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Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 16 из 213Patrick Harper, the huge Irishman, was one of the few men who had the brute strength to use one, and now he aimed the stubby, bunched barrels at the pantalooned figure that was limping beneath the arch of the small fortress.
He pulled the trigger and the gun belched smoke, bullets, and burning wadding that fell onto Sharpe’s neck. It was a deadly gun at close range, but at fifty yards, the distance of Delmas’s lead, it would be a lucky bullet that hit. A single word over Sharpe’s head told him the Irishman had missed.
“Come on!”
A half dozen Riflemen had crawled onto the bridge after Sharpe and Harper, the rest stayed in the lee of the buildings and frantically loaded their weapons in hope of a clear shot. Sharpe pushed on, cursing the canister that screamed above the roadway. One ball, freakishly ricocheting from the far parapet, struck his boot heel, and Sharpe swore. “We’ll have to bloody run, Patrick.”
“Sweet Jesus!” The Donegal accent could not hide his feelings about running through the storm of shot. Harper touched the crucifix he wore about his neck. Since he had met Isabella, the Spanish girl he had saved from the rape at Badajoz, he had become more religious. The two might live in mortal sin, but Isabella made sure her huge man paid some respect to their church. “Say the word, sir.”
Sharpe waited for another grinding barrelful of canister to crash onto the roadway. “Now!”
They sprinted, Sharpe’s sword heavy in his pumping arm, and the air seemed filled with the sound of death and the fear rose in him, fear at this ghastly way of dying, hit by canister and unable to strike back. He skidded into the safety of the small archway beneath the fortress and fell against the wall. “God!”
They had survived, God only knew how, but he would not try it again. The air had seemed thick with shot. “We’ll have to bloody crawl, Patrick.”
“Anything you say, sir.”
Daniel Hagman, the oldest man in Sharpe’s Company, and the best sharpshooter in the Battalion, methodically loaded his rifle. He had been a poacher in his native Cheshire, caught one dark night, and he had left wife and family to join the army rather than face the awful justice meted out by the Assizes. He did not use a cartridge with its rough powder, instead he measured his charge from the fine powder kept in his Rifleman’s horn, and then he selected a bullet and rammed it down the barrel. He had wrapped the bullet in a greased leather patch, a patch that would grip the rifling when the gun was fired and give a spin to the bullet which made the weapon so much more accurate than the smooth-bore musket.
He pulled the trigger and the gun belched smoke, bullets, and burning wadding that fell onto Sharpe’s neck. It was a deadly gun at close range, but at fifty yards, the distance of Delmas’s lead, it would be a lucky bullet that hit. A single word over Sharpe’s head told him the Irishman had missed.
“Come on!”
A half dozen Riflemen had crawled onto the bridge after Sharpe and Harper, the rest stayed in the lee of the buildings and frantically loaded their weapons in hope of a clear shot. Sharpe pushed on, cursing the canister that screamed above the roadway. One ball, freakishly ricocheting from the far parapet, struck his boot heel, and Sharpe swore. “We’ll have to bloody run, Patrick.”
“Sweet Jesus!” The Donegal accent could not hide his feelings about running through the storm of shot. Harper touched the crucifix he wore about his neck. Since he had met Isabella, the Spanish girl he had saved from the rape at Badajoz, he had become more religious. The two might live in mortal sin, but Isabella made sure her huge man paid some respect to their church. “Say the word, sir.”
Sharpe waited for another grinding barrelful of canister to crash onto the roadway. “Now!”
They sprinted, Sharpe’s sword heavy in his pumping arm, and the air seemed filled with the sound of death and the fear rose in him, fear at this ghastly way of dying, hit by canister and unable to strike back. He skidded into the safety of the small archway beneath the fortress and fell against the wall. “God!”
They had survived, God only knew how, but he would not try it again. The air had seemed thick with shot. “We’ll have to bloody crawl, Patrick.”
“Anything you say, sir.”
Daniel Hagman, the oldest man in Sharpe’s Company, and the best sharpshooter in the Battalion, methodically loaded his rifle. He had been a poacher in his native Cheshire, caught one dark night, and he had left wife and family to join the army rather than face the awful justice meted out by the Assizes. He did not use a cartridge with its rough powder, instead he measured his charge from the fine powder kept in his Rifleman’s horn, and then he selected a bullet and rammed it down the barrel. He had wrapped the bullet in a greased leather patch, a patch that would grip the rifling when the gun was fired and give a spin to the bullet which made the weapon so much more accurate than the smooth-bore musket.