JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 170 из 223“They’ll attack the gate when they do come.”
“I imagine so.”
“Confident bastards, letting us know.” Both officers ducked as a roundshot shivered dust and dry mortar from the stones above them. The great masonry block had been shifted a full inch by the blow.
Sharpe stared at the far rampart. “Lieutenant Minver!”
“Sir?”
“Get some bread and cold meat sent round!”
Minver, somewhat aghast at being ordered to brave the courtyard where most of the shells exploded, nodded. Sharpe would leave his men exposed for he had no way of telling just when the attack of massed infantry would start forward. They would come from the south-east and the howitzers could keep firing until the French were actually at the ramparts. The field guns, firing very close to the line of advance, would have to cease fire long before the attack struck home.
Sharpe wanted them to come. He wanted to hear the Old Trousers, the drummers’ pas de charge, he wanted to hear the screams of attacking men, the banging of muskets, for that would be preferable to this helpless waiting. He suddenly wanted to echo young Moore and swear uselessly at the gunners who sweated and fired and swabbed and fired again.
Harper, waiting on the western wall with Sharpe’s picked squad, went to the screaming Marine and slapped him into silence. “And shovel that mess over the side, lad.” He gestured at the spilt guts of the dead man. “You don’t want flies here, do you?”
“Flies in winter?”
“Don’t be cheeky, lad. Do it.”
One of the Marines with Harper seemed untroubled by the shelling. He drew a stone along the fore-edge of a cutlass, doing it again and again in search of the perfect cutting blade. Another, leaning against the abandoned timber slide of one of Lassan’s guns, read a small book with evident fascination. From time to time he looked up, saw that his services were not yet required, and went back to the book. Captain Palmer, staring north and east from his allotted station, thought he saw movement in the dunes but when he examined the place with his spyglass he saw only sand and grass.
For a half hour more the bombardment continued. Screaming shells blasted apart in black ruin, flames roared from the rafters that collapsed in a shower of sparks into the ruins of the offices, and iron shards spat dirty death into the corners of the garrison. Men shivered.
“I imagine so.”
“Confident bastards, letting us know.” Both officers ducked as a roundshot shivered dust and dry mortar from the stones above them. The great masonry block had been shifted a full inch by the blow.
Sharpe stared at the far rampart. “Lieutenant Minver!”
“Sir?”
“Get some bread and cold meat sent round!”
Minver, somewhat aghast at being ordered to brave the courtyard where most of the shells exploded, nodded. Sharpe would leave his men exposed for he had no way of telling just when the attack of massed infantry would start forward. They would come from the south-east and the howitzers could keep firing until the French were actually at the ramparts. The field guns, firing very close to the line of advance, would have to cease fire long before the attack struck home.
Sharpe wanted them to come. He wanted to hear the Old Trousers, the drummers’ pas de charge, he wanted to hear the screams of attacking men, the banging of muskets, for that would be preferable to this helpless waiting. He suddenly wanted to echo young Moore and swear uselessly at the gunners who sweated and fired and swabbed and fired again.
Harper, waiting on the western wall with Sharpe’s picked squad, went to the screaming Marine and slapped him into silence. “And shovel that mess over the side, lad.” He gestured at the spilt guts of the dead man. “You don’t want flies here, do you?”
“Flies in winter?”
“Don’t be cheeky, lad. Do it.”
One of the Marines with Harper seemed untroubled by the shelling. He drew a stone along the fore-edge of a cutlass, doing it again and again in search of the perfect cutting blade. Another, leaning against the abandoned timber slide of one of Lassan’s guns, read a small book with evident fascination. From time to time he looked up, saw that his services were not yet required, and went back to the book. Captain Palmer, staring north and east from his allotted station, thought he saw movement in the dunes but when he examined the place with his spyglass he saw only sand and grass.
For a half hour more the bombardment continued. Screaming shells blasted apart in black ruin, flames roared from the rafters that collapsed in a shower of sparks into the ruins of the offices, and iron shards spat dirty death into the corners of the garrison. Men shivered.