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Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 118 из 244"Suppose Runciman wants to call me as a witness?" heasked. "I won't lie. I like the man."
"You have perverse tastes. Runciman won't call you, no one will call you. I'll make sure of that. This court of inquiry isn't supposed to establish the truth, Richard, but to ease Wellington and me off a painful hook that is presently inserted deep into our joint fundament." Hogan grinned, then turned and walked away. "I'll send you some picks and shovels to bury the dead," he called in callous farewell.
"You couldn't send us what we needed, could you?" Sharpe shouted after the Major in bitterness. "But you can find bloody shovels fast enough."
"I'm a miracle worker, that's why! Come and have lunch with me tomorrow!"
The smell of the dead was already rank in the fort. Carrion birds wheeled overhead or perched on the crumbling ramparts. There were a few entrenching tools in the fort already and Sharpe ordered the Real Companпa Irlandesa to start digging a long trench for a grave. He made his own riflemen join the diggers. The greenjackets grumbled that such labouring was beneath their dignity as elite troops, but Sharpe insisted. "We do it because they're doing it," he told his unhappy men, jerking his thumb towards the Irish guardsmen. Sharpe even took a hand himself, stripping to the waist and wielding a pickaxe as though it was an instrument of vengeance. He slammed the point repeatedly into the hard, rocky soil, wrenched it loose and swung again until the sweat poured off him.
"Sharpe?" A sad Colonel Runciman, mounted on his big horse, peered down at the sweating, bare-backed rifleman. "Is that really you, Sharpe?"
Sharpe straightened and pushed the hair out of his eyes. "Yes, General. It's me."
"You were flogged?" Runciman was staring aghast at the thick scars on Sharpe's back.
"In India, General, for something I didn't do."
"You shouldn't be digging now! It's beneath an officer's dignity to dig, Sharpe. You must learn to behave as an officer."
Sharpe wiped the sweat off his face. "I like digging, General. It's honest work. I always fancied that one day I might have a farm. Just a small one, but with nothing but honest work to do from sun-up to lights-out. Are you here to say goodbye?"
Runciman nodded. "You know there's going to be a court of inquiry?"
"I heard, sir."
"They need someone to blame, I suppose," Runciman said. "General Valverde says someone should hang for this." Runciman fidgeted with his reins, then turned in his saddle to stare at the Spanish General who was a hundred paces away and deep in conversation with Lord Kiely.
"You have perverse tastes. Runciman won't call you, no one will call you. I'll make sure of that. This court of inquiry isn't supposed to establish the truth, Richard, but to ease Wellington and me off a painful hook that is presently inserted deep into our joint fundament." Hogan grinned, then turned and walked away. "I'll send you some picks and shovels to bury the dead," he called in callous farewell.
"You couldn't send us what we needed, could you?" Sharpe shouted after the Major in bitterness. "But you can find bloody shovels fast enough."
"I'm a miracle worker, that's why! Come and have lunch with me tomorrow!"
The smell of the dead was already rank in the fort. Carrion birds wheeled overhead or perched on the crumbling ramparts. There were a few entrenching tools in the fort already and Sharpe ordered the Real Companпa Irlandesa to start digging a long trench for a grave. He made his own riflemen join the diggers. The greenjackets grumbled that such labouring was beneath their dignity as elite troops, but Sharpe insisted. "We do it because they're doing it," he told his unhappy men, jerking his thumb towards the Irish guardsmen. Sharpe even took a hand himself, stripping to the waist and wielding a pickaxe as though it was an instrument of vengeance. He slammed the point repeatedly into the hard, rocky soil, wrenched it loose and swung again until the sweat poured off him.
"Sharpe?" A sad Colonel Runciman, mounted on his big horse, peered down at the sweating, bare-backed rifleman. "Is that really you, Sharpe?"
Sharpe straightened and pushed the hair out of his eyes. "Yes, General. It's me."
"You were flogged?" Runciman was staring aghast at the thick scars on Sharpe's back.
"In India, General, for something I didn't do."
"You shouldn't be digging now! It's beneath an officer's dignity to dig, Sharpe. You must learn to behave as an officer."
Sharpe wiped the sweat off his face. "I like digging, General. It's honest work. I always fancied that one day I might have a farm. Just a small one, but with nothing but honest work to do from sun-up to lights-out. Are you here to say goodbye?"
Runciman nodded. "You know there's going to be a court of inquiry?"
"I heard, sir."
"They need someone to blame, I suppose," Runciman said. "General Valverde says someone should hang for this." Runciman fidgeted with his reins, then turned in his saddle to stare at the Spanish General who was a hundred paces away and deep in conversation with Lord Kiely.