JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 9 из 223The naval brig had hove-to, sails shivering, but one of the French coasters, larger than the rest of its fellows, was still under the full set of its five sails. The water broke white at its stem and slid in bubbling, greying foam down the hull that was sleeker than those of the other, smaller vessels.
“He thinks it’s a race, sir,” the lieutenant said with happy vacuity above Sharpe’s shoulder.
“A handy craft,” the captain said grudgingly. “Too good for the Army. I think we might take her on to our strength.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The faster, larger lugger had broken clear of the pack. Its sails were a dirty grey, the colour of the winter sky, and its low hull was painted a dull pitch-black. Its flush deck, like all the chasse-marees‘ decks, was an open sweep broken only by the three masts and the tiller by which two men stood. Fishing gear was heaped in ugly, lumpen disarray upon the deck’s planking.
The naval brig, seeing the large lugger race ahead, unleashed a string of bright flags. The captain snorted. “Bloody Frogs won’t understand that!”
Sharpe, offended by the naval officers’ unwanted proximity, had been seeking a cause to quarrel, and now found it in the captain’s swearing in front of Jane. He stood up. “Sir.”
The naval captain, with a deliberate slowness, turned pale, glaucous eyes on to the Army major. The captain was young, plump, and confident that he outranked Sharpe.
They stared into each other’s eyes, and Sharpe felt a sudden certainty that he would hate this man. There was no reason for it, no justification, merely a physical distaste for the privileged, amused face that seemed so full of disdain for the black-haired Rifleman.
“Well?” The naval captain’s voice betrayed a gleeful anticipation of the imminent argument.
Jane defused the confrontation. “My husband, Captain, is sensitive to the language of fighting men.”
The captain, not certain whether he was being complimented or mocked, chose to accept the words as a tribute to his gallantry. He glanced at Sharpe, looking from the Rifleman’s face to the new, unfaded cloth of the green jacket. The newness of the uniform evidently suggested that Sharpe, despite the scar on his face, was fresh to the war. The captain smiled superciliously. “Doubtless, Major, your delicacy will be sore tested by French bullets.”
Jane, delighted at the opening, smiled very sweetly. “I’m sure Major Sharpe is grateful for your opinion, sir.
“He thinks it’s a race, sir,” the lieutenant said with happy vacuity above Sharpe’s shoulder.
“A handy craft,” the captain said grudgingly. “Too good for the Army. I think we might take her on to our strength.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The faster, larger lugger had broken clear of the pack. Its sails were a dirty grey, the colour of the winter sky, and its low hull was painted a dull pitch-black. Its flush deck, like all the chasse-marees‘ decks, was an open sweep broken only by the three masts and the tiller by which two men stood. Fishing gear was heaped in ugly, lumpen disarray upon the deck’s planking.
The naval brig, seeing the large lugger race ahead, unleashed a string of bright flags. The captain snorted. “Bloody Frogs won’t understand that!”
Sharpe, offended by the naval officers’ unwanted proximity, had been seeking a cause to quarrel, and now found it in the captain’s swearing in front of Jane. He stood up. “Sir.”
The naval captain, with a deliberate slowness, turned pale, glaucous eyes on to the Army major. The captain was young, plump, and confident that he outranked Sharpe.
They stared into each other’s eyes, and Sharpe felt a sudden certainty that he would hate this man. There was no reason for it, no justification, merely a physical distaste for the privileged, amused face that seemed so full of disdain for the black-haired Rifleman.
“Well?” The naval captain’s voice betrayed a gleeful anticipation of the imminent argument.
Jane defused the confrontation. “My husband, Captain, is sensitive to the language of fighting men.”
The captain, not certain whether he was being complimented or mocked, chose to accept the words as a tribute to his gallantry. He glanced at Sharpe, looking from the Rifleman’s face to the new, unfaded cloth of the green jacket. The newness of the uniform evidently suggested that Sharpe, despite the scar on his face, was fresh to the war. The captain smiled superciliously. “Doubtless, Major, your delicacy will be sore tested by French bullets.”
Jane, delighted at the opening, smiled very sweetly. “I’m sure Major Sharpe is grateful for your opinion, sir.