JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 55 из 223He wanted to haul offhis precious boots and dabble his sore feet in the shallows of the sea, but he dared not betray such weakness in front of his men.
“Water, sir?” Lieutenant Ford offered a canteen.
“After you, Ford.” Bampfylde knew such behaviour was proper, and he was a man eager to be seen to behave heroically in all things.
He consoled himself that his discomfort was a small price to pay for the renown that he would win this day. The Marines might come late to the fortress, but the fortress would fall just the same, and the blisters on his feet would be forgotten in the blaze of glory. He opened his watch, saw they had already rested ten minutes, but decided a few more minutes could not hurt. He stretched out tired legs, tipped his hat forward, and polished the news of victory that he would write this night.
While a hundred yards away, standing on a sudden rise of sandy soil that made a bare ridge through the thin pines, Captain Palmer stared at the countryside through a heavy, ancient telescope. Far to the north, beyond the fading ridges of sand and conifers, a rainstorm misted the land like a vast curtain. The rain lifted for a brief instant and Palmer thought he saw the malevolent, dark shape of the fort hull-down on the horizon, but, as the rain closed again on his view, he could not be certain of what he had seen.
He swung the glass inland. Two miles away, suddenly visible where the trees gave way to a stretch of marshy, glistening ground, he saw the tiny shapes of green jacketed Riflemen marching forward. Palmer was envious. He wished he was with them and not tied to Bampfylde’s apron strings, but then a bark of command from the dunes made him collapse his glass and turn back towards his men.
“We’ll attack,” Bampfylde told Ford and Palmer, “at dusk.”
“Yes, sir.” Both men knew that the Scylla had been ordered into the channel two hours before sundown, but there was no hope of meeting that rendezvous. They must just march, on blistering, aching feet, and be consoled that the night would bring them victory, supplies from the ships, and blessed rest in the shelter of a captured stronghold.
In the Teste de Buch Commandant Henri Lassan told his beads, yet somehow could not shift from his thoughts a line from an essay by Montaigne that he had read the night before. It had said something about a whole man’s life being nothing more than an effort to build a house of death, and he feared, without letting that fear affect his behaviour, that the Teste de Buch might be his house of death this day.
“Water, sir?” Lieutenant Ford offered a canteen.
“After you, Ford.” Bampfylde knew such behaviour was proper, and he was a man eager to be seen to behave heroically in all things.
He consoled himself that his discomfort was a small price to pay for the renown that he would win this day. The Marines might come late to the fortress, but the fortress would fall just the same, and the blisters on his feet would be forgotten in the blaze of glory. He opened his watch, saw they had already rested ten minutes, but decided a few more minutes could not hurt. He stretched out tired legs, tipped his hat forward, and polished the news of victory that he would write this night.
While a hundred yards away, standing on a sudden rise of sandy soil that made a bare ridge through the thin pines, Captain Palmer stared at the countryside through a heavy, ancient telescope. Far to the north, beyond the fading ridges of sand and conifers, a rainstorm misted the land like a vast curtain. The rain lifted for a brief instant and Palmer thought he saw the malevolent, dark shape of the fort hull-down on the horizon, but, as the rain closed again on his view, he could not be certain of what he had seen.
He swung the glass inland. Two miles away, suddenly visible where the trees gave way to a stretch of marshy, glistening ground, he saw the tiny shapes of green jacketed Riflemen marching forward. Palmer was envious. He wished he was with them and not tied to Bampfylde’s apron strings, but then a bark of command from the dunes made him collapse his glass and turn back towards his men.
“We’ll attack,” Bampfylde told Ford and Palmer, “at dusk.”
“Yes, sir.” Both men knew that the Scylla had been ordered into the channel two hours before sundown, but there was no hope of meeting that rendezvous. They must just march, on blistering, aching feet, and be consoled that the night would bring them victory, supplies from the ships, and blessed rest in the shelter of a captured stronghold.
In the Teste de Buch Commandant Henri Lassan told his beads, yet somehow could not shift from his thoughts a line from an essay by Montaigne that he had read the night before. It had said something about a whole man’s life being nothing more than an effort to build a house of death, and he feared, without letting that fear affect his behaviour, that the Teste de Buch might be his house of death this day.