JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 148 из 213Yet if Curtis was right, and if Wellington hid on the bend, then the French would march past him, their army strungout in a line of march, and it would be easy to trip him up. It would no longer be a race. It would be like a shepherd stringing his flock out in front of a pack of hungry wolves. But it was just conjecture. Sharpe shrugged. “The French get beaten. There’s just one thing wrong.”
“What’s that?”
Sharpe thought of Hogan’s letter. “Tomorrow we’re marching west, as fast as we can.”
“No you’re not, Mr. Sharpe.” Curtis’ voice was certain. “Your General is hiding his army at a village called Arapiles. He doesn’t want Marmont to know that. He wants the French to think that he’s simply leaving a rearguard at Arapiles and that the rest of the army is marching as fast as it can.”
Sharpe smiled. “With the greatest respect, Father, I doubt if the French will be fooled. After all, if you’ve heard of this deception, then so must a lot of others.”
“No.” Curtis smiled. The rain still crashed down outside, hidden now by the darkness. “I spent the afternoon at Arapiles. There is one problem only.”
Sharpe was sitting forward again, the rain forgotten. “Which is?”
“How do we tell Marmont’s spies that Wellington is really marching tomorrow?”
Sharpe shook his head. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
The Rifleman stood up, walked to the door and peered into the garden. There was nothing to be seen except the trees lashing in the storm. He turned round, puzzled by the conversation. “What do you mean ”we“?”
“I mean our side, Captain.”
Sharpe walked back to his seat, picking up his rifle as he went, and he felt as if the ground beneath his feet was crumbling away. At first Curtis had provoked him, then mocked him, now he was making Sharpe feel very stupid. He let his fingers run over the lock of the rifle, liking its solidity, and looked at the priest. “Say what you have to say.”
Curtis thrust his hand into the breast of his cassock and brought out a piece of paper. It was folded into a narrow strip. “This came to me today which is why I went to see Wellington. It came to me, Captain, sewn into the spine of a volume of sermons. It came from Paris.”
Sharpe ran his finger against the rough edge of the rifle flint. He was unaware of the pain in his wound, he just listened to the elderly priest who had suddenly assumed great authority. “Leroux is a dangerous man, Captain, very dangerous, and we wanted to know more about him. I asked one of my correspondents, a friend, a man who works in a Ministry in Paris. This is the answer.
“What’s that?”
Sharpe thought of Hogan’s letter. “Tomorrow we’re marching west, as fast as we can.”
“No you’re not, Mr. Sharpe.” Curtis’ voice was certain. “Your General is hiding his army at a village called Arapiles. He doesn’t want Marmont to know that. He wants the French to think that he’s simply leaving a rearguard at Arapiles and that the rest of the army is marching as fast as it can.”
Sharpe smiled. “With the greatest respect, Father, I doubt if the French will be fooled. After all, if you’ve heard of this deception, then so must a lot of others.”
“No.” Curtis smiled. The rain still crashed down outside, hidden now by the darkness. “I spent the afternoon at Arapiles. There is one problem only.”
Sharpe was sitting forward again, the rain forgotten. “Which is?”
“How do we tell Marmont’s spies that Wellington is really marching tomorrow?”
Sharpe shook his head. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
The Rifleman stood up, walked to the door and peered into the garden. There was nothing to be seen except the trees lashing in the storm. He turned round, puzzled by the conversation. “What do you mean ”we“?”
“I mean our side, Captain.”
Sharpe walked back to his seat, picking up his rifle as he went, and he felt as if the ground beneath his feet was crumbling away. At first Curtis had provoked him, then mocked him, now he was making Sharpe feel very stupid. He let his fingers run over the lock of the rifle, liking its solidity, and looked at the priest. “Say what you have to say.”
Curtis thrust his hand into the breast of his cassock and brought out a piece of paper. It was folded into a narrow strip. “This came to me today which is why I went to see Wellington. It came to me, Captain, sewn into the spine of a volume of sermons. It came from Paris.”
Sharpe ran his finger against the rough edge of the rifle flint. He was unaware of the pain in his wound, he just listened to the elderly priest who had suddenly assumed great authority. “Leroux is a dangerous man, Captain, very dangerous, and we wanted to know more about him. I asked one of my correspondents, a friend, a man who works in a Ministry in Paris. This is the answer.