JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 50 из 223In the night he had been besieged by fears, by imaginings of disaster, but now, when the shape of the enemy’s approach was plain and the skilful placing of his ambush apparent, he felt sure of success and was glad that this victory would be witnessed by spectators. “I wonder what they’d say in Marblehead if they could see us now,” he said happily to Docherty.
Liam Docherty thought that few people in Marblehead would be astonished by this new adventure of Killick’s. Cornelius Killick had always had the reputation of being a reckless rogue. “Maybe they’ll name a street after you.”
“A street? Why not rename the bloody town?”
Only one thing remained to be done, and that was done with a due solemnity. Cornelius Killick unfurled the great ensign that he had fetched from the Thuella. Its stars and stripes had been sewn together by a committee of Marblehead ladies, then blessed by a Presbyterian Minister who had prayed that the flag would see much slaughter of the Republic’s enemies. This day, Killick promised himself, it would. The flag, drooping in the windless space beneath the trees, would be carried forward at the first gunshot and it would stand proud as the gunners worked and as the enemy fell.
Cornelius Killick and the men of the Thuella were ready.
The beach was strangely deserted when the Marines were gone. The wind was cold as Sharpe’s men tumbled uncertainly through the surf to drag their packs, greatcoats and weapons to the dunes.
“One more boat, sir,” Frederickson said unnecessarily.
Sharpe grunted. The clouds had hidden the sun again and he could see little inland through his telescope. On one far hill a track seemed to wind uncertainly upwards, but there was no visible village or church that might correspond to the scanty map that Frederickson spread on the sand. “The captain said we were three miles south of Point Arcachon, here.”
Sharpe knew the map by heart and did not bother to glance down. “There are no roads eastwards. Our quickest route is up to Arcachon then use the Bordeaux road.”
“Follow the web-foots on the beach?”
“Christ, no.” Sharpe did not care if he never saw Bampfylde again. “We’ll take the inland road.” He turned. The Comte de Maquerre was standing disconsolate by the tideline watching as his two horses, each given a long lead rope, were unceremoniously dumped overboard. The horses would have to swim now, tethered to the Amelie’s boat, and the Count feared for their loss.
Frederickson still stared at the map. “How are you going to stop Bampfylde invading France?”
“By refusing to believe that prinked-up bastard.
Liam Docherty thought that few people in Marblehead would be astonished by this new adventure of Killick’s. Cornelius Killick had always had the reputation of being a reckless rogue. “Maybe they’ll name a street after you.”
“A street? Why not rename the bloody town?”
Only one thing remained to be done, and that was done with a due solemnity. Cornelius Killick unfurled the great ensign that he had fetched from the Thuella. Its stars and stripes had been sewn together by a committee of Marblehead ladies, then blessed by a Presbyterian Minister who had prayed that the flag would see much slaughter of the Republic’s enemies. This day, Killick promised himself, it would. The flag, drooping in the windless space beneath the trees, would be carried forward at the first gunshot and it would stand proud as the gunners worked and as the enemy fell.
Cornelius Killick and the men of the Thuella were ready.
The beach was strangely deserted when the Marines were gone. The wind was cold as Sharpe’s men tumbled uncertainly through the surf to drag their packs, greatcoats and weapons to the dunes.
“One more boat, sir,” Frederickson said unnecessarily.
Sharpe grunted. The clouds had hidden the sun again and he could see little inland through his telescope. On one far hill a track seemed to wind uncertainly upwards, but there was no visible village or church that might correspond to the scanty map that Frederickson spread on the sand. “The captain said we were three miles south of Point Arcachon, here.”
Sharpe knew the map by heart and did not bother to glance down. “There are no roads eastwards. Our quickest route is up to Arcachon then use the Bordeaux road.”
“Follow the web-foots on the beach?”
“Christ, no.” Sharpe did not care if he never saw Bampfylde again. “We’ll take the inland road.” He turned. The Comte de Maquerre was standing disconsolate by the tideline watching as his two horses, each given a long lead rope, were unceremoniously dumped overboard. The horses would have to swim now, tethered to the Amelie’s boat, and the Count feared for their loss.
Frederickson still stared at the map. “How are you going to stop Bampfylde invading France?”
“By refusing to believe that prinked-up bastard.