JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 127 из 213Hogan sighed. “I think he’s dead, Patrick.”
Harper shook his head stubbornly. “He’s not, sir.” The chains clinked as he held up a hand to silence Hogan. “The guard on the gate told me he was, he said that he’d been buried with the French.”
“That’s right.” Hogan had told the gate Sergeant at the Irish College. “I’m sorry, Patrick.”
Harper shook his head again. “He’s not there, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“I looked. He’s not there.”
“You looked?” Hogan noticed for the first time that Harper’s trousers were stained with earth.
Harper stood up, towering over the other prisoners. “I slit up more than twenty shrouds, sir, right down to the ones that stank. He wasn’t there.” He shrugged. “I thought at the very least the man should have a proper burial.”
“You mean?” Hogan stopped. The hope fluttered in him, and he pushed it down. He turned to the Provost. “Set him free.”
“Can’t do that, sir. Regulations.”
Hogan was a small man, usually mild, but he could be roused to a wrath that was awesome. He released it on the Provost, threatened him with the same shackles, threatened him with punishment Battalions in the Fever Isles, and the Provost, wilting under the onslaught, knocked the bolts out of the manacles. Harper rubbed his wrists as the other Provost, with his Captain, came back. The Captain took one look at the freed prisoner, saluted Hogan, and launched into an explanation. “The prisoner was found this morning, sir, desecrating the dead…‘
“Quiet.” Hogan’s voice cracked with anger. He looked at Harper. “Where are your weapons?”
Harper jerked his head at the Provosts. “These bastards have them, sir.”
Hogan looked at the Captain. “Sergeant Harper’s weapons are to be delivered to me, Major Hogan, at Army Headquarters, within one hour. They are to be cleaned, polished, and oiled. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Harper stepped on the foot of the man who had hit him with a musket. Hogan saw the man’s face flinch in agony, Harper leaned harder, then the Sergeant stepped away with a surprised look on his face. “Sorry.” He looked at Hogan. “Should we go and look for him, sir?”
Hogan had seen the lump and the blood on Harper’s head. He gestured at it. “How is it?”
“Bloody terrible, sir. Feels as if some bastard scraped my brains out. I’ll live.” Harper set off up the street.
Hogan caught up with him. “Don’t be too hopeful, Patrick.
Harper shook his head stubbornly. “He’s not, sir.” The chains clinked as he held up a hand to silence Hogan. “The guard on the gate told me he was, he said that he’d been buried with the French.”
“That’s right.” Hogan had told the gate Sergeant at the Irish College. “I’m sorry, Patrick.”
Harper shook his head again. “He’s not there, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“I looked. He’s not there.”
“You looked?” Hogan noticed for the first time that Harper’s trousers were stained with earth.
Harper stood up, towering over the other prisoners. “I slit up more than twenty shrouds, sir, right down to the ones that stank. He wasn’t there.” He shrugged. “I thought at the very least the man should have a proper burial.”
“You mean?” Hogan stopped. The hope fluttered in him, and he pushed it down. He turned to the Provost. “Set him free.”
“Can’t do that, sir. Regulations.”
Hogan was a small man, usually mild, but he could be roused to a wrath that was awesome. He released it on the Provost, threatened him with the same shackles, threatened him with punishment Battalions in the Fever Isles, and the Provost, wilting under the onslaught, knocked the bolts out of the manacles. Harper rubbed his wrists as the other Provost, with his Captain, came back. The Captain took one look at the freed prisoner, saluted Hogan, and launched into an explanation. “The prisoner was found this morning, sir, desecrating the dead…‘
“Quiet.” Hogan’s voice cracked with anger. He looked at Harper. “Where are your weapons?”
Harper jerked his head at the Provosts. “These bastards have them, sir.”
Hogan looked at the Captain. “Sergeant Harper’s weapons are to be delivered to me, Major Hogan, at Army Headquarters, within one hour. They are to be cleaned, polished, and oiled. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Harper stepped on the foot of the man who had hit him with a musket. Hogan saw the man’s face flinch in agony, Harper leaned harder, then the Sergeant stepped away with a surprised look on his face. “Sorry.” He looked at Hogan. “Should we go and look for him, sir?”
Hogan had seen the lump and the blood on Harper’s head. He gestured at it. “How is it?”
“Bloody terrible, sir. Feels as if some bastard scraped my brains out. I’ll live.” Harper set off up the street.
Hogan caught up with him. “Don’t be too hopeful, Patrick.