JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 68 из 213Yet with every step he worried more aboutthe state of his uniform.
The streets were still filled with men from the Light Companies who waited for dismissal while the final rosters were taken. The wounded, on stretchers and carts, were being carried to the surgeons’ knives and many of the dead were still on the wasteland. The unwounded living stood with bitter, angry expression and the citizens of Salamanca hurried by in the shadows, averting their eyes, hoping the soldiers would not vent their anger on helpless civilians.
The arch gates of the Palacio Casares were wide open, flickering with lights cast by resin torches and Sharpe, like the fearful citizens, kept to the shadows on the far side of the street. He leaned against the wall and pulled his blood-soaked jacket straight. He did up the top buttons and tried to force the high collar, that had long lost its stiffness, into a decent shape round his neck. He wanted to see her.
Candles showed in the hallway. Their light was splintered by the fountain in the courtyard centre. The raised pool was surrounded by the silhouettes of British uniforms, officers’ uniforms, and while most seemed to be taking the air, or smoking a cigar in the night’s coolness, others were puking helplessly on the flagstones. The defeat, it seemed, had not affected the celebration. The courtyard was surrounded by light, the once masked windows ablaze with candles, and music came gently across the street. It was not the spirited thump of martial music, nor the full-bellied sound of soldiers’ taverns, but the thin, precious tinkle of rich peoples’ music. Music as expensive as a crystal chandelier, and Sharpe knew that if he walked over the street, through the tall arch, and over to the hallway he would feel as foreign and strange as if he had been plunged into the court of the King of Tartary. The house was lit like a festival, the rich were at play, and the dead who lay shredded by the canister just a quarter mile away might never have existed.
“Richard! By the moving bowels of the living saints! Is that you?” Lord Spears was in the gateway. In one hand was a cigar that beckoned to him. “Richard Sharpe! Come here, you dog!”
Sharpe smiled, despite his mood, and crossed the street. “My lord.”
“Will you stop ”my lording“ me? You sound like a damned shop-keeper! My friends call me Jack, my enemies what they like. Are you coming in? You’re invited. Not that it makes any difference, every damned mother’s son in town is here.”
Sharpe gestured at his uniform. “I’m hardly in a fit state.
The streets were still filled with men from the Light Companies who waited for dismissal while the final rosters were taken. The wounded, on stretchers and carts, were being carried to the surgeons’ knives and many of the dead were still on the wasteland. The unwounded living stood with bitter, angry expression and the citizens of Salamanca hurried by in the shadows, averting their eyes, hoping the soldiers would not vent their anger on helpless civilians.
The arch gates of the Palacio Casares were wide open, flickering with lights cast by resin torches and Sharpe, like the fearful citizens, kept to the shadows on the far side of the street. He leaned against the wall and pulled his blood-soaked jacket straight. He did up the top buttons and tried to force the high collar, that had long lost its stiffness, into a decent shape round his neck. He wanted to see her.
Candles showed in the hallway. Their light was splintered by the fountain in the courtyard centre. The raised pool was surrounded by the silhouettes of British uniforms, officers’ uniforms, and while most seemed to be taking the air, or smoking a cigar in the night’s coolness, others were puking helplessly on the flagstones. The defeat, it seemed, had not affected the celebration. The courtyard was surrounded by light, the once masked windows ablaze with candles, and music came gently across the street. It was not the spirited thump of martial music, nor the full-bellied sound of soldiers’ taverns, but the thin, precious tinkle of rich peoples’ music. Music as expensive as a crystal chandelier, and Sharpe knew that if he walked over the street, through the tall arch, and over to the hallway he would feel as foreign and strange as if he had been plunged into the court of the King of Tartary. The house was lit like a festival, the rich were at play, and the dead who lay shredded by the canister just a quarter mile away might never have existed.
“Richard! By the moving bowels of the living saints! Is that you?” Lord Spears was in the gateway. In one hand was a cigar that beckoned to him. “Richard Sharpe! Come here, you dog!”
Sharpe smiled, despite his mood, and crossed the street. “My lord.”
“Will you stop ”my lording“ me? You sound like a damned shop-keeper! My friends call me Jack, my enemies what they like. Are you coming in? You’re invited. Not that it makes any difference, every damned mother’s son in town is here.”
Sharpe gestured at his uniform. “I’m hardly in a fit state.