JК
Sharpes Escape :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 215 из 283General Craufurd, vainly trying to reach Talavera in time for the battle, had marched the Light Brigade over forty miles in a day, but that had been on half-decent roads and Sharpe knew his route would be across country, up hill and down dale, following the paths where no French patrol would dare to ride. He would be lucky, he thought, if they reached the river in four days, and that meant he would fail because the Ferreira brothers had mules and would probably complete the journey in two.
He thought about that as they walked eastwards. It was high, bare country, barren and empty, though they could see settlements far below in the valleys. It would be a long unrewarding walk, he thought, because by the time they reached the river and found a boat the brothers would be a long way ahead, probably in Lisbon, and Sharpe knew the army would never give him permission to pursue the feud into the city. "Is Castelo Branco," he asked Vicente, "the only route to the river?"
Vicente shook his head. "It's the safe route," he said. "No French. And this road leads there."
"Call this a road?" It was a track, fit for men and mules, but hardly deserving the name of road. Sharpe turned and saw that the watchtower close to where they had encountered Soriano was still visible. "We'll never catch the bastards," he grumbled.
Vicente stopped and scratched a rough map in the earth with his foot. It showed the Tagus curling east out of Spain, then turning south towards the sea and so narrowing the peninsula on which Lisbon was built. "What they are doing," he said, "is going directly east, but if you want to take a risk we can go south across the Serra da Lousa. Those hills are not so high as these, but the French could be there."
Sharpe looked at the crude map. "But we'd reach the river farther south?"
"We'll reach the Zezere"-Vicente scratched another river, this one a tributary of the Tagus-"and if we follow the Zezere then it will come to the Tagus well south of where they're going."
"Save a day?"
"If there are no French." Vicente sounded dubious. "The farther south we go the more likely we are to meet them."
"But it will save a day?"
"Maybe more."
"Then let's do it."
So they turned south and saw no dragoons, no Frenchmen and few Portuguese. On the second day after their encounter with Soriano's men it began to rain: a gray, Atlantic drizzle that soaked them all to the bone and left them chilled and sore, but it was downhill now, going from the bare hilltops into pastureland and vineyards and small walled fields.
He thought about that as they walked eastwards. It was high, bare country, barren and empty, though they could see settlements far below in the valleys. It would be a long unrewarding walk, he thought, because by the time they reached the river and found a boat the brothers would be a long way ahead, probably in Lisbon, and Sharpe knew the army would never give him permission to pursue the feud into the city. "Is Castelo Branco," he asked Vicente, "the only route to the river?"
Vicente shook his head. "It's the safe route," he said. "No French. And this road leads there."
"Call this a road?" It was a track, fit for men and mules, but hardly deserving the name of road. Sharpe turned and saw that the watchtower close to where they had encountered Soriano was still visible. "We'll never catch the bastards," he grumbled.
Vicente stopped and scratched a rough map in the earth with his foot. It showed the Tagus curling east out of Spain, then turning south towards the sea and so narrowing the peninsula on which Lisbon was built. "What they are doing," he said, "is going directly east, but if you want to take a risk we can go south across the Serra da Lousa. Those hills are not so high as these, but the French could be there."
Sharpe looked at the crude map. "But we'd reach the river farther south?"
"We'll reach the Zezere"-Vicente scratched another river, this one a tributary of the Tagus-"and if we follow the Zezere then it will come to the Tagus well south of where they're going."
"Save a day?"
"If there are no French." Vicente sounded dubious. "The farther south we go the more likely we are to meet them."
"But it will save a day?"
"Maybe more."
"Then let's do it."
So they turned south and saw no dragoons, no Frenchmen and few Portuguese. On the second day after their encounter with Soriano's men it began to rain: a gray, Atlantic drizzle that soaked them all to the bone and left them chilled and sore, but it was downhill now, going from the bare hilltops into pastureland and vineyards and small walled fields.