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Sharpes Escape :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 228 из 283"You see the tree, Pat?" Sharpe asked, and Harper turned on the thwart and grunted confirmation and the two pulled at the heavy oars as another ragged volley crackled from the far bank, then the high, tarred prow of the boat smashed into the dead branches that tangled the backwater formed by the huge, pale trunk. A carbine bullet smacked into the dead wood and another whip-cracked overhead as Vicente pulled the boat farther into the sanctuary made by the fallen tree. Now, so long as they kept their heads down, the dragoons could not see them and could not hit them, but that did not deter the French, who kept up a desultory fire, evidently convinced that sooner or later the boat must reappear.
Vicente got tired of it first. He stood and edged his rifle over the tree. "I must find out if I can still fire a rifle," he said.
"Your left shoulder won't stop you," Sharpe said.
"Fire it accurately, I mean," Vicente said, and bent to the sights. The dragoons were using smoothbore carbines that were even less accurate than a musket, but at this range Vicente's rifle was deadly and he aimed at a mounted man he presumed was an officer. The dragoons had seen him, though whether they saw his gun was doubtful, and a flurry of shots banged from the far bank. None came close. Sharpe was peering over the trunk, curious as to how good a marksman Vicente was. He heard the bang of the rifle and saw the dragoon officer twitch hard back to leave a spray of blood. The man fell sideways.
"Good shooting," Sharpe said, impressed.
"I practiced all last winter," Vicente said. He could fire the rifle well enough, but reloading hurt his wounded shoulder. "If I am to be a leader of a tirador company then I must be a good marksman, yes?"
"Yes," Sharpe said, as a volley of French carbine fire rattled through the dead branches.
"And I won every competition," Vicente said as modestly as he could, "but it was only because of practice." He rammed a new bullet down and stood again. "This time I will kill the horse," he said.
He did, too, and Sharpe and Harper both added bullets into the group of dismounted dragoons. The carbines retaliated with a furious rattle of shots, but all were wasted. Some thumped into the tree, some threw splashes from the river, but most flew harmlessly overhead. Vicente flinched as he reloaded, then calmly shot a man standing up to his knees in the river in hope of closing the range, and the dragoons at last realized that they were making idiots of themselves by offering easy targets to men who were using rifles, and so they ran back to their horses, mounted, and disappeared into the trees.
Sharpe watched the horsemen riding south through the trees as he reloaded. "They'll be waiting for us downstream," he said.
"Unless they're going back to their army." Harper suggested.
Vicente got tired of it first. He stood and edged his rifle over the tree. "I must find out if I can still fire a rifle," he said.
"Your left shoulder won't stop you," Sharpe said.
"Fire it accurately, I mean," Vicente said, and bent to the sights. The dragoons were using smoothbore carbines that were even less accurate than a musket, but at this range Vicente's rifle was deadly and he aimed at a mounted man he presumed was an officer. The dragoons had seen him, though whether they saw his gun was doubtful, and a flurry of shots banged from the far bank. None came close. Sharpe was peering over the trunk, curious as to how good a marksman Vicente was. He heard the bang of the rifle and saw the dragoon officer twitch hard back to leave a spray of blood. The man fell sideways.
"Good shooting," Sharpe said, impressed.
"I practiced all last winter," Vicente said. He could fire the rifle well enough, but reloading hurt his wounded shoulder. "If I am to be a leader of a tirador company then I must be a good marksman, yes?"
"Yes," Sharpe said, as a volley of French carbine fire rattled through the dead branches.
"And I won every competition," Vicente said as modestly as he could, "but it was only because of practice." He rammed a new bullet down and stood again. "This time I will kill the horse," he said.
He did, too, and Sharpe and Harper both added bullets into the group of dismounted dragoons. The carbines retaliated with a furious rattle of shots, but all were wasted. Some thumped into the tree, some threw splashes from the river, but most flew harmlessly overhead. Vicente flinched as he reloaded, then calmly shot a man standing up to his knees in the river in hope of closing the range, and the dragoons at last realized that they were making idiots of themselves by offering easy targets to men who were using rifles, and so they ran back to their horses, mounted, and disappeared into the trees.
Sharpe watched the horsemen riding south through the trees as he reloaded. "They'll be waiting for us downstream," he said.
"Unless they're going back to their army." Harper suggested.