JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 179 из 213He skirted the advancing infantry, not wanting to be fired on by a nervous man, and they came out onto the small ridge a hundred yards from where the last fighting of the day had happened.
“Stop here, Richard.” They were at the top of the bank. The fires and the darkness of the battlefield were spread out in front of them.
Sharpe still held the reins of Spears’ horse. “You need a doctor, my lord.”
“No.” Spears shook his head. “No, no, no. Help me down.”
Sharpe tethered both horses to a misshapen, stunted tree. Then he lifted Spears from the saddle, and laid him on the bank. He made a pillow from his own greatcoat. He could hear the Sixth Division hacking at branches with bill-hooks and bayonets, making their fires, and the battle, at last, was truly over. Sharpe opened Spears’ jacket, his shirt, and he had to tug the linen away from the wound. The bullet had driven some threads of the shirt into the chest and they stuck out, matted and obscene, like thick hairs. The hole seemed very small. Blood welled in it, glistened black in the moonlight, then spilt dark on Spears’ pale skin. Spears grimaced. “It hurts.”
“Why the hell did you do it?”
“I didn’t want to miss the battle.” Spears put his fingers on the blood, lifted them away and looked at his fingertips in horror.
“It was a crazy thing to do. The battle was over.” Sharpe cut with his pocket knife at Spears’ shirt, tearing away the clean linen to make a pad for the wound.
Spears gave a lopsided grin. “All heroes are crazy.” He tried to laugh and the laugh turned into a cough. He put his head back on the pillow. “I’m dying.” He said it very calmly.
Sharpe put the pad on the wound, pressed gently and Spears flinched because the bullet had broken a rib. Sharpe took his hand away. “You won’t die.”
Spears twisted his head and watched Sharpe’s face. His voice had some of his old, impish charm. “Actually, Richard, at the risk of sounding frightfully heroic and dramatic, I rather want to die.” The tears that were in his eyes belied his words. He sniffed and turned his head back so he stared upwards. “That’s awfully embarrassing, I know. Apologies.” Sharpe said nothing. He stared at the fires that threaded the battlefield, grass fires, and at the mysterious lumps that were broken bodies. A wind came off the field and brought the smell of victory; smoke, powder, blood, and burning flesh. Sharpe had known other men want to die, but never someone who was a lord, who was handsome, charming, and who now apologised again. “I did embarrass you. Forget I spoke.”
Sharpe sat beside him. “I’m not embarrassed. I don’t believe you.”
For a moment neither man spoke.
“Stop here, Richard.” They were at the top of the bank. The fires and the darkness of the battlefield were spread out in front of them.
Sharpe still held the reins of Spears’ horse. “You need a doctor, my lord.”
“No.” Spears shook his head. “No, no, no. Help me down.”
Sharpe tethered both horses to a misshapen, stunted tree. Then he lifted Spears from the saddle, and laid him on the bank. He made a pillow from his own greatcoat. He could hear the Sixth Division hacking at branches with bill-hooks and bayonets, making their fires, and the battle, at last, was truly over. Sharpe opened Spears’ jacket, his shirt, and he had to tug the linen away from the wound. The bullet had driven some threads of the shirt into the chest and they stuck out, matted and obscene, like thick hairs. The hole seemed very small. Blood welled in it, glistened black in the moonlight, then spilt dark on Spears’ pale skin. Spears grimaced. “It hurts.”
“Why the hell did you do it?”
“I didn’t want to miss the battle.” Spears put his fingers on the blood, lifted them away and looked at his fingertips in horror.
“It was a crazy thing to do. The battle was over.” Sharpe cut with his pocket knife at Spears’ shirt, tearing away the clean linen to make a pad for the wound.
Spears gave a lopsided grin. “All heroes are crazy.” He tried to laugh and the laugh turned into a cough. He put his head back on the pillow. “I’m dying.” He said it very calmly.
Sharpe put the pad on the wound, pressed gently and Spears flinched because the bullet had broken a rib. Sharpe took his hand away. “You won’t die.”
Spears twisted his head and watched Sharpe’s face. His voice had some of his old, impish charm. “Actually, Richard, at the risk of sounding frightfully heroic and dramatic, I rather want to die.” The tears that were in his eyes belied his words. He sniffed and turned his head back so he stared upwards. “That’s awfully embarrassing, I know. Apologies.” Sharpe said nothing. He stared at the fires that threaded the battlefield, grass fires, and at the mysterious lumps that were broken bodies. A wind came off the field and brought the smell of victory; smoke, powder, blood, and burning flesh. Sharpe had known other men want to die, but never someone who was a lord, who was handsome, charming, and who now apologised again. “I did embarrass you. Forget I spoke.”
Sharpe sat beside him. “I’m not embarrassed. I don’t believe you.”
For a moment neither man spoke.