JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 96 из 223“Do it, Liam! Fast now, fast!”
Killick grinned at his men, filling them with hope, then stalked back to the small tavern where Commandant Henri Lassan, wet and disconsolate, huddled before a smoking fire. “You’ll not stay with us, Henri?”
Lassan was wondering what fate had attended upon his small and valuable library. No doubt it would be burned. The British, in Lassan’s grim view, were entirely capable of burning books, which made it all the more surprising that they had released the Americans. “What was the name of the officer?”
“Sharpe.” Killick, with relief, had found some of his cigars safe amongst the baggage stored at Gujan. He lit one now, noticing that the mist was thickening to fog.
“Sharpe?” Lassan frowned. “A Rifleman?”
“Green Jacket, anyway.” Killick watched as Lassan scribbled in a small notebook. The French officer, resting in Gujan on his eastward journey, wanted to know all that Killick could tell him about the British force and the American, considering the request, decided that the giving of information did not break his promise to Sharpe. “Does it matter who he is?”
“If he’s the man I think he is, yes.” Lassan sounded dispirited by his defeat. “You’ve met one of their more celebrated soldiers.”
“He met one of America’s more celebrated sailors,” Killick said happily. He wondered if this unnatural calm presaged a storm. He saw Lassan’s pencil pause, and sighed. “Let me think now. I’d guess a hundred Riflemen, maybe a few more.”
“Marines?” Lassan asked.
“At least a hundred.” Killick shrugged.
Lassan looked through the window, saw the fog, and knew he must find a horse, any horse, and take his news to those who could best use it. The British had come, had won their victory, but they had not yet left Arcachon, so Lassan would go to Bordeaux and there find the men who could organize revenge on a Rifleman.
Fog writhed about the low walls of the Teste de Buch, utterly obscuring the ramparts from the courtyard where Sharpe, in the dawn, paraded his Riflemen.
“He’s not best pleased with you,” Captain of Marines Palmer spoke hesitantly. Sharpe replied with his brief opinion of Captain Bampfylde that made the tough Marine smile. “I’m to give you this.” Palmer handed Sharpe a sealed paper.
Sharpe supposed the paper was a reprimand or protest from Bampfylde, but it was merely a reminder that Major Sharpe was expected back at the Teste de Buch by noon on Thursday. Doubtless Bampfylde was unwilling to face Sharpe in person, and Sharpe did not care.
Killick grinned at his men, filling them with hope, then stalked back to the small tavern where Commandant Henri Lassan, wet and disconsolate, huddled before a smoking fire. “You’ll not stay with us, Henri?”
Lassan was wondering what fate had attended upon his small and valuable library. No doubt it would be burned. The British, in Lassan’s grim view, were entirely capable of burning books, which made it all the more surprising that they had released the Americans. “What was the name of the officer?”
“Sharpe.” Killick, with relief, had found some of his cigars safe amongst the baggage stored at Gujan. He lit one now, noticing that the mist was thickening to fog.
“Sharpe?” Lassan frowned. “A Rifleman?”
“Green Jacket, anyway.” Killick watched as Lassan scribbled in a small notebook. The French officer, resting in Gujan on his eastward journey, wanted to know all that Killick could tell him about the British force and the American, considering the request, decided that the giving of information did not break his promise to Sharpe. “Does it matter who he is?”
“If he’s the man I think he is, yes.” Lassan sounded dispirited by his defeat. “You’ve met one of their more celebrated soldiers.”
“He met one of America’s more celebrated sailors,” Killick said happily. He wondered if this unnatural calm presaged a storm. He saw Lassan’s pencil pause, and sighed. “Let me think now. I’d guess a hundred Riflemen, maybe a few more.”
“Marines?” Lassan asked.
“At least a hundred.” Killick shrugged.
Lassan looked through the window, saw the fog, and knew he must find a horse, any horse, and take his news to those who could best use it. The British had come, had won their victory, but they had not yet left Arcachon, so Lassan would go to Bordeaux and there find the men who could organize revenge on a Rifleman.
Fog writhed about the low walls of the Teste de Buch, utterly obscuring the ramparts from the courtyard where Sharpe, in the dawn, paraded his Riflemen.
“He’s not best pleased with you,” Captain of Marines Palmer spoke hesitantly. Sharpe replied with his brief opinion of Captain Bampfylde that made the tough Marine smile. “I’m to give you this.” Palmer handed Sharpe a sealed paper.
Sharpe supposed the paper was a reprimand or protest from Bampfylde, but it was merely a reminder that Major Sharpe was expected back at the Teste de Buch by noon on Thursday. Doubtless Bampfylde was unwilling to face Sharpe in person, and Sharpe did not care.