if he could free it of the lice that infested its seams, and spread it on top of the other blanket. A man at the far end cried out, caught in sudden pain, and Connelley screwed himself round. “Whoa there, lad! Whoa! Gentle now! Die well, die well.”
A Frenchman cried and Connelley squatted beside him, took the man’s hand, and talked of Ireland. He told the uncomprehending Frenchman of Connaught’s beauty, of its women, of fields so fat that a lamb was full grown in a week, of rivers so thick that the fish begged to be caught, and the Frenchman quieted and Connelley patted his hair and told him he was brave, and he was proud of him, and beyond the small grating the sky darkened into dusk and the orderlies came down again and dragged the Frenchman, who had died, head-bumping up the steps.
“And in good hands he is, too.” Connelley was not an unkind man. Few would want his job, yet he did not mind. He tried to make the last hours of his dying charges as gentle as he could, yet even in death he expected men to have standards. Especially if there were Frenchmen dying in his room. Then he would lecture the wounded British, admonish them to die like men, not to disgrace themselves in front of the enemy. “You’ll be getting a proper funeral, will you not?” he would say, “with the whole regiment and reversed arms, the proper honours, and you’re making a noise like a wee girl. Shame on you, man, and will you not die well?”
He gestured to the other end of the room and spoke to the orderlies. “There is a dead one up there.”
It was cold in the death room. Connelley drank steadily. Some men breathed noisily, some moaned, and some talked. The big Sergeant prowled the central aisle from time to time, carrying a water bucket and ladle, and he would feel the feet of the patients to see if they had died. He came to Sharpe and crouched beside him. The breathing was shallow, moaning slightly in his throat, and Connelley put a hand on the naked shoulder and it was cold. “Ah, you poor man. You’ll catch your death!” He lumbered to the window, found another blanket, shook it as if he could free it of the lice that infested its seams, and spread it on top of the other blanket. A man at the far end cried out, caught in sudden pain, and Connelley screwed himself round. “Whoa there, lad! Whoa! Gentle now! Die well, die well.”
A Frenchman cried and Connelley squatted beside him, took the man’s hand, and talked of Ireland. He told the uncomprehending Frenchman of Connaught’s beauty, of its women, of fields so fat that a lamb was full grown in a week, of rivers so thick that the fish begged to be caught, and the Frenchman quieted and Connelley patted his hair and told him he was brave, and he was proud of him, and beyond the small grating the sky darkened into dusk and the orderlies came down again and dragged the Frenchman, who had died, head-bumping up the steps.