JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 171 из 242”
„Which doesn’t mean much,” Sir Edward said, „because he never tells me anything. What’s wrong with this bloody telescope?”
„You have to hold the outer lens in place, sir,” Sharpe said.
„Take mine,” Waters said, offering the better instrument.
Sir Edward scanned the city, then frowned. „So what are the bloody French doing?” he asked in a puzzled tone.
„Sleeping,” Waters answered.
„Won’t like it when they wake up, will they?” Paget remarked. „Asleep in the keeper’s lodge with poachers all over the coverts!” He gave the telescope back to Waters and nodded at Sharpe. „Damn pleased to have some riflemen here, Lieutenant. I dare say you’ll get some target practice before the day’s out.”
Another group of men came up the hill. Every window of the seminary’s brief western facade now had a group of redcoats and a quarter of the windows on the long northern wall were also manned. The garden wall had been loopholed and garrisoned by Vicente’s Portuguese and by the Buffs’ grenadier company. The French, thinking themselves secure in Oporto, were watching the river between the city and the sea while behind their backs, on the high eastern hill, the redcoats were gathering.
Which meant the gods of war were tightening the screws.
And something had to break.
Officers were posted in the entrance hall of the Palacio das Carrancas to make sure all visitors took their boots off. „His grace,” they explained, referring to Marshal Nicolas Soult, Duke of Dalmatia, whose nickname was now King Nicolas, „is sleeping.”
The hallway was cavernous, arched, high, beautiful, and hard-heeled boots striding over its tiled floor echoed up the staircase to where King Nicolas slept. Early that morning a hussar had come in hurriedly, his spurs had caught in the rug at the foot of the stairs and he had sprawled with a terrible clatter of saber and scabbard that had woken the Marshal, who had then posted the officers to make certain the rest of his sleep was not disturbed. The two officers were powerless to stop the British artillery firing from across the river, but perhaps the Marshal was not so sensitive to gunfire as he was to loud heels.
The Marshal had invited a dozen guests to breakfast and all had arrived before nine in the morning and were forced to wait in one of the great reception rooms on the palace’s western side where tall glass doors opened onto a terrace decorated with flowers planted in carved stone urns and with laurel bushes that an elderly gardener was trimming with long shears.
„Which doesn’t mean much,” Sir Edward said, „because he never tells me anything. What’s wrong with this bloody telescope?”
„You have to hold the outer lens in place, sir,” Sharpe said.
„Take mine,” Waters said, offering the better instrument.
Sir Edward scanned the city, then frowned. „So what are the bloody French doing?” he asked in a puzzled tone.
„Sleeping,” Waters answered.
„Won’t like it when they wake up, will they?” Paget remarked. „Asleep in the keeper’s lodge with poachers all over the coverts!” He gave the telescope back to Waters and nodded at Sharpe. „Damn pleased to have some riflemen here, Lieutenant. I dare say you’ll get some target practice before the day’s out.”
Another group of men came up the hill. Every window of the seminary’s brief western facade now had a group of redcoats and a quarter of the windows on the long northern wall were also manned. The garden wall had been loopholed and garrisoned by Vicente’s Portuguese and by the Buffs’ grenadier company. The French, thinking themselves secure in Oporto, were watching the river between the city and the sea while behind their backs, on the high eastern hill, the redcoats were gathering.
Which meant the gods of war were tightening the screws.
And something had to break.
Officers were posted in the entrance hall of the Palacio das Carrancas to make sure all visitors took their boots off. „His grace,” they explained, referring to Marshal Nicolas Soult, Duke of Dalmatia, whose nickname was now King Nicolas, „is sleeping.”
The hallway was cavernous, arched, high, beautiful, and hard-heeled boots striding over its tiled floor echoed up the staircase to where King Nicolas slept. Early that morning a hussar had come in hurriedly, his spurs had caught in the rug at the foot of the stairs and he had sprawled with a terrible clatter of saber and scabbard that had woken the Marshal, who had then posted the officers to make certain the rest of his sleep was not disturbed. The two officers were powerless to stop the British artillery firing from across the river, but perhaps the Marshal was not so sensitive to gunfire as he was to loud heels.
The Marshal had invited a dozen guests to breakfast and all had arrived before nine in the morning and were forced to wait in one of the great reception rooms on the palace’s western side where tall glass doors opened onto a terrace decorated with flowers planted in carved stone urns and with laurel bushes that an elderly gardener was trimming with long shears.