JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 8 из 223The junior officer was a lieutenant, while one of the other man’s two epaulettes was bright and new, denoting a recent promotion to the rank of a full post captain.
Smithers looked devotedly back to Jane. “I’ve reserved a bottle or two of that claret you liked.”
Sharpe, who had been ignored by the steward, pronounced the wine good and hoped he was right. The oyster pie was certainly good. Jane said she would deliver a portion to Hogan’s lodgings that same afternoon and Sharpe again insisted that she should not actually enter the sickroom, and he saw a flicker of annoyance cross Jane’s face. Her irritation was not caused by Sharpe’s words, but by the sudden proximity of the naval captain who had rudely come to stand immediately behind Sharpe’s chair in a place where he could overhear the conversation of Major and Mrs Sharpe’s reunion.
The naval officer had not come to eavesdrop, but rather to stare through the rain-smeared window. His interest was in a small flotilla of boats that had appeared around the northern headland. The boats were squat and small, none more than fifty feet long, but each had a vast press of sail that drove the score of craft in a fast gaggle towards the harbour entrance. They were escorted by a naval brig that, in the absence of enemies, had its gunports closed.
“They’re chasse-mare’es,” Jane said to her husband.
“Chasse-marrys?”
“Coastal luggers, Richard. They carry forty tons of cargo each.” She smiled, pleased with her display of knowledge. “You forget I was raised on the coast. The smugglers in Dunkirk used chasse-mare’es. The Navy,” Jane said loudly enough for the intrusive naval captain to hear, “could never catch them.”
But the naval captain was oblivious to Mrs Sharpe’s goad. He stared at the straggling fleet of chasse-marees’that, emerging from a brief rain-squall, seemed to crab sideways to avoid a sand-bar that was marked by a broken line of dirty foam. “Ford! Ford!”
The naval lieutenant dabbed his lips with a napkin, snatched a swallow of wine, then hastened to his captain’s side. “Sir?”
The captain took a small spyglass from the tail pocket of his coat. “There’s a lively one there, Ford. Mark her!”
Sharpe wondered why naval officers should be so interested in French coastal craft, but Jane said the Navy had been collecting the chasse-marees for days. She had heard that the boats, with their French crews, were being hired with English coin, but for what purpose no one could tell.
The small fleet had come to within a quarter mile of the harbour, and, to facilitate their entry into the crowded inner roads, each ship was lowering its topsail.
Smithers looked devotedly back to Jane. “I’ve reserved a bottle or two of that claret you liked.”
Sharpe, who had been ignored by the steward, pronounced the wine good and hoped he was right. The oyster pie was certainly good. Jane said she would deliver a portion to Hogan’s lodgings that same afternoon and Sharpe again insisted that she should not actually enter the sickroom, and he saw a flicker of annoyance cross Jane’s face. Her irritation was not caused by Sharpe’s words, but by the sudden proximity of the naval captain who had rudely come to stand immediately behind Sharpe’s chair in a place where he could overhear the conversation of Major and Mrs Sharpe’s reunion.
The naval officer had not come to eavesdrop, but rather to stare through the rain-smeared window. His interest was in a small flotilla of boats that had appeared around the northern headland. The boats were squat and small, none more than fifty feet long, but each had a vast press of sail that drove the score of craft in a fast gaggle towards the harbour entrance. They were escorted by a naval brig that, in the absence of enemies, had its gunports closed.
“They’re chasse-mare’es,” Jane said to her husband.
“Chasse-marrys?”
“Coastal luggers, Richard. They carry forty tons of cargo each.” She smiled, pleased with her display of knowledge. “You forget I was raised on the coast. The smugglers in Dunkirk used chasse-mare’es. The Navy,” Jane said loudly enough for the intrusive naval captain to hear, “could never catch them.”
But the naval captain was oblivious to Mrs Sharpe’s goad. He stared at the straggling fleet of chasse-marees’that, emerging from a brief rain-squall, seemed to crab sideways to avoid a sand-bar that was marked by a broken line of dirty foam. “Ford! Ford!”
The naval lieutenant dabbed his lips with a napkin, snatched a swallow of wine, then hastened to his captain’s side. “Sir?”
The captain took a small spyglass from the tail pocket of his coat. “There’s a lively one there, Ford. Mark her!”
Sharpe wondered why naval officers should be so interested in French coastal craft, but Jane said the Navy had been collecting the chasse-marees for days. She had heard that the boats, with their French crews, were being hired with English coin, but for what purpose no one could tell.
The small fleet had come to within a quarter mile of the harbour, and, to facilitate their entry into the crowded inner roads, each ship was lowering its topsail.