JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 128 из 213” He did not like saying it, butit had to be said. “He was shot, and the surgeons didn’t see him.” Hogan had to hurry to keep up with the huge Sergeant. “He’s probably buried with the British, Patrick.”
Harper shook his head. “He’s not buried at all, sir. He’s probably sitting up in bed screaming for his breakfast. He always did have a terrible tongue in his head in the morning.”
Hogan shook his head. “You didn’t hear me. They didn’t treat a British officer with a bullet wound.” He hated puncturing Harper’s hopes, yet still the Irish Sergeant seemed unmoved.
“You searched, sir?”
“Yes. Officers’ wards, surgery, the dead in the courtyard.”
“Other ranks’ wards?”
Hogan shrugged. “Sergeant Huckfield looked for you, he didn’t see Sharpe. Why should Sharpe be there?”
Harper screwed his face up with the pain of his head. “They didn’t treat an officer?”
Hogan felt sorry for Harper. At last the truth had sunk in. “I’m sorry, Patrick. They didn’t.”
“Like as not. The bugger wasn’t wearing his jacket, and doubtless they saw the scars on his back.”
“He what?” Hogan dodged round a water-seller who was waving his leather spout hoping the Major would buy.
Harper shrugged. “He left his jacket with the Lieutenant, didn’t he? It was so damned hot out there. Then the surgeons must have seen his back. Like mine.” Both Sharpe and Harper had been flogged and the scars never went.
Hogan swore at the absent Lieutenant Price who had never thought to mention Sharpe’s jacket. He began to run, the hope suddenly giddy inside him, and they took the steps of the college in two leaps. The hope stayed with him as they went into the mens’ wards. Hogan imagined Sharpe’s face when he saw them, the relief, the joking that he had been mistaken for a Private, even a Frenchman, but there was no Sharpe there. They searched each room, twice, and the faces on the floor stayed the same. Harper shrugged. “Perhaps he woke up, told them who he was?”
The orderlies said no. They had seen no officers, no patient complaining about being in the ward. There was no Sharpe. The hope went. Even Harper seemed to be resigned. “I can dig up the British, sir.”
“No, Patrick.”
One of the orderlies had become involved in their search. He still wandered, hopeful, among the crammed wounded. He looked at Hogan and seemed reluctant to speak. “Was he shot bad, sir?”
Hogan nodded. “Yes.
Harper shook his head. “He’s not buried at all, sir. He’s probably sitting up in bed screaming for his breakfast. He always did have a terrible tongue in his head in the morning.”
Hogan shook his head. “You didn’t hear me. They didn’t treat a British officer with a bullet wound.” He hated puncturing Harper’s hopes, yet still the Irish Sergeant seemed unmoved.
“You searched, sir?”
“Yes. Officers’ wards, surgery, the dead in the courtyard.”
“Other ranks’ wards?”
Hogan shrugged. “Sergeant Huckfield looked for you, he didn’t see Sharpe. Why should Sharpe be there?”
Harper screwed his face up with the pain of his head. “They didn’t treat an officer?”
Hogan felt sorry for Harper. At last the truth had sunk in. “I’m sorry, Patrick. They didn’t.”
“Like as not. The bugger wasn’t wearing his jacket, and doubtless they saw the scars on his back.”
“He what?” Hogan dodged round a water-seller who was waving his leather spout hoping the Major would buy.
Harper shrugged. “He left his jacket with the Lieutenant, didn’t he? It was so damned hot out there. Then the surgeons must have seen his back. Like mine.” Both Sharpe and Harper had been flogged and the scars never went.
Hogan swore at the absent Lieutenant Price who had never thought to mention Sharpe’s jacket. He began to run, the hope suddenly giddy inside him, and they took the steps of the college in two leaps. The hope stayed with him as they went into the mens’ wards. Hogan imagined Sharpe’s face when he saw them, the relief, the joking that he had been mistaken for a Private, even a Frenchman, but there was no Sharpe there. They searched each room, twice, and the faces on the floor stayed the same. Harper shrugged. “Perhaps he woke up, told them who he was?”
The orderlies said no. They had seen no officers, no patient complaining about being in the ward. There was no Sharpe. The hope went. Even Harper seemed to be resigned. “I can dig up the British, sir.”
“No, Patrick.”
One of the orderlies had become involved in their search. He still wandered, hopeful, among the crammed wounded. He looked at Hogan and seemed reluctant to speak. “Was he shot bad, sir?”
Hogan nodded. “Yes.