JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 114 из 242Vicente was gaining on Sharpe who dragged his sword free of its scabbard, pushed himself away fromthe boulder and forced himself on again. Lightning flickered to the east, outlining black hills and a sky slanting with water. The thunder crackled across the heavens, filling them with angry noise, and Sharpe felt as though he were climbing into the heart of the storm, climbing to join the gods of war. The gale tore at him. His shako was long gone. The wind shrieked, moaned, was drowned by thunder and burdened by rain and Sharpe thought he would never reach the top and suddenly he was beside the first wall, the place where the path zigzagged between two of the small redoubts his men had built, and a dagger of lightning stabbed down into the void that opened wet and dark to his right. For a wild second he thought the hilltop was empty and then he saw the flash of a blade reflecting the storm’s white fire and knew the French were already there.
Dulong’s voltigeurs had arrived just seconds before and had taken the watchtower, but they had not had time to occupy the northernmost redoubts where Sharpe’s men now appeared. „Throw them out!” Dulong roared at his men.
„Kill the bastards!” Sharpe shouted and his blade scraped along a bayonet, jarred against the muzzle of the musket and he threw himself forward, driving the man back, and hammered his forehead against the man’s nose and the first riflemen were past him and the blades were ringing in the near dark. Sharpe banged the hilt of his sword into the face of the man he had put down, plucked the musket from him and threw it out into the void then pushed on to where a group of Frenchmen were readying to defend the summit. They aimed their muskets and Sharpe hoped to God he was right and that no flintlock would ever fire in this wet fury. Two men struggled to his left and Sharpe slid the sword into a blue jacket, twisting it in the ribs, and the Frenchman threw himself sideways to escape the blade and Sharpe saw it was Harper hammering at the man with a rifle butt.
„God save Ireland.” Harper, wild-eyed, stared up at the French guarding the watchtower.
„We’re going to charge those bastards!” Sharpe shouted at the riflemen coming up behind.
„God save Ireland.”
„Tirezl” a French officer shouted and a dozen flints fell on steel and the sparks flashed and died in the rain.
„Now kill them!” Sharpe roared. „Just bloody kill them!” Because the French were on his hilltop, on his land, and he felt a rage fit to match the anger of the storm-filled sky.
Dulong’s voltigeurs had arrived just seconds before and had taken the watchtower, but they had not had time to occupy the northernmost redoubts where Sharpe’s men now appeared. „Throw them out!” Dulong roared at his men.
„Kill the bastards!” Sharpe shouted and his blade scraped along a bayonet, jarred against the muzzle of the musket and he threw himself forward, driving the man back, and hammered his forehead against the man’s nose and the first riflemen were past him and the blades were ringing in the near dark. Sharpe banged the hilt of his sword into the face of the man he had put down, plucked the musket from him and threw it out into the void then pushed on to where a group of Frenchmen were readying to defend the summit. They aimed their muskets and Sharpe hoped to God he was right and that no flintlock would ever fire in this wet fury. Two men struggled to his left and Sharpe slid the sword into a blue jacket, twisting it in the ribs, and the Frenchman threw himself sideways to escape the blade and Sharpe saw it was Harper hammering at the man with a rifle butt.
„God save Ireland.” Harper, wild-eyed, stared up at the French guarding the watchtower.
„We’re going to charge those bastards!” Sharpe shouted at the riflemen coming up behind.
„God save Ireland.”
„Tirezl” a French officer shouted and a dozen flints fell on steel and the sparks flashed and died in the rain.
„Now kill them!” Sharpe roared. „Just bloody kill them!” Because the French were on his hilltop, on his land, and he felt a rage fit to match the anger of the storm-filled sky.