JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 196 из 223”
A twelve-pounder ball crashed into the gate and there was a pause, a cracking sound like a bone breaking, then the grumbling, tumbling, roaring slide as tons of masonry collapsed inwards and downwards. The two officers stared at each other, imagining the stones thumping and sliding into the wet ditch, then settling in a shambolic mound as the dust, started from old mortar, was soaked by the rain.
“They have a breach,” Frederickson said in a voice which, by its very insouciance, betrayed apprehension.
Sharpe did not answer. If his men could hold off one more attack, just one, then it would buy time. Time for a ship to find them, time for French fears to settle in. Perhaps, if Calvet was repulsed again, the general — would leave the fort alone, content to screen it with a half battalion of men. The rumble of the subsiding stones faded in the hissing rain.
“A week ago,” there was amusement in Sharpe’s voice, “men were hoping, that Bordeaux would rise. We would be heroes, William, ending the war with a grand gesture.”
“Someone told lies,” Frederickson said lightly.
“Everyone lied. Wellington let those buggers believe in a landing so the French would be fooled. The Comte de Maquerre was a traitor all along.” Sharpe shrugged as though nothing much mattered any more. “The Comte de bloody Maquerre. They call him Maquereau. He’s well-named, isn’t he? Bloody pimp.”
Frederickson smiled at Sharpe’s rare display of knowledge.
“But it’s really Ducos,” Sharpe said. Hogan, in his fever, he said both Ducos’ and Maquerre’s names, and this whole deception, that had stranded Sharpe’s men so far from any help, stank of Ducos.
“Ducos?”
“He’s just a bastard who I’ll kill one day.” Sharpe said it in a very matter-of-fact voice, then grimaced because he knew that if this siege was truly Ducos’ work, then the Frenchman was very close to victory. “It’ll be bloody work tomorrow, William.”
“Very.”
“Do the men have the fight in them?”
Frederickson paused. Harper’s huge voice shouted in the yard, bringing order to the men who had gone to see the collapsed gatehouse. “The Rifles do,” Frederickson said. “Most of mine are Germans and they’ll never surrender. The Spanish hate the goddamn crapauds and just want to kill more of them. I think the Marines will fight to show you they’re as good as the Rifles.”
Sharpe gave a half smile, half grimace. “We can hold one attack, William. But after that?”
“Yes.” Frederickson knew exactly how bad things were. And this damned rain, he thought, would not help.
After one attack, Sharpe knew, he must think of the unthinkable. Of surrender.
A twelve-pounder ball crashed into the gate and there was a pause, a cracking sound like a bone breaking, then the grumbling, tumbling, roaring slide as tons of masonry collapsed inwards and downwards. The two officers stared at each other, imagining the stones thumping and sliding into the wet ditch, then settling in a shambolic mound as the dust, started from old mortar, was soaked by the rain.
“They have a breach,” Frederickson said in a voice which, by its very insouciance, betrayed apprehension.
Sharpe did not answer. If his men could hold off one more attack, just one, then it would buy time. Time for a ship to find them, time for French fears to settle in. Perhaps, if Calvet was repulsed again, the general — would leave the fort alone, content to screen it with a half battalion of men. The rumble of the subsiding stones faded in the hissing rain.
“A week ago,” there was amusement in Sharpe’s voice, “men were hoping, that Bordeaux would rise. We would be heroes, William, ending the war with a grand gesture.”
“Someone told lies,” Frederickson said lightly.
“Everyone lied. Wellington let those buggers believe in a landing so the French would be fooled. The Comte de Maquerre was a traitor all along.” Sharpe shrugged as though nothing much mattered any more. “The Comte de bloody Maquerre. They call him Maquereau. He’s well-named, isn’t he? Bloody pimp.”
Frederickson smiled at Sharpe’s rare display of knowledge.
“But it’s really Ducos,” Sharpe said. Hogan, in his fever, he said both Ducos’ and Maquerre’s names, and this whole deception, that had stranded Sharpe’s men so far from any help, stank of Ducos.
“Ducos?”
“He’s just a bastard who I’ll kill one day.” Sharpe said it in a very matter-of-fact voice, then grimaced because he knew that if this siege was truly Ducos’ work, then the Frenchman was very close to victory. “It’ll be bloody work tomorrow, William.”
“Very.”
“Do the men have the fight in them?”
Frederickson paused. Harper’s huge voice shouted in the yard, bringing order to the men who had gone to see the collapsed gatehouse. “The Rifles do,” Frederickson said. “Most of mine are Germans and they’ll never surrender. The Spanish hate the goddamn crapauds and just want to kill more of them. I think the Marines will fight to show you they’re as good as the Rifles.”
Sharpe gave a half smile, half grimace. “We can hold one attack, William. But after that?”
“Yes.” Frederickson knew exactly how bad things were. And this damned rain, he thought, would not help.
After one attack, Sharpe knew, he must think of the unthinkable. Of surrender.