JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 147 из 203Tomorrow a hundred thousand men would march into a maelstrom of fire, and Hogan, catching a glimpse of Sharpe’s snarling face as he hurled two Spanish infantrymen out of his way, feared for the evil that seemed to be welling up in preparation for the morrow. Then they were in the quiet street where Josefina was living and Hogan peered up at the quiet windows, the closed shutters, and prayed that Richard Sharpe would not destroy himself with his huge anger.
CHAPTER 18
Sharpe’s boots crunched on broken plaster; he listened to the voices murmuring in the room, on the other side of the splintered door, and stared unseeing through a small window at the high ragged clouds which raced past the moon. Hogan sat on the top step of the steep stairs next to the sheets they had taken from Josefina’s bed. In the half light of the candles seeping through the doorway the sheets seemed to be patterned in red and white. There was a cry from the room. Sharpe spun round in irritation.
“What are they doing to her?”
Hogan hushed him. “The doctor’s bleeding her, Sharpe. He knows what he’s doing.”
“As if she hasn’t lost enough blood already!”
“I know, I know.” Hogan spoke soothingly. There was nothing he could say that would ease the turmoil in Sharpe’s head, to soften the blow or deflect the revenge which Hogan knew was being minutely plotted as the Rifleman paced up and down the tiny landing. The Engineer sighed and picked up a tiny plaster head. The house belonged to a seller of religious statues, and the stairs and corridors were stacked with his wares. When Gibbons and Berry had forced their way into the girl’s room they had trampled on twenty or thirty images of Christ, each with a bleeding heart, and the scraps of statues still littered the landing. Hogan was a peaceful man. He enjoyed his job, he liked the fresh challenges of each day, he was happy with his head full of angles and reentries, yardages and imperial weights; he liked company that laughed easily, drank generously, and would pass the time with stories of happiness past. He was no fighter. His war was fought with picks, shovels and powder, yet when he had burst with Sharpe into the attic room he had felt in himself a searing anger and lust for revenge. The mood had passed. Now he sat, saddened and quiet, but as he watched the tall Rifleman he knew that in Sharpe the mood was being refined and fed. For the twentieth time Sharpe stopped.
“Why?”
Hogan shrugged. “They were drunk, Richard.”
“That’s no answer!”
“No.” Hogan carefully replaced the broken head on the floor, out of reach of Sharpe’s pacing. “There isn’t an answer. They wanted revenge on you. Neither you nor the girl are important. It’s their pride… „He tailed away.
CHAPTER 18
Sharpe’s boots crunched on broken plaster; he listened to the voices murmuring in the room, on the other side of the splintered door, and stared unseeing through a small window at the high ragged clouds which raced past the moon. Hogan sat on the top step of the steep stairs next to the sheets they had taken from Josefina’s bed. In the half light of the candles seeping through the doorway the sheets seemed to be patterned in red and white. There was a cry from the room. Sharpe spun round in irritation.
“What are they doing to her?”
Hogan hushed him. “The doctor’s bleeding her, Sharpe. He knows what he’s doing.”
“As if she hasn’t lost enough blood already!”
“I know, I know.” Hogan spoke soothingly. There was nothing he could say that would ease the turmoil in Sharpe’s head, to soften the blow or deflect the revenge which Hogan knew was being minutely plotted as the Rifleman paced up and down the tiny landing. The Engineer sighed and picked up a tiny plaster head. The house belonged to a seller of religious statues, and the stairs and corridors were stacked with his wares. When Gibbons and Berry had forced their way into the girl’s room they had trampled on twenty or thirty images of Christ, each with a bleeding heart, and the scraps of statues still littered the landing. Hogan was a peaceful man. He enjoyed his job, he liked the fresh challenges of each day, he was happy with his head full of angles and reentries, yardages and imperial weights; he liked company that laughed easily, drank generously, and would pass the time with stories of happiness past. He was no fighter. His war was fought with picks, shovels and powder, yet when he had burst with Sharpe into the attic room he had felt in himself a searing anger and lust for revenge. The mood had passed. Now he sat, saddened and quiet, but as he watched the tall Rifleman he knew that in Sharpe the mood was being refined and fed. For the twentieth time Sharpe stopped.
“Why?”
Hogan shrugged. “They were drunk, Richard.”
“That’s no answer!”
“No.” Hogan carefully replaced the broken head on the floor, out of reach of Sharpe’s pacing. “There isn’t an answer. They wanted revenge on you. Neither you nor the girl are important. It’s their pride… „He tailed away.