Sharpes Siege   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

Not that Sharpe needed any such indication. Darkly streaked smoke billowed from the landscape a mile and a half ahead and to Sharpe’s left. Directly ahead of him, and reaching across the whole view, lay the silvered waters of the Arcachon basin, made visible suddenly by this rise in the road, but Sharpe stared only at the fortress, seemingly half-buried in the encroaching sand, and at the white-sailed frigate that coughed her own billow of whiter smoke to meld with the fort’s darker gusts. “Marines, eh?” The German sergeant showed his disgust by spitting on to the road.

Sharpe took out his telescope as Frederickson crouched beside him. From this landward side the Teste de Buch fort looked hardly formidable. It was built low within its protective glacis of packed earth and sand off which, as Sharpe watched, the small shot of the frigate bounced like cricket balls.

The smoke from the fort’s guns drifted northwards, leaving the channel clear for the gunners’ aim. Four guns only were working, but they were served with a quick skill that betrayed the presence of real gunners. God damn Bampfylde’s fisherman, Sharpe thought, for the Teste de Buch was lethal still. It was doing the Scylla damage, while the frigate could make small impression on its massive walls.

Sharpe trained the telescope left. He paused as he saw a throng of people, drably dressed, then realized, from the heavy skirts worn by most of the crowd, that he watched the villagers who, in turn, watched the uneven battle from the crest of the dunes beside the channel. Sharpe looked further south, seeking the bright coats of the Marines, then checked the glass again.

He saw another small crowd of people, but these were not watching the frigate’s struggle, but instead seemed to be crowded at the edge of a group of dark pines. Some, a few, had strolled further north to watch the battle in the channel, but they had chosen a poor vantage point to witness a sight that must be rare in their harsh lives.

“Why?” he spoke aloud.

“Sir?” Frederickson asked.

Sharpe was wondering why villagers, witnessing a contest that would be told to their grandchildren as a great happening in the village’s history, chose such a strange place to watch the event. Most of the villagers had gone to the dunes, seeking the best view, yet a sizeable few were huddled there at the wood’s edge. He stared at them, making out a shape beneath the tree shadows. “William? That wood, where the people are, tell me what you see?”

Frederickson took the precious glass and trained it. He stared for twenty seconds, then shook his head.