JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 25 из 223”
Because if the fort’s enceinte was defended Sharpe would have no chance, none, and his men would die so that the navalofficer could blame the Army for failure. That was a chilling thought for a winter’s dusk in which the rain slanted from a steel-grey sky to pursue Sharpe through the alleys to where his wife sewed up a rent in his old jacket; his battle-jacket, the green jacket that he would wear to a fortress wall that waited for him in Arcachon.
CHAPTER 3
“I suppose,” Richard Sharpe said harshly, “that the Army couldn’t find any real soldiers?”
“That’s about the cut of it,” the Rifle captain replied. “Mind you, I suppose the Army couldn’t find any real commanding officers either?”
Sharpe laughed. Colonel Elphinstone had done his best, and that best was very good indeed for, if Sharpe could not take his own men into battle, then there was no unit he would rather lead than Captain William Frederickson’s men of the 60th Rifles. He took Frederickson’s hand. “I’m glad, William.”
“We’re not unhappy ourselves.” Frederickson was a man of villainous, even vile, appearance. His left eye was gone and the socket was covered by a mildewed patch. Most of his right ear had been torn away by a bullet while two of his front teeth were clumsy fakes. All the wounds had been taken on the battlefield.
Frederickson’s men, with clumsy and affectionate wit, called him ‘Sweet William’. The 60th, raised to fight against the Indian tribes in America, was still known as the Royal American Rifles, though half the Company were Germans, a quarter were Spaniards enrolled during the long war, and the rest were British except for a single, harsh-faced man who alone justified his regiment’s old name. Sharpe had fought alongside this Company two years before and, seeing the bitter face, the name came back to him. “That’s the American. Taylor, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Frederickson and Sharpe stood far enough from the two paraded Companies so their voices could not be overheard by the men.
“We might come up against some jonathons,” Sharpe said. “There’s some bugger called Killick skulking in Arcachon. Will it worry Taylor if he has to fight his countrymen?”
Frederickson shrugged. “Leave him to me, sir.”
Two Companies of the green-jacketed Riflemen had been given to Sharpe. Frederickson commanded one, a Lieutenant Minver the other, and together they numbered one hundred and twenty-three men. Not many, Sharpe thought, to assault a fortress on the French coast. He walked further along the quay with Frederickson, stopping by a fish cart that dripped bloody scales into a puddle.
Because if the fort’s enceinte was defended Sharpe would have no chance, none, and his men would die so that the navalofficer could blame the Army for failure. That was a chilling thought for a winter’s dusk in which the rain slanted from a steel-grey sky to pursue Sharpe through the alleys to where his wife sewed up a rent in his old jacket; his battle-jacket, the green jacket that he would wear to a fortress wall that waited for him in Arcachon.
CHAPTER 3
“I suppose,” Richard Sharpe said harshly, “that the Army couldn’t find any real soldiers?”
“That’s about the cut of it,” the Rifle captain replied. “Mind you, I suppose the Army couldn’t find any real commanding officers either?”
Sharpe laughed. Colonel Elphinstone had done his best, and that best was very good indeed for, if Sharpe could not take his own men into battle, then there was no unit he would rather lead than Captain William Frederickson’s men of the 60th Rifles. He took Frederickson’s hand. “I’m glad, William.”
“We’re not unhappy ourselves.” Frederickson was a man of villainous, even vile, appearance. His left eye was gone and the socket was covered by a mildewed patch. Most of his right ear had been torn away by a bullet while two of his front teeth were clumsy fakes. All the wounds had been taken on the battlefield.
Frederickson’s men, with clumsy and affectionate wit, called him ‘Sweet William’. The 60th, raised to fight against the Indian tribes in America, was still known as the Royal American Rifles, though half the Company were Germans, a quarter were Spaniards enrolled during the long war, and the rest were British except for a single, harsh-faced man who alone justified his regiment’s old name. Sharpe had fought alongside this Company two years before and, seeing the bitter face, the name came back to him. “That’s the American. Taylor, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Frederickson and Sharpe stood far enough from the two paraded Companies so their voices could not be overheard by the men.
“We might come up against some jonathons,” Sharpe said. “There’s some bugger called Killick skulking in Arcachon. Will it worry Taylor if he has to fight his countrymen?”
Frederickson shrugged. “Leave him to me, sir.”
Two Companies of the green-jacketed Riflemen had been given to Sharpe. Frederickson commanded one, a Lieutenant Minver the other, and together they numbered one hundred and twenty-three men. Not many, Sharpe thought, to assault a fortress on the French coast. He walked further along the quay with Frederickson, stopping by a fish cart that dripped bloody scales into a puddle.