JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 12 из 223Of the remaining ten boats no less than half had grounded themselves on the harbour bar and were being pushed inexorably higher by the force of the wind-driven, flowing tide. A damned American, in a cockle boat, had danced scornful rings around the Royal Navy and, even worse, had done it within sight of the Army.
Captain Horace Bampfylde closed his spyglass and dropped it into his pocket. He looked down at Sharpe. “Mark that well,” the captain said, “mark it very well! I shall look to you for retribution.”
“Me?” Sharpe said in astonishment.
But there was no answer, for the two naval officers had strode away leaving a puzzled Sharpe and a tangle of scorched wreckage that heaved on the sea’s grey surface and bobbed towards the land where an Army, on the verge of its enemy’s country, gathered itself for its next advance, but whether to north or east, or by bridge or by boat, no one in France yet knew.
CHAPTER 2
He had a cutwater of a face; sharp, lined, savagely tanned; a dangerously handsome face framed by a tangled shock of gold-dark hair. It was battered, beaten by winds and seas and scarred by blades and scorched by powder-blasts, but still a handsome face; enough to make the girls look twice. It was just the kind of face to annoy Major Pierre Ducos who disliked such tall, confident, and handsome men.
“Anything you can tell me,” Ducos said with forced politeness, “would be of the utmost use.”
“I can tell you,” Cornelius Killick said, “that a British brig is burying its dead and that the bastards have got close to forty chasse-marees in the harbour.”
“Close to?” Ducos asked.
“It’s difficult to make an accurate count when you’re firing cannon, Major.” The American, careless of Ducos’ sinister power, leaned over the malachite table and lit a cigar from a candle’s flame. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”
Ducos’ voice was sour with undisguised irony. “The Empire is most grateful to you, Captain Killick.”
“Grateful enough to fetch me some copper sheeting?” Killick’s French was excellent. “That was our agreement.”
“I shall order some sent to you. Your ship is at Gujan, correct?”
“Correct.”
Ducos had no intention of ordering copper sheeting sent to the Bassin d’Arcachon, but the American had to be humoured. The presence of the privateer captain had been most fortuitous for Ducos, but what happened to the American now was of no importance to an embattled France.
Cornelius Killick was the master of the Thuella, a New England schooner of sleek, fast lines.
Captain Horace Bampfylde closed his spyglass and dropped it into his pocket. He looked down at Sharpe. “Mark that well,” the captain said, “mark it very well! I shall look to you for retribution.”
“Me?” Sharpe said in astonishment.
But there was no answer, for the two naval officers had strode away leaving a puzzled Sharpe and a tangle of scorched wreckage that heaved on the sea’s grey surface and bobbed towards the land where an Army, on the verge of its enemy’s country, gathered itself for its next advance, but whether to north or east, or by bridge or by boat, no one in France yet knew.
CHAPTER 2
He had a cutwater of a face; sharp, lined, savagely tanned; a dangerously handsome face framed by a tangled shock of gold-dark hair. It was battered, beaten by winds and seas and scarred by blades and scorched by powder-blasts, but still a handsome face; enough to make the girls look twice. It was just the kind of face to annoy Major Pierre Ducos who disliked such tall, confident, and handsome men.
“Anything you can tell me,” Ducos said with forced politeness, “would be of the utmost use.”
“I can tell you,” Cornelius Killick said, “that a British brig is burying its dead and that the bastards have got close to forty chasse-marees in the harbour.”
“Close to?” Ducos asked.
“It’s difficult to make an accurate count when you’re firing cannon, Major.” The American, careless of Ducos’ sinister power, leaned over the malachite table and lit a cigar from a candle’s flame. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”
Ducos’ voice was sour with undisguised irony. “The Empire is most grateful to you, Captain Killick.”
“Grateful enough to fetch me some copper sheeting?” Killick’s French was excellent. “That was our agreement.”
“I shall order some sent to you. Your ship is at Gujan, correct?”
“Correct.”
Ducos had no intention of ordering copper sheeting sent to the Bassin d’Arcachon, but the American had to be humoured. The presence of the privateer captain had been most fortuitous for Ducos, but what happened to the American now was of no importance to an embattled France.
Cornelius Killick was the master of the Thuella, a New England schooner of sleek, fast lines.