JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 77 из 223“My friends!” He explained why the boats were needed, how the English would use the craft to make a bridge or to land their Army north of the Adour. “What of your children then? What of your wives, eh? Tell me that?”
There was silence, except for the running of the tide and the hiss as rain hit the torches. The faces were suspicious. Lassan knew that the French forces were disliked by the French peasantry, for the Emperor had decreed that French troops could take what rations they wanted and not pay for them. Lassan himself had refused to obey that decree, but the disobedience had been funded from his own pocket. Some of these men knew that, knew that Lassan had always been a decent officer, but still he threatened them with hunger.
“The English,” a voice shouted from the anonymity of the crowd, “are offering twenty francs a day. Twenty!”
The murmur started again, grew, and Lassan knew he would have to use force to keep these men from interfering with his duty. He had tried reason, but reason was a feeble weapon against the cupidity of peasants, so now he must be savage in his duty. “Lieutenant Gerard!”
“Sir?”
“You will fire the boats! Start at the southern moorings!”
A jeer went up and Lassan instinctively reached for his pistol, but his sergeant touched his arm. “Sir.” The sergeant’s voice was sad.
A creak sounded, then another. There was the squeak of an oar in its thole, then there were splashes and Lassan could see, in the darkness, the white marks of blades touching water. He still watched and, in the glistening darkness where the torchlight touched the water into ripples, he saw the ghostly shapes of white-painted boats.
On the flowing tide the British had rowed up channel and Lassan, listening to the ridicule of his countrymen, saw the blue-jacketed sailors, cutlasses in their hands, swarming from their longboats on to the ckasse-marees. The French crews, welcoming English gold, applauded.
Lassan turned away. “We go east, Lieutenant.”
“Sir.”
Henri Lassan, with his little band of gunners, stumbled away from the village. He would follow the Arcachon’s southern shore, then head inland to Bordeaux to report to his superiors that he had failed, that Arcachon was lost, and that the British had taken their boats.
And thus the battle of Arcachon, that had begun with such high hopes for its defenders, ended in a rain-cold night of bleak defeat.
There was silence, except for the running of the tide and the hiss as rain hit the torches. The faces were suspicious. Lassan knew that the French forces were disliked by the French peasantry, for the Emperor had decreed that French troops could take what rations they wanted and not pay for them. Lassan himself had refused to obey that decree, but the disobedience had been funded from his own pocket. Some of these men knew that, knew that Lassan had always been a decent officer, but still he threatened them with hunger.
“The English,” a voice shouted from the anonymity of the crowd, “are offering twenty francs a day. Twenty!”
The murmur started again, grew, and Lassan knew he would have to use force to keep these men from interfering with his duty. He had tried reason, but reason was a feeble weapon against the cupidity of peasants, so now he must be savage in his duty. “Lieutenant Gerard!”
“Sir?”
“You will fire the boats! Start at the southern moorings!”
A jeer went up and Lassan instinctively reached for his pistol, but his sergeant touched his arm. “Sir.” The sergeant’s voice was sad.
A creak sounded, then another. There was the squeak of an oar in its thole, then there were splashes and Lassan could see, in the darkness, the white marks of blades touching water. He still watched and, in the glistening darkness where the torchlight touched the water into ripples, he saw the ghostly shapes of white-painted boats.
On the flowing tide the British had rowed up channel and Lassan, listening to the ridicule of his countrymen, saw the blue-jacketed sailors, cutlasses in their hands, swarming from their longboats on to the ckasse-marees. The French crews, welcoming English gold, applauded.
Lassan turned away. “We go east, Lieutenant.”
“Sir.”
Henri Lassan, with his little band of gunners, stumbled away from the village. He would follow the Arcachon’s southern shore, then head inland to Bordeaux to report to his superiors that he had failed, that Arcachon was lost, and that the British had taken their boats.
And thus the battle of Arcachon, that had begun with such high hopes for its defenders, ended in a rain-cold night of bleak defeat.