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Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 62 из 223The great barrels jerked back and up, the wheels rumbled as they rolled back down the slide, and the smoke, that stank like rotten eggs, pumped again into the cold air. Lassan’s garrison might have been stripped to the bone, he might not even have crews for every gun, but he would do his duty and he would show the British that an under-manned fort could still hurt them and still, by the grace of the good God and in the service of the French Emperor, win battles.
The handcart was made of splintered, fragile wood that was held to uncertain unity by bent, rusted nails and with lashings of thin, frayed, black twine. Some of the wheel-spokes were broken.
Sharpe pulled the handcart out of the cattle byre and listened to the ghastly screech of the wooden axle that ran through two ungreased wooden blocks. He supposed that the cart was used to take hay from these meadows into the village, or perhaps bedding straw to the fort, but it had been abandoned through the frost months to lie in this byre where the spiders had made thick webs on its spokes and handles. “It could work.” Sharpe tested the small bed of the cart and it seemed solid enough. “Except we don’t speak French.”
“Sweet William does, sir,” Harper said, then, seeing Sharpe’s face, corrected himself. “Captain Frederickson croaks Frog, sir.”
A group of armed men, approaching a fort, invited hostility, but two men, pushing a wounded comrade on a handcart, posed no threat.
“Jesus.” Frederickson’s voice was awed when, arriving at the cattle byre, he heard Sharpe’s plan. “We’re supposed to walk up and ask for a bloody sawbones?”
“You suggested knocking on the front door,” Sharpe said. “So why not?”
The Riflemen still drifted down the gentle slope. They came in scattered groups, spread out in the chain formation they would use in battle, and no alarm had been raised at the sight. Sharpe doubted whether any Frenchman had even seen the dark shapes flit down the slope. Once on the lower ground, over the tiny stream and hidden by the ditches that were edged by straggling blackthorn hedges, the Riflemen were invisible. The fort still thundered its huge noise.
“What we need,” Sharpe said, “is blood.” He was reckoning that the fort would not refuse entry to a mortally wounded man, but mortal wounds were usually foul with blood and, in search of it, both officers looked instinctively to Patrick Harper.
Who stared back with a slow and horrified understanding. “No! Holy Mother, no!”
“It has to come out, Patrick.” Sharpe spoke in a voice of sweet reason.
“You’re not a surgeon, sir.
The handcart was made of splintered, fragile wood that was held to uncertain unity by bent, rusted nails and with lashings of thin, frayed, black twine. Some of the wheel-spokes were broken.
Sharpe pulled the handcart out of the cattle byre and listened to the ghastly screech of the wooden axle that ran through two ungreased wooden blocks. He supposed that the cart was used to take hay from these meadows into the village, or perhaps bedding straw to the fort, but it had been abandoned through the frost months to lie in this byre where the spiders had made thick webs on its spokes and handles. “It could work.” Sharpe tested the small bed of the cart and it seemed solid enough. “Except we don’t speak French.”
“Sweet William does, sir,” Harper said, then, seeing Sharpe’s face, corrected himself. “Captain Frederickson croaks Frog, sir.”
A group of armed men, approaching a fort, invited hostility, but two men, pushing a wounded comrade on a handcart, posed no threat.
“Jesus.” Frederickson’s voice was awed when, arriving at the cattle byre, he heard Sharpe’s plan. “We’re supposed to walk up and ask for a bloody sawbones?”
“You suggested knocking on the front door,” Sharpe said. “So why not?”
The Riflemen still drifted down the gentle slope. They came in scattered groups, spread out in the chain formation they would use in battle, and no alarm had been raised at the sight. Sharpe doubted whether any Frenchman had even seen the dark shapes flit down the slope. Once on the lower ground, over the tiny stream and hidden by the ditches that were edged by straggling blackthorn hedges, the Riflemen were invisible. The fort still thundered its huge noise.
“What we need,” Sharpe said, “is blood.” He was reckoning that the fort would not refuse entry to a mortally wounded man, but mortal wounds were usually foul with blood and, in search of it, both officers looked instinctively to Patrick Harper.
Who stared back with a slow and horrified understanding. “No! Holy Mother, no!”
“It has to come out, Patrick.” Sharpe spoke in a voice of sweet reason.
“You’re not a surgeon, sir.