JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 100 из 213Even those men Sharpe looked at carefully for it was not beyond a possibility that Leroux would have disguised himself in British uniform, but Leroux was not there.
A shout came from below and Sharpe ran to the last room he had not searched. It was empty as the others, except for a telescope, mounted like La Marquesa’s on a tripod, that a small Welsh soldier was struggling to lift. “Leave it!”
The man looked offended. “Sorry, sir.”
Sharpe could see the tripod marks on the wooden floor and he carefully aligned the telescope again on the old marks. He guessed that perhaps it had been used for receiving telegraph messages, when the French army had been close to the city, but he could not be sure. He peered through the glass, saw open sky, and tilted the tube downwards. The glass pointed through a tiny window. Anyone using it from the tripod marks could see scarce a thing through that tiny space. A patch of sky and then, the glass steadied, and Sharpe saw the dark square, and saw the circle of light that he knew was the brass-bound lens of La Marquesa’s glass. He grinned. Someone had tried to watch La Marquesa on her mirador and he could not blame them, for it must have been hell to be pinned in this tiny fort and an officer had set up the glass, far enough back so that it would not reflect any betraying light, and he must have prayed and hoped for a glimpse of that perfect beauty to relieve the perfect hell that sliced apart a man’s intestines. He stayed for a moment, hoping he would see her, but there was no sign of her. He remembered the shout from below and gestured at the glass. “You can have it, soldier.”
He ran down the stairs, joining Harper who had searched the rooms again, and the shout proved to be the discovery of the French magazine. The building smouldered and, beneath their feet, the powder barrels waited that could blow them into fine scraps. A British officer had organised a chain of men and the barrels were heaved up, passed through the courtyard, to be piled in the ditch. Sharpe pushed past the chain, ignoring their protests, but Leroux was not in the cellar.
The other two forts had still not surrendered, yet the British walked quite openly and unconcerned in the space outside the San Cayetano. No French guns fired, no canister riddled the air. Sergeant Huckfield had brought his squad to join McGovern’s, and the two Sergeants saluted as Sharpe came out of the breach. McGovern shook his head dourly. “No sign of him, sir?”
“No.” Sharpe sheathed his sword. Lieutenant Price was waiting in the trench, ready to go to the San Vincente, and Sharpe thought of the long afternoon ahead.
A shout came from below and Sharpe ran to the last room he had not searched. It was empty as the others, except for a telescope, mounted like La Marquesa’s on a tripod, that a small Welsh soldier was struggling to lift. “Leave it!”
The man looked offended. “Sorry, sir.”
Sharpe could see the tripod marks on the wooden floor and he carefully aligned the telescope again on the old marks. He guessed that perhaps it had been used for receiving telegraph messages, when the French army had been close to the city, but he could not be sure. He peered through the glass, saw open sky, and tilted the tube downwards. The glass pointed through a tiny window. Anyone using it from the tripod marks could see scarce a thing through that tiny space. A patch of sky and then, the glass steadied, and Sharpe saw the dark square, and saw the circle of light that he knew was the brass-bound lens of La Marquesa’s glass. He grinned. Someone had tried to watch La Marquesa on her mirador and he could not blame them, for it must have been hell to be pinned in this tiny fort and an officer had set up the glass, far enough back so that it would not reflect any betraying light, and he must have prayed and hoped for a glimpse of that perfect beauty to relieve the perfect hell that sliced apart a man’s intestines. He stayed for a moment, hoping he would see her, but there was no sign of her. He remembered the shout from below and gestured at the glass. “You can have it, soldier.”
He ran down the stairs, joining Harper who had searched the rooms again, and the shout proved to be the discovery of the French magazine. The building smouldered and, beneath their feet, the powder barrels waited that could blow them into fine scraps. A British officer had organised a chain of men and the barrels were heaved up, passed through the courtyard, to be piled in the ditch. Sharpe pushed past the chain, ignoring their protests, but Leroux was not in the cellar.
The other two forts had still not surrendered, yet the British walked quite openly and unconcerned in the space outside the San Cayetano. No French guns fired, no canister riddled the air. Sergeant Huckfield had brought his squad to join McGovern’s, and the two Sergeants saluted as Sharpe came out of the breach. McGovern shook his head dourly. “No sign of him, sir?”
“No.” Sharpe sheathed his sword. Lieutenant Price was waiting in the trench, ready to go to the San Vincente, and Sharpe thought of the long afternoon ahead.