JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 184 из 213“What the hell are you doing?”
Sharpe put the blade beneath Spears, pushed away a protesting arm, and then levered with the steel so that the cavalryman was half rolled over, facing away from Sharpe, and then the Rifleman put one foot on Spears’ waist and the sword blade against Spears’ back. There was anger in Sharpe’s voice, a cold, frightening anger. “Heroes don’t have scarred backs. You talk to me, my lord, or I’ll carve your back into bloody ribbons. I’ll tell your sister you died as a poxed coward, with your wounds behind.”
“I know nothing!”
Sharpe leaned on the blade, enough for its razor point to go through cloth. His voice was loud, strong. “You know, you bastard. You knew she was French, no one else did. You knew she was Leroux’s sister, didn’t you?” There was silence. He pushed the sword.
“Yes.” Spears choked, spat blood. “Stop it, for God’s sake, stop it.”
“Then talk.” There was silence again, except for the wind rustling the leaves of the trees behind them, the crackle of flames from the fires of the Sixth Division, and the desultory, far-away musket shots. Sharpe lowered his voice. “Your sister will be disgraced. She’ll have nothing. No money, no prospects, not even a dead hero as a brother. She’ll have to marry some ironmonger with dirty hands and a great belly and she’ll whore herself for his money. You want me to save your bloody honour, my lord? You talk.”
Spears talked. His words were punctuated by the coughing, the spitting of blood. He whined at times, tried to wriggle, but the sword was always close and, bit by horrid bit, Sharpe took the story from him. It depressed Sharpe, it saddened him. Spears pleaded for understanding, forgiveness even, but it was a tale of honour sold. Spears had told Sharpe, weeks before, that he had been nearly captured by Leroux. He had told of escaping through a window, tearing his arm to shreds, but the story was not true.
Lord Spears had never escaped from Leroux. He had been captured and had signed his parole. Leroux, he said, had talked to him through a long night, had drunk with him, and found the weakness. They had made a bargain. Information for money. Spears sold Colquhoun Grant, the army’s finest Exploring Officer, and Leroux gave him five hundred Napoleons and all had been gambled away. “I thought I might get the town house back, at least.”
“Go on.”
He had sold the list stolen from Hogan’s papers; the list of men paid by Britain for information. He had made ten gold coins a head, then lost it at the tables, and then, he said, Sharpe spoiled everything. He had chased Leroux into the fortresses and Spears thought his paymaster was gone, trapped, and then Helena had asked for him, talked with him, and the money had started coming again.
Sharpe put the blade beneath Spears, pushed away a protesting arm, and then levered with the steel so that the cavalryman was half rolled over, facing away from Sharpe, and then the Rifleman put one foot on Spears’ waist and the sword blade against Spears’ back. There was anger in Sharpe’s voice, a cold, frightening anger. “Heroes don’t have scarred backs. You talk to me, my lord, or I’ll carve your back into bloody ribbons. I’ll tell your sister you died as a poxed coward, with your wounds behind.”
“I know nothing!”
Sharpe leaned on the blade, enough for its razor point to go through cloth. His voice was loud, strong. “You know, you bastard. You knew she was French, no one else did. You knew she was Leroux’s sister, didn’t you?” There was silence. He pushed the sword.
“Yes.” Spears choked, spat blood. “Stop it, for God’s sake, stop it.”
“Then talk.” There was silence again, except for the wind rustling the leaves of the trees behind them, the crackle of flames from the fires of the Sixth Division, and the desultory, far-away musket shots. Sharpe lowered his voice. “Your sister will be disgraced. She’ll have nothing. No money, no prospects, not even a dead hero as a brother. She’ll have to marry some ironmonger with dirty hands and a great belly and she’ll whore herself for his money. You want me to save your bloody honour, my lord? You talk.”
Spears talked. His words were punctuated by the coughing, the spitting of blood. He whined at times, tried to wriggle, but the sword was always close and, bit by horrid bit, Sharpe took the story from him. It depressed Sharpe, it saddened him. Spears pleaded for understanding, forgiveness even, but it was a tale of honour sold. Spears had told Sharpe, weeks before, that he had been nearly captured by Leroux. He had told of escaping through a window, tearing his arm to shreds, but the story was not true.
Lord Spears had never escaped from Leroux. He had been captured and had signed his parole. Leroux, he said, had talked to him through a long night, had drunk with him, and found the weakness. They had made a bargain. Information for money. Spears sold Colquhoun Grant, the army’s finest Exploring Officer, and Leroux gave him five hundred Napoleons and all had been gambled away. “I thought I might get the town house back, at least.”
“Go on.”
He had sold the list stolen from Hogan’s papers; the list of men paid by Britain for information. He had made ten gold coins a head, then lost it at the tables, and then, he said, Sharpe spoiled everything. He had chased Leroux into the fortresses and Spears thought his paymaster was gone, trapped, and then Helena had asked for him, talked with him, and the money had started coming again.