JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 21 из 223“Two hundred? Three? But you’d best use Marines, because I’ll need all of my Battalion if you want me to march inland.”
It was Sharpe’s first trenchant statement and it brought curious glances from the junior naval officers. They had all heard of Richard Sharpe and they. watched his weather-darkened, scarred face with interest.
“Your Battalion?” Wigram’s voice was as dry as old paper.
“A brigade would be preferable, sir.”
Elphinstone snorted with laughter, but Wigram’s expression did not change. “And what leads you to suppose, Major, that the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers are going to Arcachon?”
Sharpe had assumed it because he had been summoned, and because he was the de facto commander of the Battalion, but Colonel Wigram now disabused him brutally.
“You are here, Major, because you are supernumerary to regimental requirements.” Wigram’s voice, like his gaze, was pitiless. “Your regimental rank, Major, is that of captain. Captains, however ambitious, do not command Battalions. You should be apprised that a new commanding officer, of due seniority and competence, is being appointed to the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers.”
There was a horrid and embarrassed silence in the cabin. Every man there, except for the young Captain Bampfylde, knew the bitter pangs of promotion denied, and each man knew they were watching Sharpe’s hopes being broken on the wheel of the Army’s regulations. The assembled officers looked away from Sharpe’s evident hurt.
And Sharpe was hurt. He had rescued that Battalion. He had trained it, given it the Prince of Wales’s name, then led it to the winter victories in the Pyrenees. He had hoped, more than hoped, that his command of the Battalion would be made official, but the Army had decided otherwise. A new man would be appointed; indeed, Wigram said, the new commanding officer was daily expected on the next convoy from England.
The news, given so coldly and unsympathetically in the formal setting of the Vengeance’s cabin, cut Sharpe to the bone, but there was no protest he could make. He guessed that was why Wigram had chosen this moment to make the announcement. Sharpe felt numbed.
“Naturally,” Bampfylde leaned forward, “the glory attached to the capture of Bordeaux will more than compensate for this disappointment, Major.”
“And you will rejoin your Battalion, as a major, when this duty is done,” Wigram said, as though that was some consolation.
“Though the war,” Bampfylde smiled at Sharpe, “may well be over because of your efforts.”
Sharpe stirred himself from the bitter disappointment.
It was Sharpe’s first trenchant statement and it brought curious glances from the junior naval officers. They had all heard of Richard Sharpe and they. watched his weather-darkened, scarred face with interest.
“Your Battalion?” Wigram’s voice was as dry as old paper.
“A brigade would be preferable, sir.”
Elphinstone snorted with laughter, but Wigram’s expression did not change. “And what leads you to suppose, Major, that the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers are going to Arcachon?”
Sharpe had assumed it because he had been summoned, and because he was the de facto commander of the Battalion, but Colonel Wigram now disabused him brutally.
“You are here, Major, because you are supernumerary to regimental requirements.” Wigram’s voice, like his gaze, was pitiless. “Your regimental rank, Major, is that of captain. Captains, however ambitious, do not command Battalions. You should be apprised that a new commanding officer, of due seniority and competence, is being appointed to the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers.”
There was a horrid and embarrassed silence in the cabin. Every man there, except for the young Captain Bampfylde, knew the bitter pangs of promotion denied, and each man knew they were watching Sharpe’s hopes being broken on the wheel of the Army’s regulations. The assembled officers looked away from Sharpe’s evident hurt.
And Sharpe was hurt. He had rescued that Battalion. He had trained it, given it the Prince of Wales’s name, then led it to the winter victories in the Pyrenees. He had hoped, more than hoped, that his command of the Battalion would be made official, but the Army had decided otherwise. A new man would be appointed; indeed, Wigram said, the new commanding officer was daily expected on the next convoy from England.
The news, given so coldly and unsympathetically in the formal setting of the Vengeance’s cabin, cut Sharpe to the bone, but there was no protest he could make. He guessed that was why Wigram had chosen this moment to make the announcement. Sharpe felt numbed.
“Naturally,” Bampfylde leaned forward, “the glory attached to the capture of Bordeaux will more than compensate for this disappointment, Major.”
“And you will rejoin your Battalion, as a major, when this duty is done,” Wigram said, as though that was some consolation.
“Though the war,” Bampfylde smiled at Sharpe, “may well be over because of your efforts.”
Sharpe stirred himself from the bitter disappointment.