JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 22 из 223“Single-handed efforts, sir? YourMarines are poxed, my Battalion can’t come, what am I supposed to do? Train cows to fight?“
Bampfylde’s face showed a flicker of a frown. “There will be Marines, Major. The Biscay Squadron will be combed for fit men.”
Sharpe, his belligerence released by Wigram’s news, stared at the young naval captain. “It’s a good thing, is it not, that the malady has not spread to your sailors, sir? You seemed to have a full ship’s company as I came aboard?”
Bampfylde stared like a basilisk at Sharpe. Colonel Elphinstone gave a quick, sour laugh, but Wigram slapped the table like a timid schoolmaster calling a rowdy class to order. “You will be given troops, Major, in numbers commensurate to your task.”
“How many?”
“Enough,” Wigram said testily.
The question of Sharpe’s troops was dropped. Instead Bampfylde talked of a brig-sloop that had been sent to watch the fortress and to question any local fishermen who put to sea. The presence of the American privateer was discussed and Bampfylde smiled as he spoke of the punishment that would be fetched on Cornelius Killick. “We must regard that doomed American as a bonus for our efforts.” Then the talk went to naval signals, far beyond Sharpe’s competence to understand, and again he wondered about that fortress. Even under-manned a fortress was a formidable thing, and no one in this wide cabin seemed interested in ensuring that he was given a proper force. At the same time, as the voices buzzed about him, he tried to assuage the deep pain of losing the command of his Battalion.
Sharpe knew the regulations disqualified him from commanding the Battalion, but there were other Battalions commanded by majors and the regulations seemed to be ignored for those men. But not for Sharpe. Another man was to be given the superb instrument of infantry that Sharpe had led through the winter’s battles and, once again, Sharpe was adrift and unwanted in the Army’s flotsam. He reflected, bitterly, that if he had been a Northamptonshire Sharpe, or a Wiltshire Sharpe, with an Honourable tag to his name and a park about his father’s house, then this would not have happened. Instead he was a Middlesex Sharpe, conceived in a whore’s transaction and whelped in a slum, and thus a fit whipping-boy for bores like Wigram.
Colonel Elphinstone, sensing that Sharpe was miles away again, kicked the Rifleman’s ankle and Sharpe recovered attentiveness in time to hear Bampfylde inviting the assembled officers to dine with him.
“I fear I can’t.
Bampfylde’s face showed a flicker of a frown. “There will be Marines, Major. The Biscay Squadron will be combed for fit men.”
Sharpe, his belligerence released by Wigram’s news, stared at the young naval captain. “It’s a good thing, is it not, that the malady has not spread to your sailors, sir? You seemed to have a full ship’s company as I came aboard?”
Bampfylde stared like a basilisk at Sharpe. Colonel Elphinstone gave a quick, sour laugh, but Wigram slapped the table like a timid schoolmaster calling a rowdy class to order. “You will be given troops, Major, in numbers commensurate to your task.”
“How many?”
“Enough,” Wigram said testily.
The question of Sharpe’s troops was dropped. Instead Bampfylde talked of a brig-sloop that had been sent to watch the fortress and to question any local fishermen who put to sea. The presence of the American privateer was discussed and Bampfylde smiled as he spoke of the punishment that would be fetched on Cornelius Killick. “We must regard that doomed American as a bonus for our efforts.” Then the talk went to naval signals, far beyond Sharpe’s competence to understand, and again he wondered about that fortress. Even under-manned a fortress was a formidable thing, and no one in this wide cabin seemed interested in ensuring that he was given a proper force. At the same time, as the voices buzzed about him, he tried to assuage the deep pain of losing the command of his Battalion.
Sharpe knew the regulations disqualified him from commanding the Battalion, but there were other Battalions commanded by majors and the regulations seemed to be ignored for those men. But not for Sharpe. Another man was to be given the superb instrument of infantry that Sharpe had led through the winter’s battles and, once again, Sharpe was adrift and unwanted in the Army’s flotsam. He reflected, bitterly, that if he had been a Northamptonshire Sharpe, or a Wiltshire Sharpe, with an Honourable tag to his name and a park about his father’s house, then this would not have happened. Instead he was a Middlesex Sharpe, conceived in a whore’s transaction and whelped in a slum, and thus a fit whipping-boy for bores like Wigram.
Colonel Elphinstone, sensing that Sharpe was miles away again, kicked the Rifleman’s ankle and Sharpe recovered attentiveness in time to hear Bampfylde inviting the assembled officers to dine with him.
“I fear I can’t.