Read Online Sharpe 18 - Sharpe's Siege by Bernard Cornwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Bernard Cornwell
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kill the British. It is kind of our enemies, is it not, to provide the powers of their own destruction?” He sat beside the fire and stared at the thin, scholarly-faced Lassan. “So, my friend, are the bastards coming?”
“If they want the chasse-mare'es,” Lassan said mildly, “they'll have to come here.”
“And the weather,” the American said, “will let them land safely.” The long Biscay shore, that could thunder with tumbling surf, was this week in gentler mood. The breaking waves beyond the channel were four or five feet high, frightening enough to landlubbers, but not high enough to stop ships' boats from landing.
Lassan, still hoping that his deception would persuade the British that they had no need to land men on the coast to the south, nevertheless acknowledged the possibility. “Indeed.”
“And if they do come by land,” Killick said brutally, “they'll beat you.”
Lassan glanced at the ebony crucifix that hung between his bookshelves. “Perhaps not.”
The American seemed oblivious of Lassan's appeal to the Almighty. “And if they take the fort,” he went on, “they'll command the whole Basin.”
“They will, indeed.”
“And they'll take the Thuella.” Killick said it softly, but in his imagination he was seeing his beautiful ship captured by mocking British sailors. The Thuella would be sailed to England as a prize, and a sleek New England schooner, made to ride the long winds of empty oceans, would become an unloved coasting ship carrying British trade. “By God, they will not take her!”
“We'll do our best,” Lassan said helplessly, though how four gun crews could resist a British attack was indeed a problem that called for a miracle. Lassan did not doubt that his guns could wreak damage, but once the British discovered the guns were manned they would soon land their Marines and surround the fort. And Lassan, because the Emperor had been greedy for men, could not defend the seaward and the landward walls at once.
The grim news made the American silent. He stared at the small fire, his hawk's face frowning, and when he finally spoke his voice was oddly tentative. “What if we fought?”
“You?” Lassan could not hide his surprise.
“We can fight, Henri.” Killick grinned. “And we've got those damned twelve-pounder guns in our hold.” He was suddenly filled with enthusiasm, seizing a map from Lassan's table and weighting its corners with books. “They'll land south of Point Arcachon?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And there are only two routes they can take north. The paths by the beach, or the road!” Killick's face was alight with the thought of action, and Lassan saw that the American was a man who revelled in the simple problems of warfare. Lassan had met other such men; brave men who had made their names famous throughout France and written pages of history through their love of violent action. He wondered what would happen to such men when the war ended.
“You're a sailor,” Lassan said gently, “and fighting on land is not the same as a sea battle.”
“But if the bastards aren't expecting us, Henri! If the pompous bastards think they're safe! Then we ambush them!” Killick was certain his men, trained gunners, could handle the French artillery and he was seeing, in his hopeful imagination, the grapeshot cutting down marching files of British Marines. “By God we can do it, Henri!”
Lassan held up a thin hand to stop the enthusiastic flow. “If you really want to help, Captain Killick, then put your men into the fort.”
“No.” Killick knew only too well what the British would do to a captured privateer's crew. If Killick fought to save the Thuella then he must have a safe retreat in case he was defeated. Yet in his plan to ambush the British on their approach march he could not see any chance of defeat. The enemy Marines would be surprised, flayed by grapeshot, and the Thuella would be safe.
Henri Lassan, staring at the map, wondered whether
“If they want the chasse-mare'es,” Lassan said mildly, “they'll have to come here.”
“And the weather,” the American said, “will let them land safely.” The long Biscay shore, that could thunder with tumbling surf, was this week in gentler mood. The breaking waves beyond the channel were four or five feet high, frightening enough to landlubbers, but not high enough to stop ships' boats from landing.
Lassan, still hoping that his deception would persuade the British that they had no need to land men on the coast to the south, nevertheless acknowledged the possibility. “Indeed.”
“And if they do come by land,” Killick said brutally, “they'll beat you.”
Lassan glanced at the ebony crucifix that hung between his bookshelves. “Perhaps not.”
The American seemed oblivious of Lassan's appeal to the Almighty. “And if they take the fort,” he went on, “they'll command the whole Basin.”
“They will, indeed.”
“And they'll take the Thuella.” Killick said it softly, but in his imagination he was seeing his beautiful ship captured by mocking British sailors. The Thuella would be sailed to England as a prize, and a sleek New England schooner, made to ride the long winds of empty oceans, would become an unloved coasting ship carrying British trade. “By God, they will not take her!”
“We'll do our best,” Lassan said helplessly, though how four gun crews could resist a British attack was indeed a problem that called for a miracle. Lassan did not doubt that his guns could wreak damage, but once the British discovered the guns were manned they would soon land their Marines and surround the fort. And Lassan, because the Emperor had been greedy for men, could not defend the seaward and the landward walls at once.
The grim news made the American silent. He stared at the small fire, his hawk's face frowning, and when he finally spoke his voice was oddly tentative. “What if we fought?”
“You?” Lassan could not hide his surprise.
“We can fight, Henri.” Killick grinned. “And we've got those damned twelve-pounder guns in our hold.” He was suddenly filled with enthusiasm, seizing a map from Lassan's table and weighting its corners with books. “They'll land south of Point Arcachon?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And there are only two routes they can take north. The paths by the beach, or the road!” Killick's face was alight with the thought of action, and Lassan saw that the American was a man who revelled in the simple problems of warfare. Lassan had met other such men; brave men who had made their names famous throughout France and written pages of history through their love of violent action. He wondered what would happen to such men when the war ended.
“You're a sailor,” Lassan said gently, “and fighting on land is not the same as a sea battle.”
“But if the bastards aren't expecting us, Henri! If the pompous bastards think they're safe! Then we ambush them!” Killick was certain his men, trained gunners, could handle the French artillery and he was seeing, in his hopeful imagination, the grapeshot cutting down marching files of British Marines. “By God we can do it, Henri!”
Lassan held up a thin hand to stop the enthusiastic flow. “If you really want to help, Captain Killick, then put your men into the fort.”
“No.” Killick knew only too well what the British would do to a captured privateer's crew. If Killick fought to save the Thuella then he must have a safe retreat in case he was defeated. Yet in his plan to ambush the British on their approach march he could not see any chance of defeat. The enemy Marines would be surprised, flayed by grapeshot, and the Thuella would be safe.
Henri Lassan, staring at the map, wondered whether