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Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 163 из 223” Frederickson took a cheroot from his pocket. He only had six left and had rationed himself to one a day. He lit it, and drew the smoke into his lungs. He watched Sharpe, knowing what Sharpe wanted to hear, but unable and unwilling to express it. He was saved an immediate reply by the presence of three Riflemen carrying a barrel of lime to one of the citadels.
Frederickson did not know Jane. He had met her just once, and he had discovered a girl of startling prettiness, but that did not make her special. Many girls, to one degree or another, were pretty. Marine Robinson’s green-eyed drab, for whom Robinson risked a deserter’s death, would be as pretty as any society girl if she was washed, dressed properly, and taught the monkey-antics of the salon. Frederickson had noted that Jane had a sweet-natured smile and a pleasant, vivacious personality, but such things were the stock-in-trade of the young woman seeking matrimony. Any father from the middling sort in Britain, and hopeful of marrying his daughter into the better classes, made sure his child was tricked out with such allurements. And as for intelligence, which Jane seemed to have, in Frederickson’s view the largest part of female humanity so blessed inevitably wasted the gift on cheap novels, gossip, or evangelical religion.
So to suffer for such a girl, as Sharpe was evidently suffering, did not touch a nerve in Frederickson’s soul. He allowed that Jane Sharpe might one day prove to be above the common ruck, might even prove to have a distinction and character that would outlast the fading of her beauty, and doubtless Sharpe saw those possibilities within her, but Frederickson, not knowing her, did not. To agonize over a wife was therefore beyond Sweet William’s comprehension; indeed for a soldier to take a wife was beyond his comprehension. Whores could scratch that itch, and so Frederickson found he could say nothing that would be of comfort to his friend. Instead, abandoning sympathy, he posed a question. “If you died this morning, God forbid, then I’d take over?”
“Yes.” Sharpe knew that Frederickson’s commission was senior to Palmer’s.
“Then I,” Frederickson said stonily, “would fight the bastards.”
“Why?”
“Why!” Frederickson stared at Sharpe with amazement. “Because they’re crapauds! Because they’re slimy Frogs! Because as long as they’re fighting us they can’t go south and give the Peer a headache! Because the English have a God-given duty to rid the world of the French! Because it’s what I’m paid to do.
Frederickson did not know Jane. He had met her just once, and he had discovered a girl of startling prettiness, but that did not make her special. Many girls, to one degree or another, were pretty. Marine Robinson’s green-eyed drab, for whom Robinson risked a deserter’s death, would be as pretty as any society girl if she was washed, dressed properly, and taught the monkey-antics of the salon. Frederickson had noted that Jane had a sweet-natured smile and a pleasant, vivacious personality, but such things were the stock-in-trade of the young woman seeking matrimony. Any father from the middling sort in Britain, and hopeful of marrying his daughter into the better classes, made sure his child was tricked out with such allurements. And as for intelligence, which Jane seemed to have, in Frederickson’s view the largest part of female humanity so blessed inevitably wasted the gift on cheap novels, gossip, or evangelical religion.
So to suffer for such a girl, as Sharpe was evidently suffering, did not touch a nerve in Frederickson’s soul. He allowed that Jane Sharpe might one day prove to be above the common ruck, might even prove to have a distinction and character that would outlast the fading of her beauty, and doubtless Sharpe saw those possibilities within her, but Frederickson, not knowing her, did not. To agonize over a wife was therefore beyond Sweet William’s comprehension; indeed for a soldier to take a wife was beyond his comprehension. Whores could scratch that itch, and so Frederickson found he could say nothing that would be of comfort to his friend. Instead, abandoning sympathy, he posed a question. “If you died this morning, God forbid, then I’d take over?”
“Yes.” Sharpe knew that Frederickson’s commission was senior to Palmer’s.
“Then I,” Frederickson said stonily, “would fight the bastards.”
“Why?”
“Why!” Frederickson stared at Sharpe with amazement. “Because they’re crapauds! Because they’re slimy Frogs! Because as long as they’re fighting us they can’t go south and give the Peer a headache! Because the English have a God-given duty to rid the world of the French! Because it’s what I’m paid to do.