JК
Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 172 из 244Harper slid down the graveyard's slope to land beside Sharpe. "Jesus," the Irishman said, "Jesus."
"Bad in there." Sharpe nodded down to the village. He primed the rifle, then upended the weapon to charge the muzzle. He had left his ramrod conveniently propped against the grave.
"More of the buggers coming over the stream," Harper said. He bit a bullet and was forced to silence until he could spit it into the rifle. "That poor lieutenant. Died."
"It was a chest wound," Sharpe said, ramming the ball and charge hard down the barrel. "Not many survive chest wounds."
"I stayed with the poor bugger," Harper said. "His mother's a widow, he told me. She sold the family plate to buy his uniform and sword, then said he'd be as great a soldier as any there was."
"He was good," Sharpe said. "He kept his nerve." He cocked the rifle.
"I told him that. Gave him a prayer. Poor wee bugger. First battle, too." Harper pulled the trigger. "Got you, you bastard," he said and immediately fished a new cartridge from his pouch while he pulled the hammer to half cock. More British defenders were emerging from between the houses, forced out of the village by the sheer weight of French numbers. "They should send some more men down there," Harper said.
"They're coming," Sharpe said. He laid the rifle's barrel on the gravestone and looked for a target.
"Taking their time, though," Harper said. On this occasion he did not spit the bullet into the rifle, but first wrapped it in the small patch of greased leather that would grip the barrel's rifling and so make the ball spin as it was fired. It took longer to load such a round, but it made the Baker rifle far more accurate. The Irishman grunted as he forced the patched bullet down the barrel that was caked with the deposits of gunpowder. "There's some boiling water behind the church," he said, telling Sharpe where to go if he needed to clean the fouled powder from his rifle's barrel.
"I'll piss down it if I have to."
"If you've got any piss. I'm dry as a dead rat. Jesus, you bastard." This was addressed at a bearded Frenchman who had appeared between two of the houses where he was beating down a greenjacket with a pioneer's axe. Sharpe, already loaded, took aim through the sudden spray of the dying rifleman's blood and pulled the trigger, but at least a dozen other greenjackets in the churchyard had seen the incident and the bearded Frenchman seemed to quiver as the bullets whipped home. "That'll teach him," Harper said, and laid his rifle on the stone.
"Bad in there." Sharpe nodded down to the village. He primed the rifle, then upended the weapon to charge the muzzle. He had left his ramrod conveniently propped against the grave.
"More of the buggers coming over the stream," Harper said. He bit a bullet and was forced to silence until he could spit it into the rifle. "That poor lieutenant. Died."
"It was a chest wound," Sharpe said, ramming the ball and charge hard down the barrel. "Not many survive chest wounds."
"I stayed with the poor bugger," Harper said. "His mother's a widow, he told me. She sold the family plate to buy his uniform and sword, then said he'd be as great a soldier as any there was."
"He was good," Sharpe said. "He kept his nerve." He cocked the rifle.
"I told him that. Gave him a prayer. Poor wee bugger. First battle, too." Harper pulled the trigger. "Got you, you bastard," he said and immediately fished a new cartridge from his pouch while he pulled the hammer to half cock. More British defenders were emerging from between the houses, forced out of the village by the sheer weight of French numbers. "They should send some more men down there," Harper said.
"They're coming," Sharpe said. He laid the rifle's barrel on the gravestone and looked for a target.
"Taking their time, though," Harper said. On this occasion he did not spit the bullet into the rifle, but first wrapped it in the small patch of greased leather that would grip the barrel's rifling and so make the ball spin as it was fired. It took longer to load such a round, but it made the Baker rifle far more accurate. The Irishman grunted as he forced the patched bullet down the barrel that was caked with the deposits of gunpowder. "There's some boiling water behind the church," he said, telling Sharpe where to go if he needed to clean the fouled powder from his rifle's barrel.
"I'll piss down it if I have to."
"If you've got any piss. I'm dry as a dead rat. Jesus, you bastard." This was addressed at a bearded Frenchman who had appeared between two of the houses where he was beating down a greenjacket with a pioneer's axe. Sharpe, already loaded, took aim through the sudden spray of the dying rifleman's blood and pulled the trigger, but at least a dozen other greenjackets in the churchyard had seen the incident and the bearded Frenchman seemed to quiver as the bullets whipped home. "That'll teach him," Harper said, and laid his rifle on the stone.