JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 180 из 213Musket shots came flat overthe battlefield; either looters being discouraged or men putting other men out of their misery. Spears turned his head again. “I never slept with La Marquesa.”
Sharpe was startled by the sudden, strange confession. He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Spears nodded slowly. “Say thank you.”
Sharpe, not understanding, humoured him. “Thank you.”
Spears looked up again. “I tried, Richard. God, I tried. That wasn’t very decent of me.” His voice was low, directed at the stars.
It seemed a strange guilt and Sharpe still did not understand why Spears had raised the subject. “I don’t think she took offence.”
“No she didn’t.” Spears paused. “Crazy Jack.”
Sharpe drew his feet in, as if to get up. “Let me fetch a doctor.”
“No. No doctor.” Spears put a hand on Sharpe’s arm. “No doctor, Richard. Can you keep a secret?”
Sharpe nodded. “Yes.”
Spears took his hand away. His breath was heavy in his throat. He seemed to be making up his mind whether to speak or not, but finally he said it. His voice was very bitter. “I’ve got the Black Lion. Dear God! The Black Lion.”
CHAPTER 24
“Oh, God.” Sharpe did not know what to say.
The two men were on the edge of the battlefield, the edge of an immense expanse of misery. Shadows crossed in front of the intermittent flames, dogs howled at the half moon that silvered the humped shapes of the wounded and dead. The guns that had shattered the French rearguard were left where they had fired, and their barrels cooled in the night wind. From far across the dark field came the sound of singing. A group of men round a fire were celebrating their survival. Sharpe looked at Spears. “How long have you known?”
Spears shrugged. “Two years.”
“Oh, God.” Sharpe felt the hopelessness of it. All men feared it, of course, it lurked in the shadows like the dark beast that the army nicknamed it. The Black Lion, the worst kind of pox, the pox that killed a man through senility, blindness, and gibbering madness. Sharpe had once paid his pennies to walk through Bedlam, the mad-house in London’s Moorfields, and he had seen the syphilitic patients in their small, foul cages. The patients could earn a small pittance, thrown farthings, by capering and displaying themselves. The Insane of Bedlam were one of the sights of London, more popular even than the public executions. Spears faced a long, filthy, agonising death. Sharpe looked at him.
Sharpe was startled by the sudden, strange confession. He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Spears nodded slowly. “Say thank you.”
Sharpe, not understanding, humoured him. “Thank you.”
Spears looked up again. “I tried, Richard. God, I tried. That wasn’t very decent of me.” His voice was low, directed at the stars.
It seemed a strange guilt and Sharpe still did not understand why Spears had raised the subject. “I don’t think she took offence.”
“No she didn’t.” Spears paused. “Crazy Jack.”
Sharpe drew his feet in, as if to get up. “Let me fetch a doctor.”
“No. No doctor.” Spears put a hand on Sharpe’s arm. “No doctor, Richard. Can you keep a secret?”
Sharpe nodded. “Yes.”
Spears took his hand away. His breath was heavy in his throat. He seemed to be making up his mind whether to speak or not, but finally he said it. His voice was very bitter. “I’ve got the Black Lion. Dear God! The Black Lion.”
CHAPTER 24
“Oh, God.” Sharpe did not know what to say.
The two men were on the edge of the battlefield, the edge of an immense expanse of misery. Shadows crossed in front of the intermittent flames, dogs howled at the half moon that silvered the humped shapes of the wounded and dead. The guns that had shattered the French rearguard were left where they had fired, and their barrels cooled in the night wind. From far across the dark field came the sound of singing. A group of men round a fire were celebrating their survival. Sharpe looked at Spears. “How long have you known?”
Spears shrugged. “Two years.”
“Oh, God.” Sharpe felt the hopelessness of it. All men feared it, of course, it lurked in the shadows like the dark beast that the army nicknamed it. The Black Lion, the worst kind of pox, the pox that killed a man through senility, blindness, and gibbering madness. Sharpe had once paid his pennies to walk through Bedlam, the mad-house in London’s Moorfields, and he had seen the syphilitic patients in their small, foul cages. The patients could earn a small pittance, thrown farthings, by capering and displaying themselves. The Insane of Bedlam were one of the sights of London, more popular even than the public executions. Spears faced a long, filthy, agonising death. Sharpe looked at him.