JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 39 из 223”
Steadied by Sharpe, the Comte rested his backside on one of the small cannon that had been issued to the Amelie for its protection.
The Comte, his hair remarkably sleek for such an hour of the morning, stared eastwards. “France.” He said the name with reverence, even love.
“St Jean de Luz was in France,” Sharpe said in an ungracious attempt to imply that the Comte’s company was not welcome.
The Comte de Maquerre ignored the comment, staring instead at the tiny spark as though it was the Grail itself. “I have been away, Major, for eighteen years.” He spoke with a tragic intonation. “Waiting for liberty to be reborn in France.”
The ship dipped again and Sharpe glimpsed a whorl of grey water that was gone as swiftly as it had been illuminated. The snow melted on his face. Everyone spoke of liberty, he thought. The monarchists and the anti-monarchists, the Republicans and the anti-Republicans, the Bonapartists and the Bourbons, all carried the word around as if it was a genie trapped in a bottle and they were the sole possessors of the world’s corkscrew. Yet if Sharpe was to go down to the hold now and wake up the soldiers who slept so fitfully and uncomfortably in the stinking ‘tween-decks of the Amelie, and if he was to ask each man what he wanted in life, then he knew, besides being thought mad by the men, that he would not hear the word Liberty used. They wanted a woman as a companion, they wanted cheap drink, they wanted a fire in winter and fat crops in summer, and they wanted a patch of land or a wineshop of their own. Most would not get what they desired.
But nor would Sharpe. He had a sudden, startlingly clear vision of Jane lying sick; sweating in the cold shivers of the killing fever. The image, so extraordinarily real in the freezing night, made him shiver himself.
He tried to shake the vision away, then told himself that Jane suffered from nothing more than an upset stomach and a winter’s cold, but the superstition of a soldier suddenly gripped Sharpe’s imagination and he knew, with an utter certainty, that he sailed away from a dying wife. He wanted to howl his misery into the snow-dark night, but there was no help there. No help anywhere. She was dying. That knowledge might have been vouchsafed by a dreamlike image, but Sharpe believed it. “Damn your bloody liberty.” Sharpe spoke savagely.
“Major?” The Comte, hearing Sharpe’s voice but no distinct words, edged down the ship’s rail.
Jane would be dead and Sharpe would return to the coldly heaped soil of her grave. He wanted to weep for the loss.
“Did you speak, Monsieur?” the Comte persisted.
Steadied by Sharpe, the Comte rested his backside on one of the small cannon that had been issued to the Amelie for its protection.
The Comte, his hair remarkably sleek for such an hour of the morning, stared eastwards. “France.” He said the name with reverence, even love.
“St Jean de Luz was in France,” Sharpe said in an ungracious attempt to imply that the Comte’s company was not welcome.
The Comte de Maquerre ignored the comment, staring instead at the tiny spark as though it was the Grail itself. “I have been away, Major, for eighteen years.” He spoke with a tragic intonation. “Waiting for liberty to be reborn in France.”
The ship dipped again and Sharpe glimpsed a whorl of grey water that was gone as swiftly as it had been illuminated. The snow melted on his face. Everyone spoke of liberty, he thought. The monarchists and the anti-monarchists, the Republicans and the anti-Republicans, the Bonapartists and the Bourbons, all carried the word around as if it was a genie trapped in a bottle and they were the sole possessors of the world’s corkscrew. Yet if Sharpe was to go down to the hold now and wake up the soldiers who slept so fitfully and uncomfortably in the stinking ‘tween-decks of the Amelie, and if he was to ask each man what he wanted in life, then he knew, besides being thought mad by the men, that he would not hear the word Liberty used. They wanted a woman as a companion, they wanted cheap drink, they wanted a fire in winter and fat crops in summer, and they wanted a patch of land or a wineshop of their own. Most would not get what they desired.
But nor would Sharpe. He had a sudden, startlingly clear vision of Jane lying sick; sweating in the cold shivers of the killing fever. The image, so extraordinarily real in the freezing night, made him shiver himself.
He tried to shake the vision away, then told himself that Jane suffered from nothing more than an upset stomach and a winter’s cold, but the superstition of a soldier suddenly gripped Sharpe’s imagination and he knew, with an utter certainty, that he sailed away from a dying wife. He wanted to howl his misery into the snow-dark night, but there was no help there. No help anywhere. She was dying. That knowledge might have been vouchsafed by a dreamlike image, but Sharpe believed it. “Damn your bloody liberty.” Sharpe spoke savagely.
“Major?” The Comte, hearing Sharpe’s voice but no distinct words, edged down the ship’s rail.
Jane would be dead and Sharpe would return to the coldly heaped soil of her grave. He wanted to weep for the loss.
“Did you speak, Monsieur?” the Comte persisted.