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Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 99 из 223” Minver returned with five loaves, three eels, and a basket of lentils. “And this is the River Leyre, sir.”
“No meat?” Frederickson was disgusted. Each of the Riflemen carried three days’ supply of dried beef in their packs, but Frederickson, Sharpe knew, was very fond of freshly-killed pork.
“No meat,” Minver said. “Unless they’re hiding it.”
“Of course they’re bloody hiding it,” Frederickson said scathingly. “You want me to go, sir?” He looked hopefully to Sharpe.
“No.” Sharpe was staring back the way they had come where, in the distance, a straggle of redcoats appeared. Sharpe was cold, his head was hurting like the devil, and now he had the Marines on his coat-tails. “Bloody hell!”
“I was hoping you’d be here, sir,” Palmer greeted Sharpe.
“Hoping?”
“If Killick went inland, which seems likely, then we’re better following you. Or going with you.” Palmer grinned, and Sharpe realized that the Marine captain had no intention of hunting Killick and only wanted to be a part of Sharpe’s expedition. Setting an ambush on a high road of France was, to Captain Palmer, a taste of real soldiering, while following some half-armed fugitives in a scramble over a cold marsh was just a waste of time. Palmer’s lieutenant, a thin, vacant youth called Fytch, hovered close to his seniors to overhear Sharpe’s decision.
“I presume, Captain,” Sharpe said carefully, “that you were given a free hand in your search for Captain Killick?”
“Indeed, sir. I was told not to come back till I’d found the scoundrel. Not till Thursday, anyway.”
“Then I can’t stop you accompanying me, can I?” Fifty muskets would be damned useful, so long as the Marines could keep pace with the Riflemen. “We march that way.”
Sharpe pointed south-east into the damp water-meadows that edged the Leyre.
Palmer nodded. “Yes, sir.”
They marched, and if it had not been for his piercing, spiking headache, Sharpe would have been a happy man. For three days he was free to cause chaos, to carry the war, which the French had carried throughout Europe, deep into the heart of France itself. He would dutifully question his prisoners, but Sharpe already knew that he would not recommend an advance on Bordeaux and, if de Maquerre returned with such a recommendation, Sharpe, as senior land officer, would forbid the madness. He felt relieved of care, he was free, he was a soldier released from the leash to fight his own war; to which end, and reinforced with fifty footsore Marines, he marched south-east to set an ambush.
“No meat?” Frederickson was disgusted. Each of the Riflemen carried three days’ supply of dried beef in their packs, but Frederickson, Sharpe knew, was very fond of freshly-killed pork.
“No meat,” Minver said. “Unless they’re hiding it.”
“Of course they’re bloody hiding it,” Frederickson said scathingly. “You want me to go, sir?” He looked hopefully to Sharpe.
“No.” Sharpe was staring back the way they had come where, in the distance, a straggle of redcoats appeared. Sharpe was cold, his head was hurting like the devil, and now he had the Marines on his coat-tails. “Bloody hell!”
“I was hoping you’d be here, sir,” Palmer greeted Sharpe.
“Hoping?”
“If Killick went inland, which seems likely, then we’re better following you. Or going with you.” Palmer grinned, and Sharpe realized that the Marine captain had no intention of hunting Killick and only wanted to be a part of Sharpe’s expedition. Setting an ambush on a high road of France was, to Captain Palmer, a taste of real soldiering, while following some half-armed fugitives in a scramble over a cold marsh was just a waste of time. Palmer’s lieutenant, a thin, vacant youth called Fytch, hovered close to his seniors to overhear Sharpe’s decision.
“I presume, Captain,” Sharpe said carefully, “that you were given a free hand in your search for Captain Killick?”
“Indeed, sir. I was told not to come back till I’d found the scoundrel. Not till Thursday, anyway.”
“Then I can’t stop you accompanying me, can I?” Fifty muskets would be damned useful, so long as the Marines could keep pace with the Riflemen. “We march that way.”
Sharpe pointed south-east into the damp water-meadows that edged the Leyre.
Palmer nodded. “Yes, sir.”
They marched, and if it had not been for his piercing, spiking headache, Sharpe would have been a happy man. For three days he was free to cause chaos, to carry the war, which the French had carried throughout Europe, deep into the heart of France itself. He would dutifully question his prisoners, but Sharpe already knew that he would not recommend an advance on Bordeaux and, if de Maquerre returned with such a recommendation, Sharpe, as senior land officer, would forbid the madness. He felt relieved of care, he was free, he was a soldier released from the leash to fight his own war; to which end, and reinforced with fifty footsore Marines, he marched south-east to set an ambush.