JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 4 из 223In the very centre of thefloor, beneath the dark, cobweb encrusted chandelier and dwarfed by the huge proportions of the vast room, was a malachite table. Six candles, their light too feeble to reach into the corners of the great room, illuminated maps spread on the green stone table.
A man walked from the table to a fire that burned in an intricately carved hearth. He stared at the flames and, when at last he spoke, the marble walls made his voice seem hollow with despair. “There are no reserves.”
“Calvet’s demi-brigade…”
“Is ordered south without delay.” The man turned from the fire to look at the table where the candle-glow illuminated two pale faces above dark uniforms. “The Emperor will not take it kindly if we…”
“The Emperor,” the smallest man at the table interrupted in a voice of surprising harshness, “rewards success.”
January rain spattered the tall, east-facing windows. The velvet curtains of this room had been pulled down twenty-one years before, trophies to a revolutionary mob that had stormed triumphant through the streets of Bordeaux, and there had never been the money nor the will to hang new curtains. The consequence, in winters like this, was a draught of malevolent force. The fire scarcely warmed the hearth, let alone the whole huge room, and the general standing before the feeble flames shivered. “East or north.”
It was a simple enough problem. The British had invaded a small corner of southern France, nothing but a toehold between the southern rivers and the Bay of Biscay, and these men expected the British to attack again. But would Field Marshal the Lord Wellington go east or north?
“We know it’s north,” the smallest man said. “Why else are they collecting boats?”
“In that case, my dear Ducos,” the general paced back towards the table, “is it to be a bridge, or a landing?”
The third man, a colonel, dropped a smoked cigar on to the floor and ground it beneath his toe. “Perhaps the American can tell us?”
“The American,” Pierre Ducos said scathingly, “is a flea on the rump of a lion. An adventurer. I use him because no Frenchman can do the task, but I expect small help of him.”
“Then who can tell us?” The general came into the aureole of light made by the candles. “Isn’t that your job, Ducos?”
It was rare for Major Pierre Ducos’ competency to be so challenged, yet France was assailed and Ducos was almost helpless. When, with the rest of the French Army, he had been ejected from Spain, Ducos had lost his best agents.
A man walked from the table to a fire that burned in an intricately carved hearth. He stared at the flames and, when at last he spoke, the marble walls made his voice seem hollow with despair. “There are no reserves.”
“Calvet’s demi-brigade…”
“Is ordered south without delay.” The man turned from the fire to look at the table where the candle-glow illuminated two pale faces above dark uniforms. “The Emperor will not take it kindly if we…”
“The Emperor,” the smallest man at the table interrupted in a voice of surprising harshness, “rewards success.”
January rain spattered the tall, east-facing windows. The velvet curtains of this room had been pulled down twenty-one years before, trophies to a revolutionary mob that had stormed triumphant through the streets of Bordeaux, and there had never been the money nor the will to hang new curtains. The consequence, in winters like this, was a draught of malevolent force. The fire scarcely warmed the hearth, let alone the whole huge room, and the general standing before the feeble flames shivered. “East or north.”
It was a simple enough problem. The British had invaded a small corner of southern France, nothing but a toehold between the southern rivers and the Bay of Biscay, and these men expected the British to attack again. But would Field Marshal the Lord Wellington go east or north?
“We know it’s north,” the smallest man said. “Why else are they collecting boats?”
“In that case, my dear Ducos,” the general paced back towards the table, “is it to be a bridge, or a landing?”
The third man, a colonel, dropped a smoked cigar on to the floor and ground it beneath his toe. “Perhaps the American can tell us?”
“The American,” Pierre Ducos said scathingly, “is a flea on the rump of a lion. An adventurer. I use him because no Frenchman can do the task, but I expect small help of him.”
“Then who can tell us?” The general came into the aureole of light made by the candles. “Isn’t that your job, Ducos?”
It was rare for Major Pierre Ducos’ competency to be so challenged, yet France was assailed and Ducos was almost helpless. When, with the rest of the French Army, he had been ejected from Spain, Ducos had lost his best agents.