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Sharpes Eagle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
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“In India,” Sharpe said, “some natives believe it very healthy to drink their own urine.”
Forrest looked owlishly at him. “That cannot be true.”
Leroy intervened. “Perfectly true, Major, I’ve seen them do it. A cupful a day. Cheers!”
Everyone round the table protested but Sharpe and Leroy stuck to their story. The conversation stayed with India, of battles and sieges, of strange animals, of the palaces that contained unimaginable wealth. More wine was ordered and food brought from the kitchens, not the pork that smelt so tantalisingly from the lines but a stew that seemed to consist mainly of vegetables. It still felt good to be sitting there. Sharpe stretched his legs under the table and leaned back against the cypress trunk letting the tiredness of the day flow through him. Over the sound of talk and laughter he could hear the thousands of insects that chattered and clicked through the Spanish night. Later he would walk over the stream and visit his company, and he let his thoughts wander, not too many miles away, to where he knew a group of French officers would be sitting just like this and where their men would be cooking on fires like the ones across the stream. And somewhere, perhaps propped in the corner of a room in an inn just like this one, would be the Eagle. A hand hit him on the back.
“So they’ve made you a Captain! This army has no standards!” It was Hogan. Sharpe had not seen him since the day they marched back from the bridge. He stood up and took the Engineer’s hand. Hogan beamed at him. “I’m delighted! Shocked, of course, but delighted. Congratulations!”
Sharpe blushed and shrugged. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, looking at things.” Sharpe knew that Hogan had been reconnoitring for Wellesley, coming back with news of which bridges could take the weight of heavy artillery, which roads were wide enough for the army to use. The Captain had obviously been forward to Oropesa and perhaps beyond. Forrest invited him to sit and asked for news.
“The French are up the valley. A lot of them.” Hogan poured himself some wine. “I reckon there’ll be a battle within a week.”
“A week!” Forrest sounded surprised.
“Aye, Major. They’re swarming all over a place called Talavera.” Hogan pronounced it ‘Tally-verra’, making it sound like some Irish hamlet. “But once you join with Cuesta’s army you’ll far outnumber them.”
“You’ve seen Cuesta’s troops?” Sharpe asked.
“Aye.” The Irishman grinned. “They’re no better than the Santa Maria. The cavalry may be better, but the infantry… „Hogan left the sentence unfinished.
“In India,” Sharpe said, “some natives believe it very healthy to drink their own urine.”
Forrest looked owlishly at him. “That cannot be true.”
Leroy intervened. “Perfectly true, Major, I’ve seen them do it. A cupful a day. Cheers!”
Everyone round the table protested but Sharpe and Leroy stuck to their story. The conversation stayed with India, of battles and sieges, of strange animals, of the palaces that contained unimaginable wealth. More wine was ordered and food brought from the kitchens, not the pork that smelt so tantalisingly from the lines but a stew that seemed to consist mainly of vegetables. It still felt good to be sitting there. Sharpe stretched his legs under the table and leaned back against the cypress trunk letting the tiredness of the day flow through him. Over the sound of talk and laughter he could hear the thousands of insects that chattered and clicked through the Spanish night. Later he would walk over the stream and visit his company, and he let his thoughts wander, not too many miles away, to where he knew a group of French officers would be sitting just like this and where their men would be cooking on fires like the ones across the stream. And somewhere, perhaps propped in the corner of a room in an inn just like this one, would be the Eagle. A hand hit him on the back.
“So they’ve made you a Captain! This army has no standards!” It was Hogan. Sharpe had not seen him since the day they marched back from the bridge. He stood up and took the Engineer’s hand. Hogan beamed at him. “I’m delighted! Shocked, of course, but delighted. Congratulations!”
Sharpe blushed and shrugged. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, looking at things.” Sharpe knew that Hogan had been reconnoitring for Wellesley, coming back with news of which bridges could take the weight of heavy artillery, which roads were wide enough for the army to use. The Captain had obviously been forward to Oropesa and perhaps beyond. Forrest invited him to sit and asked for news.
“The French are up the valley. A lot of them.” Hogan poured himself some wine. “I reckon there’ll be a battle within a week.”
“A week!” Forrest sounded surprised.
“Aye, Major. They’re swarming all over a place called Talavera.” Hogan pronounced it ‘Tally-verra’, making it sound like some Irish hamlet. “But once you join with Cuesta’s army you’ll far outnumber them.”
“You’ve seen Cuesta’s troops?” Sharpe asked.
“Aye.” The Irishman grinned. “They’re no better than the Santa Maria. The cavalry may be better, but the infantry… „Hogan left the sentence unfinished.