JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 157 из 242„They’re not the worst, not really, just unlucky, and they’re damn fine soldiers. I don’t know.” He frowned, embarrassed. „But the Frogs? They don’t have any choice. It’s called conscription. Some poor bastard is working as a baker or a wheelwright one day and the next he’s in uniform and being marched half a continent away. They resent it, and the French don’t flog their soldiers so there’s no way of holding them.”
„Do you flog?”
„Not me.” He thought about telling Vicente that he had been flogged once, long ago, on a hot parade ground in India, then decided it would sound like boasting. „I just take them behind a wall and beat them up,” he said instead. „It’s quicker.”
Vicente smiled. „I could not do that.”
„You could always give them a writ instead,” Sharpe said. „I’d rather be beaten up than get tangled by a lawyer.” Maybe, he thought, if he had beaten Williamson the man might have settled to authority. Maybe not. „So how far is the river?” he asked.
„Three hours? Not much longer.”
„Bugger all happening here, we might as well keep going.”
„But the French?” Vicente suggested nervously.
„None here, none there.” Sharpe nodded to the south. „No smoke, no birds coming out of trees like a cat was after them. And you can smell French dragoons a mile off. Their horses all have saddle sores, they stink like a cesspit.”
So they marched. The dew was still on the grass. They went through a deserted village that looked undamaged and Sharpe suspected the villagers had seen them coming and hidden themselves. There were certainly people there, for some drying washing was draped over two laurel bushes, but though Sergeant Macedo bellowed that they were friends no one dared to appear. One of the pieces of washing was a fine man’s shirt with bone buttons and Sharpe saw Cresacre dawdling so that he would have a moment on his own when the others were ahead. „The penalty for theft,” Sharpe called to his men, „is hanging. And there are good hanging trees here.” Cresacre pretended he had not heard, but hurried on all the same.
They stopped when they reached the Douro. Barca d’Avintas was still some way to the west and Sharpe knew his men were tired and so they bivouacked in a wood high on a bluff above the river. No boats moved there. Far off to the south a single spire of smoke wavered in the sky, and to the west there was a shimmering haze that Sharpe suspected was the smoke of Oporto’s cooking fires.
„Do you flog?”
„Not me.” He thought about telling Vicente that he had been flogged once, long ago, on a hot parade ground in India, then decided it would sound like boasting. „I just take them behind a wall and beat them up,” he said instead. „It’s quicker.”
Vicente smiled. „I could not do that.”
„You could always give them a writ instead,” Sharpe said. „I’d rather be beaten up than get tangled by a lawyer.” Maybe, he thought, if he had beaten Williamson the man might have settled to authority. Maybe not. „So how far is the river?” he asked.
„Three hours? Not much longer.”
„Bugger all happening here, we might as well keep going.”
„But the French?” Vicente suggested nervously.
„None here, none there.” Sharpe nodded to the south. „No smoke, no birds coming out of trees like a cat was after them. And you can smell French dragoons a mile off. Their horses all have saddle sores, they stink like a cesspit.”
So they marched. The dew was still on the grass. They went through a deserted village that looked undamaged and Sharpe suspected the villagers had seen them coming and hidden themselves. There were certainly people there, for some drying washing was draped over two laurel bushes, but though Sergeant Macedo bellowed that they were friends no one dared to appear. One of the pieces of washing was a fine man’s shirt with bone buttons and Sharpe saw Cresacre dawdling so that he would have a moment on his own when the others were ahead. „The penalty for theft,” Sharpe called to his men, „is hanging. And there are good hanging trees here.” Cresacre pretended he had not heard, but hurried on all the same.
They stopped when they reached the Douro. Barca d’Avintas was still some way to the west and Sharpe knew his men were tired and so they bivouacked in a wood high on a bluff above the river. No boats moved there. Far off to the south a single spire of smoke wavered in the sky, and to the west there was a shimmering haze that Sharpe suspected was the smoke of Oporto’s cooking fires.