JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 94 из 242The sky there was white, not with cloud, but heat, and there was a thumping in that eastern distance, an irregular heartbeat, so far off as to be barely heard. It was cannon fire, proof that the French and the Portuguese were still fighting over the bridge at Amarante. „It doesn’t smell like peace to me, Pat.”
„The folk here hate the French, sir. So do the Dons.”
„Which doesn’t mean the politicians won’t make peace,” Sharpe said.
„Those slimy bastards will do anything that makes them rich,” Harper agreed.
„But Captain Hogan never smelt peace in the wind.”
„And there ain’t much passes him by, sir.”
„But we’ve got orders,” Sharpe said, „directly from General Cradock.”
Harper grimaced. „You’re a great man for obeying orders, sir, so you are.”
„And the General wants us to stay here. God knows why. There’s something funny in the wind, Pat. Maybe it is peace. God knows what you and I will do then.” He shrugged, then went to the house to fetch his telescope and it was not there. The hall table held nothing except a silver letter holder.
Christopher had stolen the glass. The bastard, Sharpe thought, the utter goddamn bloody misbegotten bastard. Because the telescope was gone.
„I never liked the name,” Colonel Christopher said. „It isn’t even a beautiful house!”
„My father chose it,” Kate said, „it’s from The Pilgrim’s Progress.” „A tedious read, my God, how tedious!” They were back in Oporto where Colonel Christopher had opened the neglected cellars of the House Beautiful to discover dusty bottles of aging port and more of vinho verde, a white wine that was almost golden in color. He drank some now as he strolled about the garden. The flowers were coming into bloom, the lawn was newly scythed and the only thing that spoiled the day was the smell of burned houses. It was almost a month since the fall of the city and smoke still drifted from some of the ruins in the lower town where the stench was much worse because of the bodies among the ashes. There were tales of drowned bodies turning up on every tide.
Colonel Christopher sat under a cypress tree and watched Kate. She was beautiful, he thought, so very beautiful, and that morning he had summoned a French tailor, Marshal Soult’s personal tailor, and to Kate’s embarrassment he had made the man measure her for a French hussar uniform.
„The folk here hate the French, sir. So do the Dons.”
„Which doesn’t mean the politicians won’t make peace,” Sharpe said.
„Those slimy bastards will do anything that makes them rich,” Harper agreed.
„But Captain Hogan never smelt peace in the wind.”
„And there ain’t much passes him by, sir.”
„But we’ve got orders,” Sharpe said, „directly from General Cradock.”
Harper grimaced. „You’re a great man for obeying orders, sir, so you are.”
„And the General wants us to stay here. God knows why. There’s something funny in the wind, Pat. Maybe it is peace. God knows what you and I will do then.” He shrugged, then went to the house to fetch his telescope and it was not there. The hall table held nothing except a silver letter holder.
Christopher had stolen the glass. The bastard, Sharpe thought, the utter goddamn bloody misbegotten bastard. Because the telescope was gone.
„I never liked the name,” Colonel Christopher said. „It isn’t even a beautiful house!”
„My father chose it,” Kate said, „it’s from The Pilgrim’s Progress.” „A tedious read, my God, how tedious!” They were back in Oporto where Colonel Christopher had opened the neglected cellars of the House Beautiful to discover dusty bottles of aging port and more of vinho verde, a white wine that was almost golden in color. He drank some now as he strolled about the garden. The flowers were coming into bloom, the lawn was newly scythed and the only thing that spoiled the day was the smell of burned houses. It was almost a month since the fall of the city and smoke still drifted from some of the ruins in the lower town where the stench was much worse because of the bodies among the ashes. There were tales of drowned bodies turning up on every tide.
Colonel Christopher sat under a cypress tree and watched Kate. She was beautiful, he thought, so very beautiful, and that morning he had summoned a French tailor, Marshal Soult’s personal tailor, and to Kate’s embarrassment he had made the man measure her for a French hussar uniform.