JК
Sharpes Escape :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 49 из 283Some said he was pushed, mind, because his wife was sweet on another man."
"You, Matthew?"
"Mister Sharpe!" Dodd said, shocked. "Not me, no!" The tea brewed quickly enough and Sharpe scooped some out with his tin mug and then, after thanking Dodd, went across the ridge top towards the French. He did not go down the slope, but found a small spur that jutted out close to the road. The spur, which protruded like a bastion from the ridge's top, extended out for a hundred paces before ending in a knoll crowned with a ragged jumble of scattered boulders and it was there he expected to find the sentries. He stamped his feet as he went, wanting to alert the picquets to his presence.
"Who's there? " The challenge came smartly enough, but Sharpe had expected it because Sergeant Read was doing duty.
"Captain Sharpe."
"Countersign, Captain?" Read demanded.
"A sip of hot tea, Sergeant, if you don't shoot me," Sharpe said. Read was a stickler for following the rules, but even a Methodist could be persuaded to ignore a missing password by an offer of tea.
"The password's Jessica, sir," he told Sharpe reprovingly.
"The Colonel's wife, eh? Mister Slingsby forgot to tell me." He handed Read the mug of tea. "Anything nasty about?"
"Not a thing, sir, not a thing."
Ensign Iliffe, who was nominally in charge of the picquet, though under standing orders to do nothing without his Sergeant's agreement, came and gawped at Sharpe.
"Good morning, Mister Iliffe," Sharpe said.
"Sir," the boy stammered, too scared to make conversation.
"All quiet?"
"I think so, sir," Iliffe said and stared at Sharpe's face, not quite sure he believed the damage he saw in the half light and much too nervous to ask what had caused it.
The eastern slope dropped into the fog and darkness. Sharpe crouched, wincing at the pain in his ribs, closed his eyes and listened. He could hear men stirring on the slope above him, the clang of a kettle, the crackle of small fires being revived. A horse thumped the ground with its foot and somewhere a baby cried. None of those sounds concerned him. He was listening for something from below, but all was quiet. "They won't come till dawn," he said, knowing that the French needed some light to find the track up the hill.
"And you think they will come, sir?" Read asked apprehensively.
"That's what their deserters say. How's your priming?"
"In this fog? I don't trust it," Read said, then frowned at Sharpe.
"You, Matthew?"
"Mister Sharpe!" Dodd said, shocked. "Not me, no!" The tea brewed quickly enough and Sharpe scooped some out with his tin mug and then, after thanking Dodd, went across the ridge top towards the French. He did not go down the slope, but found a small spur that jutted out close to the road. The spur, which protruded like a bastion from the ridge's top, extended out for a hundred paces before ending in a knoll crowned with a ragged jumble of scattered boulders and it was there he expected to find the sentries. He stamped his feet as he went, wanting to alert the picquets to his presence.
"Who's there? " The challenge came smartly enough, but Sharpe had expected it because Sergeant Read was doing duty.
"Captain Sharpe."
"Countersign, Captain?" Read demanded.
"A sip of hot tea, Sergeant, if you don't shoot me," Sharpe said. Read was a stickler for following the rules, but even a Methodist could be persuaded to ignore a missing password by an offer of tea.
"The password's Jessica, sir," he told Sharpe reprovingly.
"The Colonel's wife, eh? Mister Slingsby forgot to tell me." He handed Read the mug of tea. "Anything nasty about?"
"Not a thing, sir, not a thing."
Ensign Iliffe, who was nominally in charge of the picquet, though under standing orders to do nothing without his Sergeant's agreement, came and gawped at Sharpe.
"Good morning, Mister Iliffe," Sharpe said.
"Sir," the boy stammered, too scared to make conversation.
"All quiet?"
"I think so, sir," Iliffe said and stared at Sharpe's face, not quite sure he believed the damage he saw in the half light and much too nervous to ask what had caused it.
The eastern slope dropped into the fog and darkness. Sharpe crouched, wincing at the pain in his ribs, closed his eyes and listened. He could hear men stirring on the slope above him, the clang of a kettle, the crackle of small fires being revived. A horse thumped the ground with its foot and somewhere a baby cried. None of those sounds concerned him. He was listening for something from below, but all was quiet. "They won't come till dawn," he said, knowing that the French needed some light to find the track up the hill.
"And you think they will come, sir?" Read asked apprehensively.
"That's what their deserters say. How's your priming?"
"In this fog? I don't trust it," Read said, then frowned at Sharpe.