JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 32 из 242”
„Tomorrow,” Sharpe echoed, then collapsedthe telescope. He stared south. Was that dust thrown up by the French? Were they on their way to Barca d’Avintas? He wanted to use the ferry because it was so much nearer, but also riskier. Would the French be expecting fugitives to use the ferry? Or perhaps the invaders did not even know it existed. There was only one way to find out. „How do we get to Barca d’Avintas?” he asked Vicente, gesturing back down the track that led through the cork oaks. „The same way we came?”
„There is a quicker path,” Vicente said.
„Then lead on.”
Some of the men were sleeping, but Harper kicked them awake and they all followed Vicente off the road and down into a gentle valley where vines grew in neatly tended rows. From there they climbed another hill and walked through meadows dotted with the small haystacks left from the previous year. Flowers studded the grass and twined about the witch-hat haystacks, while blossoms filled the hedgerows. There was no path, though Vicente led the men confidently enough.
„You know where you’re going?” Sharpe asked suspiciously after a while.
„I know this landscape,” Vicente assured the rifleman, „I know it well.”
You grew up here, then?”
Vicente shook his head. „I was raised in Coimbra. That’s far to the south, senhor, but I know this landscape because I belong”-he checked and corrected himself-”belonged to a society that walks here.”
„A society that walks in the countryside?” Sharpe asked, amused.
Vicente blushed. „We are philosophers, senhor, and poets.”
Sharpe was too astonished to respond immediately, but finally managed a question. „You were what?”
“Philosophers and poets, senhor.”
“Jesus bloody Christ,” Sharpe said.
„We believe, senhor,” Vicente went on, „that there is inspiration in the countryside. The country, you see, is natural, while towns are made by man and so harbor all men’s wickedness. If we wish to discover our natural goodness then it must be sought in the country.” He was having trouble finding the right English words to express what he meant. „There is, I think,” he tried again, „a natural goodness in the world and we seek it.”
„So you come here for inspiration?”
„We do, yes.” Vicente nodded eagerly.
Giving inspiration to a lawyer, Sharpe thought sourly, was like feeding fine brandy to a rat. „And let me guess,” he said, barely hiding his derision, „that the members of your society of rhyming philosophers are all men.
„Tomorrow,” Sharpe echoed, then collapsedthe telescope. He stared south. Was that dust thrown up by the French? Were they on their way to Barca d’Avintas? He wanted to use the ferry because it was so much nearer, but also riskier. Would the French be expecting fugitives to use the ferry? Or perhaps the invaders did not even know it existed. There was only one way to find out. „How do we get to Barca d’Avintas?” he asked Vicente, gesturing back down the track that led through the cork oaks. „The same way we came?”
„There is a quicker path,” Vicente said.
„Then lead on.”
Some of the men were sleeping, but Harper kicked them awake and they all followed Vicente off the road and down into a gentle valley where vines grew in neatly tended rows. From there they climbed another hill and walked through meadows dotted with the small haystacks left from the previous year. Flowers studded the grass and twined about the witch-hat haystacks, while blossoms filled the hedgerows. There was no path, though Vicente led the men confidently enough.
„You know where you’re going?” Sharpe asked suspiciously after a while.
„I know this landscape,” Vicente assured the rifleman, „I know it well.”
You grew up here, then?”
Vicente shook his head. „I was raised in Coimbra. That’s far to the south, senhor, but I know this landscape because I belong”-he checked and corrected himself-”belonged to a society that walks here.”
„A society that walks in the countryside?” Sharpe asked, amused.
Vicente blushed. „We are philosophers, senhor, and poets.”
Sharpe was too astonished to respond immediately, but finally managed a question. „You were what?”
“Philosophers and poets, senhor.”
“Jesus bloody Christ,” Sharpe said.
„We believe, senhor,” Vicente went on, „that there is inspiration in the countryside. The country, you see, is natural, while towns are made by man and so harbor all men’s wickedness. If we wish to discover our natural goodness then it must be sought in the country.” He was having trouble finding the right English words to express what he meant. „There is, I think,” he tried again, „a natural goodness in the world and we seek it.”
„So you come here for inspiration?”
„We do, yes.” Vicente nodded eagerly.
Giving inspiration to a lawyer, Sharpe thought sourly, was like feeding fine brandy to a rat. „And let me guess,” he said, barely hiding his derision, „that the members of your society of rhyming philosophers are all men.