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Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 17 из 213He primed the gun, aimed, and inhis mind was the memory of Rifleman Plunkett who, four years before, had sent a bullet a full and astonishing eight hundred yards to kill a French General. Plunkett was a legend in his regiment, the 95th, because the Baker Rifle was not reckoned to be truly accurate much over two hundred yards, and now Hagman had a clear sight of his target just a hundred yards away.
He smiled. At this range he could pick his spot, and he chose the lower spine, letting the foresight settle a little above it, letting half his breath out, holding it, and then he squeezed the trigger.
He could not miss at that range. The rifle slammed into his shoulder, smoke jetting from pan and muzzle, the burning powder stinging his cheek.
The canister screamed onto the bridge, four cannon-loads fired at once, and Hagman never knew what happened to his bullet. It never reached Delmas. Somewhere in the metal over the bridge the bullet was lost, a freak chance, but Delmas still lived, still limped on towards the safety of the far bank.
Yet there was still a chance. The fortresses were built on top of the hill above the river and once the bridge was close to the northern bank the guns could not see the roadway. In a few more yards, Sharpe knew, he would be able to stand up and run in safety, and Delmas knew it too. The Frenchman forced himself on, ignoring the pain, refusing to be beaten, and he managed to force his hurting body into a slow run that took him even further ahead.
Then it seemed that everything would be lost. There were shouts ahead and Sharpe looked up to see blue uniforms running down the hill towards the bridge. Voltigeurs! French Light infantry, their red epaulettes distinctive in the sunlight, and Sharpe swore for he knew that these troops had been sent out of the fortresses to see Delmas to safety. A dozen Frenchmen were coming down the hill, while others waited at its crest.
Sharpe crawled, pushing himself on, Harper’s breathing hoarse behind him. It truly did seem hopeless now. The Voltigeurs would reach Delmas long before Sharpe or Harper could, but he would not give up. A shard of stone, chipped by a canister strike, clanged on the metal scabbard of his sword while another skinned across his knuckles and drew bright blood.
The Voltigeurs were at the bridge’s end, lining it, fumbling their muskets into the firing position, and Delmas was just feet away. A rifle bullet cracked past Sharpe, he saw a French Voltigeur duck away from the passing of the bullet, and then another Frenchman pitched forward. Forward! Sharpe looked up.
He smiled. At this range he could pick his spot, and he chose the lower spine, letting the foresight settle a little above it, letting half his breath out, holding it, and then he squeezed the trigger.
He could not miss at that range. The rifle slammed into his shoulder, smoke jetting from pan and muzzle, the burning powder stinging his cheek.
The canister screamed onto the bridge, four cannon-loads fired at once, and Hagman never knew what happened to his bullet. It never reached Delmas. Somewhere in the metal over the bridge the bullet was lost, a freak chance, but Delmas still lived, still limped on towards the safety of the far bank.
Yet there was still a chance. The fortresses were built on top of the hill above the river and once the bridge was close to the northern bank the guns could not see the roadway. In a few more yards, Sharpe knew, he would be able to stand up and run in safety, and Delmas knew it too. The Frenchman forced himself on, ignoring the pain, refusing to be beaten, and he managed to force his hurting body into a slow run that took him even further ahead.
Then it seemed that everything would be lost. There were shouts ahead and Sharpe looked up to see blue uniforms running down the hill towards the bridge. Voltigeurs! French Light infantry, their red epaulettes distinctive in the sunlight, and Sharpe swore for he knew that these troops had been sent out of the fortresses to see Delmas to safety. A dozen Frenchmen were coming down the hill, while others waited at its crest.
Sharpe crawled, pushing himself on, Harper’s breathing hoarse behind him. It truly did seem hopeless now. The Voltigeurs would reach Delmas long before Sharpe or Harper could, but he would not give up. A shard of stone, chipped by a canister strike, clanged on the metal scabbard of his sword while another skinned across his knuckles and drew bright blood.
The Voltigeurs were at the bridge’s end, lining it, fumbling their muskets into the firing position, and Delmas was just feet away. A rifle bullet cracked past Sharpe, he saw a French Voltigeur duck away from the passing of the bullet, and then another Frenchman pitched forward. Forward! Sharpe looked up.