JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 201 из 223“Colonel Favier!”
“Sir?”
“Go forward with a flag of truce,” Calvet ordered, “and find out what the bastards are doing. No, wait!” At last Calvet could see something that made sense. Men had come to the southern wall which faced the French and there they shook out a great cloth to hang down the wet, battered ramparts. The cloth signified that the fortress of Teste de Buch was no longer held by the British, but had been surrendered to the United States of America. “God damn,”
Calvet said as he stared at the Stars and Stripes, “God bloody hell and damn.”
Cornelius Killick, standing beside Sharpe on the southern ramparts, stared at the great French column that waited beside the village. “If they choose to fight, Major, you know I can’t fire on them.”
“I agree it would be difficult for you.” Sharpe opened his glass and stared at the French until the rain bleared the outer lens. He snapped the tubes shut. “Do I have your permission, Captain Killick, to put my wounded on board?”
“You have my permission,” Killick spoke solemnly, as if to invest this agreed charade with dignity. “You also have my permission to keep your sword that you failed to offer me.”
“Thank you.” Sharpe grinned, then turned to the western ramparts. “Captain Palmer! You may begin the evacuation! Wounded and baggage first!” All the packs of Sharpe’s small garrison were heaped next to the wounded men, for he was determined to leave the French nothing.
Sharpe’s men, sensing that their ordeal was over, relaxed. They knew that Major Sharpe had gone into the night, and the rumour had spread that he had talked to the Americans and the Americans had agreed to take them away. The American Colours, bright on the fort’s outer face, testified to that deliverance. “It’s all because we didn’t hang the buggers,” a Marine sergeant opined. “We scratched their backsides, now they scratch ours.”
Rifleman Hernandez, watching the French column, wondered aloud whether he would now be going to America and, if so, whether there were Frenchmen there waiting to be killed. William Frederickson assured him they were not bound for the United States. Frederickson was staring at the French and saw three horsemen suddenly spur forward. He cupped his hands towards Sharpe. “Sir! Crapauds coming!”
Sharpe did not want the three enemy officers to come too close to the fort, so he ran, jumped from the broken ramparts, and sprawled in an ungainly, bruising fall on the jagged summit of the breach.
“Sir?”
“Go forward with a flag of truce,” Calvet ordered, “and find out what the bastards are doing. No, wait!” At last Calvet could see something that made sense. Men had come to the southern wall which faced the French and there they shook out a great cloth to hang down the wet, battered ramparts. The cloth signified that the fortress of Teste de Buch was no longer held by the British, but had been surrendered to the United States of America. “God damn,”
Calvet said as he stared at the Stars and Stripes, “God bloody hell and damn.”
Cornelius Killick, standing beside Sharpe on the southern ramparts, stared at the great French column that waited beside the village. “If they choose to fight, Major, you know I can’t fire on them.”
“I agree it would be difficult for you.” Sharpe opened his glass and stared at the French until the rain bleared the outer lens. He snapped the tubes shut. “Do I have your permission, Captain Killick, to put my wounded on board?”
“You have my permission,” Killick spoke solemnly, as if to invest this agreed charade with dignity. “You also have my permission to keep your sword that you failed to offer me.”
“Thank you.” Sharpe grinned, then turned to the western ramparts. “Captain Palmer! You may begin the evacuation! Wounded and baggage first!” All the packs of Sharpe’s small garrison were heaped next to the wounded men, for he was determined to leave the French nothing.
Sharpe’s men, sensing that their ordeal was over, relaxed. They knew that Major Sharpe had gone into the night, and the rumour had spread that he had talked to the Americans and the Americans had agreed to take them away. The American Colours, bright on the fort’s outer face, testified to that deliverance. “It’s all because we didn’t hang the buggers,” a Marine sergeant opined. “We scratched their backsides, now they scratch ours.”
Rifleman Hernandez, watching the French column, wondered aloud whether he would now be going to America and, if so, whether there were Frenchmen there waiting to be killed. William Frederickson assured him they were not bound for the United States. Frederickson was staring at the French and saw three horsemen suddenly spur forward. He cupped his hands towards Sharpe. “Sir! Crapauds coming!”
Sharpe did not want the three enemy officers to come too close to the fort, so he ran, jumped from the broken ramparts, and sprawled in an ungainly, bruising fall on the jagged summit of the breach.