JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 6 из 203He looked, in his blue coat and white trousers, like a naval officer and he claimed his uniform had been mistaken for a Frenchman’s so often that he had been fired on more by his own side than by the enemy. He was an Engineer, one of the tiny number of Military Engineers in Portugal, and he grinned as he took off his cocked hat and nodded at Sharpe’s leg. “The warrior restored? How’s the leg?”
“Perfect, sir.”
“Sergeant Harper’s maggots, eh? Well, we Irish are clever devils. God knows where you English would be without us.” Hogan took out his snuff box and inhaled a vast pinch. As Sharpe waited for the inevitable sneeze he eyed the small, middle-aged Captain fondly. For a month his Riflemen had been Hogan’s escort as the Engineer had mapped the roads across the high passes that led to Spain. It was no secret that any day now Wellesley would take the army into Spain, to follow the River Tagus that was aimed like a spear at the capital, Madrid, and Hogan, as well as sketching endless maps, had strengthened the culverts and bridges which would have to take the tons of brass and wood as the field artillery rolled towards the enemy. It had been a job well done in agreeable company, until it rained and the rifles wouldn’t fire and the crazy-eyed French Hussar had nearly made a name for himself by his mad solo charge at a group of Riflemen. Somehow Sergeant Harper had kept the damp out of his firing pan, and Sharpe still shivered when he thought of what might have happened if the rifle had not fired.
The Sergeant collected the pieces of his rifle lock as if he was about to leave but Hogan held up his hand. “Stay on, Patrick. I have a treat for you; one that even a heathen from Donegal might like.” He took a dark bottle out of his haversack and raised an eyebrow to Sharpe. “You don’t mind?”
Sharpe shook his head. Harper was a good man, good at everything he did, and in their three years’ acquaintanceship Sharpe and Harper had become friends, or at least as friendly as an officer and a Sergeant could be. Sharpe could not imagine fighting without the huge Irishman beside him, the Irishman dreaded fighting without Sharpe, and together they were as formidable a pair as Hogan had ever seen on a battlefield. The Captain set the bottle on the table and pulled the cork. “Brandy. French brandy from Marshal Soult’s own cellars and captured at Oporto. With the compliments of the General.”
“From Wellesley?” Sharpe asked.
“The man himself. He asked after you, Sharpe, and I said you were being doctored or would have been with me.”
Sharpe said nothing. Hogan paused in his careful pouring of the liquid. “Don’t be unfair, Sharpe! He’s fond of you. Do you think he’s forgotten Assaye?”
Assaye.
“Perfect, sir.”
“Sergeant Harper’s maggots, eh? Well, we Irish are clever devils. God knows where you English would be without us.” Hogan took out his snuff box and inhaled a vast pinch. As Sharpe waited for the inevitable sneeze he eyed the small, middle-aged Captain fondly. For a month his Riflemen had been Hogan’s escort as the Engineer had mapped the roads across the high passes that led to Spain. It was no secret that any day now Wellesley would take the army into Spain, to follow the River Tagus that was aimed like a spear at the capital, Madrid, and Hogan, as well as sketching endless maps, had strengthened the culverts and bridges which would have to take the tons of brass and wood as the field artillery rolled towards the enemy. It had been a job well done in agreeable company, until it rained and the rifles wouldn’t fire and the crazy-eyed French Hussar had nearly made a name for himself by his mad solo charge at a group of Riflemen. Somehow Sergeant Harper had kept the damp out of his firing pan, and Sharpe still shivered when he thought of what might have happened if the rifle had not fired.
The Sergeant collected the pieces of his rifle lock as if he was about to leave but Hogan held up his hand. “Stay on, Patrick. I have a treat for you; one that even a heathen from Donegal might like.” He took a dark bottle out of his haversack and raised an eyebrow to Sharpe. “You don’t mind?”
Sharpe shook his head. Harper was a good man, good at everything he did, and in their three years’ acquaintanceship Sharpe and Harper had become friends, or at least as friendly as an officer and a Sergeant could be. Sharpe could not imagine fighting without the huge Irishman beside him, the Irishman dreaded fighting without Sharpe, and together they were as formidable a pair as Hogan had ever seen on a battlefield. The Captain set the bottle on the table and pulled the cork. “Brandy. French brandy from Marshal Soult’s own cellars and captured at Oporto. With the compliments of the General.”
“From Wellesley?” Sharpe asked.
“The man himself. He asked after you, Sharpe, and I said you were being doctored or would have been with me.”
Sharpe said nothing. Hogan paused in his careful pouring of the liquid. “Don’t be unfair, Sharpe! He’s fond of you. Do you think he’s forgotten Assaye?”
Assaye.