JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 74 из 223Captain William Frederickson, in grim jest, always removed his eye-patch and false teeth before a fight and the lack of those cosmetics, added to the horror that was his eye-socket, gave him the face of a man come from a stinking and rotting grave. The Rifle officer’s voice, Killick noticed in stunned astonishment, was oddly polite while, behind him and moving with fast confidence, green-jacketed men whose guns were tipped with long, brass-handled bayonets slipped between the trees.
Killick put a hand to his pistol’s hilt and the one-eyed man shook his head. “It would distress me to kill you. I have a certain sympathy for your Republic.”
Killick gave his opinion of Frederickson’s sympathy in one short and efficacious word.
“It is the fortune of war,” Frederickson said. “Sergeant Rossner! I want prisoners, not dead ‘uns!”
“Sir!” The Riflemen, taking the Americans from the rear, and coming so unexpectedly with weapons ready, gave the Thuella’s crew no chance to fight. Docherty drew his sword, but Taylor’s bayonet touched the Irishman’s throat and the feral eyes of the Rifleman told the lieutenant just what would happen if he raised the blade. Docherty let it fall. Some of Thuella’s crew, unable to retreat into the clearing that was covered by the Marines’ muskets, dropped their weapons and ran to shelter with the startled villagers.
“Who the hell are you?” Killick asked.
“Captain Frederickson, Royal American Rifles. You’re supposed to offer me your sword.”
Killick succinctly gave his view of that suggestion, and Frederickson smiled. “I can always take it from you. Do you command here?”
“What if I do?”
Killick’s truculence only made Frederickson more patient. “If you want to fight my lads, then I assure you they’ll welcome the chance. They’ve been fighting for six years, and about the only consolation our Army offers to them is the plunder from dead enemies.”
“Shit,” said Killick. There was no fight to be had, for the Riflemen were already herding his gun crews back. One of the green-jacketed bastards, the one who had taken Liam Docherty prisoner, was folding the Stars and Stripes into a bundle. Some of his men, Killick saw, were edging away with the villagers, but they had abandoned their weapons so as not to be taken for combatants. Cornelius Killick felt the impotence of a sailor doomed to fight out of water. He could have wept in anger and impotence and for the shame of seeing his flag taken. Instead, clinging to a shred of dignity, he plucked his sword from his scabbard and offered it, hilt first, to Frederickson.
Killick put a hand to his pistol’s hilt and the one-eyed man shook his head. “It would distress me to kill you. I have a certain sympathy for your Republic.”
Killick gave his opinion of Frederickson’s sympathy in one short and efficacious word.
“It is the fortune of war,” Frederickson said. “Sergeant Rossner! I want prisoners, not dead ‘uns!”
“Sir!” The Riflemen, taking the Americans from the rear, and coming so unexpectedly with weapons ready, gave the Thuella’s crew no chance to fight. Docherty drew his sword, but Taylor’s bayonet touched the Irishman’s throat and the feral eyes of the Rifleman told the lieutenant just what would happen if he raised the blade. Docherty let it fall. Some of Thuella’s crew, unable to retreat into the clearing that was covered by the Marines’ muskets, dropped their weapons and ran to shelter with the startled villagers.
“Who the hell are you?” Killick asked.
“Captain Frederickson, Royal American Rifles. You’re supposed to offer me your sword.”
Killick succinctly gave his view of that suggestion, and Frederickson smiled. “I can always take it from you. Do you command here?”
“What if I do?”
Killick’s truculence only made Frederickson more patient. “If you want to fight my lads, then I assure you they’ll welcome the chance. They’ve been fighting for six years, and about the only consolation our Army offers to them is the plunder from dead enemies.”
“Shit,” said Killick. There was no fight to be had, for the Riflemen were already herding his gun crews back. One of the green-jacketed bastards, the one who had taken Liam Docherty prisoner, was folding the Stars and Stripes into a bundle. Some of his men, Killick saw, were edging away with the villagers, but they had abandoned their weapons so as not to be taken for combatants. Cornelius Killick felt the impotence of a sailor doomed to fight out of water. He could have wept in anger and impotence and for the shame of seeing his flag taken. Instead, clinging to a shred of dignity, he plucked his sword from his scabbard and offered it, hilt first, to Frederickson.