JК
Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 188 из 244"
"At an inn?"
"Aye. The one where I first met Runciman."
"Good. I need to get drunk, Richard." Hogan looked bleak, almost as if he might weep. "One less witness of your confession in San Isidro, Richard," he said.
"That's not why I did it, Major," Sharpe protested.
"You did nothing, Richard, absolutely nothing." Hogan spoke fiercely. "What happened in that orchard never happened. You saw nothing, heard nothing, did nothing. Father Sarsfield is alive, God knows where, and his disappearance will become a mystery that will never be explained. Or perhaps the truth is that Father Sarsfield never even existed, Richard, in which case you can't possibly have killed him, can you? So say no more about it, not a word." He sniffed, then looked ahead at the blue evening sky which was unbruised by any gunsmoke. "The French have given us a day of peace, Richard, so we shall celebrate by getting bloody drunk. And tomorrow, God help us sinners both, we'll bloody fight."
The sun sank behind layers of western cloud so that the sky seemed shot with glory. For a time the shadows of the British guns reached monstrously across the plain as they stretched towards the oaks and the French army and it was then, in the dying minutes of the full light, that Sharpe rested his telescope on the chill barrel of a nine-pounder gun and trained the glass across the low-lying land until he could see the enemy soldiers around their cooking fires. It was not the first time that day he had searched the enemy lines through the glass. All morning he had wandered restlessly between the ammunition park and the gun line where he had stared fixedly at the enemy and now, back from Vilar Formoso with a sour belly and a head thick with too much wine, he looked once again into Massйna's lines.
"They won't come now," a gunner lieutenant said, thinking that the rifle Captain feared a dusk assault. "Froggies don't like fighting at night."
"No," Sharpe agreed, "they won't come now," but he kept his eye to the telescope as he inched it along the shadowed line of trees and fires and men. And then, suddenly, he checked the glass.
For he had seen the grey uniforms. Loup was here after all and his brigade was a part of Massйna's army which had spent the whole day preparing for the attack that would surely come with the returning sun.
Sharpe watched his enemy, then straightened from the gun barrel and closed the glass.
"At an inn?"
"Aye. The one where I first met Runciman."
"Good. I need to get drunk, Richard." Hogan looked bleak, almost as if he might weep. "One less witness of your confession in San Isidro, Richard," he said.
"That's not why I did it, Major," Sharpe protested.
"You did nothing, Richard, absolutely nothing." Hogan spoke fiercely. "What happened in that orchard never happened. You saw nothing, heard nothing, did nothing. Father Sarsfield is alive, God knows where, and his disappearance will become a mystery that will never be explained. Or perhaps the truth is that Father Sarsfield never even existed, Richard, in which case you can't possibly have killed him, can you? So say no more about it, not a word." He sniffed, then looked ahead at the blue evening sky which was unbruised by any gunsmoke. "The French have given us a day of peace, Richard, so we shall celebrate by getting bloody drunk. And tomorrow, God help us sinners both, we'll bloody fight."
The sun sank behind layers of western cloud so that the sky seemed shot with glory. For a time the shadows of the British guns reached monstrously across the plain as they stretched towards the oaks and the French army and it was then, in the dying minutes of the full light, that Sharpe rested his telescope on the chill barrel of a nine-pounder gun and trained the glass across the low-lying land until he could see the enemy soldiers around their cooking fires. It was not the first time that day he had searched the enemy lines through the glass. All morning he had wandered restlessly between the ammunition park and the gun line where he had stared fixedly at the enemy and now, back from Vilar Formoso with a sour belly and a head thick with too much wine, he looked once again into Massйna's lines.
"They won't come now," a gunner lieutenant said, thinking that the rifle Captain feared a dusk assault. "Froggies don't like fighting at night."
"No," Sharpe agreed, "they won't come now," but he kept his eye to the telescope as he inched it along the shadowed line of trees and fires and men. And then, suddenly, he checked the glass.
For he had seen the grey uniforms. Loup was here after all and his brigade was a part of Massйna's army which had spent the whole day preparing for the attack that would surely come with the returning sun.
Sharpe watched his enemy, then straightened from the gun barrel and closed the glass.