JК
Sharpes Gold :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 10 из 179He turned away from the man, whose musket had fallen into the mud. 'Company! March!
They marched behind the tall Rifleman as Batten picked himself up, brushed ineffectively at the water that had flowed into the lock of his gun, and then shambled after the Company. He pushed himself into his file and muttered at his silent companions. 'He's not supposed to hit me.
'Shut your mouth, Batten! Harper's voice was as harsh as his Captain's. 'You know the rules. Would you rather be kicking your useless heels now?
The Sergeant shouted at the Company to pick up their feet, bellowed the steps at them, and all the time he wondered what faced Sharpe now. A complaint from that bloody provost would mean an enquiry and probably a court-martial. And all for the miserable Batten, a failed horse-cooper, whom Harper would gladly have killed himself. Lieutenant Knowles seemed to share Harper's thoughts, for he fell in step beside the Irishman and looked at him with a troubled face. 'All for one chicken, Sergeant?
Harper looked down at the young Lieutenant. 'I doubt it, sir. He turned to the ranks. 'Daniel!
Hagman, one of the Riflemen, broke ranks and fell in beside the Sergeant. He was the oldest man in the Company, in his forties, but the best marksman. A Cheshireman, raised as a poacher, Hagman could shoot the buttons off a French General's coat at three hundred yards. 'Sarge?
'How many chickens were there?
Hagman flashed his toothless grin, glanced at the Company, then up at Harper. The Sergeant was a fair man, never demanding more than a fair share. 'Dozen, Sarge.
Harper looked at Knowles. 'There you are, sir. At least sixteen wild chickens there. Probably twenty. God knows what they were doing there, why the owners didn't take them.
'Difficult to catch, sir, chickens. Hagman chuckled. 'That all, Sarge?
Harper grinned down at the Rifleman. 'A leg each for the officers, Daniel. And not the stringy ones.
Hagman glanced at Knowles. 'Very good, sir. Leg each. He went back to the ranks.
Knowles chuckled to himself. A leg each for the officers meant a good breast for the Sergeant, chicken broth for everyone, and nothing for Private Batten. And for Sharpe? Knowles felt his spirits drop. The war was lost, it was still raining, and tomorrow Captain Richard Sharpe would be in provost trouble, real trouble, right up to his sabre-scarred neck.
CHAPTER 2
If anyone needed a symbol of impending defeat, then the Church of Sao Paulo in Celorico, the temporary headquarters of the South Essex, offered it in full.
They marched behind the tall Rifleman as Batten picked himself up, brushed ineffectively at the water that had flowed into the lock of his gun, and then shambled after the Company. He pushed himself into his file and muttered at his silent companions. 'He's not supposed to hit me.
'Shut your mouth, Batten! Harper's voice was as harsh as his Captain's. 'You know the rules. Would you rather be kicking your useless heels now?
The Sergeant shouted at the Company to pick up their feet, bellowed the steps at them, and all the time he wondered what faced Sharpe now. A complaint from that bloody provost would mean an enquiry and probably a court-martial. And all for the miserable Batten, a failed horse-cooper, whom Harper would gladly have killed himself. Lieutenant Knowles seemed to share Harper's thoughts, for he fell in step beside the Irishman and looked at him with a troubled face. 'All for one chicken, Sergeant?
Harper looked down at the young Lieutenant. 'I doubt it, sir. He turned to the ranks. 'Daniel!
Hagman, one of the Riflemen, broke ranks and fell in beside the Sergeant. He was the oldest man in the Company, in his forties, but the best marksman. A Cheshireman, raised as a poacher, Hagman could shoot the buttons off a French General's coat at three hundred yards. 'Sarge?
'How many chickens were there?
Hagman flashed his toothless grin, glanced at the Company, then up at Harper. The Sergeant was a fair man, never demanding more than a fair share. 'Dozen, Sarge.
Harper looked at Knowles. 'There you are, sir. At least sixteen wild chickens there. Probably twenty. God knows what they were doing there, why the owners didn't take them.
'Difficult to catch, sir, chickens. Hagman chuckled. 'That all, Sarge?
Harper grinned down at the Rifleman. 'A leg each for the officers, Daniel. And not the stringy ones.
Hagman glanced at Knowles. 'Very good, sir. Leg each. He went back to the ranks.
Knowles chuckled to himself. A leg each for the officers meant a good breast for the Sergeant, chicken broth for everyone, and nothing for Private Batten. And for Sharpe? Knowles felt his spirits drop. The war was lost, it was still raining, and tomorrow Captain Richard Sharpe would be in provost trouble, real trouble, right up to his sabre-scarred neck.
CHAPTER 2
If anyone needed a symbol of impending defeat, then the Church of Sao Paulo in Celorico, the temporary headquarters of the South Essex, offered it in full.