Sharpes Sword   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

“I, the undersigned, Paul Delmas, Captain in the Fifth Regiment of Dragoons, taken prisoner by the English Forces on 14th june, 1812, undertake upon my Honour not toseek to Escape nor to Remove myself from Captivity without Permission, and not pass any Knowledge to the French Forces or their Allies, until I have been Exchanged, Rank for Rank, or Otherwise Released from this Bond. Signed, Paul Delmas. Witnessed by me, Joseph Forrest, Major in His Britannic Majesty’s South Essex Regiment.”

Colonel Windham rapped with his crop again, the noise loud in the predawn chill. “Dammit, Sharpe!”

“Seems to be in order, Sir.”

“Order! Blood and hounds, Sharpe! Who are you to say What’s in order! Good God! I say it’s in order! I do! Remember me, Sharpe? Your commanding officer?”

Sharpe grinned. “Yes, sir.” He handed the parole up to Windham who took it with elaborate courtesy.

“Thank you, Mr. Sharpe. We have your gracious permission to get bloody moving?”

“Carry on, sir.” Sharpe grinned again. He had come to like Windham in the six months that the Colonel had commanded the South Essex, a regard that was also held by the Colonel for his wayward and brilliant Captain of the Light Company. Now, though, Windham still seethed with impatience.

“His sword, Sharpe! For God’s sake, man! Hurry!”

“Yes, sir.” Sharpe turned to one of the houses in the village where the South Essex had bivouacked. The dawn was a grey line in the east. “Sergeant!”

“Sir!”

“The bloody frog’s sword!”

“Sharpe!” Colonel Windham’s protest sounded resigned.

Patrick Harper turned and bellowed into one of the houses. “Mr. McDonald, sir! The French gentleman’s sword, sir, if you’d get a move on, sir!”

McDonald, Sharpe’s new Ensign, just sixteen years old and desperately eager to please his famous Captain, hurried from the house with the beautiful, scabbarded blade. He tripped in his haste, was held by Harper, and then he came to Sharpe and gave him the sword.

God, but he wanted it! He had handled the weapon during. the night, feeling its balance, knowing the power of the plain, shining steel, and Sharpe had felt the lust to own this sword. This was a thing of lethal beauty, made by a master, worthy of a great fighter.

“Monsieur?” Delmas’s voice was mild, polite.

Beyond Delmas Sharpe could see Lossow, the Captain of the German Cavalry and Sharpe’s friend, who had driven Delmas into the prepared trap. Lossow had held the sword too, and shaken his head in mute wonder at the weapon.