Sharpes Escape   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

All the civilians were hard-looking rogues, reminding Sharpe of the cutthroats who ruled the streets of East London where he had spent his childhood, yet their leader, the man with the brutish face and muscled body, was the oddest and most frightening of them. He was a street fighter, that much was obvious from the broken nose and the scars on his forehead and cheeks, but he was also wealthy, for his linen shirt was of fine quality, his breeches cut from the best broadcloth and his gold-tasseled boots were made from soft expensive leather. He looked to be around forty years old, in the prime of life, confident in his sheer size. The man glanced at Harper, evidently judging the Irishman as a possible opponent, then unexpectedly smiled and picked up his coat which he brushed down before putting on. "What is in the shrine," the big man stepped towards Sharpe, "is my property." His English was heavily accented and spoken in a voice like gravel.

"And who are you?" Sharpe demanded.

"Allow me to name Senhor… " Ferreira began to answer.

"My name is Ferragus," the big man interrupted.

"Ferragus," Ferreira repeated, then introduced Sharpe. "Capitao Sharpe." He offered Ferragus a shrug as if to suggest that events were beyond his control.

Ferragus towered over Sharpe. "Your work is done here, Captain. The tower is no more, so you may go."

Sharpe stepped back out of the huge man's shadow, sideways to get around him and then went to the shrine and heard the distinctive sound of the volley gun's ratchet scraping as Harper cocked it. "Careful, now," the Irishman said, "it only takes a tremor for this bastard to go off and it would make a terrible mess of your shirt, sir." Ferragus had plainly turned to intercept Sharpe, but the huge gun checked him.

The shrine door was unlocked. Sharpe pushed it open and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the shrine's black shadows, but then he saw what was inside and swore.

He had expected a bare country shrine like the dozens of others he had seen, but instead the small building was heaped with sacks, so many sacks that the only space left was a narrow passage leading to a crude altar on which a blue-gowned image of the Virgin Mary was festooned with little slips of paper left by desperate peasants who came to the hilltop in search of a miracle. Now the Virgin gazed sadly on the sacks as Sharpe drew his sword and stabbed one. He was rewarded by a trickle of flour. He tried another sack further down and still more flour sifted to the bare earth floor.