Read Online Sharpe 18 - Sharpe's Siege by Bernard Cornwell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bernard Cornwell
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the American's plan delineated the miracle he had prayed for. If the British did not capture the fort they could not take the chasse-marees, and without the chasse-maries they were trapped behind the rivers running high with winter's flood-waters.
Trapped. And perhaps the Emperor, bloodying his northern enemies, would march south and give the British Army a shattering defeat.
For, though Wellington had conquered every French Marshal or General sent to fight him, he had never faced the Emperor's genius. Lassan wondered if this big, handsome American had found the small answer that would hold up the British just long enough to let the Emperor come south and teach the goddamns a lesson in warfare. Then a pang of realism forced Lassan's mind to contemplate failure. “What will you do, mon ami, if the British win?”
Killick shrugged. “Dismast the Thuella and make her look like a wreck, then pray that the British ignore her. And you, Commandant, what will you do?”
Lassan smiled sadly. “Burn the chasse-marees, of course.” By so doing he would condemn the two hundred men of the crews and their families to penury. The mayor and cure had begged him to preserve the boats which, even in French defeat, would give life and bread to the communities of the Biscay coast, but in defeat Henri Lassan would do his duty. “Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” he said.
“It won't.” Killick brandished his cigar to leave an airy trace of smoke like that made by the burning fuse of an arcing mortar shell. “It's a brilliant idea, Henri! So let the buggers come, eh?”
They drank to victory in a winter's dusk while, far to the south, where they crossed the path of a great convoy tacking the ocean, Richard Sharpe and his small force came north to do battle.
It snowed in the night. Sharpe stood by the stinking tar-coated ratlines on the Amelie's poop deck and watched the flakes whirl around the riding light. The galley fire was still lit forward and it cast a great sheet of flickering red on the foresail. The galley's smoke was taken northwards towards the lights of the Vengeance,
The Amelie was making good time. The helmsman said so, even Captain Tremgar, grunting out of his bunk at two in the morning, agreed. “Never known the old sow to sail so well, sir. Can you not sleep, now?”
“No.”
“I'll be having a drop of rum with you?”
“No, thank you.” Sharpe knew that the merchant Captain was offering a kindness, but he did not want his wits fuddled by drink as well as sleeplessness.
He stood alone by the rail. Sometimes, as the ship leaned to a gust of wind, a lantern would cast a shimmering ray on to a slick, hurrying sea. The snow whirled into nothingness. An hour after Tremgar's brief conversation Sharpe saw a tiny spark of light, very red, far to the east.
“Another ship?” he asked the helmsman.
“Lord love you, no, sir!” The snow-bright wind whirled the helmsman's voice in snatches to Sharpe. “That be land!”
A cottage? A soldier's fire? Sharpe would never know. The spark glimmered, sometimes disappearing altogether, yet then flickering back to crawl at its snail's pace along the dark horizon, and the sight of that far, anonymous light made Sharpe feel the discomfort of a soldier at sea. His imagination, that would plague him in battle, saw the Amelie shipwrecked, saw the great seas piling cold and grey on breaking timbers among which the bodies of his men would be whirled like rats in a barrel. That one small red spark was all that was safe, all that was secure, and he knew he would rather be a hundred miles behind the enemy lines and on firm ground than be on a ship in a treacherous sea.
“You cannot sleep. Nor I.”
Sharpe turned. The ghostly figure of the Comte de Maquerre, hair as white as the great cloak that was clasped with silver at his throat, came towards him. The Comte missed his footing as the Amelie's blunt bow thumped into a larger wave and the tall man had to clutch Sharpe's arm.
Trapped. And perhaps the Emperor, bloodying his northern enemies, would march south and give the British Army a shattering defeat.
For, though Wellington had conquered every French Marshal or General sent to fight him, he had never faced the Emperor's genius. Lassan wondered if this big, handsome American had found the small answer that would hold up the British just long enough to let the Emperor come south and teach the goddamns a lesson in warfare. Then a pang of realism forced Lassan's mind to contemplate failure. “What will you do, mon ami, if the British win?”
Killick shrugged. “Dismast the Thuella and make her look like a wreck, then pray that the British ignore her. And you, Commandant, what will you do?”
Lassan smiled sadly. “Burn the chasse-marees, of course.” By so doing he would condemn the two hundred men of the crews and their families to penury. The mayor and cure had begged him to preserve the boats which, even in French defeat, would give life and bread to the communities of the Biscay coast, but in defeat Henri Lassan would do his duty. “Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” he said.
“It won't.” Killick brandished his cigar to leave an airy trace of smoke like that made by the burning fuse of an arcing mortar shell. “It's a brilliant idea, Henri! So let the buggers come, eh?”
They drank to victory in a winter's dusk while, far to the south, where they crossed the path of a great convoy tacking the ocean, Richard Sharpe and his small force came north to do battle.
It snowed in the night. Sharpe stood by the stinking tar-coated ratlines on the Amelie's poop deck and watched the flakes whirl around the riding light. The galley fire was still lit forward and it cast a great sheet of flickering red on the foresail. The galley's smoke was taken northwards towards the lights of the Vengeance,
The Amelie was making good time. The helmsman said so, even Captain Tremgar, grunting out of his bunk at two in the morning, agreed. “Never known the old sow to sail so well, sir. Can you not sleep, now?”
“No.”
“I'll be having a drop of rum with you?”
“No, thank you.” Sharpe knew that the merchant Captain was offering a kindness, but he did not want his wits fuddled by drink as well as sleeplessness.
He stood alone by the rail. Sometimes, as the ship leaned to a gust of wind, a lantern would cast a shimmering ray on to a slick, hurrying sea. The snow whirled into nothingness. An hour after Tremgar's brief conversation Sharpe saw a tiny spark of light, very red, far to the east.
“Another ship?” he asked the helmsman.
“Lord love you, no, sir!” The snow-bright wind whirled the helmsman's voice in snatches to Sharpe. “That be land!”
A cottage? A soldier's fire? Sharpe would never know. The spark glimmered, sometimes disappearing altogether, yet then flickering back to crawl at its snail's pace along the dark horizon, and the sight of that far, anonymous light made Sharpe feel the discomfort of a soldier at sea. His imagination, that would plague him in battle, saw the Amelie shipwrecked, saw the great seas piling cold and grey on breaking timbers among which the bodies of his men would be whirled like rats in a barrel. That one small red spark was all that was safe, all that was secure, and he knew he would rather be a hundred miles behind the enemy lines and on firm ground than be on a ship in a treacherous sea.
“You cannot sleep. Nor I.”
Sharpe turned. The ghostly figure of the Comte de Maquerre, hair as white as the great cloak that was clasped with silver at his throat, came towards him. The Comte missed his footing as the Amelie's blunt bow thumped into a larger wave and the tall man had to clutch Sharpe's arm.
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