JК
Sharpes Devil :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 72 из 209Sentries paced the firestep as darkness seeped up from the valleys to engulf the sky and the mountains. Sulphurous yellow clouds shredded off the Andean peaks to spill toward the seaward plains, patterning the stars and shadowing the moon. An hour after sundown, Sharpe and Harper accompanied Captain Morillo as he went around the cooking fires to announce that his Valdivia patrol would be leaving three hours before dawn. Men groaned at the news, but Sharpe heard the humor behind their reaction and knew that at least these men still had confidence in their cause. Not all Vivar's work had gone to waste.
"And you, senor?" Sergeant Dregara, who had been sitting at the fire with Morillo's sergeants, looked slyly up at Sharpe. "You will go early, too?"
"Good Lord, no!" Sharpe yawned. "I'm an English gentleman, Sergeant, and English gentlemen don't stir till at least an hour after dawn."
"And the Irish not for another hour after that," Harper put in happily.
Dregara was a middle-aged runt of a man with yellow teeth, a lined face, a scarred forehead and the eyes of a killer. He was holding a half-empty bottle of clear Chilean brandy that he now gestured toward Sharpe. "Maybe we can ride south together, senor! There is sometimes safety in numbers."
"Good idea," Sharpe said in his best approximation of the braying voice some British officers liked to use. "And one of your men can bring us hot shaving water at, say, ten o'clock? Just tell the fellow to knock on the door and leave the bowl on the step."
"Shaving water?" Dregara clearly hated being treated as a servant.
"Shaving water, Sergeant. Very hot. I can't bear shaving in tepid water."
Dregara managed to suppress his resentment. "Si, senor. At ten."
The troopers wrapped themselves in blankets and lay down under the meager shelter of the fort's firestep. The sentries paced overhead. Somewhere beyond the wall, in the forests that lapped against the ridge, a beast screamed. Sharpe, sleepless on the floor of Morillo's quarters, listened to Harper's snores. If Dregara was supposed to kill them, Sharpe thought, how would Bautista react when he heard they still lived? And why would Bautista kill them? It made no sense. Maybe Dregara meant no harm, but why would Morillo be ordered back to Valdivia? The questions flickered through Sharpe's mind, but no answers came. It made sense, he supposed, that Bautista should resent Dona Louisa's interest in her husband's fate, for that interest could bring the scrutiny of Madrid onto this far, doomed colony, but was killing Louisa's emissaries the way to avert such interest?
He slept at last, but it seemed he was woken almost immediately.
"And you, senor?" Sergeant Dregara, who had been sitting at the fire with Morillo's sergeants, looked slyly up at Sharpe. "You will go early, too?"
"Good Lord, no!" Sharpe yawned. "I'm an English gentleman, Sergeant, and English gentlemen don't stir till at least an hour after dawn."
"And the Irish not for another hour after that," Harper put in happily.
Dregara was a middle-aged runt of a man with yellow teeth, a lined face, a scarred forehead and the eyes of a killer. He was holding a half-empty bottle of clear Chilean brandy that he now gestured toward Sharpe. "Maybe we can ride south together, senor! There is sometimes safety in numbers."
"Good idea," Sharpe said in his best approximation of the braying voice some British officers liked to use. "And one of your men can bring us hot shaving water at, say, ten o'clock? Just tell the fellow to knock on the door and leave the bowl on the step."
"Shaving water?" Dregara clearly hated being treated as a servant.
"Shaving water, Sergeant. Very hot. I can't bear shaving in tepid water."
Dregara managed to suppress his resentment. "Si, senor. At ten."
The troopers wrapped themselves in blankets and lay down under the meager shelter of the fort's firestep. The sentries paced overhead. Somewhere beyond the wall, in the forests that lapped against the ridge, a beast screamed. Sharpe, sleepless on the floor of Morillo's quarters, listened to Harper's snores. If Dregara was supposed to kill them, Sharpe thought, how would Bautista react when he heard they still lived? And why would Bautista kill them? It made no sense. Maybe Dregara meant no harm, but why would Morillo be ordered back to Valdivia? The questions flickered through Sharpe's mind, but no answers came. It made sense, he supposed, that Bautista should resent Dona Louisa's interest in her husband's fate, for that interest could bring the scrutiny of Madrid onto this far, doomed colony, but was killing Louisa's emissaries the way to avert such interest?
He slept at last, but it seemed he was woken almost immediately.