JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 200 из 223Her wet sails were being furled on to the yards, but otherwise there was no sign of movement on the sleek vessel. ”He’s not going to fire!“ Ducos said savagely.
“Give him time.” Calvet also watched the Thuella and imagined the rain seething on the wooden decks.
“He’s broken his word,” Ducos said bitterly, then, quite suddenly, the schooner’s battle ensign broke open and flames stabbed across the water, smoke billowed above the channel, and the Thuella’s broadside opened the final attack on the Teste de Buch.
Cornelius Killick’s qualms about honour had evidently been settled, and the American had opened fire.
The American grapeshot whistled over Sharpe’s head. A few balls struck the flag of St George, but the rest went high above the fortress. Sharpe sat beneath the wet flag, his back against the ramparts. He was weary to the very heart of his bones. He had returned to the fort a half hour before sunrise, narrowly evading French cavalry, and now, after yet another night’s lack of sleep, he faced a French attack.
“Are the Frogs moving?” he shouted to Frederickson who waited beside the breach.
“No, sir.”
Sharpe’s wounded men, bloodied bandages soaking in the rain, lay oh the western rampart. Marines, faces pale in the wan, wet light, crouched behind granite as a second American broadside spat overhead. Sharpe, huddling low, nodded to Harper. “Now.”
The huge Irishman used his sword bayonet to cut the wet ropes which bound the flagpole to the merlon. He sawed, cursing the tough sisal, but one by one the strands parted and, just after Killick’s third broadside, the pole toppled. The flag of St George, its white tablecloth stained red by dye from the sleeves which had formed the cross, fell.
“Cease firing!” Sharpe heard Killick’s voice distinct over the water. “Stop muzzles!”
Sharpe stood. The American captain, wearing a blue jacket in honour of this day, was already climbing down to one of the Thuella’s two longboats. The American crew, grinning by their guns, stared at the fortress.
Which Richard Sharpe had just surrendered.
General Calvet also stared at the fort. The smoke from the American broadsides drifted in the small wind, obscuring the view, but Calvet was sure the British had struck their colours.
“Do I keep firing, sir?” The artillery colonel, uniform soaked by rain, splashed through puddles towards the general’s horse.
“They’re not showing a white flag,” Pierre Ducos said, “so keep firing.”
“Wait!” Calvet snapped open his glass. He saw figures on the ramparts, but could not tell what happened.
“Give him time.” Calvet also watched the Thuella and imagined the rain seething on the wooden decks.
“He’s broken his word,” Ducos said bitterly, then, quite suddenly, the schooner’s battle ensign broke open and flames stabbed across the water, smoke billowed above the channel, and the Thuella’s broadside opened the final attack on the Teste de Buch.
Cornelius Killick’s qualms about honour had evidently been settled, and the American had opened fire.
The American grapeshot whistled over Sharpe’s head. A few balls struck the flag of St George, but the rest went high above the fortress. Sharpe sat beneath the wet flag, his back against the ramparts. He was weary to the very heart of his bones. He had returned to the fort a half hour before sunrise, narrowly evading French cavalry, and now, after yet another night’s lack of sleep, he faced a French attack.
“Are the Frogs moving?” he shouted to Frederickson who waited beside the breach.
“No, sir.”
Sharpe’s wounded men, bloodied bandages soaking in the rain, lay oh the western rampart. Marines, faces pale in the wan, wet light, crouched behind granite as a second American broadside spat overhead. Sharpe, huddling low, nodded to Harper. “Now.”
The huge Irishman used his sword bayonet to cut the wet ropes which bound the flagpole to the merlon. He sawed, cursing the tough sisal, but one by one the strands parted and, just after Killick’s third broadside, the pole toppled. The flag of St George, its white tablecloth stained red by dye from the sleeves which had formed the cross, fell.
“Cease firing!” Sharpe heard Killick’s voice distinct over the water. “Stop muzzles!”
Sharpe stood. The American captain, wearing a blue jacket in honour of this day, was already climbing down to one of the Thuella’s two longboats. The American crew, grinning by their guns, stared at the fortress.
Which Richard Sharpe had just surrendered.
General Calvet also stared at the fort. The smoke from the American broadsides drifted in the small wind, obscuring the view, but Calvet was sure the British had struck their colours.
“Do I keep firing, sir?” The artillery colonel, uniform soaked by rain, splashed through puddles towards the general’s horse.
“They’re not showing a white flag,” Pierre Ducos said, “so keep firing.”
“Wait!” Calvet snapped open his glass. He saw figures on the ramparts, but could not tell what happened.