JК
Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 93 из 203There had been pigs in the grove, and as Sharpe stripped off his uniform to search the seams for lice he could smell pork cooking on the myriad small fires that showed through the foliage. Such looting was punishable by instant hanging, but nothing could stop it. The officers, the provosts, everyone was short of food, and the surreptitious offer of some stolen pork would ensure that the provosts would take no action.
The courtyard gradually filled with officers from the dozen Battalions bivouacked in the village. The heat of the day mellowed into a warm, clear evening, and the stars came out like the camp fires of a limitless army seen far away. From the main room of the inn came the sound of music and cheering as the officers egged on the Spanish dancers to twitch their skirts higher.
Sharpe pushed his way through the crowded room and glimpsed Simmerson and his cronies sitting playing cards at a corner table. Gibbons was there, he was now permanently attached to Simmerson’s staff, and the unpleasant Lieutenant Berry. For a second Sharpe thought about the girl. He had seen her once or twice since the return from the bridge and felt a surge of jealousy. He pushed the thought away; the officers of the Battalion were split enough as it was. There were Simmerson’s supporters, who toadied to the Colonel and assured him that the loss of the colour had been no fault of his, and there were those who had publicly supported Sharpe. It was an uncomfortable situation but there was nothing to be done about it. He passed out of the room into the courtyard and found Forrest, Leroy, and a group of Subalterns sitting beneath one of the cypress trees. Forrest made room for him on the bench.
“Don’t you ever take that rifle off?”
“And have it stolen?” Sharpe asked. “I’d be charged for it.”
Forrest smiled. “Have you paid for the stocks yet?”
“Not yet.” Sharpe grimaced. “But now I’m officially on the Battalion’s payroll, I suppose it will be deducted from my pay, whenever that arrives.”
Forrest pushed a wine bottle towards him. “Don’t let it worry you. Tonight the wine’s on me.”
There was an ironic cheer from the officers round the table. Unconsciously Sharpe felt the leather bag round his neck. It was heavier by six gold pieces, thanks to the dead on the field at Valdelacasa. He drank some wine.
“It’s filthy!”
“There’s a rumour,” Leroy said drily. “I hear that when they tread the grapes they don’t bother to get out of the wine-press to relieve themselves.”
There was a moment’s silence and then a chorus of disgusted voices. Forrest looked dubiously into his cup. “I don’t believe it.
The courtyard gradually filled with officers from the dozen Battalions bivouacked in the village. The heat of the day mellowed into a warm, clear evening, and the stars came out like the camp fires of a limitless army seen far away. From the main room of the inn came the sound of music and cheering as the officers egged on the Spanish dancers to twitch their skirts higher.
Sharpe pushed his way through the crowded room and glimpsed Simmerson and his cronies sitting playing cards at a corner table. Gibbons was there, he was now permanently attached to Simmerson’s staff, and the unpleasant Lieutenant Berry. For a second Sharpe thought about the girl. He had seen her once or twice since the return from the bridge and felt a surge of jealousy. He pushed the thought away; the officers of the Battalion were split enough as it was. There were Simmerson’s supporters, who toadied to the Colonel and assured him that the loss of the colour had been no fault of his, and there were those who had publicly supported Sharpe. It was an uncomfortable situation but there was nothing to be done about it. He passed out of the room into the courtyard and found Forrest, Leroy, and a group of Subalterns sitting beneath one of the cypress trees. Forrest made room for him on the bench.
“Don’t you ever take that rifle off?”
“And have it stolen?” Sharpe asked. “I’d be charged for it.”
Forrest smiled. “Have you paid for the stocks yet?”
“Not yet.” Sharpe grimaced. “But now I’m officially on the Battalion’s payroll, I suppose it will be deducted from my pay, whenever that arrives.”
Forrest pushed a wine bottle towards him. “Don’t let it worry you. Tonight the wine’s on me.”
There was an ironic cheer from the officers round the table. Unconsciously Sharpe felt the leather bag round his neck. It was heavier by six gold pieces, thanks to the dead on the field at Valdelacasa. He drank some wine.
“It’s filthy!”
“There’s a rumour,” Leroy said drily. “I hear that when they tread the grapes they don’t bother to get out of the wine-press to relieve themselves.”
There was a moment’s silence and then a chorus of disgusted voices. Forrest looked dubiously into his cup. “I don’t believe it.