JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 101 из 223Suppose this news had been planted on de Maquerre? Suppose, after all, the British planned a bridge across the Adour, but wished the French to concentrate troops at Arcachon? Or suppose the invading force flooded ashore at the mouth of the Gironde? The answer had brought him no relief, merely more doubts. “How many troops are already ashore?”
“Three Companies of Marines, two of Riflemen.”
“That’s all!” Ducos snapped the words.
“They think it’s enough,” de Maquerre said mildly. “They plan to take the fortress, then ambush the supply road.”
“Ambitious of them,” Ducos said softly.
“They’ve got an ambitious bastard doing it,” de Maquerre said viciously. “A real bastard. It would be a pleasure to bury him.”
“Who?” Ducos asked in polite interest. His attention was on the map where his finger traced the thin line of the River Leyre. If such an ambush was planned, then that would be the closest stretch of road to the British landing.
“Major Richard Sharpe, Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers. He’s really a Rifleman. God knows why he fights in a line Battalion.”
“Sharpe?”
Something in Ducos’ voice made Maquerre turn. “Sharpe.”
A spasm showed on Ducos’ face, a twist of hatred that went almost as soon as it appeared, but was nevertheless a rare revelation of the real man behind the careful mask.
Richard Sharpe. The man who had mocked Ducos, who had once broken Ducos’ spectacles, and who had destroyed all Ducos’ careful plans in Spain.
Sharpe. A brute, a mindless barbarian whose sword had wrecked so many careful, elegant schemes. Sharpe, whom Ducos had once had at his mercy in Burgos Castle, except that the Rifleman had filled a small room with blood from which Ducos had fled in horror. Sharpe.
“You know him?” de Maquerre asked tentatively.
Know him? Did Ducos know Sharpe? If Pierre Ducos had been a superstitious man, which he prided himself on not being, he would have believed that Sharpe was his personal devil. How else did the Rifleman crop up so often to ruin his meticulous plans?
For Ducos was a man who laid careful, almost mathematical plans. He was a soldier whose rank bore no relation to his responsibility, a secretive man who drew together the strands of politics and soldiering, police-work and spying, all to the Emperor’s glory. Now, in Bordeaux, Ducos was responsible for defending France’s southern flank by forecasting the enemy’s plans and, for once, the mention of Sharpe’s name brought him relief.
If Sharpe had been sent to Arcachon, then doubtless de Maquerre’s news was correct. Wellington would not waste Sharpe on a diversion. Ducos‘. enemy had been delivered into his hands. Sharpe was doomed.
“Three Companies of Marines, two of Riflemen.”
“That’s all!” Ducos snapped the words.
“They think it’s enough,” de Maquerre said mildly. “They plan to take the fortress, then ambush the supply road.”
“Ambitious of them,” Ducos said softly.
“They’ve got an ambitious bastard doing it,” de Maquerre said viciously. “A real bastard. It would be a pleasure to bury him.”
“Who?” Ducos asked in polite interest. His attention was on the map where his finger traced the thin line of the River Leyre. If such an ambush was planned, then that would be the closest stretch of road to the British landing.
“Major Richard Sharpe, Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers. He’s really a Rifleman. God knows why he fights in a line Battalion.”
“Sharpe?”
Something in Ducos’ voice made Maquerre turn. “Sharpe.”
A spasm showed on Ducos’ face, a twist of hatred that went almost as soon as it appeared, but was nevertheless a rare revelation of the real man behind the careful mask.
Richard Sharpe. The man who had mocked Ducos, who had once broken Ducos’ spectacles, and who had destroyed all Ducos’ careful plans in Spain.
Sharpe. A brute, a mindless barbarian whose sword had wrecked so many careful, elegant schemes. Sharpe, whom Ducos had once had at his mercy in Burgos Castle, except that the Rifleman had filled a small room with blood from which Ducos had fled in horror. Sharpe.
“You know him?” de Maquerre asked tentatively.
Know him? Did Ducos know Sharpe? If Pierre Ducos had been a superstitious man, which he prided himself on not being, he would have believed that Sharpe was his personal devil. How else did the Rifleman crop up so often to ruin his meticulous plans?
For Ducos was a man who laid careful, almost mathematical plans. He was a soldier whose rank bore no relation to his responsibility, a secretive man who drew together the strands of politics and soldiering, police-work and spying, all to the Emperor’s glory. Now, in Bordeaux, Ducos was responsible for defending France’s southern flank by forecasting the enemy’s plans and, for once, the mention of Sharpe’s name brought him relief.
If Sharpe had been sent to Arcachon, then doubtless de Maquerre’s news was correct. Wellington would not waste Sharpe on a diversion. Ducos‘. enemy had been delivered into his hands. Sharpe was doomed.