JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 192 из 242Once he gets to here, sir”-he tapped the map to the north of theSerra de Santa Catalina-”he’s got a passable road that will take him home, but to reach that road he’ll have to abandon his wagons, his guns, his carriages, in fact everything that can’t be carried on a man or a mule’s back.”
Thunder growled above the city. The sound of rain began, then grew heavier, pelting down onto the terrace and rattling on the tall uncurtained windows. „Damn bloody weather,” Wellesley growled, knowing it would slow down his pursuit of the beaten French.
„It rains on the ungodly too, sir,” Hogan observed.
„Damn them as well.” Wellesley bridled. He was not sure how much he liked Hogan, whom he had inherited from Cradock. The damn man was Irish for a start which reminded Wellesley that he himself had been born in Ireland, a fact of which he was not particularly proud, and the man was plainly not high born and Sir Arthur liked his aides to come from good families, yet he recognized that prejudice as quite unreasonable and he was beginning to suspect that the quiet-spoken Hogan had a good deal of competence, while Colonel Waters, of whom Wellesley did approve, spoke very warmly of the Irishman.
„So,” Wellesley summed up the situation, „they’re on the road between here and Amarante, and they can’t come back without fighting us and they can’t go forward without meeting Beresford, so they must go north into the hills. And where do they go after that?”
„To this road here, sir,” Hogan answered, pointing a pencil at the map. „It goes from Braga to Chaves, sir, and if he manages to get past the Ponte Nova and reach Ruivaens, which is a village here”-he paused to make a pencil mark on the map-”then there’s a track that will take him north across the hills to Montalegre and that’s just a stone’s throw from the frontier.” Sir Arthur’s aides were huddled about the dining table, looking down at the candlelit map, though one man, a slight and pale figure dressed in elegant civilian clothes, did not bother to take any interest, but just stretched languidly in an armchair where he managed to convey the insulting impression that he was bored by this talk of maps, roads, hills and bridges.
„And this road, sir,” Hogan went on, tracing his pencil from the Ponte Nova to Montalegre, „is a real devil. It’s a twister, sir. You have to walk five miles to go a half-mile forward. And better still, sir, it crosses a couple of rivers, small ones, but in deep gorges with quick water, and that means high bridges, sir, and if the Portuguese can cut one of those bridges then Monsieur Soult is lost, sir. He’s trapped.
Thunder growled above the city. The sound of rain began, then grew heavier, pelting down onto the terrace and rattling on the tall uncurtained windows. „Damn bloody weather,” Wellesley growled, knowing it would slow down his pursuit of the beaten French.
„It rains on the ungodly too, sir,” Hogan observed.
„Damn them as well.” Wellesley bridled. He was not sure how much he liked Hogan, whom he had inherited from Cradock. The damn man was Irish for a start which reminded Wellesley that he himself had been born in Ireland, a fact of which he was not particularly proud, and the man was plainly not high born and Sir Arthur liked his aides to come from good families, yet he recognized that prejudice as quite unreasonable and he was beginning to suspect that the quiet-spoken Hogan had a good deal of competence, while Colonel Waters, of whom Wellesley did approve, spoke very warmly of the Irishman.
„So,” Wellesley summed up the situation, „they’re on the road between here and Amarante, and they can’t come back without fighting us and they can’t go forward without meeting Beresford, so they must go north into the hills. And where do they go after that?”
„To this road here, sir,” Hogan answered, pointing a pencil at the map. „It goes from Braga to Chaves, sir, and if he manages to get past the Ponte Nova and reach Ruivaens, which is a village here”-he paused to make a pencil mark on the map-”then there’s a track that will take him north across the hills to Montalegre and that’s just a stone’s throw from the frontier.” Sir Arthur’s aides were huddled about the dining table, looking down at the candlelit map, though one man, a slight and pale figure dressed in elegant civilian clothes, did not bother to take any interest, but just stretched languidly in an armchair where he managed to convey the insulting impression that he was bored by this talk of maps, roads, hills and bridges.
„And this road, sir,” Hogan went on, tracing his pencil from the Ponte Nova to Montalegre, „is a real devil. It’s a twister, sir. You have to walk five miles to go a half-mile forward. And better still, sir, it crosses a couple of rivers, small ones, but in deep gorges with quick water, and that means high bridges, sir, and if the Portuguese can cut one of those bridges then Monsieur Soult is lost, sir. He’s trapped.