JК
Sharpes Havoc :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 138 из 242”
The gray streak in the east spread, lightening at its base. Vicente shivered beside Sharpe for the night had turned surprisingly cold. „You think they’re coming?” Vicente asked.
„They’re coming,” Sharpe said. He knew that the howitzer’s ammunition supply was not endless, and there could only have been one reason to keep the gun working through the night and that was to fray his men’s nerves so that they would be easy meat for a morning attack.
And that meant the French would come at dawn.
And the light grew, wan and gray and pale as death, and the tops of the highest clouds were already golden red as the light changed from gray to white and white to gold and gold to red.
And then the killing began.
„Sir! mister Sharpe!”
„I see them!” Dark shapes melding into the dark shadows of the northern slope. It was French infantry or, perhaps, dismounted dragoons, coming to attack. „Rifles! Make ready!” There were clicks as Baker rifles were cocked. „Your men don’t fire, understand?” Sharpe said to Vicente. „Of course,” Vicente said. The muskets would be hopelessly inaccurate at anything more than sixty paces so Sharpe would keep the Portuguese volley as a final defense and let his riflemen teach the French the advantages of the seven lands and seven grooves twisting the quarter turn in the rifle barrels. Vicente was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, betraying the nervousness he felt. He fingered one end of his small mustache and licked his lips. „We wait till they reach that white rock, yes?” „Yes,” Sharpe said, „and why don’t you shave that mustache off?” Vicente stared at him. „Why don’t I shave my mustache?” He could scarcely believe his ears.
„Shave it off,” Sharpe said. „You’d look older. Less like a lawyer. Luis would do it for you.” He had successfully taken Vicente’s mind off his worries, and now he looked east where a mist hung over the low ground. No threat from there, he reckoned, and he had four of his riflemen watching the southern path, but only four because he was fairly certain that the French would concentrate their troops on one side of the hill and, once he was absolutely certain of that, he would bring those four back across to the northern side and let a couple of Vicente’s men guard the southern path. „When you’re ready, lads!” Sharpe called. „But don’t fire high!”
Sharpe did not know it, but the French were late.
The gray streak in the east spread, lightening at its base. Vicente shivered beside Sharpe for the night had turned surprisingly cold. „You think they’re coming?” Vicente asked.
„They’re coming,” Sharpe said. He knew that the howitzer’s ammunition supply was not endless, and there could only have been one reason to keep the gun working through the night and that was to fray his men’s nerves so that they would be easy meat for a morning attack.
And that meant the French would come at dawn.
And the light grew, wan and gray and pale as death, and the tops of the highest clouds were already golden red as the light changed from gray to white and white to gold and gold to red.
And then the killing began.
„Sir! mister Sharpe!”
„I see them!” Dark shapes melding into the dark shadows of the northern slope. It was French infantry or, perhaps, dismounted dragoons, coming to attack. „Rifles! Make ready!” There were clicks as Baker rifles were cocked. „Your men don’t fire, understand?” Sharpe said to Vicente. „Of course,” Vicente said. The muskets would be hopelessly inaccurate at anything more than sixty paces so Sharpe would keep the Portuguese volley as a final defense and let his riflemen teach the French the advantages of the seven lands and seven grooves twisting the quarter turn in the rifle barrels. Vicente was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, betraying the nervousness he felt. He fingered one end of his small mustache and licked his lips. „We wait till they reach that white rock, yes?” „Yes,” Sharpe said, „and why don’t you shave that mustache off?” Vicente stared at him. „Why don’t I shave my mustache?” He could scarcely believe his ears.
„Shave it off,” Sharpe said. „You’d look older. Less like a lawyer. Luis would do it for you.” He had successfully taken Vicente’s mind off his worries, and now he looked east where a mist hung over the low ground. No threat from there, he reckoned, and he had four of his riflemen watching the southern path, but only four because he was fairly certain that the French would concentrate their troops on one side of the hill and, once he was absolutely certain of that, he would bring those four back across to the northern side and let a couple of Vicente’s men guard the southern path. „When you’re ready, lads!” Sharpe called. „But don’t fire high!”
Sharpe did not know it, but the French were late.