JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 13 из 223She had been built for one purpose alone; to evade the British blockade and, under Killick’s captaincy, the Thuella had become a thorn in the Royal Navy’s self-esteem. Whether as a cargo ship that evaded British patrols, or as a privateer that snapped up stragglers from British convoys, the schooner had led a charmed life until, at the beginning of January, as the Thuella stole from the mouth of the Gironde in a dawn mist, a British frigate had come from the silvered north and its bow-chasers had thumped nine-pounder balls into the Thuella’s transom.
The schooner, carrying a cargo of French twelve-pounder guns for the American Army, turned south. Her armament was no match for a frigate, nor could her speed save her in the light, mist-haunted airs. For three hours she was pounded. Shot after shot crashed into the stern and Killick knew that the British gunners were firing low to spring his planks and sink his beloved ship. But the Thuella had not sunk, and the mist was stirred by catspaws of wind, and the wind became a breeze and, even though damaged, the schooner had outrun her pursuer and taken refuge in the vast Bassin d’Arcachon. There, safe behind the guns of the Teste de Buch fort, the Thuella was beached for repairs.
The wounded Thuella needed copper, oak, and pitch. Day followed day and the supplies were promised, but never came. The American consul in Bordeaux pleaded on Cornelius Killick’s behalf, and the only answer had been the strange request, from Major Pierre Ducos, that the American take a chasse-maree south and investigate why the British collected such craft in St Jean de Luz. There was no French Navy to make the reconnaissance, and no French civilian crew, lured by British gold, could be trusted with the task, and so Killick had gone. Now, as he had promised, he had come to this lavish room in Bordeaux to give his report.
“Would you have any opinion,” Ducos now asked the tall American, “why the British are hiring chasse-marees?”
“Perhaps they want a regatta?” Killick laughed, saw that this Frenchman had no sense of humour at all, and sighed instead. “They plan to land on your coast, presumably.”
“Or build a bridge?”
“Where to? America? They’re filling the damned harbour with boats.” Killick drew on his cigar. “And if they were going to make a bridge, Major, wouldn’t they take down the masts? Besides, where could they build it?”
Ducos unrolled a map and tapped the estuary of the Adour.
The schooner, carrying a cargo of French twelve-pounder guns for the American Army, turned south. Her armament was no match for a frigate, nor could her speed save her in the light, mist-haunted airs. For three hours she was pounded. Shot after shot crashed into the stern and Killick knew that the British gunners were firing low to spring his planks and sink his beloved ship. But the Thuella had not sunk, and the mist was stirred by catspaws of wind, and the wind became a breeze and, even though damaged, the schooner had outrun her pursuer and taken refuge in the vast Bassin d’Arcachon. There, safe behind the guns of the Teste de Buch fort, the Thuella was beached for repairs.
The wounded Thuella needed copper, oak, and pitch. Day followed day and the supplies were promised, but never came. The American consul in Bordeaux pleaded on Cornelius Killick’s behalf, and the only answer had been the strange request, from Major Pierre Ducos, that the American take a chasse-maree south and investigate why the British collected such craft in St Jean de Luz. There was no French Navy to make the reconnaissance, and no French civilian crew, lured by British gold, could be trusted with the task, and so Killick had gone. Now, as he had promised, he had come to this lavish room in Bordeaux to give his report.
“Would you have any opinion,” Ducos now asked the tall American, “why the British are hiring chasse-marees?”
“Perhaps they want a regatta?” Killick laughed, saw that this Frenchman had no sense of humour at all, and sighed instead. “They plan to land on your coast, presumably.”
“Or build a bridge?”
“Where to? America? They’re filling the damned harbour with boats.” Killick drew on his cigar. “And if they were going to make a bridge, Major, wouldn’t they take down the masts? Besides, where could they build it?”
Ducos unrolled a map and tapped the estuary of the Adour.