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Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 70 из 244Sharpe turned to see a mountainous creature dressed in filthy brown leggings, a bloodstained cotton shirt, a green French dragoon coat that had split at all the seams in order to accommodate its new owner's bulk, and a leather apron that was caked black and stiff with dried blood. The man and his clothes stank of old food, bad breath, stale blood and decay. At his belt there hung an old-fashioned, unscabbarded sabre with a blade as dark, thick and filthy as a pole-axe, a horse pistol, a small bone-handled knife with a curiously hooked blade and a wooden whistle. "You're Captain Sharpe?" the enormous man asked as Sharpe rose to greet him.
"Yes."
"And my whistle tells you who I am, does it not?"
Sharpe shook his head. "No."
"You mean that castrators in England don't signal their coming with a blast on the whistle?"
"I've never heard of them doing it," Sharpe said.
El Castrador sat heavily on a bench opposite Sharpe. "No whistles? Where would I be without my little whistle? It tells a village I am coming. I blow it and the villagers bring out their hogs, beeves and foals, and I bring out my little knife." The man flicked the small, wickedly curved blade and laughed. He had brought his own wineskin which he now squirted into his mouth before shaking his head in rueful nostalgia. "And in the old days, my friend," El Castrador went on wistfully, "the mothers would bring out their little boys to be cut, and two years later the boys would travel to Lisbon or Madrid to sing so sweetly! My father, now, he cut many boys. One of his youngsters even sang for the Pope! Can you imagine? For the Pope in Rome! And all because of this little knife." He fingered the small bone-handled cutter.
"And sometimes the boys died?" Sharpe guessed.
El Castrador shrugged. "Boys are easily replaced, my friend. One cannot afford to be sentimental about small children." He jetted more red wine down his vast gullet. "I had eight boys, only three survived and that, believe me, is two too many."
"No girls?"
"Four." El Castrador fell silent for a second or two, then sighed. "That French bastard Loup took them. You know of Loup?"
"I know him."
"He took them and gave them to his men. El Lobo and his men like young girls." He touched the knife at his belt, then gave Sharpe a long speculative look. "So you are La Aguja's Englishman."
Sharpe nodded.
"Ah! Teresa!" The Spaniard sighed. "We were angry when we heard she had given herself to an Englishman, but now I see you, Captain, I can understand. How is she?"
"Fighting the French near Badajoz, but she sends her greetings.
"Yes."
"And my whistle tells you who I am, does it not?"
Sharpe shook his head. "No."
"You mean that castrators in England don't signal their coming with a blast on the whistle?"
"I've never heard of them doing it," Sharpe said.
El Castrador sat heavily on a bench opposite Sharpe. "No whistles? Where would I be without my little whistle? It tells a village I am coming. I blow it and the villagers bring out their hogs, beeves and foals, and I bring out my little knife." The man flicked the small, wickedly curved blade and laughed. He had brought his own wineskin which he now squirted into his mouth before shaking his head in rueful nostalgia. "And in the old days, my friend," El Castrador went on wistfully, "the mothers would bring out their little boys to be cut, and two years later the boys would travel to Lisbon or Madrid to sing so sweetly! My father, now, he cut many boys. One of his youngsters even sang for the Pope! Can you imagine? For the Pope in Rome! And all because of this little knife." He fingered the small bone-handled cutter.
"And sometimes the boys died?" Sharpe guessed.
El Castrador shrugged. "Boys are easily replaced, my friend. One cannot afford to be sentimental about small children." He jetted more red wine down his vast gullet. "I had eight boys, only three survived and that, believe me, is two too many."
"No girls?"
"Four." El Castrador fell silent for a second or two, then sighed. "That French bastard Loup took them. You know of Loup?"
"I know him."
"He took them and gave them to his men. El Lobo and his men like young girls." He touched the knife at his belt, then gave Sharpe a long speculative look. "So you are La Aguja's Englishman."
Sharpe nodded.
"Ah! Teresa!" The Spaniard sighed. "We were angry when we heard she had given herself to an Englishman, but now I see you, Captain, I can understand. How is she?"
"Fighting the French near Badajoz, but she sends her greetings.