JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 87 из 223There was a Docherty,” Harper said, “who had a smithy in Meencrumlin.”
“My uncle.”
“God save Ireland.” Harper stared in wonder at the lieutenant. “And you from America? Do you hear that, sir? He has an uncle that used to tinker my ma’s pans.”
“I heard,” Sharpe spoke sourly. He was thinking that he had stuck his neck out and to small avail. He had saved these men for twelve hours, no more, and there were times, he thought, when a soldier should know when not to fight. Then he remembered how Ducos, the Frenchman, had treated him in Burgos and how a French officer had risked his career to save Sharpe, and Sharpe knew he could not have lived with his conscience if he had simply allowed Bampfylde to continue his savagery. These men might well be pirates, they probably did deserve the rope, but Frederickson had pledged his word. Sharpe walked to the table. “How are your wounds?”
“I lost a tooth,” Killick grinned to show the bloody
“That’s a fashion these days,” Harper said equably from the range.
Sharpe pulled a bottle of wine towards him and knocked the neck off against the table. “Are you pirates?”
“Privateer,” Killick said it proudly, “and legally licensed.”
Frederickson, shivering from the cold in the yard, came through the door. “I’ve put the rest of the Jonathons in the guardroom. Ressner’s watching them.” He looked towards the seated Americans. “I’m sorry, Mr Killick.”
“Captain Killick,” Killick said without rancour, “and thank you for what you did. Both of you.” He held out a tin mug for wine. “When they dangle us at a rope’s end I’ll say that not every Britisher is a bastard.”
Sharpe poured wine into Killick’s cup. “I saw you,” he said, “at St Jean de Luz.”
Killick gave a great, hoarse whoop of a laugh that reminded Sharpe of Wellington’s strange merriment. “That was a splendid day!” Killick said. “We had them wetting their breeches, right enough!”
Sharpe nodded, remembering Bampfylde’s fury in the dining-room as the naval captain had watched the American. “You did.”
Killick felt in his pocket, realized he had no cigars, and shrugged. “Nothing in peace will offer such joy, will it?” Sharpe made no reply and the American looked at his Lieutenant. “Perhaps we ought to become real pirates in peacetime, Liam?”
“If we live that long.” Docherty stared sourly at the Rifleman.
“For an Irishman,” Killick said to Sharpe, “he has an unnatural sense of reality. Are you going to hang us, Major?”
“I’m feeding you.
“My uncle.”
“God save Ireland.” Harper stared in wonder at the lieutenant. “And you from America? Do you hear that, sir? He has an uncle that used to tinker my ma’s pans.”
“I heard,” Sharpe spoke sourly. He was thinking that he had stuck his neck out and to small avail. He had saved these men for twelve hours, no more, and there were times, he thought, when a soldier should know when not to fight. Then he remembered how Ducos, the Frenchman, had treated him in Burgos and how a French officer had risked his career to save Sharpe, and Sharpe knew he could not have lived with his conscience if he had simply allowed Bampfylde to continue his savagery. These men might well be pirates, they probably did deserve the rope, but Frederickson had pledged his word. Sharpe walked to the table. “How are your wounds?”
“I lost a tooth,” Killick grinned to show the bloody
“That’s a fashion these days,” Harper said equably from the range.
Sharpe pulled a bottle of wine towards him and knocked the neck off against the table. “Are you pirates?”
“Privateer,” Killick said it proudly, “and legally licensed.”
Frederickson, shivering from the cold in the yard, came through the door. “I’ve put the rest of the Jonathons in the guardroom. Ressner’s watching them.” He looked towards the seated Americans. “I’m sorry, Mr Killick.”
“Captain Killick,” Killick said without rancour, “and thank you for what you did. Both of you.” He held out a tin mug for wine. “When they dangle us at a rope’s end I’ll say that not every Britisher is a bastard.”
Sharpe poured wine into Killick’s cup. “I saw you,” he said, “at St Jean de Luz.”
Killick gave a great, hoarse whoop of a laugh that reminded Sharpe of Wellington’s strange merriment. “That was a splendid day!” Killick said. “We had them wetting their breeches, right enough!”
Sharpe nodded, remembering Bampfylde’s fury in the dining-room as the naval captain had watched the American. “You did.”
Killick felt in his pocket, realized he had no cigars, and shrugged. “Nothing in peace will offer such joy, will it?” Sharpe made no reply and the American looked at his Lieutenant. “Perhaps we ought to become real pirates in peacetime, Liam?”
“If we live that long.” Docherty stared sourly at the Rifleman.
“For an Irishman,” Killick said to Sharpe, “he has an unnatural sense of reality. Are you going to hang us, Major?”
“I’m feeding you.