JК
Sharpes Gold :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 29 из 179They crossed the frontier somewhere in the darkness, a grunt from Kearsey announcing the news, and then the route led downhill to the river Agueda, where they waited forthe first sign of dawn.
If Kearsey was impressive he was also annoying. The march had been punctuated with advice, condescending advice, as if Kearsey were the only man who understood the problems. He certainly knew the countryside, from the farmlands along the road from Almeida to Ciudad Rodrigo, to the high country that was to the north, the chaos of the valleys and hills that dropped finally to the river Duero, into which the Coa and the Agueda flowed. He knew the villages, the paths, the rivers and where they could be crossed; he knew the high hills and the sheltered passes, and within the lonely countryside he knew the guerrilla bands and where they could be found. Sitting in the mist that ghosted up from the Agueda, he talked, in his gruff voice, about the Partisans. Sharpe and Knowles listened, the unseen river a sound in the background, as the Major talked of ambushes and murders, the secret places where arms were stored, and the signal codes that flashed from hilltop to hilltop.
'Nothing can move here, Sharpe, nothing, without the Partisans knowing. The French have to escort every messenger with four hundred men. Imagine that? Four hundred sabres to protect one despatch and sometimes even that's not enough.
Sharpe could imagine it, and even pity the French for it. Wellington paid hard cash for every captured despatch; sometimes they came to his headquarters with the crusted blood of the dead messenger still crisp on the paper. The messenger who died clean in such a fight was lucky. The wounded were taken not for the information but for revenge, and the war in the hills between French and Spanish was a terrible tale of ghastly pain. Kearsey was riffling the pages of his unseen Bible as he talked.
'By day the men are shepherds, farmers, millers, but by night they're killers. For every Frenchman we kill, they kill two. Think what it's like for the French, Sharpe. Every man, every woman, every child, is an enemy in the countryside. Even the catechism has changed.
'Are the French true believers?
'No, they are the devil's spawn, doing his work, and must be eradicated." He gave his barking laugh.
Knowles stretched his legs. 'Do the women fight, sir?
'They fight, Lieutenant, like the men. Moreno's daughter, Teresa, is as good as any man. She knows how to ambush, to pursue. I've seen her kill.
Sharpe looked up and saw the mist silvering overhead as the dawn leaked across the hills. 'Is she the one who's to marry El Catolico?
Kearsey laughed. 'Yes. He was silent for a second. 'They're not all good, of course.
If Kearsey was impressive he was also annoying. The march had been punctuated with advice, condescending advice, as if Kearsey were the only man who understood the problems. He certainly knew the countryside, from the farmlands along the road from Almeida to Ciudad Rodrigo, to the high country that was to the north, the chaos of the valleys and hills that dropped finally to the river Duero, into which the Coa and the Agueda flowed. He knew the villages, the paths, the rivers and where they could be crossed; he knew the high hills and the sheltered passes, and within the lonely countryside he knew the guerrilla bands and where they could be found. Sitting in the mist that ghosted up from the Agueda, he talked, in his gruff voice, about the Partisans. Sharpe and Knowles listened, the unseen river a sound in the background, as the Major talked of ambushes and murders, the secret places where arms were stored, and the signal codes that flashed from hilltop to hilltop.
'Nothing can move here, Sharpe, nothing, without the Partisans knowing. The French have to escort every messenger with four hundred men. Imagine that? Four hundred sabres to protect one despatch and sometimes even that's not enough.
Sharpe could imagine it, and even pity the French for it. Wellington paid hard cash for every captured despatch; sometimes they came to his headquarters with the crusted blood of the dead messenger still crisp on the paper. The messenger who died clean in such a fight was lucky. The wounded were taken not for the information but for revenge, and the war in the hills between French and Spanish was a terrible tale of ghastly pain. Kearsey was riffling the pages of his unseen Bible as he talked.
'By day the men are shepherds, farmers, millers, but by night they're killers. For every Frenchman we kill, they kill two. Think what it's like for the French, Sharpe. Every man, every woman, every child, is an enemy in the countryside. Even the catechism has changed.
'Are the French true believers?
'No, they are the devil's spawn, doing his work, and must be eradicated." He gave his barking laugh.
Knowles stretched his legs. 'Do the women fight, sir?
'They fight, Lieutenant, like the men. Moreno's daughter, Teresa, is as good as any man. She knows how to ambush, to pursue. I've seen her kill.
Sharpe looked up and saw the mist silvering overhead as the dawn leaked across the hills. 'Is she the one who's to marry El Catolico?
Kearsey laughed. 'Yes. He was silent for a second. 'They're not all good, of course.