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Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 29 из 223Sharpe knew of no man he would rather fight beside, but it could not be at Arcachon. “I’m sorry, Patrick. Besides you’re a father now. You should take care.” Harper’s Spanish wife, just a month before, had given birth to a son that had been christened Richard Patricio Augustine Harper. Sharpe had found the choice of Richard an embarrassment, but Jane had been delighted when Harper sought permission to use the name. “And I’m doing you a favour, RSM,” Sharpe went on.
“How would that be, sir?”
“Because your son will still have a father in two weeks.” Sharpe was seeing that black, sheer, wet wall and the image of it made his voice savage. Then he turned as the door opened. “My dear.”
Jane, beautiful in a blue silken dress, smiled delightedly at Harper. “Sergeant Major! How’s the baby?”
“Just grand, ma’am!” Harper had formed a firm alliance with Mrs Sharpe that seemed aimed at subverting Major Sharpe’s authority. “And Isabella thanks you for the linen.”
“You’ve got toothache!” Jane frowned with concern. “Your cheek’s swollen.”
Harper blushed. “It’s only a wee ache, ma’am, nothing at all!”
“You must have oil of cloves! There’s some in the kitchen. Come along!”
The oil of cloves was discovered and Harper sent, disconsolate, into the night.
“He can’t come,” Sharpe said after dinner, when he and Jane walked back alone through the town.
“Poor Patrick.” Jane insisted on stopping at Hogan’s lodgings, but there was no news. She had visited earlier in the day and thought the sick man was looking better.
“I wish you wouldn’t risk yourself,” Sharpe said.
“You’ve said so a dozen times, Richard, and I promise I heard you each time.”
They went to bed and, just four hours later, the landlady hammered on their door. It was pitch dark outside and bitterly cold inside the bedroom. Frost had etched patterns on the small windowpanes, patterns that were reluctant to melt even though Sharpe revived the fire in the tiny grate. The landlady had brought candles and hot water. Sharpe shaved, then pulled on his old and faded Rifleman’s uniform. It was the uniform in which he fought, stained with blood and torn by bullet and blade. He would not go into action in any other uniform.
He oiled his rifle’s lock. He always carried a long-arm into battle, even though it had been ten years since he had been made into an officer. He drew his Heavy Cavalry sword from its scabbard and tested the fore-edge.
“How would that be, sir?”
“Because your son will still have a father in two weeks.” Sharpe was seeing that black, sheer, wet wall and the image of it made his voice savage. Then he turned as the door opened. “My dear.”
Jane, beautiful in a blue silken dress, smiled delightedly at Harper. “Sergeant Major! How’s the baby?”
“Just grand, ma’am!” Harper had formed a firm alliance with Mrs Sharpe that seemed aimed at subverting Major Sharpe’s authority. “And Isabella thanks you for the linen.”
“You’ve got toothache!” Jane frowned with concern. “Your cheek’s swollen.”
Harper blushed. “It’s only a wee ache, ma’am, nothing at all!”
“You must have oil of cloves! There’s some in the kitchen. Come along!”
The oil of cloves was discovered and Harper sent, disconsolate, into the night.
“He can’t come,” Sharpe said after dinner, when he and Jane walked back alone through the town.
“Poor Patrick.” Jane insisted on stopping at Hogan’s lodgings, but there was no news. She had visited earlier in the day and thought the sick man was looking better.
“I wish you wouldn’t risk yourself,” Sharpe said.
“You’ve said so a dozen times, Richard, and I promise I heard you each time.”
They went to bed and, just four hours later, the landlady hammered on their door. It was pitch dark outside and bitterly cold inside the bedroom. Frost had etched patterns on the small windowpanes, patterns that were reluctant to melt even though Sharpe revived the fire in the tiny grate. The landlady had brought candles and hot water. Sharpe shaved, then pulled on his old and faded Rifleman’s uniform. It was the uniform in which he fought, stained with blood and torn by bullet and blade. He would not go into action in any other uniform.
He oiled his rifle’s lock. He always carried a long-arm into battle, even though it had been ten years since he had been made into an officer. He drew his Heavy Cavalry sword from its scabbard and tested the fore-edge.