JК
Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 241 из 244"I'll see you outside, sir," Sharpe told Runciman, "unless you want to watch the surgeon pull out the bullet?"
"Oh, good Lord, no, Sharpe! My dear parents never thought I'd have the stomach to study medicine and I fear they were right." Runciman had gone pale. "I shall let you suffer alone," he said and backed hastily away with a handkerchief held over his mouth in case the noxious effusions of the hospital gave him a sickness.
Now the doctor pulled the bullet free of the wound before ramming a dirty rag against Sharpe's shoulder to staunch the flow of blood. "No bones broken," he said, sounding disappointed, "but there are some bone chips off the rib that'll hurt you for a few days. Maybe for ever, if you live. You want to keep the bullet?" he asked Sharpe.
"No, sir."
"Not as a keepsake for the ladies?" the doctor asked, then took a flask of brandy from a pocket of his blood-stiffened apron. He took a deep swallow, then used a corner of his bloody apron to wipe the tips of the forceps clean. "I know a man in the artillery who has dozens of spent bullets mounted in gold and hung on chains," the surgeon said. "He claims each one lodged near his heart. He's got the scar, you see, to prove it, and he presents a bullet to every woman he wants to roger and tells each silly bitch that he dreamed of a woman who looked just like her when he thought he was dying. It works, he says. He's a pig-ugly scoundrel but he reckons the women can't wait to claw his breeches down." He offered Sharpe the bullet again. "Sure you don't want the damn thing?"
"Quite sure."
The doctor tossed the bullet aside. "I'll get you wrapped up," he said. "Keep the bandage damp if you want to live and don't blame me if you die." He walked unsteadily away, calling for an orderly to bandage Sharpe's shoulder.
"I do hate bloody doctors," Sharpe said as he joined Harper outside the church.
"My grand-da said the same thing," the Irishman said as he offered Sharpe the bottle of captured brandy. "He only saw a doctor once in all his life and a week later he was dead. Mind you, he was eighty-six at the time."
Sharpe smiled. "Is he the same one whose bullock dropped off the cliff?"
"Aye, and bellowed all the way down. Just like when Grogan's pig fell down a well. I think we laughed for a week, but the damned pig wasn't even scratched! Just wet."
Sharpe smiled. "You must tell me about it some time, Pat."
"So you're staying with us then?"
"No court of inquiry," Sharpe said. "Runciman told me.
"Oh, good Lord, no, Sharpe! My dear parents never thought I'd have the stomach to study medicine and I fear they were right." Runciman had gone pale. "I shall let you suffer alone," he said and backed hastily away with a handkerchief held over his mouth in case the noxious effusions of the hospital gave him a sickness.
Now the doctor pulled the bullet free of the wound before ramming a dirty rag against Sharpe's shoulder to staunch the flow of blood. "No bones broken," he said, sounding disappointed, "but there are some bone chips off the rib that'll hurt you for a few days. Maybe for ever, if you live. You want to keep the bullet?" he asked Sharpe.
"No, sir."
"Not as a keepsake for the ladies?" the doctor asked, then took a flask of brandy from a pocket of his blood-stiffened apron. He took a deep swallow, then used a corner of his bloody apron to wipe the tips of the forceps clean. "I know a man in the artillery who has dozens of spent bullets mounted in gold and hung on chains," the surgeon said. "He claims each one lodged near his heart. He's got the scar, you see, to prove it, and he presents a bullet to every woman he wants to roger and tells each silly bitch that he dreamed of a woman who looked just like her when he thought he was dying. It works, he says. He's a pig-ugly scoundrel but he reckons the women can't wait to claw his breeches down." He offered Sharpe the bullet again. "Sure you don't want the damn thing?"
"Quite sure."
The doctor tossed the bullet aside. "I'll get you wrapped up," he said. "Keep the bandage damp if you want to live and don't blame me if you die." He walked unsteadily away, calling for an orderly to bandage Sharpe's shoulder.
"I do hate bloody doctors," Sharpe said as he joined Harper outside the church.
"My grand-da said the same thing," the Irishman said as he offered Sharpe the bottle of captured brandy. "He only saw a doctor once in all his life and a week later he was dead. Mind you, he was eighty-six at the time."
Sharpe smiled. "Is he the same one whose bullock dropped off the cliff?"
"Aye, and bellowed all the way down. Just like when Grogan's pig fell down a well. I think we laughed for a week, but the damned pig wasn't even scratched! Just wet."
Sharpe smiled. "You must tell me about it some time, Pat."
"So you're staying with us then?"
"No court of inquiry," Sharpe said. "Runciman told me.