JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 197 из 223Pride demanded that they defended the breach at least one time, but French anger might not allow a surrender after that one defence. Sharpe had seen men, their blood-lust goaded beyond endurance, put a captured fortress to the sack. Frenchmen, beyond sense, would hunt with sharpened bayonets through the stone corridors to take revenge on the defenders. The butchery would be vile, but pride was still pride and they would fight at least one more time. Sharpe tried to imagine what Wellington might do, he tried to think back over all the sieges he had fought to see if there was something left undone that he could do, he tried to think of some clever move to unsettle the enemy. He thought of nothing useful. “I’ll bet their general’s telling the poor buggers that we’ve got a hundred women in here,” Sharpe laughed.
Frederickson grinned. “He’ll give every man a half pint of wine, tell them they can rape every woman inside, then point them at the breach. It never fails. You should have seen us at San Sebastian.”
“I missed that.” Sharpe had been in England when the British had captured San Sebastian.
Frederickson smiled. “It wasn’t pretty.”
An howitzer shell exploded in the courtyard. “You’d think the buggers would run out of ammunition,” Sharpe said. It was oddly pleasant to sit here, sharing a friendship’s intimacy, knowing that nothing could now be done to diminish the slaughter that would come in the dawn. The French twelve-pounders still fired, even though the breach was formed, but now they sprayed the fallen stones with canister to prevent working parties from steepening the face up which their troops would swarm in the morning.
“If they capture us,” Frederickson said, “perhaps they’ll send us to Paris on our way to Verdun. I’d like to see Paris.”
The words reminded Sharpe of Jane’s wish to see the French capital when the war ended. He thought of his wife dead, of her body taken for a hasty burial. Damn Cornelius Killick, he thought, for taking away his hope.
Frederickson unexpectedly broke into song. „Ein schifflein sah ichfahren.“
Sharpe recognized the tune that was popular among the Germans who fought in Wellington’s Army. “Meaning?”
Frederickson gave a rueful smile. “”I saw a small ship sailing.“ Pray for a frigate to come in the morning, sir. Think of its broadside raking the Frog camp.”
Sharpe shook his head. “I don’t think God listens to soldiers.”
“He loves them,” Frederickson said. “We’re the fools of the Lord, the last honest men, creation’s scapegoats.
Frederickson grinned. “He’ll give every man a half pint of wine, tell them they can rape every woman inside, then point them at the breach. It never fails. You should have seen us at San Sebastian.”
“I missed that.” Sharpe had been in England when the British had captured San Sebastian.
Frederickson smiled. “It wasn’t pretty.”
An howitzer shell exploded in the courtyard. “You’d think the buggers would run out of ammunition,” Sharpe said. It was oddly pleasant to sit here, sharing a friendship’s intimacy, knowing that nothing could now be done to diminish the slaughter that would come in the dawn. The French twelve-pounders still fired, even though the breach was formed, but now they sprayed the fallen stones with canister to prevent working parties from steepening the face up which their troops would swarm in the morning.
“If they capture us,” Frederickson said, “perhaps they’ll send us to Paris on our way to Verdun. I’d like to see Paris.”
The words reminded Sharpe of Jane’s wish to see the French capital when the war ended. He thought of his wife dead, of her body taken for a hasty burial. Damn Cornelius Killick, he thought, for taking away his hope.
Frederickson unexpectedly broke into song. „Ein schifflein sah ichfahren.“
Sharpe recognized the tune that was popular among the Germans who fought in Wellington’s Army. “Meaning?”
Frederickson gave a rueful smile. “”I saw a small ship sailing.“ Pray for a frigate to come in the morning, sir. Think of its broadside raking the Frog camp.”
Sharpe shook his head. “I don’t think God listens to soldiers.”
“He loves them,” Frederickson said. “We’re the fools of the Lord, the last honest men, creation’s scapegoats.