JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 49 из 213” Wellington laughed, breaking his bad mood with an extraordinary suddenness. “All right, Sharpe, you can have them. But don’t you lose him. Understand? You will not lose him.” The blue eyes conveyed the message.
“I won’t lose him, sir.”
Wellington half smiled. “He’s all yours, Hogan. Gentlemen!”
The staff officers trotted obediently after the General, leaving Hogan alone with Sharpe.
The Irishman laughed quietly. “You have a deep respect for senior officers, Richard, it’s what makes you into such a great soldier.”
“I’d have been here sooner if that bastard had lent me his horse.”
“He probably paid two hundred guineas for it. He reckons it’s worth more than you are. On the other hand that nag cost ten pounds, and you can borrow it.” Hogan was pointing towards his servant who was leading a spare horse towards them. Hogan had anticipated Sharpe arriving on foot and he waited as the Rifleman climbed clumsily into the saddle. “I’m sorry about the panic, Richard.”
“Is there a panic?”
“God, yes. Your piece of paper started it.”
Sharpe hated riding. He liked to be in control of his destiny, but horses seemed not to share that wish. He gingerly urged it forward, hoping it would keep pace with Hogan’s walking animal and, somehow, he managed to stay abreast. “The list?”
“Didn’t it look familiar?”
“Familiar?” Sharpe frowned. He could only remember a list of Spanish names with sums of money beside them. “No.”
Hogan glanced behind to make sure his servant was out of earshot. “It was in my handwriting, Richard.”
“Yours? Good God!” Sharpe’s hands fumbled with the rein while his right boot had come out of the stirrup. He never understood how other people made riding look easy. “How in hell’s name did Leroux get a list in your handwriting?”
“Now there’s a question to cheer up a dull morning. How in hell’s name did he? Horse dealers!” He said the last words scornfully, as if Sharpe had been at fault.
The Rifleman had managed to get his foot back into the stirrup. “So what was it?”
“We have informants, yes? Hundreds of them. Almost every priest, doctor, mayor, shoemaker, blacksmith and anyone else you care to mention sends us snippets of news about the French. Marmont can’t break wind without ten messages telling us. Some of them, Richard, are very good messages indeed, and some of them cost us money.” Hogan paused as they passed a battery of artillery. He returned a Lieutenant’s salute, then looked back at Sharpe.
“I won’t lose him, sir.”
Wellington half smiled. “He’s all yours, Hogan. Gentlemen!”
The staff officers trotted obediently after the General, leaving Hogan alone with Sharpe.
The Irishman laughed quietly. “You have a deep respect for senior officers, Richard, it’s what makes you into such a great soldier.”
“I’d have been here sooner if that bastard had lent me his horse.”
“He probably paid two hundred guineas for it. He reckons it’s worth more than you are. On the other hand that nag cost ten pounds, and you can borrow it.” Hogan was pointing towards his servant who was leading a spare horse towards them. Hogan had anticipated Sharpe arriving on foot and he waited as the Rifleman climbed clumsily into the saddle. “I’m sorry about the panic, Richard.”
“Is there a panic?”
“God, yes. Your piece of paper started it.”
Sharpe hated riding. He liked to be in control of his destiny, but horses seemed not to share that wish. He gingerly urged it forward, hoping it would keep pace with Hogan’s walking animal and, somehow, he managed to stay abreast. “The list?”
“Didn’t it look familiar?”
“Familiar?” Sharpe frowned. He could only remember a list of Spanish names with sums of money beside them. “No.”
Hogan glanced behind to make sure his servant was out of earshot. “It was in my handwriting, Richard.”
“Yours? Good God!” Sharpe’s hands fumbled with the rein while his right boot had come out of the stirrup. He never understood how other people made riding look easy. “How in hell’s name did Leroux get a list in your handwriting?”
“Now there’s a question to cheer up a dull morning. How in hell’s name did he? Horse dealers!” He said the last words scornfully, as if Sharpe had been at fault.
The Rifleman had managed to get his foot back into the stirrup. “So what was it?”
“We have informants, yes? Hundreds of them. Almost every priest, doctor, mayor, shoemaker, blacksmith and anyone else you care to mention sends us snippets of news about the French. Marmont can’t break wind without ten messages telling us. Some of them, Richard, are very good messages indeed, and some of them cost us money.” Hogan paused as they passed a battery of artillery. He returned a Lieutenant’s salute, then looked back at Sharpe.