JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 182 из 223Others ran downthe stone ramp into the courtyard.
Frederickson had brought a dozen Riflemen halfway down the southern rampart and he drilled them as if they were on the training ground at Shorncliffe. Aim, load, fire, aim, load, fire, and every volley flailed into the French who still swarmed up the ladders on to the battlements.
The French on the rampart, hearing a cheer as their comrades spilt down the ramp, gave ground before Sharpe. If the courtyard was taken then there would be no need to fight this savage Rifleman whose face was black with powder. His eyes glittered against darkened skin and his teeth were bared.
Sharpe sensed that the fight on the rampart was dying as men, on both sides, let their fear of cold steel bring them caution. He dared not let it die. He shouted his Marines to charge again, trampled over the French lieutenant’s body, and stabbed a French sergeant, wrenched the blade free of the clinging flesh, and his Marines drove into the newly made gap with blades jabbing at the enemy in quick, professional lunges.
Shots sounded in the courtyard. There was a scream, then the bellow of a vast gun that told Sharpe Harper was in action.
Another volley came from Frederickson.
The rampart’s stones were slick with blood. A Marine slipped and a tall Frenchman, carrying an engineer’s axe, killed the fallen man with a single blow. The axeman gave the enemy new spirit and drove deep into Sharpe’s men.
Sharpe knew the fort was lost if the axeman lived. He lunged at the man and his sword rammed itself between the man’s ribs, grated, then a French hand gripped Sharpe’s blade, blood showed at his fingers, but the man held on, tugged, and another man clawed at Sharpe’s face. A bayonet stabbed his thigh, Sharpe fell backwards, sword lost in the melee, and a Frenchman’s breath was in his face and fingers were at his throat. Sharpe was on his back now, driven there by two Frenchmen. He brought up his knee and clawed his fingers at the man who tried to choke him. The man screamed as Sharpe’s fingers closed in his left eye.
There was no skill left, no order, just a bitter mass of men who ripped at each other with blades, kicked and clawed and stabbed again. A Marine sergeant, shouting an incomprehensible challenge, bayoneted one of Sharpe’s assailants and kicked the other in the face. The axeman, choking on blood in his lungs, fell sideways and two Marines grunted as they forced bayonets into his trunk. Somewhere a man sobbed, and another screamed.
Sharpe twisted up and, his sword lost, picked up the wide-bladed axe.
Frederickson had brought a dozen Riflemen halfway down the southern rampart and he drilled them as if they were on the training ground at Shorncliffe. Aim, load, fire, aim, load, fire, and every volley flailed into the French who still swarmed up the ladders on to the battlements.
The French on the rampart, hearing a cheer as their comrades spilt down the ramp, gave ground before Sharpe. If the courtyard was taken then there would be no need to fight this savage Rifleman whose face was black with powder. His eyes glittered against darkened skin and his teeth were bared.
Sharpe sensed that the fight on the rampart was dying as men, on both sides, let their fear of cold steel bring them caution. He dared not let it die. He shouted his Marines to charge again, trampled over the French lieutenant’s body, and stabbed a French sergeant, wrenched the blade free of the clinging flesh, and his Marines drove into the newly made gap with blades jabbing at the enemy in quick, professional lunges.
Shots sounded in the courtyard. There was a scream, then the bellow of a vast gun that told Sharpe Harper was in action.
Another volley came from Frederickson.
The rampart’s stones were slick with blood. A Marine slipped and a tall Frenchman, carrying an engineer’s axe, killed the fallen man with a single blow. The axeman gave the enemy new spirit and drove deep into Sharpe’s men.
Sharpe knew the fort was lost if the axeman lived. He lunged at the man and his sword rammed itself between the man’s ribs, grated, then a French hand gripped Sharpe’s blade, blood showed at his fingers, but the man held on, tugged, and another man clawed at Sharpe’s face. A bayonet stabbed his thigh, Sharpe fell backwards, sword lost in the melee, and a Frenchman’s breath was in his face and fingers were at his throat. Sharpe was on his back now, driven there by two Frenchmen. He brought up his knee and clawed his fingers at the man who tried to choke him. The man screamed as Sharpe’s fingers closed in his left eye.
There was no skill left, no order, just a bitter mass of men who ripped at each other with blades, kicked and clawed and stabbed again. A Marine sergeant, shouting an incomprehensible challenge, bayoneted one of Sharpe’s assailants and kicked the other in the face. The axeman, choking on blood in his lungs, fell sideways and two Marines grunted as they forced bayonets into his trunk. Somewhere a man sobbed, and another screamed.
Sharpe twisted up and, his sword lost, picked up the wide-bladed axe.