JК
Sharpes Gold :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 57 из 179At least we've earned their thanks and that's probably more valuable than carrying the gold for them. Besides, I doubt if the gold is there.
The sun split across the gully's rim. Sharpe blinked. 'Pardon, sir?
'What do you expect? The French are there. They probably have the gold. Or hadn't that occurred to you?
It had, but Sharpe was not in a mood to give Kearsey his thoughts. If the French had found the gold he suspected they would have ridden it straight to Ciudad Rodrigo, but doubtless Kearsey would not be convinced. Sharpe nodded. 'Did they say anything about it to you, sir?
Kearsey shrugged, not liking the reminder that he had been captured. 'I was unlucky, Sharpe. Not to know lancers were there. He shook his head, sounded suddenly tired. 'No, they said nothing.
'So there's hope, sir?
The Major looked bitter, waved at Kelly. 'Tell him that.
'Yes, sir.
Kearsey sighed. 'I'm sorry, Sharpe. Undeserved. He seemed to think for a moment. 'You do know, though, don't you, that they'll be after us today?
'The French, sir?
The Major nodded. 'Who else? You'd better sleep, Sharpe. In a couple of hours you'll have to defend this place.
'Yes, sir.
He turned away, and as he did he caught Teresa's eyes. She looked at him without interest, without recognition, as if the rescue and the two shared killings meant nothing. El Catolico, he thought, is a lucky man. He slept.
CHAPTER 8
Casatejada was like a shattered ants' nest. All morning the patrols left, searched the valley, then galloped in their dust clouds back to the houses and the thin spires of smoke that were the only signs left of the night's activity. Others rounded up stray horses, circling the valley floor, reminding Harper of the pony drives on his native Donegal moors. In the gully the men moved slowly, quietly, as if their sound could carry to the village, but in truth the elation of the attack had given way to weariness and sadness. Kelly's breath bubbled through the morning, a constant pink froth at the corner of his mouth, and the men avoided him as if death were contagious. Sharpe woke up, told Harper to sleep, replaced the picquets, and struggled to scrape the clotted blood from his sword with a handful of wiry grass. They dared not light a fire to heat the water that could scour out their muskets, so the men used the battlefield expedient, urinating into the barrels, and grinned self-consciously at the girl as they sloshed the liquid around to loosen the caked powder deposits of the night.
The sun split across the gully's rim. Sharpe blinked. 'Pardon, sir?
'What do you expect? The French are there. They probably have the gold. Or hadn't that occurred to you?
It had, but Sharpe was not in a mood to give Kearsey his thoughts. If the French had found the gold he suspected they would have ridden it straight to Ciudad Rodrigo, but doubtless Kearsey would not be convinced. Sharpe nodded. 'Did they say anything about it to you, sir?
Kearsey shrugged, not liking the reminder that he had been captured. 'I was unlucky, Sharpe. Not to know lancers were there. He shook his head, sounded suddenly tired. 'No, they said nothing.
'So there's hope, sir?
The Major looked bitter, waved at Kelly. 'Tell him that.
'Yes, sir.
Kearsey sighed. 'I'm sorry, Sharpe. Undeserved. He seemed to think for a moment. 'You do know, though, don't you, that they'll be after us today?
'The French, sir?
The Major nodded. 'Who else? You'd better sleep, Sharpe. In a couple of hours you'll have to defend this place.
'Yes, sir.
He turned away, and as he did he caught Teresa's eyes. She looked at him without interest, without recognition, as if the rescue and the two shared killings meant nothing. El Catolico, he thought, is a lucky man. He slept.
CHAPTER 8
Casatejada was like a shattered ants' nest. All morning the patrols left, searched the valley, then galloped in their dust clouds back to the houses and the thin spires of smoke that were the only signs left of the night's activity. Others rounded up stray horses, circling the valley floor, reminding Harper of the pony drives on his native Donegal moors. In the gully the men moved slowly, quietly, as if their sound could carry to the village, but in truth the elation of the attack had given way to weariness and sadness. Kelly's breath bubbled through the morning, a constant pink froth at the corner of his mouth, and the men avoided him as if death were contagious. Sharpe woke up, told Harper to sleep, replaced the picquets, and struggled to scrape the clotted blood from his sword with a handful of wiry grass. They dared not light a fire to heat the water that could scour out their muskets, so the men used the battlefield expedient, urinating into the barrels, and grinned self-consciously at the girl as they sloshed the liquid around to loosen the caked powder deposits of the night.