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Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 220 из 223Theblade, pitted with the rust of water and blood, twisted as Sharpe thrust it, twisted as it took de Maquerre in the upper belly, still twisted as the blood sprayed two feet into the air, and still was twisted so that the body’s flesh would not stick to the steel as the Frenchman, blood drenching his white breeches, fell into the river that Calvet should have defended.
The sound of Sharpe’s voice faded over the water. The two sailors gaped and one of them, spattered by blood, turned to retch into the scuppers.
“That wasn’t wise,” Colonel Elphinstone pushed past an appalled Wigram who watched as the body of a spy, surrounded by diluting blood, floated towards the sea.
“He was a traitor,” Sharpe said, “and he killed my men.” The tiredness was washing through him. He wanted to sit down, but he supposed he should explain. Somehow it was too difficult. “Hogan knew,” he said, remembering his friend’s fevered words. “Michael Hogan?” He looked for understanding into Elphinstone’s honest face.
Elphinstone nodded. “It was Hogan’s idea to let the French think we planned an invasion.”
“But Wigram sent de Maquerre, didn’t you?” Sharpe stared at the grey-faced colonel who said nothing. “Hogan would never have sent that pimp to risk our lives!”
“Hogan was ill,” Wigram spoke defensively.
“Then wait till he’s well,” Sharpe glowered at the staff officer, “then call him before your properly constituted tribunal.”
“That can’t be done.” Colonel Elphinstone spoke gently. “Hogan died.”
For a second the news made no sense. “Dead?”
“The fever. May he rest in peace.”
“Oh, God.” Tears came to Sharpe’s eyes and, so that neither Elphinstone nor Wigram should see them, the Rifleman turned away. Hogan, his particular friend, with whom he had so often talked of the pleasures to come when peace brought an end to killing, was dead of the fever. Sharpe watched de Maquerre’s body turning on the tide, and his grief for a friend turned into a fresh pulse of anger. “That should have been Bampfylde!” Sharpe pointed at the corpse and turned to Elphinstone. “He ran away!”
The grimness of Sharpe’s face made Colonel Wigram scramble back to the plank bridge, but Elphinstone simply reached for Sharpe’s sword and dried the wet, bloodied blade on a corner of his jacket. He handed the sword back. “You did well, Major.” He tried to imagine a handful of men facing a half brigade, and could not. “You need to rest.”
Sharpe nodded.
The sound of Sharpe’s voice faded over the water. The two sailors gaped and one of them, spattered by blood, turned to retch into the scuppers.
“That wasn’t wise,” Colonel Elphinstone pushed past an appalled Wigram who watched as the body of a spy, surrounded by diluting blood, floated towards the sea.
“He was a traitor,” Sharpe said, “and he killed my men.” The tiredness was washing through him. He wanted to sit down, but he supposed he should explain. Somehow it was too difficult. “Hogan knew,” he said, remembering his friend’s fevered words. “Michael Hogan?” He looked for understanding into Elphinstone’s honest face.
Elphinstone nodded. “It was Hogan’s idea to let the French think we planned an invasion.”
“But Wigram sent de Maquerre, didn’t you?” Sharpe stared at the grey-faced colonel who said nothing. “Hogan would never have sent that pimp to risk our lives!”
“Hogan was ill,” Wigram spoke defensively.
“Then wait till he’s well,” Sharpe glowered at the staff officer, “then call him before your properly constituted tribunal.”
“That can’t be done.” Colonel Elphinstone spoke gently. “Hogan died.”
For a second the news made no sense. “Dead?”
“The fever. May he rest in peace.”
“Oh, God.” Tears came to Sharpe’s eyes and, so that neither Elphinstone nor Wigram should see them, the Rifleman turned away. Hogan, his particular friend, with whom he had so often talked of the pleasures to come when peace brought an end to killing, was dead of the fever. Sharpe watched de Maquerre’s body turning on the tide, and his grief for a friend turned into a fresh pulse of anger. “That should have been Bampfylde!” Sharpe pointed at the corpse and turned to Elphinstone. “He ran away!”
The grimness of Sharpe’s face made Colonel Wigram scramble back to the plank bridge, but Elphinstone simply reached for Sharpe’s sword and dried the wet, bloodied blade on a corner of his jacket. He handed the sword back. “You did well, Major.” He tried to imagine a handful of men facing a half brigade, and could not. “You need to rest.”
Sharpe nodded.