JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 31 из 223” Janetried to smile, but her teeth were chattering and she shivered again. “And I’m not certain the fish was entirely to my taste last night.”
“Go home!”
“When you’re gone.”
Sharpe, even though a hundred men watched him, kissed his wife again. “Jane…”
“My dear, you must go.”
“But…“
“It’s only a cold. Everyone gets a cold in winter.”
“Sir!” Sweet William saluted Sharpe and bowed to Jane. “Good morning, ma’am! Somewhat brisk!”
“Indeed, Mr Frederickson.” Jane shivered again.
“Everyone’s aboard, sir.” Frederickson turned to Sharpe.
Sharpe wanted to linger with Jane, he wanted to reassure himself that she had not caught Hogan’s fever, but Frederickson was waiting for him, men were holding the ropes that would swing the gangplank away, and he could not stay. He gave Jane a last kiss, and her forehead was like fire. “Go home to bed.”
“I will.” She was shaking now, hunched and clenched against the bitter wind.
Sharpe paused, wanting to say something memorable, something that would encompass the inchoate, extraordinary love he felt for her, but there were no words. He smiled, then turned to follow Frederickson on to the Amelias deck.
The daylight was thin now, seeping through the hilly landscape behind the port and making the streaked, bubbling, heaving water of the harbour silver. The gangplank crashed on to the stones of the quay.
Far out to sea, like some impossible mountain forming on the face of the waters, an airy structure of dirty grey sails caught the morning daylight. It was the Vengeance getting under way. She looked formidably huge; a great floating weapon that could make the air tremble and the sea shake when she launched her full broadside, but she would be useless in the shoal waters by the Teste de Buch fort. That would have to be taken by men and by hand-held weapons.
“He’s signalling.” Tremgar, master of the Amelie, spat over the side. “Means they’ll be moving us off. Stand by, forrard!” He bellowed the last words.
A topsail dropped from the nearby Scylla’s yards and the movement, suggesting an imminent departure, made Sharpe turn to the quay. Jane, swathed in her powder-blue cloak, was still there. Sharpe could see her shivering. “Go home!”
A voice shouted. “Wait! Wait!” The accent was French and the speaker a dully-dressed man, evidently a servant, who rode a small horse and led a packhorse on a leading rein. ‘Amelie! Wait!“
“Bloody hell.
“Go home!”
“When you’re gone.”
Sharpe, even though a hundred men watched him, kissed his wife again. “Jane…”
“My dear, you must go.”
“But…“
“It’s only a cold. Everyone gets a cold in winter.”
“Sir!” Sweet William saluted Sharpe and bowed to Jane. “Good morning, ma’am! Somewhat brisk!”
“Indeed, Mr Frederickson.” Jane shivered again.
“Everyone’s aboard, sir.” Frederickson turned to Sharpe.
Sharpe wanted to linger with Jane, he wanted to reassure himself that she had not caught Hogan’s fever, but Frederickson was waiting for him, men were holding the ropes that would swing the gangplank away, and he could not stay. He gave Jane a last kiss, and her forehead was like fire. “Go home to bed.”
“I will.” She was shaking now, hunched and clenched against the bitter wind.
Sharpe paused, wanting to say something memorable, something that would encompass the inchoate, extraordinary love he felt for her, but there were no words. He smiled, then turned to follow Frederickson on to the Amelias deck.
The daylight was thin now, seeping through the hilly landscape behind the port and making the streaked, bubbling, heaving water of the harbour silver. The gangplank crashed on to the stones of the quay.
Far out to sea, like some impossible mountain forming on the face of the waters, an airy structure of dirty grey sails caught the morning daylight. It was the Vengeance getting under way. She looked formidably huge; a great floating weapon that could make the air tremble and the sea shake when she launched her full broadside, but she would be useless in the shoal waters by the Teste de Buch fort. That would have to be taken by men and by hand-held weapons.
“He’s signalling.” Tremgar, master of the Amelie, spat over the side. “Means they’ll be moving us off. Stand by, forrard!” He bellowed the last words.
A topsail dropped from the nearby Scylla’s yards and the movement, suggesting an imminent departure, made Sharpe turn to the quay. Jane, swathed in her powder-blue cloak, was still there. Sharpe could see her shivering. “Go home!”
A voice shouted. “Wait! Wait!” The accent was French and the speaker a dully-dressed man, evidently a servant, who rode a small horse and led a packhorse on a leading rein. ‘Amelie! Wait!“
“Bloody hell.