JК
Sharpes Devil :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 199 из 209It was no prison, unless a prison would be warmed with a big stone fireplace and lit by candles mounted in a lantern which hung from the apex of the stone roof. The walls, which should have been of cheerless stone, were draped with rugs and scraps of tapestry to make a soft, warm chamber. The wooden floor was scattered with more rugs, some of them fur pelts, while another pelt was draped on the bed, which stood in the very center of the circular room and on which lay the remains of Captain-General Miguel Bautista. Or rather what Sharpe supposed had been Captain-General Miguel Bautista, for all that was left of the Captain-General was a headless body dressed in the simple black and white uniform that Sharpe remembered well.
Bautista's head had disappeared. It had been blown away by Harper's seven-barreled gun with which Bautista had committed suicide. The gun lay on his trunk that had spilled so much blood onto the floorboards. Some blood had matted in the fur of the bed's coverlet, but most had puddled on the floor and run through the cracks between the ancient boards.
All around the room's outer edge were boxes. Plain wooden boxes. Between the boxes was a corridor which led to an open door. Sharpe had been told there was only the one entrance to the tower, but he had found a second. The stone around this second door had a raw, new appearance, as though it had only recently been laid. Sharpe, still holding his weapons, walked between the boxes and through the new doorway, and found himself in Captain Marquinez's quarters—the very same rooms in which the handsome Captain had received them on their first day in Valdivia.
Marquinez was sitting on his bed, holding a pistol to his head. He was shaking with fear.
"Put the gun down," Sharpe said quietly.
"He made me promise! He said he couldn't live without me!"
Sharpe opened his mouth, did not know what to say, so closed it again. Harper, who had stepped into the room behind Sharpe, said something under his breath.
"I loved him!" Marquinez wailed the declaration.
"Oh, Jesus," Sharpe said, then he crossed the room and lifted the pistol from Marquinez's nerveless fingers. "Where's Bias Vivar?"
"I don't know, senor, I don't know." Marquinez was in tears now. He had begun to shake, then slid down to his knees so that he was at Sharpe's feet where he wrapped his arms around Sharpe's legs like a slave beseeching for life. "I don't know!"
Sharpe reached down and disengaged the arms, then gestured toward the tower. "What's in the boxes, Marquinez?"
"Gold, plate, pearls, coin. We were going to take it back to Spain.
Bautista's head had disappeared. It had been blown away by Harper's seven-barreled gun with which Bautista had committed suicide. The gun lay on his trunk that had spilled so much blood onto the floorboards. Some blood had matted in the fur of the bed's coverlet, but most had puddled on the floor and run through the cracks between the ancient boards.
All around the room's outer edge were boxes. Plain wooden boxes. Between the boxes was a corridor which led to an open door. Sharpe had been told there was only the one entrance to the tower, but he had found a second. The stone around this second door had a raw, new appearance, as though it had only recently been laid. Sharpe, still holding his weapons, walked between the boxes and through the new doorway, and found himself in Captain Marquinez's quarters—the very same rooms in which the handsome Captain had received them on their first day in Valdivia.
Marquinez was sitting on his bed, holding a pistol to his head. He was shaking with fear.
"Put the gun down," Sharpe said quietly.
"He made me promise! He said he couldn't live without me!"
Sharpe opened his mouth, did not know what to say, so closed it again. Harper, who had stepped into the room behind Sharpe, said something under his breath.
"I loved him!" Marquinez wailed the declaration.
"Oh, Jesus," Sharpe said, then he crossed the room and lifted the pistol from Marquinez's nerveless fingers. "Where's Bias Vivar?"
"I don't know, senor, I don't know." Marquinez was in tears now. He had begun to shake, then slid down to his knees so that he was at Sharpe's feet where he wrapped his arms around Sharpe's legs like a slave beseeching for life. "I don't know!"
Sharpe reached down and disengaged the arms, then gestured toward the tower. "What's in the boxes, Marquinez?"
"Gold, plate, pearls, coin. We were going to take it back to Spain.