JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 3 из 223The heat of the huge fire pricked sweat on Sharpe’s face and steamed rain-water from his soaking uniform as he stepped closer to the bed, but itwas obvious Hogan could not recognize him. The middle-aged Irishman, who was Wellington’s Chief of Intelligence, shivered and sweated and shook and muttered nonsenses in a voice that had so often amused Sharpe with its dry wit.
“It’s possible,” the surgeon spoke grudgingly from the outer room, “that the next convoy might bring some Jesuit’s bark.”
“Jesuit’s bark?” Sharpe turned towards the doorway.
“A South American tree-bark, Major, sometimes called quinine. Infuse it well and it can perform miracles. But it’s a rare substance, Major, and cruelly expensive!”
Sharpe went closer to the bed. “Michael? Michael?”
Hogan said something in Gaelic. His eyes flickered past Sharpe, closed, then opened again.
“Michael?”
“Ducos,” the sick man said distinctly, “Ducos.”
“He’ll not make sense,” the surgeon said.
“He just did.” Sharpe had heard a name, a French name, the name of an enemy, but in what feverish context and from what secret compartment of Hogan’s clever mind the name had come, Sharpe could not tell.
“The Field Marshal sent me,” the surgeon seemed eager to explain himself, “but I can’t work miracles, Major. Only the Almighty’s providence can do that.”
“Or Jesuit’s bark.”
“Which I haven’t seen in six months.” The surgeon still stood at the door. “Must I insist you leave, Major? God spare us a contagion.”
“Yes.” Sharpe knew he would never forgive himself if he did not give Hogan some gesture of friendship, however useless, so he stooped and took the sick man’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Maquereau,” Hogan said quite distinctly.
“Maquereau?”
“Major!”
Sharpe obeyed the surgeon’s voice. “Does maquereau mean anything to you?”
“It’s a fish. The mackerel. It’s also French slang for pimp, Major. I told you, his wits are wandering.” The surgeon closed the door on the sickroom. “And one other piece of advice, Major.”
“Yes?”
“If you want your wife to live, then tell her she must stop visiting Colonel Hogan.”
Sharpe paused by his damp luggage. “Jane visits him?”
“A Mrs Sharpe visits daily/ the doctor said, ”but I have not the intimacy of her first name. Good day to you, Major.“
It was winter in France.
The floor was a polished expanse of boxwood, the walls were cliffs of shining marble, and the ceiling a riot of ornate plasterwork and paint.
“It’s possible,” the surgeon spoke grudgingly from the outer room, “that the next convoy might bring some Jesuit’s bark.”
“Jesuit’s bark?” Sharpe turned towards the doorway.
“A South American tree-bark, Major, sometimes called quinine. Infuse it well and it can perform miracles. But it’s a rare substance, Major, and cruelly expensive!”
Sharpe went closer to the bed. “Michael? Michael?”
Hogan said something in Gaelic. His eyes flickered past Sharpe, closed, then opened again.
“Michael?”
“Ducos,” the sick man said distinctly, “Ducos.”
“He’ll not make sense,” the surgeon said.
“He just did.” Sharpe had heard a name, a French name, the name of an enemy, but in what feverish context and from what secret compartment of Hogan’s clever mind the name had come, Sharpe could not tell.
“The Field Marshal sent me,” the surgeon seemed eager to explain himself, “but I can’t work miracles, Major. Only the Almighty’s providence can do that.”
“Or Jesuit’s bark.”
“Which I haven’t seen in six months.” The surgeon still stood at the door. “Must I insist you leave, Major? God spare us a contagion.”
“Yes.” Sharpe knew he would never forgive himself if he did not give Hogan some gesture of friendship, however useless, so he stooped and took the sick man’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Maquereau,” Hogan said quite distinctly.
“Maquereau?”
“Major!”
Sharpe obeyed the surgeon’s voice. “Does maquereau mean anything to you?”
“It’s a fish. The mackerel. It’s also French slang for pimp, Major. I told you, his wits are wandering.” The surgeon closed the door on the sickroom. “And one other piece of advice, Major.”
“Yes?”
“If you want your wife to live, then tell her she must stop visiting Colonel Hogan.”
Sharpe paused by his damp luggage. “Jane visits him?”
“A Mrs Sharpe visits daily/ the doctor said, ”but I have not the intimacy of her first name. Good day to you, Major.“
It was winter in France.
The floor was a polished expanse of boxwood, the walls were cliffs of shining marble, and the ceiling a riot of ornate plasterwork and paint.