Sharpes Devil   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

Another hour passed, noted by the chiming of a clock somewhere deepin the fort. Neither wine, coffee, nor a summons from the Captain-General arrived. Captain Marquinez had disappeared, and the only clerk in the office behind the guardroom did not know where the Captain might be found. The rain fell miserably, slowly diluting the bloodstains on the lime-washed wall of the Angel Tower.

The rain fell. Still no one came and, as the clock chimed another half hour, Sharpe's patience finally snapped. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"What about Bautista?"

"Bugger Bautista." It seemed that Blair was right about the myriad of delays that the Spanish imposed on even the simplest bureaucratic procedure, but Sharpe did not have the patience to be the victim of such nonsense. "Let's go."

It was raining much harder now. Sharpe ran across the Citadel's bridge, while Harper lumbered after him. They splashed across the square's cobbles, past the statue where the group of chained Indians still sat vacantly under the cloudburst, to where a heavy wagon, loaded with untanned hides, was standing in front of Blair's house. The untreated leather stank foully. A uniformed soldier was lounging under the Consul's arched porch, beside the drooping British flag, apparently guarding the wagon's stinking cargo. The daydreaming soldier straightened as Sharpe approached. "You can't go in there, senar!" He moved to block Sharpe's path. "Senor!"

"Shut up! Get out of my bloody way!" Sharpe, disgusted with all things Spanish, rammed his forearm onto the soldier's chest, piling him backward. Sharpe expected Blair's door to be locked, but unexpectedly it yielded to his thrust. He pushed it wide open as Harper ran into the porch's shelter. The dazed sentry took one look at the tall Irishman's size and decided not to make an issue of the confrontation. Sharpe stamped inside. "Damn Marquinez! Damn Bautista! Damn the bloody Spaniards!" He took off his wet greatcoat and shook the rain off it. "Bloody, bloody Spaniards! They never bloody change! You remember when we liberated their Goddamned bloody country and they wanted to charge customs duty on the powder and shot we used to do it? Goddamned bloody Spaniards!"

Harper, who was married to a Spaniard, smiled soothingly. "We need a cup of tea, that's what we need. That and some decent food, but I'll settle for dry clothes first." He started climbing the stairs, but halfway to the landing he suddenly checked, then swore. “Jesus!"

"What?"

"Thieves!" Harper was charging up to the landing. Sharpe followed.

"Get down!" Harper screamed, then threw himself sideways through an open doorway.