JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 34 из 213“Michael will want to talk to you about Leroux, but in the meantime, my dear Sharpe, you are coming to the Palacio Casares tonight to drink La Marquesa’s champagne.”
Sharpe shook his head. “No, my lord.”
“My lord! My lord! Call me Jack! Now tell me you’re coming!”
Sharpe screwed the paper into a ball. He was thinking of Teresa and feeling noble that he was rejecting the invitation. “I’m not coming, my lord.”
Lord Spears watched Sharpe walk away, cutting across the circling walkers in the Plaza Mayor, and the cavalryman smiled to himself. “Ten to one you do, my friend, ten to one you do.”
CHAPTER 4
Sharpe had wanted to go to La Marquesa’s; the temptation was on him all night, but he stayed away. He told himself that he did so because he did not care to go, but the truth was, and he knew it, that he was frightened of the mockery of La Marquesa’s witty, elegant friends. He would be out of place.
He drank instead, listening to the stories of his men and chasing away the one Provost who tried to challenge their presence in the city. He watched them betting on cockfights, watched them losing their money because the prize birds had been fed rum-soaked raisins, and he pretended that he would rather be with them than with anyone else. They were pleased, he knew, and he felt ashamed because it was a pretence. He watched yet another dead cockerel being taken from the blood-soaked ring, and he thought of the luminous woman with the gold hair and white skin.
Nothing kept the small group of Riflemen in Salamanca and so, the next morning, they marched early to the San Christobal Ridge where the main army waited for the French. They marched with sore heads and sour throats, leaving the city behind and going to the place they belonged.
They all expected a battle. The French had been manoeuvred out of Salamanca, but Marmont had left the garrisons behind in the three fortresses, and it was obvious to even the least soldier that once the French Marshal had been reinforced from the north then he would come back to rescue his men trapped in the city. The British waited for him, hoping he would attack the great ridge that barred the road to the city, the ridge behind which Sharpe reunited his men with the South Essex.
McDonald was dead, buried already, killed by a thrust of Leroux’s sword between his ribs. Major Forrest, in temporary command after the death of Windham, shook his head sorrowfully. “I’m truly sorry about the boy, Richard.”
“I know, sir.” Sharpe had hardly had time to know the Ensign. “You’ll want me to write to his parents?”
“Would you? I’ve written to Windham’s wife.
Sharpe shook his head. “No, my lord.”
“My lord! My lord! Call me Jack! Now tell me you’re coming!”
Sharpe screwed the paper into a ball. He was thinking of Teresa and feeling noble that he was rejecting the invitation. “I’m not coming, my lord.”
Lord Spears watched Sharpe walk away, cutting across the circling walkers in the Plaza Mayor, and the cavalryman smiled to himself. “Ten to one you do, my friend, ten to one you do.”
CHAPTER 4
Sharpe had wanted to go to La Marquesa’s; the temptation was on him all night, but he stayed away. He told himself that he did so because he did not care to go, but the truth was, and he knew it, that he was frightened of the mockery of La Marquesa’s witty, elegant friends. He would be out of place.
He drank instead, listening to the stories of his men and chasing away the one Provost who tried to challenge their presence in the city. He watched them betting on cockfights, watched them losing their money because the prize birds had been fed rum-soaked raisins, and he pretended that he would rather be with them than with anyone else. They were pleased, he knew, and he felt ashamed because it was a pretence. He watched yet another dead cockerel being taken from the blood-soaked ring, and he thought of the luminous woman with the gold hair and white skin.
Nothing kept the small group of Riflemen in Salamanca and so, the next morning, they marched early to the San Christobal Ridge where the main army waited for the French. They marched with sore heads and sour throats, leaving the city behind and going to the place they belonged.
They all expected a battle. The French had been manoeuvred out of Salamanca, but Marmont had left the garrisons behind in the three fortresses, and it was obvious to even the least soldier that once the French Marshal had been reinforced from the north then he would come back to rescue his men trapped in the city. The British waited for him, hoping he would attack the great ridge that barred the road to the city, the ridge behind which Sharpe reunited his men with the South Essex.
McDonald was dead, buried already, killed by a thrust of Leroux’s sword between his ribs. Major Forrest, in temporary command after the death of Windham, shook his head sorrowfully. “I’m truly sorry about the boy, Richard.”
“I know, sir.” Sharpe had hardly had time to know the Ensign. “You’ll want me to write to his parents?”
“Would you? I’ve written to Windham’s wife.