JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 97 из 223His head was aching, sometimespulsing with a stab of dark agony, and his mood was bleak.
“We’re marching with you,” Captain Palmer said. He had fifty Marines on parade. He had also taken two of the captured gun-limbers, each harnessed behind a pair of carthorses that had been discovered in a meadow by the village and which now drew the Marines’ packs and supplies. “The men aren’t hardened to marching,” Palmer explained.
“You’re attached to us?” Sharpe asked with surprise.
Palmer shook his head. “We’re supposed to be hunting your Americans.”
“If they’ve got any sense,” Sharpe said, “they’ll be long gone.”
The gate squealed open, boots slammed on the cobbles, and the small force that was intended to cut the French supply-road marched into the cold whiteness of the fog. If his map was right Sharpe reckoned they faced a full day’s march. First they would follow the main road, keeping to its ruts in the blinding fog as far as a bridge at a village called Facture. There they would turn south-east and follow the River Leyre until they reached the supply road. One day on the road to cause what chaos he could, then one day for the return journey.
The Riflemen again outstripped the Marines. Gradually the sound of the horses’ trace-chains faded behind and Sharpe’s men marched amidst the clinging, soft wet fog as if in a silent cloud.
Nothing stirred in Arcachon. The fog half obscured the buildings, the shuttered windows stayed shuttered, but the road led straight through the market-place.
“I wanted to thank you,” Frederickson said, “for your actions last night.”
Sharpe had been lost in the private pain of a stabbing headache. He had to think to remember the events of the night, then he shrugged. “For nothing.”
“I doubt that Bampfylde feels it’s nothing?”
Sharpe gave a dutiful smile. He flinched as a dart of pain stabbed behind his bandaged forehead.
Frederickson saw the flinch. “Are you well, sir?”
“I’m well.” It was said curtly.
Frederickson walked in silence for a few paces. “I doubt Captain Palmer can find the fugitives in this fog.” He spoke in the tones of a man who openly changed the subject.
“Bampfylde’s got the chasse-marees,” Sharpe said, “what the hell else does he want?”
“He wants the American schooner for prize money. Did you ever meet a naval captain who didn’t want prize money?” Frederickson sounded scornful. “The web-foots fight a battle and spend the next ten years in litigation over the division of the spoils.
“We’re marching with you,” Captain Palmer said. He had fifty Marines on parade. He had also taken two of the captured gun-limbers, each harnessed behind a pair of carthorses that had been discovered in a meadow by the village and which now drew the Marines’ packs and supplies. “The men aren’t hardened to marching,” Palmer explained.
“You’re attached to us?” Sharpe asked with surprise.
Palmer shook his head. “We’re supposed to be hunting your Americans.”
“If they’ve got any sense,” Sharpe said, “they’ll be long gone.”
The gate squealed open, boots slammed on the cobbles, and the small force that was intended to cut the French supply-road marched into the cold whiteness of the fog. If his map was right Sharpe reckoned they faced a full day’s march. First they would follow the main road, keeping to its ruts in the blinding fog as far as a bridge at a village called Facture. There they would turn south-east and follow the River Leyre until they reached the supply road. One day on the road to cause what chaos he could, then one day for the return journey.
The Riflemen again outstripped the Marines. Gradually the sound of the horses’ trace-chains faded behind and Sharpe’s men marched amidst the clinging, soft wet fog as if in a silent cloud.
Nothing stirred in Arcachon. The fog half obscured the buildings, the shuttered windows stayed shuttered, but the road led straight through the market-place.
“I wanted to thank you,” Frederickson said, “for your actions last night.”
Sharpe had been lost in the private pain of a stabbing headache. He had to think to remember the events of the night, then he shrugged. “For nothing.”
“I doubt that Bampfylde feels it’s nothing?”
Sharpe gave a dutiful smile. He flinched as a dart of pain stabbed behind his bandaged forehead.
Frederickson saw the flinch. “Are you well, sir?”
“I’m well.” It was said curtly.
Frederickson walked in silence for a few paces. “I doubt Captain Palmer can find the fugitives in this fog.” He spoke in the tones of a man who openly changed the subject.
“Bampfylde’s got the chasse-marees,” Sharpe said, “what the hell else does he want?”
“He wants the American schooner for prize money. Did you ever meet a naval captain who didn’t want prize money?” Frederickson sounded scornful. “The web-foots fight a battle and spend the next ten years in litigation over the division of the spoils.