JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 213 из 242Hogan and Vicente began an impassioned argument about a man called Hume of whom Sharpe had never heard and who turned out to be a dead Scottish philosopher, but, as it seemed the dead Scotsman had proposed that nothing was certain, Sharpe wondered why anyone bothered to read him, let alone argue about him, yet the notion diverted Hogan and Vicente. Sharpe, bored with the talk, left them to their debate and went to inspect the picquets.
It started to rain again, then peals of thunder shook the sky and lightning whipped into the high rocks. Sharpe crouched with Harris and Perkins in a cave-like shrine where some faded flowers lay in front of a sad-looking statue of the Virgin Mary. „Jesus bloody wept,” Harper announced himself as he splashed through the downpour, „and we could be tucked up with those ladies in Oporto.” He crammed himself in beside the three men. „I didn’t know you were here, sir,” he said. „I brought the boys some picquet juice.” He had a wooden canteen of hot tea. „Jesus,” he went on, „you can’t see a bloody thing out there.”
„Weather like home, Sergeant?” Perkins asked.
„What would you know, lad? In Donegal, now, the sun never stops shining, the women all say yes and both the gamekeepers have wooden legs.” He gave Perkins the canteen and peered into the wet dark. „How are we going to find your fellow in this, sir?”
„God knows if we do.”
„Does it matter now?”
„I want my telescope back.”
„Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Harper said, „you’re going to wander into the middle of the French army and ask for it?”
„Something like that,” Sharpe said. All day he had been besieged by a sense of the futility of the effort, but that was no reason not to make the effort. And it seemed right to him that Christopher should be punished. Sharpe believed that a man’s loyalties were at his roots, that they were immovable, but Christopher evidently believed they were negotiable. That was because Christopher was clever and sophisticated. And, if Sharpe had his way, he would soon be dead.
The dawn was cold and wet. They climbed back up to the boulder-strewn heights, leaving behind the valley which was filled with mist. The rain was soft now, but still in their faces. Sharpe led and saw nobody, and still saw nobody even when a musket banged and a cloud of smoke blossomed beside a rock and he dived for cover as the bullet smacked on a boulder and whined into the sky. Everyone else sheltered, except for Hogan who was stranded on his ugly mule, but Hogan had the presence of mind to shout. „Ingles,” he called, „ingles!” He was half on and half off the mule, fearing another bullet, but hoping his claim to be English would prevent it.
A figure in ragged goatskins appeared from behind the rock.
It started to rain again, then peals of thunder shook the sky and lightning whipped into the high rocks. Sharpe crouched with Harris and Perkins in a cave-like shrine where some faded flowers lay in front of a sad-looking statue of the Virgin Mary. „Jesus bloody wept,” Harper announced himself as he splashed through the downpour, „and we could be tucked up with those ladies in Oporto.” He crammed himself in beside the three men. „I didn’t know you were here, sir,” he said. „I brought the boys some picquet juice.” He had a wooden canteen of hot tea. „Jesus,” he went on, „you can’t see a bloody thing out there.”
„Weather like home, Sergeant?” Perkins asked.
„What would you know, lad? In Donegal, now, the sun never stops shining, the women all say yes and both the gamekeepers have wooden legs.” He gave Perkins the canteen and peered into the wet dark. „How are we going to find your fellow in this, sir?”
„God knows if we do.”
„Does it matter now?”
„I want my telescope back.”
„Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Harper said, „you’re going to wander into the middle of the French army and ask for it?”
„Something like that,” Sharpe said. All day he had been besieged by a sense of the futility of the effort, but that was no reason not to make the effort. And it seemed right to him that Christopher should be punished. Sharpe believed that a man’s loyalties were at his roots, that they were immovable, but Christopher evidently believed they were negotiable. That was because Christopher was clever and sophisticated. And, if Sharpe had his way, he would soon be dead.
The dawn was cold and wet. They climbed back up to the boulder-strewn heights, leaving behind the valley which was filled with mist. The rain was soft now, but still in their faces. Sharpe led and saw nobody, and still saw nobody even when a musket banged and a cloud of smoke blossomed beside a rock and he dived for cover as the bullet smacked on a boulder and whined into the sky. Everyone else sheltered, except for Hogan who was stranded on his ugly mule, but Hogan had the presence of mind to shout. „Ingles,” he called, „ingles!” He was half on and half off the mule, fearing another bullet, but hoping his claim to be English would prevent it.
A figure in ragged goatskins appeared from behind the rock.