LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

felt dizzy. He wondered how hard the blow on his head had been. It throbbed still and the lump was like a hen’s egg. He swore quietly. The rain fell.

      He pulled on the linen shirt that he had worn ever since Helene had given it to him at Salamanca. There was fresh blood on the collar.

      He put on the French overalls that he had taken from her brother. The rip in the bib had been made by Sharpe’s sword. The tear had been mended, but he could still see how he had twisted the great blade when Leroux fell.

      His head hurt as he leaned down and tugged on the big French cavalry boots. He felt better with the boots on. He stood and stamped his feet into comfort. His legs were stiff. There was a vast black bruise on his left thigh.

      The jacket felt good. He buttoned it from the crotch to his chin, forcing his bandaged hands to do the fiddly work. The fingers of his left hand were not wrapped and with them he picked up the sword. It jangled as he buckled the snake clasp. He had no shako. He had nothing now but the clothes he wore and the sword that hung at his side. He had no cloak, no razor, no tinder box, no telescope. He had a secret that could win the war for France that he must take to Wellington.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Consuela, the maid, stood in the doorway.

      ‘I’m going.’

      ‘You can’t! You’re weak as a kitten! Go on! To bed.’

      He shook his head stubbornly. ‘I’m going.’

      They tried to stop him, a gaggle of women at the foot of the stairs shouting at him and fluttering like the nuns in the convent. He thanked them, pushed gently past them, and went into the yard of the house. The yard was filled with wood shavings. The rain was cold on his face.

      ‘You mustn’t go!’

      ‘I have to go.’

      He had no horse so he would walk. It was hard at first, his bruised muscles refusing to make the stride easy. He crossed the great plaza, still smeared with the marks of the exploding French shells, past the cathedral that had been saved from the flames, and the townspeople watched him silently. He looked an odd figure, a soldier with a slashed head, black eyes, walking stiffly like a man going to his death. He had not been shaved this day and he thought for a moment of stopping at one of the barbers who waited for trade by their chairs in the street, then remembered he had no money.

      He crossed the Arlanzon, seeing the water pitted by the rain, and already the water was cold where it had soaked through his uniform.

      ‘Señor! Señor!’

      He turned. Consuela, the half-blind maid, was running after him. He stopped.

      She pushed a package wrapped in oil-paper into his hands. ‘If you must go, Major, take this.’

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Cold chicken. Cheese.’ She smiled. ‘Go with God.’

      He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Consuela.’ He walked eastwards on the Great Road, following the French army that had long gone, walking to a war.

      He stopped that afternoon in an orchard. He ate half of the chicken, and wrapped the rest of the food in the paper. Then, every muscle aching, he went to the stream that ran through the thick orchard grass. He knelt at its edge.

      He used the fingers of his left hand to undo the bandage on his right. It came stickily away, the last tug hurting like fire and ripping the crust from the wound. He hissed with the sudden pain and thrust his hand into the water.

      He flexed his fingers. He watched the blood dilute and go, wispy red, downstream. He spread his fingers wide, let the water flow into the cut, then took off the bandage that covered the wound made by the knife. The cut was on the ball of his left hand. It too bled into the water. He left his hands in the stream till they were numb.

      He unwrapped the bandage from his head and dipped his skull into the water, holding his breath to let the stream flow about his hair. He drank. He took his head out, flicked the wet hair back with a jerk, and saw the horsemen.

      He stayed still. He was on all fours. The horsemen were on the Great Road, hunched beneath their cloaks against the rain. They were Partisans and they rode to battle. Sharpe could see corks stuck in their musket muzzles, see the rags wrapped about the locks, see the sabres protruding from the wet cloaks.

      He could have called out, he could have shouted for help and asked for a horse, but he did not. The men were fifty yards away, visible through the twisting trunks of the stunted apple trees, and Sharpe had seen their leader. He had seen the black beard that grew up to the high cheekbones, the small eyes, the broad blade of the poleaxe on the man’s shoulder. It was El Matarife. Sharpe stayed rock still as they passed, then settled back on his haunches.

      El Matarife was following the French, hoping to be present when the armies met, and El Matarife was now between Sharpe and his goal.

      He stayed by the stream and the rain fell on him as he thought what to do. He could only press on, he decided, and when he had waited long enough for the Partisans to be well out of sight, he stood, groaned with pain, and went back to the muddy road.

      He walked. He seemed alone on the road. The fields either side still showed the damage caused by the trampling French army. Sharpe walked on the crushed crops because they gave firmer footing than the slick, muddy road.

      He went through small villages, always checking first that no horsemen lingered at a wine house. By dusk he was in a wide land, no houses or horsemen in sight, with the road stretching damp before him towards the darkening east. The rain blocked his view of the hills that he knew should be on the horizon.

      He was looking for shelter, hoping for a farm or, at the least, a bush to keep the worst of the rain from him. There was nothing. He walked on, trying to force his pace to the fast Rifleman’s march, persuading himself that by ignoring the pain it would go away. His feet squelched in his boots and rain trickled into his eyes.

      He heard a horse and turned to see a single horseman a hundred yards behind him. He cursed himself for not looking before, though there would have been nowhere to hide in this bare land even with ten minutes more warning. It was possible, he knew, that the man was simply a farmer on his way home, but the horse was bigger and stronger than a farmer’s mount. Sharpe suspected it was one of El Matarife’s men, left behind for some reason on the road.

      Sharpe gripped his sword-handle. His right hand was still stiff because of the gouging of the brass telescope tube. He saw the horseman spur into a trot, then the man waved, and suddenly Sharpe was laughing and stumbling back down the road. ‘Angel! Angel!’

      The boy was laughing. He jumped from Carbine’s back and put his arms round Sharpe. ‘Major!’ He was slapping Sharpe’s back. ‘You’re here!’

      ‘Where did you come from?’

      ‘Your face!’ Angel took off his cloak and insisted on putting it round Sharpe’s shoulders.

      ‘How the hell did you find me?’ Sharpe took the proffered flask of wine and tipped it to his lips. It felt good.

      Angel had done no more than follow orders. Major Hogan had told him not to leave Sharpe and so, when the lancers took Sharpe south, Angel had followed. He had hidden himself outside Burgos, watching the Great Road to see if Sharpe was taken eastwards.

      The boy had seen the explosion. Afterwards, when the last of the French had left the city and he had seen no prisoners with them, he had tried to get news of Sharpe. ‘They said you were dead.’

      ‘Who did?’

      ‘The people who worked for the French. There was one English prisoner in the castle, but the building he was in collapsed.’

      Sharpe grinned. ‘I got out first.’

      ‘So I looked in the ruins.’ Angel shrugged. ‘Nothing. Then El Matarife came so I hid again.’

      ‘What did he want?’

      ‘There

Скачать книгу