JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 75 из 223“If you’d fought me at sea…” Killick began.
“… I would be your prisoner,” Frederickson politely finished the sentence. “And if you give me your word that you will not attempt to escape, then you may keep your sword.”
Killick dutifully slid the blade back into its scabbard. “You have my word.”
Frederickson took a silver whistle from the loop on his crossbelt and blew six blasts on it. “Just to let our web-footed friends know that we’ve done their job.” He opened his pouch and took out an eye-patch and false teeth. “You’ll forgive my vanity?” Frederickson asked as he tied the eye-patch in place. “Shall we go back now?”
“Back?”
“To the fort, of course. As my prisoner I can assure you that your treatment will be that of a gentleman.”
Killick stared at the Rifleman whose face, even with patch and teeth restored, was hardly reassuring. Cornelius Killick expected a British officer to be a supercilious poltroon, all airs and graces and high-spoken delicacies, and he was somewhat shaken to be faced with a man who looked as hard-bitten as this Rifleman. “You give me your word we’ll be treated properly?”
Frederickson frowned, as though the question were indelicate. “You have my word as an officer.” He smiled suddenly. “I can’t speak for the food tonight, but doubtless there’ll be wine in abundance. This is, after all, the Medoc, and the harvest was good this year or so I believe. Sergeant!” He in gave a shrug of apology to Killick for thus turning away. “Leave the guns to the web-foots! Back to the fort!”
“Sir!”
Cornelius Killick, who had hoped to be as successful on land as he was at sea, had met a Rifleman, and all he could do was light a cigar and console himself that, for a sailor, there was no disgrace in being bested ashore. But it irked all the same, God, how it irked!
And the Arcachon Basin, in which the Thuella was stranded, had fallen.
Henri Lassan, seeing his men cornered in their bastion and recognizing the import of the feared Green Jackets and their long, glittering bayonets, had known there was no future in fighting. “Over! Over!” He pointed over the bastion and down to the strip of wind-drifted sand that edged the fort’s western ramparts. Here, on the fort’s seaward facing flank, there was no flooded ditch for the tidewater was better than any moat, and his gunners leaped from the embrasures to tumble heavily on the sand. Lassan, as he jumped, felt a sudden, keen pang for the loss of his books, then the wind was driven from him by the jar of his landing.
“… I would be your prisoner,” Frederickson politely finished the sentence. “And if you give me your word that you will not attempt to escape, then you may keep your sword.”
Killick dutifully slid the blade back into its scabbard. “You have my word.”
Frederickson took a silver whistle from the loop on his crossbelt and blew six blasts on it. “Just to let our web-footed friends know that we’ve done their job.” He opened his pouch and took out an eye-patch and false teeth. “You’ll forgive my vanity?” Frederickson asked as he tied the eye-patch in place. “Shall we go back now?”
“Back?”
“To the fort, of course. As my prisoner I can assure you that your treatment will be that of a gentleman.”
Killick stared at the Rifleman whose face, even with patch and teeth restored, was hardly reassuring. Cornelius Killick expected a British officer to be a supercilious poltroon, all airs and graces and high-spoken delicacies, and he was somewhat shaken to be faced with a man who looked as hard-bitten as this Rifleman. “You give me your word we’ll be treated properly?”
Frederickson frowned, as though the question were indelicate. “You have my word as an officer.” He smiled suddenly. “I can’t speak for the food tonight, but doubtless there’ll be wine in abundance. This is, after all, the Medoc, and the harvest was good this year or so I believe. Sergeant!” He in gave a shrug of apology to Killick for thus turning away. “Leave the guns to the web-foots! Back to the fort!”
“Sir!”
Cornelius Killick, who had hoped to be as successful on land as he was at sea, had met a Rifleman, and all he could do was light a cigar and console himself that, for a sailor, there was no disgrace in being bested ashore. But it irked all the same, God, how it irked!
And the Arcachon Basin, in which the Thuella was stranded, had fallen.
Henri Lassan, seeing his men cornered in their bastion and recognizing the import of the feared Green Jackets and their long, glittering bayonets, had known there was no future in fighting. “Over! Over!” He pointed over the bastion and down to the strip of wind-drifted sand that edged the fort’s western ramparts. Here, on the fort’s seaward facing flank, there was no flooded ditch for the tidewater was better than any moat, and his gunners leaped from the embrasures to tumble heavily on the sand. Lassan, as he jumped, felt a sudden, keen pang for the loss of his books, then the wind was driven from him by the jar of his landing.