JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 10 из 223”
That brought a satisfying reaction; a shudder of astonishment and fear on the annoying, plump face of the youngnaval officer. He took an involuntary step backwards, then, remembering the cause of the near quarrel, bowed to Jane. “My apologies, Mrs Sharpe, if I caused offence.”
“No offence, Captain…?” Jane inflected the last word into a question.
The captain bowed again. “Bampfylde, ma’am. Captain Horace Bampfylde. And allow me to name my lieutenant, Ford.”
The introductions were accepted gracefully, as tokens of peace, and Sharpe, outflanked by effusive politeness, sat. “The man’s got no bloody manners,” he growled loudly enough to be overheard by the two naval officers.
“Perhaps he didn’t have your advantages in life?” Jane suggested sweetly, but again the scene beyond the window distracted the naval men from the barbed comments.
“Christ!” Captain Bampfylde, careless of the risk of offending a dozen ladies in the dining-room, shouted the word. The outraged anger in his voice brought an immediate hush and fixed the attention of everyone in the room on the small, impertinent drama that was unfolding on the winter-cold sea.
The black-hulled lugger, instead of obeying the brig’s command to lower sails and proceed tamely into the harbour of St Jean de Luz, had changed her course. She had been sailing south, but now reached west to cut across the counter of the brig. Even Sharpe, no sailor, could see that the chasse-maree’s fore and aft rig made the boat into a handy, quick sailor.
It was not the course change that had provoked Bampfylde’s astonishment, but that the deck of the black-hulled lugger had suddenly sprouted men like dragon’s teeth maturing into warriors, and that, from the mizzen mast, a flag had been unfurled.
The flag was not the blue ensign of the Navy, nor the tricolour of France, nor even the white banner of the exiled French monarchy. They were the colours of Britain’s newest enemy; the Stars and Stripes of the United States of America.
“A Jonathon!” a voice said with disgust.
“Fire, man!” Bampfylde roared the order in the confines of the dining-room as though the brig’s skipper might hear him. Yet the brig, head to wind, was helpless. Men ran on its deck, and gunports lifted, but the American lugger was seething past the brig’s unarmed counter and Sharpe saw the dirty white blossom of gunsmoke as the small broadside was poured, at pistol-shot length, into the British ship.
Lieutenant Ford groaned. David was taking on Goliath and winning.
That brought a satisfying reaction; a shudder of astonishment and fear on the annoying, plump face of the youngnaval officer. He took an involuntary step backwards, then, remembering the cause of the near quarrel, bowed to Jane. “My apologies, Mrs Sharpe, if I caused offence.”
“No offence, Captain…?” Jane inflected the last word into a question.
The captain bowed again. “Bampfylde, ma’am. Captain Horace Bampfylde. And allow me to name my lieutenant, Ford.”
The introductions were accepted gracefully, as tokens of peace, and Sharpe, outflanked by effusive politeness, sat. “The man’s got no bloody manners,” he growled loudly enough to be overheard by the two naval officers.
“Perhaps he didn’t have your advantages in life?” Jane suggested sweetly, but again the scene beyond the window distracted the naval men from the barbed comments.
“Christ!” Captain Bampfylde, careless of the risk of offending a dozen ladies in the dining-room, shouted the word. The outraged anger in his voice brought an immediate hush and fixed the attention of everyone in the room on the small, impertinent drama that was unfolding on the winter-cold sea.
The black-hulled lugger, instead of obeying the brig’s command to lower sails and proceed tamely into the harbour of St Jean de Luz, had changed her course. She had been sailing south, but now reached west to cut across the counter of the brig. Even Sharpe, no sailor, could see that the chasse-maree’s fore and aft rig made the boat into a handy, quick sailor.
It was not the course change that had provoked Bampfylde’s astonishment, but that the deck of the black-hulled lugger had suddenly sprouted men like dragon’s teeth maturing into warriors, and that, from the mizzen mast, a flag had been unfurled.
The flag was not the blue ensign of the Navy, nor the tricolour of France, nor even the white banner of the exiled French monarchy. They were the colours of Britain’s newest enemy; the Stars and Stripes of the United States of America.
“A Jonathon!” a voice said with disgust.
“Fire, man!” Bampfylde roared the order in the confines of the dining-room as though the brig’s skipper might hear him. Yet the brig, head to wind, was helpless. Men ran on its deck, and gunports lifted, but the American lugger was seething past the brig’s unarmed counter and Sharpe saw the dirty white blossom of gunsmoke as the small broadside was poured, at pistol-shot length, into the British ship.
Lieutenant Ford groaned. David was taking on Goliath and winning.