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Sharpes Escape :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 92 из 283"
"He sent me, Pat, he sent me."
"Mysterious are the ways of the Lord," Harris put in. The cazadores were waiting fifty paces behind Sharpe. He ignored them, instead asking again if any of the men had seen Dodd. Mister Iliffe, who had not heard Sharpe ask before, nodded nervously. "He was running, sir."
"Where?"
"When we were almost cut off, sir? Down the hill. Going like a hare." Which matched what Carter, Dodd's partner, had thought. The two men had very nearly been trapped by the voltigeurs and Dodd had elected the fast way out, downhill, while Carter had been lucky to escape uphill with nothing more serious than a musket ball in his pack, which he claimed had only helped him along. Sharpe reckoned Dodd would rejoin later. He was a countryman, could read ground, and doubtless he would avoid the French and climb up the southern part of the ridge. Whatever, there was nothing Sharpe could do about him now.
"So are we going to help the Portuguese boys?" Harper asked.
"Not on your bloody life," Sharpe said, "not unless they bring a whole bloody battalion."
"He's coming to ask you," Harper said in warning, nodding towards a slim Portuguese officer who approached the light company. His brown uniform had black facings and his high-fronted shako had a long black plume. Sharpe noted that the officer wore a heavy cavalry sword and, unusually, carried a rifle. Sharpe could think of only one officer who was so armed, himself, and he felt irritated that there should be another officer with the same weapons, but then the approaching man took off his black-plumed barretina and smiled broadly.
"Good God," Sharpe said.
"No, no, it's only me." Jorge Vicente, whom Sharpe had last seen in the wild country north east of Oporto, held out his hand. "Mister Sharpe," he said.
"Jorge!"
"Capitao Vicente now." Vicente clasped Sharpe and then, to the rifleman's embarrassment, gave his friend a kiss on both cheeks. "And you, Richard, a major by now, I expect?"
"Bloody hell, no, Jorge. They don't promote the likes of me. It might spoil the army's reputation. How are you?"
"I am-how do you say? — flourishing. But you?" Vicente frowned at Sharpe's bruised face. "You are wounded?"
"Fell down some steps," Sharpe said.
"You must be careful," Vicente said solemnly, then smiled. "Sergeant Harper! It is good to see you."
"No kissing, sir, I'm Irish."
Vicente greeted the other men he had known in the wild pursuit of Soult's army across the northern frontier, then turned back to Sharpe.
"He sent me, Pat, he sent me."
"Mysterious are the ways of the Lord," Harris put in. The cazadores were waiting fifty paces behind Sharpe. He ignored them, instead asking again if any of the men had seen Dodd. Mister Iliffe, who had not heard Sharpe ask before, nodded nervously. "He was running, sir."
"Where?"
"When we were almost cut off, sir? Down the hill. Going like a hare." Which matched what Carter, Dodd's partner, had thought. The two men had very nearly been trapped by the voltigeurs and Dodd had elected the fast way out, downhill, while Carter had been lucky to escape uphill with nothing more serious than a musket ball in his pack, which he claimed had only helped him along. Sharpe reckoned Dodd would rejoin later. He was a countryman, could read ground, and doubtless he would avoid the French and climb up the southern part of the ridge. Whatever, there was nothing Sharpe could do about him now.
"So are we going to help the Portuguese boys?" Harper asked.
"Not on your bloody life," Sharpe said, "not unless they bring a whole bloody battalion."
"He's coming to ask you," Harper said in warning, nodding towards a slim Portuguese officer who approached the light company. His brown uniform had black facings and his high-fronted shako had a long black plume. Sharpe noted that the officer wore a heavy cavalry sword and, unusually, carried a rifle. Sharpe could think of only one officer who was so armed, himself, and he felt irritated that there should be another officer with the same weapons, but then the approaching man took off his black-plumed barretina and smiled broadly.
"Good God," Sharpe said.
"No, no, it's only me." Jorge Vicente, whom Sharpe had last seen in the wild country north east of Oporto, held out his hand. "Mister Sharpe," he said.
"Jorge!"
"Capitao Vicente now." Vicente clasped Sharpe and then, to the rifleman's embarrassment, gave his friend a kiss on both cheeks. "And you, Richard, a major by now, I expect?"
"Bloody hell, no, Jorge. They don't promote the likes of me. It might spoil the army's reputation. How are you?"
"I am-how do you say? — flourishing. But you?" Vicente frowned at Sharpe's bruised face. "You are wounded?"
"Fell down some steps," Sharpe said.
"You must be careful," Vicente said solemnly, then smiled. "Sergeant Harper! It is good to see you."
"No kissing, sir, I'm Irish."
Vicente greeted the other men he had known in the wild pursuit of Soult's army across the northern frontier, then turned back to Sharpe.