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Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 195 из 223There the powder could be spread out and some of it would be dry by morning, but Sharpe knew that this disaster meant the end of his defiance.
It was his own fault. He should have covered the powder with a tarpaulin, but he had not thought. There was so much he should have done. He should have foreseen that the enemy had mortars, he should have warned Palmer about the stone dam, he should have made a bigger sortie on the first night, he should have brought Harper’s cannons on to the wall where they would have been safer from the shells. He should have had water ready to fight the fires, he should, perhaps, never have fought at all.
Sharpe sat in the cave of the magazine and a wave of despair hit him. “We used over half our good ammunition?”
“Well over half.” Frederickson was as unhappy as Sharpe. He sat opposite, knees drawn up, and the lantern threw the shadows of the two riflemen high on the arch of the magazine’s ceiling. “We might as well bring the wounded in here now. They’ll be more comfortable.”
“Yes.” But neither man moved. “There’s some French ammunition in the ready magazines, isn’t there?” Sharpe asked.
“Only fifty cartridges in each.”
Sharpe picked up a shard of stone and scratched a square on the magazine floor. He marked the position of the gate on the southern side. “The question,” he spoke slowly, “is whether they’re fooling us with the gate and plan to attack somewhere else, or not?”
“They’ll come for the gate,” Frederickson said.
“I think so.” Sharpe scratched marks over the gate. “We’ll put everyone there. Just leave Minver with a handful of men to guard the other walls.”
Sharpe clung to the pathetic hope that a British brig, nosing up the enemy coast with the impunity that Nelson’s victories had given to the Navy, might see his strange flag. A brig, moored in the channel, could fire hell and destruction into an attacking French column. Yet in this weather, with this fitful, veering wind and the blotting, seething rain that bounced four inches high off the shattered cobbles of the yard, Sharpe knew no brig would come. “Your fellow might have reached our lines by now.” He was clutching at straws, and he knew it.
“If he survived,” Frederickson said grimly. “And if anyone will take him seriously. And even then the Army will have to go on its knees to the Navy and beg them to risk one little boat.”
“Bugger Bampfylde,” Sharpe said. “I hope he gets the pox.”
“Amen.
It was his own fault. He should have covered the powder with a tarpaulin, but he had not thought. There was so much he should have done. He should have foreseen that the enemy had mortars, he should have warned Palmer about the stone dam, he should have made a bigger sortie on the first night, he should have brought Harper’s cannons on to the wall where they would have been safer from the shells. He should have had water ready to fight the fires, he should, perhaps, never have fought at all.
Sharpe sat in the cave of the magazine and a wave of despair hit him. “We used over half our good ammunition?”
“Well over half.” Frederickson was as unhappy as Sharpe. He sat opposite, knees drawn up, and the lantern threw the shadows of the two riflemen high on the arch of the magazine’s ceiling. “We might as well bring the wounded in here now. They’ll be more comfortable.”
“Yes.” But neither man moved. “There’s some French ammunition in the ready magazines, isn’t there?” Sharpe asked.
“Only fifty cartridges in each.”
Sharpe picked up a shard of stone and scratched a square on the magazine floor. He marked the position of the gate on the southern side. “The question,” he spoke slowly, “is whether they’re fooling us with the gate and plan to attack somewhere else, or not?”
“They’ll come for the gate,” Frederickson said.
“I think so.” Sharpe scratched marks over the gate. “We’ll put everyone there. Just leave Minver with a handful of men to guard the other walls.”
Sharpe clung to the pathetic hope that a British brig, nosing up the enemy coast with the impunity that Nelson’s victories had given to the Navy, might see his strange flag. A brig, moored in the channel, could fire hell and destruction into an attacking French column. Yet in this weather, with this fitful, veering wind and the blotting, seething rain that bounced four inches high off the shattered cobbles of the yard, Sharpe knew no brig would come. “Your fellow might have reached our lines by now.” He was clutching at straws, and he knew it.
“If he survived,” Frederickson said grimly. “And if anyone will take him seriously. And even then the Army will have to go on its knees to the Navy and beg them to risk one little boat.”
“Bugger Bampfylde,” Sharpe said. “I hope he gets the pox.”
“Amen.