JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 76 из 223Two of his men twisted theirankles, but they were safely helped into the dune’s cover from where, the wounded men assisted by their comrades, Lassan led his men north. Two rifle bullets followed them, but a bark of command ordered the ceasefire.
The fortress had fallen, not to Marines, but to Green Jackets, and Lassan wondered how they had come so silently, and how they had pierced the defences without his knowledge, but that was useless speculation today, when he had failed in his task.
He had lost the Teste de Buch, but he could yet frustrate his enemy. He supposed they had come for the chasse-marees and Lassan, stumbling in the cloying sand, would go to Le Moulleau and there burn the boats.
Falling night brought cold rain to pit the sand with tiny dark craters. The track wound through dunes, past discarded fish traps and the black ribs of rotted boats. The fishing village lay two miles north and Lassan could see the dense tangle of masts and yards where the chasse-marees had been moored by his orders. The owners of the boats mostly lived aboard, waiting and grumbling until they could be released back to their trade.
Vestiges of cannon smoke sifted north with Henri Lassan. The tide, he saw, was turning. Tiny waves rolled over the beds where mussels and oysters thrived. No more would the women bring him the flat baskets of shellfish and stop to gossip about the prices in the Arcachon town market or to whisper, with pretended shock, of the bedtime exploits of the American captain. Lassan wondered what had happened to Killick, but that speculation was as useless as wondering how the Teste de Buch had fallen. Commandant Henri Lassan, sword at his waist and pistol in his belt, had a task to do, and he went north in the gathering darkness to perform it.
And at Le Moulleau the chasse-maree crews mutinied. They gathered outside the white-painted Customs House, disused these many years because of the Royal Navy blockade, but still manned by two uniformed men who opened their heavy door to listen to the commotion outside. Behind the crews were the wooden pilings that edged the sheds where the shellfish were broken open and where the murmur swelled into an angry protest. The ships were their livelihoods. Without the ships they would starve, their children would starve, and their women would starve.
Lassan’s men, embarrassed by their predicament, stared at the ground. Torches flared in brackets on the Customs House facade, casting a red light on angry faces. Rain spat from the south. Lassan, a reasonable and kind man, raised his hands.
The fortress had fallen, not to Marines, but to Green Jackets, and Lassan wondered how they had come so silently, and how they had pierced the defences without his knowledge, but that was useless speculation today, when he had failed in his task.
He had lost the Teste de Buch, but he could yet frustrate his enemy. He supposed they had come for the chasse-marees and Lassan, stumbling in the cloying sand, would go to Le Moulleau and there burn the boats.
Falling night brought cold rain to pit the sand with tiny dark craters. The track wound through dunes, past discarded fish traps and the black ribs of rotted boats. The fishing village lay two miles north and Lassan could see the dense tangle of masts and yards where the chasse-marees had been moored by his orders. The owners of the boats mostly lived aboard, waiting and grumbling until they could be released back to their trade.
Vestiges of cannon smoke sifted north with Henri Lassan. The tide, he saw, was turning. Tiny waves rolled over the beds where mussels and oysters thrived. No more would the women bring him the flat baskets of shellfish and stop to gossip about the prices in the Arcachon town market or to whisper, with pretended shock, of the bedtime exploits of the American captain. Lassan wondered what had happened to Killick, but that speculation was as useless as wondering how the Teste de Buch had fallen. Commandant Henri Lassan, sword at his waist and pistol in his belt, had a task to do, and he went north in the gathering darkness to perform it.
And at Le Moulleau the chasse-maree crews mutinied. They gathered outside the white-painted Customs House, disused these many years because of the Royal Navy blockade, but still manned by two uniformed men who opened their heavy door to listen to the commotion outside. Behind the crews were the wooden pilings that edged the sheds where the shellfish were broken open and where the murmur swelled into an angry protest. The ships were their livelihoods. Without the ships they would starve, their children would starve, and their women would starve.
Lassan’s men, embarrassed by their predicament, stared at the ground. Torches flared in brackets on the Customs House facade, casting a red light on angry faces. Rain spat from the south. Lassan, a reasonable and kind man, raised his hands.