JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 80 из 223The wind dropped, the rain had died, and the clouds thinned to leave a sky pricked by cold, white, winter-bright stars above the shimmering, glittering, ice-edged marshes.
Across those silent marshes, and from the silvered, steel-flat waters of Arcachon, a glimmer of mist was born. The mist skeined slow in a still night, a night of frost and white vapour beyond a fort where the blood spilt in a skirmish froze hard in the darkness.
Torches flared in the courtyard of the Teste de Buch. Breath smoked to vapour. Frost touched the cobbles white and rimed the gun barrels on the ramparts.
Bampfylde had ordered the Green Jackets to rest and replaced them with Marines whose scarlet coats and white crossbelts seemed bright in the starlit night.
Nine French prisoners, one of them the sergeant who had fired at Sharpe from the barrack roof, were locked in an empty ready magazine. They would be taken by Bampfylde’s ships to the rotting prison hulks in the Thames or else to the new stone jail built by French prisoners in the wilds of Dartmoor.
The other prisoners were locked in the spirit store that Bampfylde had ordered emptied of its brandy and wine. Thirty men were crammed into a space fit for no more than a dozen. They were the Americans.
“At least they claim they’re Americans!” Bampfylde, his bootless feet propped on an ammunition box, sat in front of a fire that had been lit in Lassan’s old quarters. “But I’ll warrant half of them are our deserters!”
“Indeed, sir.” Lieutenant Ford knew that American ships, both Navy and civilian, were heavily crewed by seamen who had run from the harsh discipline of the Royal Navy.
“So have the bastards out one at a time.” Bampfylde paused to bite into a chicken leg that should have been a part of Henri Lassan’s dinner. He sucked the bone clean then tossed it at the fire. “And talk to them, Lieutenant. Use two reliable bo’sun’s mates, understand me?”
“Aye aye, sir.” Ford understood very well.
“Any man you believe is a deserter, put in a separate room. The real Americans can go back to the store.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Barnpfylde poured more of the wine. It might be a young vintage, but it was very, very hopeful. He made a mental note to have all the crates shipped to the Vengeance. He had also found some fine crystal glasses, incised with a coat of arms, that would look very fine in his Hampshire house. “You think I’m being too particular with the American prisoners, Ford?”
Ford did. “They’re all going to hang, sir.
Across those silent marshes, and from the silvered, steel-flat waters of Arcachon, a glimmer of mist was born. The mist skeined slow in a still night, a night of frost and white vapour beyond a fort where the blood spilt in a skirmish froze hard in the darkness.
Torches flared in the courtyard of the Teste de Buch. Breath smoked to vapour. Frost touched the cobbles white and rimed the gun barrels on the ramparts.
Bampfylde had ordered the Green Jackets to rest and replaced them with Marines whose scarlet coats and white crossbelts seemed bright in the starlit night.
Nine French prisoners, one of them the sergeant who had fired at Sharpe from the barrack roof, were locked in an empty ready magazine. They would be taken by Bampfylde’s ships to the rotting prison hulks in the Thames or else to the new stone jail built by French prisoners in the wilds of Dartmoor.
The other prisoners were locked in the spirit store that Bampfylde had ordered emptied of its brandy and wine. Thirty men were crammed into a space fit for no more than a dozen. They were the Americans.
“At least they claim they’re Americans!” Bampfylde, his bootless feet propped on an ammunition box, sat in front of a fire that had been lit in Lassan’s old quarters. “But I’ll warrant half of them are our deserters!”
“Indeed, sir.” Lieutenant Ford knew that American ships, both Navy and civilian, were heavily crewed by seamen who had run from the harsh discipline of the Royal Navy.
“So have the bastards out one at a time.” Bampfylde paused to bite into a chicken leg that should have been a part of Henri Lassan’s dinner. He sucked the bone clean then tossed it at the fire. “And talk to them, Lieutenant. Use two reliable bo’sun’s mates, understand me?”
“Aye aye, sir.” Ford understood very well.
“Any man you believe is a deserter, put in a separate room. The real Americans can go back to the store.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Barnpfylde poured more of the wine. It might be a young vintage, but it was very, very hopeful. He made a mental note to have all the crates shipped to the Vengeance. He had also found some fine crystal glasses, incised with a coat of arms, that would look very fine in his Hampshire house. “You think I’m being too particular with the American prisoners, Ford?”
Ford did. “They’re all going to hang, sir.