JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 51 из 223” Sharpe nodded towards the Frenchman. “I should have heaved him overboard last night.”
“I could have an accident with a rifle?” Frederickson offered helpfully.
It was a cheerful thought for a cold morning, but Sharpe shook his head before turning to watch a working party of Riflemen wrestling supplies through the surf. “We can jettison the bloody ladders,” Sharpe said sourly. He wondered how Bampfylde proposed crossing the ditches and walls of the Teste de Buch without scaling-ladders, then dismissed the problem as irrelevant now. Sharpe’s job now was to go inland, ambush a military convoy on the great road that led southwards, and try to discover the mood of Bordeaux from the captives he would take. “We’ll split the supplies between the men. What we can’t carry, we leave.”
“Yes, sir.” Frederickson folded the map and pushed it into his pouch. “You’ll leave the order of march to me?”
But Sharpe did not reply. He was staring at a group of seated Riflemen who sheltered from the icy wind in a fold of the sand-dunes. “You!” he bellowed, “come here!”
The Riflemen’s faces, bland with the innocence that always greeted an officer’s anger, turned to stare at Sharpe, but one man stood, shook sand from his green jacket, and started towards the two officers. “Did you know?” Sharpe turned furiously on Frederickson.
“No,” Frederickson lied.
Sharpe looked towards the man he had summoned. “You stupid bloody fool!”
“Sir.”
“Jesus Christ! I make you a bloody RSM and what do you do? You throw it away!”
Patrick Harper’s cheek was even more swollen from the toothache and, as though it explained all, he touched the swelling. “It was this, sir.”
The reply took the wind from Sharpe’s anger. He stared at the huge Irishman who gave him a lopsided grin in return. “Your tooth?” Sharpe asked menacingly.
“I went to the surgeon to have the tooth pulled, so I did, sir, and he gives me some rum against the pain, so he does, sir, and I think I must have taken a drop too much, sir, and the next thing I know is I’m on a ship, sir, and the bastard still hasn’t touched the tooth, nor has he, sir, and the only explanation I can possibly think of, sir, is that in my legally inebriated condition some kind soul presumed I was one of Captain Frederickson’s men and put me on to the Amelie.” Harper paused in his fluent, practised lie. “It was the very last thing I wanted, sir. Honest!”
“You lying bastard,” Sharpe said.
“I could have an accident with a rifle?” Frederickson offered helpfully.
It was a cheerful thought for a cold morning, but Sharpe shook his head before turning to watch a working party of Riflemen wrestling supplies through the surf. “We can jettison the bloody ladders,” Sharpe said sourly. He wondered how Bampfylde proposed crossing the ditches and walls of the Teste de Buch without scaling-ladders, then dismissed the problem as irrelevant now. Sharpe’s job now was to go inland, ambush a military convoy on the great road that led southwards, and try to discover the mood of Bordeaux from the captives he would take. “We’ll split the supplies between the men. What we can’t carry, we leave.”
“Yes, sir.” Frederickson folded the map and pushed it into his pouch. “You’ll leave the order of march to me?”
But Sharpe did not reply. He was staring at a group of seated Riflemen who sheltered from the icy wind in a fold of the sand-dunes. “You!” he bellowed, “come here!”
The Riflemen’s faces, bland with the innocence that always greeted an officer’s anger, turned to stare at Sharpe, but one man stood, shook sand from his green jacket, and started towards the two officers. “Did you know?” Sharpe turned furiously on Frederickson.
“No,” Frederickson lied.
Sharpe looked towards the man he had summoned. “You stupid bloody fool!”
“Sir.”
“Jesus Christ! I make you a bloody RSM and what do you do? You throw it away!”
Patrick Harper’s cheek was even more swollen from the toothache and, as though it explained all, he touched the swelling. “It was this, sir.”
The reply took the wind from Sharpe’s anger. He stared at the huge Irishman who gave him a lopsided grin in return. “Your tooth?” Sharpe asked menacingly.
“I went to the surgeon to have the tooth pulled, so I did, sir, and he gives me some rum against the pain, so he does, sir, and I think I must have taken a drop too much, sir, and the next thing I know is I’m on a ship, sir, and the bastard still hasn’t touched the tooth, nor has he, sir, and the only explanation I can possibly think of, sir, is that in my legally inebriated condition some kind soul presumed I was one of Captain Frederickson’s men and put me on to the Amelie.” Harper paused in his fluent, practised lie. “It was the very last thing I wanted, sir. Honest!”
“You lying bastard,” Sharpe said.