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Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 65 из 223“That’s not too bad, is it?” he asked soothingly. He gripped the handles tight, but not too tight, and felt a faint tremor run through the huge man. “Ready?”
He pushed upwards. He could smell Harper’s breath and feel the rank fear from the man. He sympathized with it. Sharpe had once had a tooth pulled in India and he remembered the pain as vividly as any wound taken in battle. He pushed harder. The tooth did not move, though
Harper quivered as he loyally tried to push against Sharpe’s pressure.
“Harder,” Frederickson muttered.
Sharpe pushed harder, the metal jaws slipped up into the swollen gums, and the pincers were wrenched away as Harper bellowed and flailed to one side. “Jesus and his bloody saints! Christ!” The sergeant had his hands to his mouth that was trickling blood. “God in heaven!” He was keening with the sudden agony.
“It slipped,” Sharpe said in apologetic explanation.
“Bloody near killed me!” Harper swallowed more brandy, then spat a potent mixture of blood and alcohol on to the ground. “Jesus!”
“Perhaps I should try,” Frederickson offered. Lieutenant Minver, like his men, grinned.
“God damn all officers! All!” Harper was in a blaze of anger now. “Bloody murdering bastards!” He picked up the pincers, opened his mouth, and probed with a finger.
He flinched.
Sharpe drew back. The Riflemen, no longer laughing, watched as the huge, bare-chested man put the pincers over his own tooth. The big hand closed and Harper’s blue eyes seemed to grow wider. He pushed and Sharpe heard a distinct crack, like gristle snapping, then the pincers were being twisted right and left, Harper was moaning, and again there were the tiny sounds of tissue parting or bone grating.
Sharpe held his breath. No one moved. A French child of ten could have taken these prize troops captive at this moment as the bare-chested Harper, shaking with the pain and cold, began to pull.
The Irishman’s hand trembled. A bead of blood pulsed at his lower lip, another, then in a great groan and a gush of pus and blood, the huge tooth tore free. Scraps of flesh were attached to its branching roots, but blood, bright red blood was pouring on to Harper’s chest in great rivulets that steamed in the cold air.
“Get him on to the wagon!” Sharpe ordered.
“Christ in his heaven!” The pain had brought tears to Harper’s eyes. He stood, coughing blood, a fearful sight. He was weeping now, not out of weakness, but in anger and pain. He was blood smothered; steaming with warm blood, coughing blood, his face and chest soaked in blood.
He pushed upwards. He could smell Harper’s breath and feel the rank fear from the man. He sympathized with it. Sharpe had once had a tooth pulled in India and he remembered the pain as vividly as any wound taken in battle. He pushed harder. The tooth did not move, though
Harper quivered as he loyally tried to push against Sharpe’s pressure.
“Harder,” Frederickson muttered.
Sharpe pushed harder, the metal jaws slipped up into the swollen gums, and the pincers were wrenched away as Harper bellowed and flailed to one side. “Jesus and his bloody saints! Christ!” The sergeant had his hands to his mouth that was trickling blood. “God in heaven!” He was keening with the sudden agony.
“It slipped,” Sharpe said in apologetic explanation.
“Bloody near killed me!” Harper swallowed more brandy, then spat a potent mixture of blood and alcohol on to the ground. “Jesus!”
“Perhaps I should try,” Frederickson offered. Lieutenant Minver, like his men, grinned.
“God damn all officers! All!” Harper was in a blaze of anger now. “Bloody murdering bastards!” He picked up the pincers, opened his mouth, and probed with a finger.
He flinched.
Sharpe drew back. The Riflemen, no longer laughing, watched as the huge, bare-chested man put the pincers over his own tooth. The big hand closed and Harper’s blue eyes seemed to grow wider. He pushed and Sharpe heard a distinct crack, like gristle snapping, then the pincers were being twisted right and left, Harper was moaning, and again there were the tiny sounds of tissue parting or bone grating.
Sharpe held his breath. No one moved. A French child of ten could have taken these prize troops captive at this moment as the bare-chested Harper, shaking with the pain and cold, began to pull.
The Irishman’s hand trembled. A bead of blood pulsed at his lower lip, another, then in a great groan and a gush of pus and blood, the huge tooth tore free. Scraps of flesh were attached to its branching roots, but blood, bright red blood was pouring on to Harper’s chest in great rivulets that steamed in the cold air.
“Get him on to the wagon!” Sharpe ordered.
“Christ in his heaven!” The pain had brought tears to Harper’s eyes. He stood, coughing blood, a fearful sight. He was weeping now, not out of weakness, but in anger and pain. He was blood smothered; steaming with warm blood, coughing blood, his face and chest soaked in blood.