JК
Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 81 из 244Ireland, the English government had announced, would be pacified once and for all, and the newspaper commented that the English were choosing to make that pacification when so many Irishmen were fighting against France in the King's army in Portugal. Sharpe read the piece through twice. "What did Lord Kiely say?" he asked Father Sarsfield, not because he cared one fig what Kiely thought, but the question bought him a few seconds while he thought how to respond. He also wanted to encourage Sarsfield to do the delegation's talking, for the Real Companпa Irlandesa 's chaplain had struck Sharpe as a friendly, sensible and cool-headed man and if he could get the priest on his side then he reckoned the rest of the company would follow.
"His Lordship hasn't seen the newspaper," Sarsfield said. "He has gone hunting with the Dona Juanita."
Sharpe handed the paper back to the priest. "Well, I've seen the newspaper," he said, "and I can tell you it's bloody rubbish." One of the guardsmen stirred indignantly, then stiffened when Sharpe gave him a threatening look. "It's a fairy tale for idiots," Sharpe said provocatively, "pure bloody make-believe."
"How do you know?" Donaju asked resentfully.
"Because if there was trouble in Ireland, Captain, we'd have heard about it before the Americans. And since when did the Americans have a good word to say about the British?"
"But we have heard about it," Captain Lacy intervened. Lacy was a stocky young man with a pugnacious demeanour and scarred knuckles. "There've been rumours," Lacy insisted.
"There have too," Harper added loyally.
Sharpe looked at his friend. "Oh, Christ," he said as he realized just how hurt Harper was, though he also realized that Harper must have come to him hoping that the stories were not true. If Harper had wanted a fight he would not have chosen Sharpe, but some other representative of the enemy race. "Oh, Christ," Sharpe swore again. He was plagued with more than enough problems already. The Real Companпa Irlandesa had been promised pay and given none; every time it rained the old barracks ran with damp; the food in the fort was dreadful and the only well provided nothing but a trickle of bitter water. Now, on top of those problems and the added threat of Loup's vengeance, there was this sudden menace of an Irish mutiny. "Give me back the newspaper, Father," Sharpe said to the chaplain, then stabbed a dirty fingernail at the date printed at the top of the sheet. "When was this published?" He showed the date to Sarsfield.
"A month ago," the priest said.
"So?" Lacy asked belligerently.
"So how many bloody drafts have arrived from Ireland in the last month?" Sharpe asked, his voice as scornful as it was forceful.
"His Lordship hasn't seen the newspaper," Sarsfield said. "He has gone hunting with the Dona Juanita."
Sharpe handed the paper back to the priest. "Well, I've seen the newspaper," he said, "and I can tell you it's bloody rubbish." One of the guardsmen stirred indignantly, then stiffened when Sharpe gave him a threatening look. "It's a fairy tale for idiots," Sharpe said provocatively, "pure bloody make-believe."
"How do you know?" Donaju asked resentfully.
"Because if there was trouble in Ireland, Captain, we'd have heard about it before the Americans. And since when did the Americans have a good word to say about the British?"
"But we have heard about it," Captain Lacy intervened. Lacy was a stocky young man with a pugnacious demeanour and scarred knuckles. "There've been rumours," Lacy insisted.
"There have too," Harper added loyally.
Sharpe looked at his friend. "Oh, Christ," he said as he realized just how hurt Harper was, though he also realized that Harper must have come to him hoping that the stories were not true. If Harper had wanted a fight he would not have chosen Sharpe, but some other representative of the enemy race. "Oh, Christ," Sharpe swore again. He was plagued with more than enough problems already. The Real Companпa Irlandesa had been promised pay and given none; every time it rained the old barracks ran with damp; the food in the fort was dreadful and the only well provided nothing but a trickle of bitter water. Now, on top of those problems and the added threat of Loup's vengeance, there was this sudden menace of an Irish mutiny. "Give me back the newspaper, Father," Sharpe said to the chaplain, then stabbed a dirty fingernail at the date printed at the top of the sheet. "When was this published?" He showed the date to Sarsfield.
"A month ago," the priest said.
"So?" Lacy asked belligerently.
"So how many bloody drafts have arrived from Ireland in the last month?" Sharpe asked, his voice as scornful as it was forceful.