JК
Sharpes Gold :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 66 из 179He remembered the uncontrollable savagery that followed a siege, the sheer, exploding rage that he had felt after death had touched him a score of times in one small breach and he knew, as the cold air of the hermitage struck him, that thiswar in Spain, if it should go on, would not be won until British infantry had been fed into the narrow meat grinder of a small gap in a city wall.
'Out! Get them out! The men, pale-faced, looked shocked at Sharpe's anger, but he knew no other way to react to the small bodies. 'Bury them!
Harper was crying, tears running down his cheeks. So much innocence, so much waste, as if a baby had earned this. Kearsey stood there, with Teresa, and neither cried. The Major flicked at his moustache. 'Terrible. Awful.
'So is what they do to the French. Sharpe surprised himself by saying it, but it was true. He remembered the naked prisoners, wondered how the other captured Hussars had died.
'Yes. Kearsey used the tone of a man trying to avoid an argument.
The girl looked at Sharpe and he saw she was holding back tears, her face rigid with an anger that was frightening. Sharpe swatted at a fly. 'Where's the gold?
Kearsey followed him, spurs clicking on stone, and pointed at a stone slab that was flush with the hermitage floor. The building was not used for services. Even despite the ravages worked by the Poles it had the air of disuse, of being little more than storage for the village cemetery. It was a place that was consecrated only to death. The Major poked the stone slab with his toe. 'Under there.
'Sergeant!
'Sir!
'Find a bloody pick! Smartly!"
There was a comfort in orders, as if they could recall a war in which small babies did not die. He looked at the slab engraved with the name Moreno and beneath the letters an ornate and eroded coat of arms. Sharpe tried to forget the sound of the bodies being dragged outside. He tapped his toe on the shield.
'Noble family, sir?
'What? Oh. Kearsey was subdued. 'I don't know, Sharpe. Perhaps once.
The girl had her back to them and Sharpe realized that this was her family's vault. It made Sharpe wonder, with an irritating gesture, where his own body would finally rest. Beneath the ashes of some battlefield, or drowned like the poor reinforcements in their transport ships? 'Sergeant!
'Sir?
'Where's that pick?
Harper kicked at the debris left by the Poles, then grunted and stooped. He had the pick, minus its handle, and he thrust it into the gap between the stones. He heaved, the veins on his face standing out, and with a shudder the slab moved, lifted, and there was a space large enough for Sharpe to slide a piece of broken stone beneath.
'You men! Faces looked round from the door of the hermitage.
'Out! Get them out! The men, pale-faced, looked shocked at Sharpe's anger, but he knew no other way to react to the small bodies. 'Bury them!
Harper was crying, tears running down his cheeks. So much innocence, so much waste, as if a baby had earned this. Kearsey stood there, with Teresa, and neither cried. The Major flicked at his moustache. 'Terrible. Awful.
'So is what they do to the French. Sharpe surprised himself by saying it, but it was true. He remembered the naked prisoners, wondered how the other captured Hussars had died.
'Yes. Kearsey used the tone of a man trying to avoid an argument.
The girl looked at Sharpe and he saw she was holding back tears, her face rigid with an anger that was frightening. Sharpe swatted at a fly. 'Where's the gold?
Kearsey followed him, spurs clicking on stone, and pointed at a stone slab that was flush with the hermitage floor. The building was not used for services. Even despite the ravages worked by the Poles it had the air of disuse, of being little more than storage for the village cemetery. It was a place that was consecrated only to death. The Major poked the stone slab with his toe. 'Under there.
'Sergeant!
'Sir!
'Find a bloody pick! Smartly!"
There was a comfort in orders, as if they could recall a war in which small babies did not die. He looked at the slab engraved with the name Moreno and beneath the letters an ornate and eroded coat of arms. Sharpe tried to forget the sound of the bodies being dragged outside. He tapped his toe on the shield.
'Noble family, sir?
'What? Oh. Kearsey was subdued. 'I don't know, Sharpe. Perhaps once.
The girl had her back to them and Sharpe realized that this was her family's vault. It made Sharpe wonder, with an irritating gesture, where his own body would finally rest. Beneath the ashes of some battlefield, or drowned like the poor reinforcements in their transport ships? 'Sergeant!
'Sir?
'Where's that pick?
Harper kicked at the debris left by the Poles, then grunted and stooped. He had the pick, minus its handle, and he thrust it into the gap between the stones. He heaved, the veins on his face standing out, and with a shudder the slab moved, lifted, and there was a space large enough for Sharpe to slide a piece of broken stone beneath.
'You men! Faces looked round from the door of the hermitage.