JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 198 из 223”
Sharpe smiled. In the morning, he thought, they would give this General Calvet a fight to remember, and afterwards, when it was over, but that did not bear thinking about. Then, suddenly, he stared at his friend. ‘Ein schiff?“ Sharpe asked, ”what was it again?“
„Ein schifflein sah ich fahren,“ Frederickson said slowly. ”I saw a small ship sailing.“
“God damn it!” Sharpe’s helplessness suddenly vanished with the burgeoning of an idea as bright as a shell’s explosion. “I’m a fool!” He faced defeat for want of a ship, and a ship existed. Sharpe scrambled to his feet and shouted into the yard for a rope to be fetched. “You’re to stay here, William. Prepare for an assault on the gate, you understand?”
“And you?”
“I’m going out. I’ll be back by dawn.”
“Out? Where?”
But Sharpe had gone to the ramparts. A rope was fetched so he could climb down to the sand where the French corpses still lay, and so that, in a wet night, he could make a devil’s pact that might bring deliverance to the fools of the Lord.
CHAPTER 18
In the morning the rain fell in a sustained cloudburst. It hammered and seethed and bounced on the fort and ran from the ramparts to slop in bucketfuls on to the puddled courtyard. It seemed impossible for rain to be so savage, yet it persisted. It drummed on men’s shakoes, it flooded into the galleries carved into the ramparts, and its noise made even the firing of the twelve-pounders seem dull. It was like the rains before the great flood; a deluge.
It doused the cooking fires of the French and flooded the hovels where Calvet’s men had tried to sleep. It turned the powder in musket pans to gritty mud. The fire-rate of the artillery was slowed because each serge bag of powder had to be protected from the rain and each vent had to be covered until the last second before the portfire was touched. The artillery colonel cursed that the damned British had burned out the mill’s roof with their sortie, and cutsed again because his howitzers had to give up the unequal struggle when their pits filled with yellow-coloured floodwater.
“Bacon for breakfast!” Calvet spoke with delighted anticipation.
His cooks, working under a roof, fried bacon for the general. The smell tormented those poor souls who huddled against hovel walls and cursed the rain, the mud, the god-damns, and the war.
The cavalry, who had vainly cast south for Sharpe’s force, had been sent north in the dawn.
Sharpe smiled. In the morning, he thought, they would give this General Calvet a fight to remember, and afterwards, when it was over, but that did not bear thinking about. Then, suddenly, he stared at his friend. ‘Ein schiff?“ Sharpe asked, ”what was it again?“
„Ein schifflein sah ich fahren,“ Frederickson said slowly. ”I saw a small ship sailing.“
“God damn it!” Sharpe’s helplessness suddenly vanished with the burgeoning of an idea as bright as a shell’s explosion. “I’m a fool!” He faced defeat for want of a ship, and a ship existed. Sharpe scrambled to his feet and shouted into the yard for a rope to be fetched. “You’re to stay here, William. Prepare for an assault on the gate, you understand?”
“And you?”
“I’m going out. I’ll be back by dawn.”
“Out? Where?”
But Sharpe had gone to the ramparts. A rope was fetched so he could climb down to the sand where the French corpses still lay, and so that, in a wet night, he could make a devil’s pact that might bring deliverance to the fools of the Lord.
CHAPTER 18
In the morning the rain fell in a sustained cloudburst. It hammered and seethed and bounced on the fort and ran from the ramparts to slop in bucketfuls on to the puddled courtyard. It seemed impossible for rain to be so savage, yet it persisted. It drummed on men’s shakoes, it flooded into the galleries carved into the ramparts, and its noise made even the firing of the twelve-pounders seem dull. It was like the rains before the great flood; a deluge.
It doused the cooking fires of the French and flooded the hovels where Calvet’s men had tried to sleep. It turned the powder in musket pans to gritty mud. The fire-rate of the artillery was slowed because each serge bag of powder had to be protected from the rain and each vent had to be covered until the last second before the portfire was touched. The artillery colonel cursed that the damned British had burned out the mill’s roof with their sortie, and cutsed again because his howitzers had to give up the unequal struggle when their pits filled with yellow-coloured floodwater.
“Bacon for breakfast!” Calvet spoke with delighted anticipation.
His cooks, working under a roof, fried bacon for the general. The smell tormented those poor souls who huddled against hovel walls and cursed the rain, the mud, the god-damns, and the war.
The cavalry, who had vainly cast south for Sharpe’s force, had been sent north in the dawn.