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Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 57 из 223Heknew that no Marine could pass Killick without shots being fired, and even if the Americans were pushed back then the noise of their battle would give Lassan a chance to man the ramparts by the fortress gate. For the moment that rampart was only garrisoned by three sick men.
If the Scylla’s attack was timed properly, Lassan thought, then the Marines must be close. Lassan looked south, but could see nothing untoward beyond the village, then he turned back seawards in time to watch the frigate’s flying-jib shiver as it turned towards the channel. At the same time the Scylla’s great battle-ensign unfurled from an upper yard.
Lassan’s men crouched by their guns. Their portfires seeped grey smoke into the air and Lassan knew how dry their mouths were and how fragile their bellies felt. On the frigate’s forepeak he could see men clustered around the chasing guns. The officers on the quarterdeck, Lassan knew, would have donned their best uniforms in honour of their enemy while, deep in the frigate’s bowels, the surgeon would be waiting by his razor-sharp scalpels.
The fortress waited. A corporal stood by the flagpole ready, at the first bellow of the guns, to hoist the standard of France. A gull, wide wings still, rode the soft wind above the channel.
Lassan imagined the red coats of Marines in the Americans’ gunsights, then forgot what happened to his south because the frigate’s graceful profile was changing and the white wave at her bows was cutting into the fretted, churning tiderace of the channel.
The frigate seemed to shudder as she met the full force of the Arcachon ebb, then the bellying sails plunged her onwards and the long, reaching spar of the Scylla’s bowsprit bisected the tarred elm pole that marked the inner shoal and Lieutenant Gerard’s voice, harsh and proud, shouted the order to fire.
The French gunners touched portfires to vents, and the battle of Arcachon had begun.
CHAPTER 6
The bellow of the guns rolled like thunder over the rain-sodden land. Instinctively, without any orders, the Riflemen knelt as if to shelter from artillery.
Sharpe ran. His metal scabbard flapped at his side, his rifle slipped from his shoulder to dangle at his elbow, and his pack thumped on to the small of his back.
Sergeant Rossner, leading the small picquet that spied the route ahead, was crouching by a straggle of furze that lined the roadside at the crest of a gentle rise. He gave a Germanic grunt as Sharpe dropped beside him then a jerk of his half-shaven chin to indicate the source of the thunder.
If the Scylla’s attack was timed properly, Lassan thought, then the Marines must be close. Lassan looked south, but could see nothing untoward beyond the village, then he turned back seawards in time to watch the frigate’s flying-jib shiver as it turned towards the channel. At the same time the Scylla’s great battle-ensign unfurled from an upper yard.
Lassan’s men crouched by their guns. Their portfires seeped grey smoke into the air and Lassan knew how dry their mouths were and how fragile their bellies felt. On the frigate’s forepeak he could see men clustered around the chasing guns. The officers on the quarterdeck, Lassan knew, would have donned their best uniforms in honour of their enemy while, deep in the frigate’s bowels, the surgeon would be waiting by his razor-sharp scalpels.
The fortress waited. A corporal stood by the flagpole ready, at the first bellow of the guns, to hoist the standard of France. A gull, wide wings still, rode the soft wind above the channel.
Lassan imagined the red coats of Marines in the Americans’ gunsights, then forgot what happened to his south because the frigate’s graceful profile was changing and the white wave at her bows was cutting into the fretted, churning tiderace of the channel.
The frigate seemed to shudder as she met the full force of the Arcachon ebb, then the bellying sails plunged her onwards and the long, reaching spar of the Scylla’s bowsprit bisected the tarred elm pole that marked the inner shoal and Lieutenant Gerard’s voice, harsh and proud, shouted the order to fire.
The French gunners touched portfires to vents, and the battle of Arcachon had begun.
CHAPTER 6
The bellow of the guns rolled like thunder over the rain-sodden land. Instinctively, without any orders, the Riflemen knelt as if to shelter from artillery.
Sharpe ran. His metal scabbard flapped at his side, his rifle slipped from his shoulder to dangle at his elbow, and his pack thumped on to the small of his back.
Sergeant Rossner, leading the small picquet that spied the route ahead, was crouching by a straggle of furze that lined the roadside at the crest of a gentle rise. He gave a Germanic grunt as Sharpe dropped beside him then a jerk of his half-shaven chin to indicate the source of the thunder.