JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 35 из 223France had been scraped for men, then scraped again, and many of the next class of conscripts had already fled into the woods or hills to escape the sergeants who came to take cannon-fodder still not grown to manhood.
A clash of boots, a shout, and the squeal of the gate hinges which, however often greased, insisted on screeching like a soul entering purgatory, announced a visitor to the fort. Lassan pocketed his beads, crossed himself, and went into the twilight.
“The bastards! The double-crossing bastards! Good evening, Henri.” Cornelius Killick, his savage face furious, nodded to the Commandant. “Bastards!”
“Who?”
“Bordeaux! No copper! No oak! What am I supposed to do? Paste paper over the bloody holes?”
“Perhaps you’ll take some wine?” Lassan suggested diplomatically.
“I’ll take some wine.” The American followed Lassan into the Commandant’s quarters that looked more like a library than a soldier’s rooms. “That bastard Ducos! I’d like to pull his teeth out through his backside.”
“I thought,” Lassan said gently, “that the coffin-maker in Arcachon had given you some elm?”
“Given? The bastard made us pay three times the price! And I don’t like sailing with a ship’s arse made out of dead man’s wood.”
“Ah, a sailor’s superstition.” Lassan poured wine into the crystal glasses that bore his family’s coat of arms. The last Comte de Lassan had died beneath the guillotine, but Henri had never been tempted to use the title that was rightfully his. “Did you see all those fat merchantmen crawling south?”
“All day,” Killick said gloomily. “Take one of those and you make a small fortune. Not as much as an Indiaman, of course.” He finished the glass of wine and poured himself more. “I told you about the Indiaman I took?”
“Indeed you did,” Henri Lassan said politely, “three times.”
“And was her hold crammed with silks? With spices? With treasures of the furthest East? With peacock’s plumes and sapphires blue?” Killick gave his great whoop of a laugh. “No, my friend. She was crammed to the gunwales with saltpetre. Saltpetre to make powder, powder to drive bullets, bullets to kill the British. It is kind of our enemies, is it not, to provide the powers of their own destruction?” He sat beside the fire and stared at the thin, scholarly-faced Lassan. “So, my friend, are the bastards coming?”
“If they want the chasse-mare’es,” Lassan said mildly, “they’ll have to come here.”
“And the weather,” the American said, “will let them land safely.
A clash of boots, a shout, and the squeal of the gate hinges which, however often greased, insisted on screeching like a soul entering purgatory, announced a visitor to the fort. Lassan pocketed his beads, crossed himself, and went into the twilight.
“The bastards! The double-crossing bastards! Good evening, Henri.” Cornelius Killick, his savage face furious, nodded to the Commandant. “Bastards!”
“Who?”
“Bordeaux! No copper! No oak! What am I supposed to do? Paste paper over the bloody holes?”
“Perhaps you’ll take some wine?” Lassan suggested diplomatically.
“I’ll take some wine.” The American followed Lassan into the Commandant’s quarters that looked more like a library than a soldier’s rooms. “That bastard Ducos! I’d like to pull his teeth out through his backside.”
“I thought,” Lassan said gently, “that the coffin-maker in Arcachon had given you some elm?”
“Given? The bastard made us pay three times the price! And I don’t like sailing with a ship’s arse made out of dead man’s wood.”
“Ah, a sailor’s superstition.” Lassan poured wine into the crystal glasses that bore his family’s coat of arms. The last Comte de Lassan had died beneath the guillotine, but Henri had never been tempted to use the title that was rightfully his. “Did you see all those fat merchantmen crawling south?”
“All day,” Killick said gloomily. “Take one of those and you make a small fortune. Not as much as an Indiaman, of course.” He finished the glass of wine and poured himself more. “I told you about the Indiaman I took?”
“Indeed you did,” Henri Lassan said politely, “three times.”
“And was her hold crammed with silks? With spices? With treasures of the furthest East? With peacock’s plumes and sapphires blue?” Killick gave his great whoop of a laugh. “No, my friend. She was crammed to the gunwales with saltpetre. Saltpetre to make powder, powder to drive bullets, bullets to kill the British. It is kind of our enemies, is it not, to provide the powers of their own destruction?” He sat beside the fire and stared at the thin, scholarly-faced Lassan. “So, my friend, are the bastards coming?”
“If they want the chasse-mare’es,” Lassan said mildly, “they’ll have to come here.”
“And the weather,” the American said, “will let them land safely.