JК
Sharpes Devil :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 67 из 209"
"He's a man of genius," Marquinez said enthusiastically.
"Genius?" Sharpe could not hide his scepticism.
"Customs dues have increased threefold under his rule, so have tax revenues. We have firm government at last!" Sharpe glanced at his companion's handsome face, expecting to see cynicism there, but Marquinez clearly meant every word he said. "And once we have all the guns we need," Marquinez went on, "we'll reconquer the northern regions."
"You'd best be asking Madrid for some good infantry," Sharpe said.
Marquinez shook his head. "You don't understand Chile, Colonel. The rebels think they're invincible, so sooner or later they will come to our fortresses, and they will be slaughtered, and everyone will recognize the Captain-General's genius." Marquinez tossed pebbles into the pool. Sharpe was watching the mestizo girl who, her thighs and skirt soaking, climbed onto the bank. "You find her pretty?" Marquinez suddenly asked.
"Yes. Who wouldn't?"
"They're pretty when they're young. By the time they're twenty and have two children they look like cavalry mules." Marquinez fished a watch from his waistcoat pocket. "We must be leaving you, Colonel. You know your way from here?"
"Indeed." Sharpe had been well coached by Blair in the route he must take. He and Harper would climb into the hills where their travel permit dictated that they must spend the night at a high fortress. Tomorrow they would ride down into the wilder country that sprawled across the border of the southern province. It was in that unsettled country, close to the hell-dark forests where embittered Indian tribes lived, that Bias Vivar had died. Blair and Marquinez had both assured Sharpe that the border country had been tamed since Vivar's death, and that the highway could be used in perfect safety. "There have been no rebels there since Bias Vivar died," Marquinez said. "There have been some highway robberies, but nothing, I think, that should worry either you or Mister Harper."
"They're welcome to try, so they are," Harper had said, and indeed he and Sharpe fairly bristled with weapons. Sharpe wore his big butcher's blade of a sword, the sword with which he had fought through Portugal, Spain and France, and then at the field of Waterloo. It was no ordinary infantry officer's sword, but instead the killing blade of a trooper from Britain's Heavy Cavalry. Soldiers armed with just such big swords had carved a corps of veteran French infantry into bloody ruin at Waterloo, capturing two Eagles as they did it.
"He's a man of genius," Marquinez said enthusiastically.
"Genius?" Sharpe could not hide his scepticism.
"Customs dues have increased threefold under his rule, so have tax revenues. We have firm government at last!" Sharpe glanced at his companion's handsome face, expecting to see cynicism there, but Marquinez clearly meant every word he said. "And once we have all the guns we need," Marquinez went on, "we'll reconquer the northern regions."
"You'd best be asking Madrid for some good infantry," Sharpe said.
Marquinez shook his head. "You don't understand Chile, Colonel. The rebels think they're invincible, so sooner or later they will come to our fortresses, and they will be slaughtered, and everyone will recognize the Captain-General's genius." Marquinez tossed pebbles into the pool. Sharpe was watching the mestizo girl who, her thighs and skirt soaking, climbed onto the bank. "You find her pretty?" Marquinez suddenly asked.
"Yes. Who wouldn't?"
"They're pretty when they're young. By the time they're twenty and have two children they look like cavalry mules." Marquinez fished a watch from his waistcoat pocket. "We must be leaving you, Colonel. You know your way from here?"
"Indeed." Sharpe had been well coached by Blair in the route he must take. He and Harper would climb into the hills where their travel permit dictated that they must spend the night at a high fortress. Tomorrow they would ride down into the wilder country that sprawled across the border of the southern province. It was in that unsettled country, close to the hell-dark forests where embittered Indian tribes lived, that Bias Vivar had died. Blair and Marquinez had both assured Sharpe that the border country had been tamed since Vivar's death, and that the highway could be used in perfect safety. "There have been no rebels there since Bias Vivar died," Marquinez said. "There have been some highway robberies, but nothing, I think, that should worry either you or Mister Harper."
"They're welcome to try, so they are," Harper had said, and indeed he and Sharpe fairly bristled with weapons. Sharpe wore his big butcher's blade of a sword, the sword with which he had fought through Portugal, Spain and France, and then at the field of Waterloo. It was no ordinary infantry officer's sword, but instead the killing blade of a trooper from Britain's Heavy Cavalry. Soldiers armed with just such big swords had carved a corps of veteran French infantry into bloody ruin at Waterloo, capturing two Eagles as they did it.