JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 66 из 213“Bandsmen!”
An officer, his uniform unstained by dust or blood, his red facings and gold lace new and pristine, looked past Sharpe. “Dale. No musket.” He was dictating to a bespectacled clerk.
“What?” Sharpe turned and looked at the Lieutenant. Harper raised his eyes to heaven, then looked at Sergeant McGovern. The two Sergeants grinned. They knew Sharpe and knew his anger.
“Equipment check.” The Lieutenant looked at Sharpe’s rifle, then at the great sword, then at the Rifleman’s shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.”
“No.” Sharpe jerked his head towards the wounded man. “Are you planning to charge him?”
The Lieutenant looked round for escape or support, then sighed. “He has lost his musket, sir.”
“It was broken by French shot.” Sharpe’s voice was quiet.
“I’m sure you’ll put that in writing, sir.”
“No. You will. You were out there, weren’t you?”
The Lieutenant swallowed nervously. “No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Sir! I was ordered to stay here, sir!”
“And no one ordered you to make life a bloody misery for the men who went out, did they? How many battles have you been in, Lieutenant?”
The Lieutenant’s eyes looked round the circle of grim, interested faces. He shrugged. “Sir?”
Sharpe reached over to the clerk-Corporal and took the notebook out of his hand. “You write ”destroyed by enemy“ against everything, understand? Everything. Including the boots they lost last week.”
“Yes, sir.” The Lieutenant took the notebook from Sharpe and gave it to the clerk. “You heard the man, Bates. ”Destroyed by enemy“.” The Lieutenant backed away.
Sharpe watched him go. His anger had not vented itself and he wanted to strike out at something, at someone, because the men had died through treachery. The French had been ready, warned of the attack, and good men had been thrown away, and he bellowed again. “Bandsmen!”
Two musicians, doing their battlefield job offending the wounded, came and crouched by the injured Dale. They lifted him clumsily onto a stretcher. Sharpe stopped one of them as they were about to go. “Where’s the Hospital?”
“Irish College, sir,”
“Look after him.”
The man shrugged. “Yes, sir.”
Poor bloody Dale, Sharpe thought, to be betrayed in his first battle. If he survived he would be invalided out of the army.
An officer, his uniform unstained by dust or blood, his red facings and gold lace new and pristine, looked past Sharpe. “Dale. No musket.” He was dictating to a bespectacled clerk.
“What?” Sharpe turned and looked at the Lieutenant. Harper raised his eyes to heaven, then looked at Sergeant McGovern. The two Sergeants grinned. They knew Sharpe and knew his anger.
“Equipment check.” The Lieutenant looked at Sharpe’s rifle, then at the great sword, then at the Rifleman’s shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.”
“No.” Sharpe jerked his head towards the wounded man. “Are you planning to charge him?”
The Lieutenant looked round for escape or support, then sighed. “He has lost his musket, sir.”
“It was broken by French shot.” Sharpe’s voice was quiet.
“I’m sure you’ll put that in writing, sir.”
“No. You will. You were out there, weren’t you?”
The Lieutenant swallowed nervously. “No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Sir! I was ordered to stay here, sir!”
“And no one ordered you to make life a bloody misery for the men who went out, did they? How many battles have you been in, Lieutenant?”
The Lieutenant’s eyes looked round the circle of grim, interested faces. He shrugged. “Sir?”
Sharpe reached over to the clerk-Corporal and took the notebook out of his hand. “You write ”destroyed by enemy“ against everything, understand? Everything. Including the boots they lost last week.”
“Yes, sir.” The Lieutenant took the notebook from Sharpe and gave it to the clerk. “You heard the man, Bates. ”Destroyed by enemy“.” The Lieutenant backed away.
Sharpe watched him go. His anger had not vented itself and he wanted to strike out at something, at someone, because the men had died through treachery. The French had been ready, warned of the attack, and good men had been thrown away, and he bellowed again. “Bandsmen!”
Two musicians, doing their battlefield job offending the wounded, came and crouched by the injured Dale. They lifted him clumsily onto a stretcher. Sharpe stopped one of them as they were about to go. “Where’s the Hospital?”
“Irish College, sir,”
“Look after him.”
The man shrugged. “Yes, sir.”
Poor bloody Dale, Sharpe thought, to be betrayed in his first battle. If he survived he would be invalided out of the army.