Sharpes Siege   ::   Корнуэлл Бернард

“Where,” Bampfylde looked innocently at Killick, “are your Letters ofMarque?”

“I got ‘em, sir.” Bampfylde’s bo’sun produced a thick fold of papers that Killick had carried in a waterproof pouch on his belt. Bampfylde took, opened, and read the papers with scant interest. The Government of the United States, in accordance with the customary laws, gave permission to Captain Cornelius Killick to wage warfare on the enemies of the Republic wherever on the High Seas those enemies might be found, and extended to Captain Killick the full protection of the said Government of the United States.

“I see no Letters of Marque.” Bampfylde threw the document on to the fire.

“Bastard.” Killick, like every privateer, knew that such letters offered small protection, but no captain liked to lose his papers.

Bampfylde laughed. He was scanning the other papers that were certificates of American citizenship for the Thuella’s crew. “A fanciful name for a pirate ship, Thuella?”

“It’s Greek,” Killick said scornfully, “and means storm-cloud.”

“An American educated in the classics!” Bampfylde mocked the fine looking man. “What miracles this young century brings!”

Bampfylde’s bo’sun, the man who governed the captain’s private barge, elbowed Lieutenant Docherty in the ribs. “This one’s no Jonathon, sir, he’s a bloody Mick.”

“An Irishman!” Bampfylde smiled. “Rebelling against your lawful King, are you?”

“I’m an American citizen,” Docherty said.

“Not any longer.” Bampfylde threw all the certificates on to the fire where they flared bright, then shrivelled. “I smell the whiff of the Irish bogs on you.” Bampfylde looked back to Killick. “So where’s the Thuella?”

“I told you.”

Bampfylde was not sure he believed Killick’s story that the Thuella was stranded, stripped, and useless, but tomorrow the brigs could search the Bassin d’Arcachon and make certain. Bampfylde also hoped that the rest of the privateer crew could be hunted down and brought to his justice. “How many of your crew are British subjects?” he asked Killick.

“None.” Killick’s face glared defiance. Fully one-third of his men had once served in the Royal Navy and Killick well knew what ghastly fate awaited them if they were discovered. “Not one.”

Bampfylde took a cigar from his case, cut it, then held a twisted paper spill made of a page torn from Lassan’s copy of Montaigne’s Essays in the fire. “You’re all going to hang, Killick, all of you.