Young bloods - Scarrow Simon (читать книги полностью без сокращений txt) 📗

'Damn impudence!'Arthur muttered, refusing to respond as he quickened his pace. From ahead there was a sudden cry and then a chorus of cheers. As he reached the corner of the fort Arthur could see some men in red jackets scattered over a rough patch of fenced pasture. In one corner a few cattle looked on as they grazed. Captain Fitzroy was talking earnestly to a young ensign, a cricket bat held in his hands as if it was a felling axe. To one side, stood a corporal, grinning as he casually tossed a ball in one hand.

'I'm telling you,' Fitzroy said loudly,'that was clearly a no-ball.'

The ensign shook his head. 'Sorry, sir, the ball was properly bowled.You're out.'

'Damn it, sir! The man's arm was not straight when he bowled.'

'The ball was good. And, if I may presume to say, it is bad form to argue with the umpire. Now if you would be so good as to leave the field, sir?'

Fitzroy glared back and seemed to be on the verge of exploding with rage when he caught sight of his colonel making his way along the rampart to the sallyport.

'Very well, damn you.' Fitzroy flipped the bat over and held it, handle first to the umpire. 'But you've not heard the last of this, Partridge.'

He strode across the field towards a pile of coats and snatched one up as he hurried on to the fort and met his commander just as Arthur emerged through the sallyport.

'Morning, sir.' Fitzroy saluted as he struggled into his greatcoat.

'Good morning.' Arthur nodded. 'What's the meaning of this?'

'The cricket? Just thought it would do some good for morale. Keep some of the men occupied for a day. There's not much else to do.'

'No.' Arthur admitted, with a weary look at the flat landscape.

'I should think the Netherlands in winter is as close as a man can get to a vision of purgatory.'

Fitzroy chuckled. 'You're not wrong there, sir.'

Arthur smiled back, then his expression grew more serious. 'How are things?'

'Not good. The men are on half-rations, and I've given orders to start eating some of the weaker draught animals. We've little enough fodder for them as it is, so they might as well do some good. Any sign of our supplies turning up?'

'No. None at all.'Arthur tugged the collar of his coat up.'I rode to headquarters yesterday to see what the delay is. Fifteen miles back from the Waal.' He shook his head. 'It's a different world.The general and his staff have got themselves a comfortable house with fine grounds. Fires ablaze in every room, fine wines, the best food to be found in this country, as well as the prettiest whores.'

Fitzroy's eyebrows flickered in surprise, before envy took hold. 'Bet those idle bastards are shagging themselves silly.'

'No doubt. But it seems to be about the only thing they are doing. I spoke to the head of the commissariat, once I had prised him off some filly. Told him what we needed. He said he'd see to it as soon as possible. Which means we'll be lucky if we get any more rations before Christmas.'

'Christmas!' Fitzroy shook his head and swore softly. 'I doubt there'll be anyone but skeletons left in the fort by then. Of course,' he nodded towards the cows, 'we could eat them.'

'No. Out of the question.You know the Duke's recent orders. It's a court martial for anyone caught looting Dutch property.'

'Just one cow,' Fitzroy pleaded. 'We'll tell the locals it ran into the river and was swept away.'

'No. Don't even joke about it.'

'Who's joking?'

'Enough!' Arthur waved his hand impatiently. 'Now, tell me, what's your strength?'

'As of this morning, fifty-three effectives. Eighteen unfit for duty. Twelve of those have typhoid fever and won't live the week out. I've put them in a tent in one corner of the fort to keep them away from the other men. So I'm well under half strength. God help us if the French attack.'

'They won't. Not with the Waal between us and them.'

'And if it freezes? What then?'

'Then?' Arthur shook his head slightly. 'Then, they might just walk in and take what's left of the Netherlands. Of course, any normal army would stay in its winter quarters and wait for spring. But the French? I just don't know. They are fighting a new kind of war, and might just continue their offensive the moment they can cross the Waal. So, we had better pray for a mild winter.'

'I'll pray, but it's already damned cold, and I'll swear it's getting colder every day.'

'Yes.' Arthur agreed wearily. 'One way or another this winter might kill us all. Half our men are too sick to fight, all of them are hungry and – you haven't heard the worst of it yet – the government are recalling seven of the regiments from Flanders to reinforce the army in the West Indies.'

Fitzroy shook his head in astonishment. 'But that's complete madness. We're badly outnumbered as it is. Seven regiments? It's crazy. Besides, they'll drop like flies once the yellow fever sets in.'

'Maybe. But if they stay here, they'll perish like the rest of us from cold, hunger and neglect.'

'Neglect? Yes. I suppose that's true,' Fitzroy mused. 'I had a letter from my sister last week. She said that the London papers seem to be ignoring events in Flanders – almost as if we are an embarrassment. Only a handful of organisations are collecting coats and blankets to send us for the winter. I tell you, it's almost as if we have been forgotten. The forgotten army – that's us.'

Arthur leaned against the palisade and nodded towards the far bank of the Waal. 'Maybe. But those people over there haven't forgotten us, and when the time comes I just hope we're still strong enough to give them something to remember us by.'

Fitzroy glanced at him and chuckled. 'Ever the professional.'

'Professional?' Arthur frowned. His class was inclined to look upon that term as perjorative. But, he relented, Fitzroy was right. Soldiering was a profession. It needed to be if Britain was to survive this war against the bloody anarchy of revolution.The sad condition of the army in Flanders was ample proof of the failure of a system that offered commissions for sale, and relied on private contractors to supply its soldiers in the field. The avarice of such men would surely destroy Britain, unless the war was conducted in a more professional manner. To that end, to ultimate victory, Arthur had committed himself. So yes, he decided, he was a professional soldier.The pity of it was that so many other officers were not. He glanced at Fitzroy and smiled. 'One might as well excel at soldiering as anything else.'

'Sir, I meant no offence. The truth of it is that I'm lucky to serve under someone like you. That goes for all of us. I've heard the men say as much.'

'Yes, well…' Arthur's words stumbled awkwardly as he stiffened up and glanced round the interior of the fort. 'Well, I must get on. There's still several forts to see. You seem to have things in order here, Fitzroy.'

'Yes, sir.' Fitzroy could not help smiling at his superior's discomfort over the small praise he had offered. Lesser men would have taken it as their due.

Arthur coughed. He gestured towards the men still playing cricket as there was a divided chorus of cheers and groans. 'You'd better get back to the game. Looks like your fellows have just lost another wicket.'

'What?' Fitzroy whipped round. 'Damn! Excuse me, sir.'

He quickly saluted and hurried off to join his men. Arthur watched him for a moment, still pondering over Fitzroy's words. Even though Arthur told himself that the man was a fool to overestimate his competence, he could not help feeling a warm glow of satisfaction that the men had taken to him. As he strolled back along the rampart the French sentry on the far bank waved his hat again. Arthur hesitated a moment, and then, with an amused smile, he briefly doffed his hat and made his way down into the fort and returned to where his horse was tethered.