JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 194 из 223Every shot thereafter worked more damage on the gateway, gouging out the rubble-filling and tipping the rampart’s pavement above the arch. Frederickson, carrying a hooded lantern, climbed the gate’s internal staircase to examine the extent of the destruction. He came out disgusted. “It’s going to fall. Surbedded work.”
“Surbedded?” Sharpe asked.
“Stone laid against the grain. Frederickson paused as another roundshot thudded into the archway. ”The stone’s cut vertically from the quarry and laid horizontally. It lets the water in. That gate’s a shoddy piece of building. They should be ashamed of it.“
But if the French could not build, they could shoot. Even in the rain-curtained darkness the French gunners were hitting their target and Sharpe suspected that dark-lanterns must have been placed on the esplanade as aiming marks. Once in a while the French fired a light ball; a metal, cloth-wrapped cage filled with saltpetre, powder, sulphur, resin and linseed oil. The balls burned fiercely, hissing in the rain, showing the gunners what damage they had inflicted. That damage was more than sufficient to make Sharpe pull his sentries away from the ramparts by the arch, thus abandoning the gateway to the enemy’s artillery.
Yet the rain did greater damage than the guns that night. At midnight, when Sharpe was going around the ramparts, a Marine sergeant found him. “Captain Frederickson says can you come, sir?”
Frederickson was in the scorched cavern of the fort’s second magazine, which had been the least damaged by Bampfylde’s explosion. A lantern cast a dull, flickering glow on the blackened rear wall and on the pathetic hoard of powder and made-up cartridges that were Sharpe’s final reserve of ammunition. “I’m sorry, sir,” Frederickson said.
Sharpe swore. Water had seeped through the granite blocks of the magazine’s arched ceiling and soaked the powder so that the barrels were now filled with a dark grey, porridge-like sludge, while the home-made cartridges had come apart in a soggy mess of paper, lead, and wet powder. The captured French cartridges were also heavy with water and Sharpe swore again; swore foully, uselessly, and savagely.
Frederickson fingered the wall over the barrels. “The explosion must have loosened the masonry.”
“It was dry when we came,” Sharpe said. “I checked!”
“Rain takes time to seep through, sir,” Frederickson said.
Six Marines carried the powder to the stone gallery where the cooking fires burned.
“Surbedded?” Sharpe asked.
“Stone laid against the grain. Frederickson paused as another roundshot thudded into the archway. ”The stone’s cut vertically from the quarry and laid horizontally. It lets the water in. That gate’s a shoddy piece of building. They should be ashamed of it.“
But if the French could not build, they could shoot. Even in the rain-curtained darkness the French gunners were hitting their target and Sharpe suspected that dark-lanterns must have been placed on the esplanade as aiming marks. Once in a while the French fired a light ball; a metal, cloth-wrapped cage filled with saltpetre, powder, sulphur, resin and linseed oil. The balls burned fiercely, hissing in the rain, showing the gunners what damage they had inflicted. That damage was more than sufficient to make Sharpe pull his sentries away from the ramparts by the arch, thus abandoning the gateway to the enemy’s artillery.
Yet the rain did greater damage than the guns that night. At midnight, when Sharpe was going around the ramparts, a Marine sergeant found him. “Captain Frederickson says can you come, sir?”
Frederickson was in the scorched cavern of the fort’s second magazine, which had been the least damaged by Bampfylde’s explosion. A lantern cast a dull, flickering glow on the blackened rear wall and on the pathetic hoard of powder and made-up cartridges that were Sharpe’s final reserve of ammunition. “I’m sorry, sir,” Frederickson said.
Sharpe swore. Water had seeped through the granite blocks of the magazine’s arched ceiling and soaked the powder so that the barrels were now filled with a dark grey, porridge-like sludge, while the home-made cartridges had come apart in a soggy mess of paper, lead, and wet powder. The captured French cartridges were also heavy with water and Sharpe swore again; swore foully, uselessly, and savagely.
Frederickson fingered the wall over the barrels. “The explosion must have loosened the masonry.”
“It was dry when we came,” Sharpe said. “I checked!”
“Rain takes time to seep through, sir,” Frederickson said.
Six Marines carried the powder to the stone gallery where the cooking fires burned.