JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 184 из 223AnotherFrenchman, to the left, fumbled with his musket’s lock and Sharpe, not knowing if his captured musket was loaded, pulled the trigger and felt not the slightest surprise as it fired to rip a bloody hole in the man’s throat.
That made a gap. A French sergeant, wise in war, saw Sharpe and lunged, but Sharpe was faster and his bayonet caught the man’s arm, ripped down to bone, and a Marine, at Sharpe’s shoulder, drove his blade into the sergeant’s groin.
The fort could be lost for all Sharpe knew. He only understood that these bloodslick stones must be fought for and that the Marines were fighting like men possessed, overbearing the enemy with a ferocity and confidence that put terror into the French who had to fight them. And terror was the first and chief weapon of war. It was terror that brought this murderous rage beneath the dragon-slayer’s banner that was wind-lifted above the fight.
A scream, prolonged, rising to a shout that would have chilled the horsemen of the devil, sounded beyond the enemy.
Sharpe knew that sound. “Patrick!”
Harper, the courtyard cleansed of the enemy, climbed the ramp that twitched with the wounded thrown down by the cannon. He led a charge of bayonets to the ramparts and the French, assailed on three sides, began to give.
Frenchmen, come to the ladders’ tops with fear, saw that their fear was justified. They forced their way back down, shouting to the men who waited behind that the enemy was imminent. One ladder, its rungs green, broke to tumble six men on to the sand.
Riflemen, sent by Frederickson on to the western rampart, cleared the water bastion and, leaning in its cannon embrasures, enfiladed the ladders. Captain Palmer led more Marines from the north.
“Charge!” Sharpe yelled it unnecessarily, for the victory was clear. The Marines had fought half the length of a rampart and now they carried their blades the rest of the way and the French, who had seen the redcoats snatch victory from defeat, took to the ladders or jumped into the ditch.
Harper had a lunge of his bayonet-tipped rifle deflected into an enemy’s thigh so kept the rifle swinging so that the brass-bound butt smashed the man’s jaw. He kicked him aside, ripped the blade into another man, and saw the rampart was empty of opponents. Marines were kneeling in embrasures to fire at the French conscripts. Captain Palmer, sword red with blood, was standing by the flagstaff that had somehow stood with its trophy of table-linen and uniform sleeves still flying.
“God save Ireland.
That made a gap. A French sergeant, wise in war, saw Sharpe and lunged, but Sharpe was faster and his bayonet caught the man’s arm, ripped down to bone, and a Marine, at Sharpe’s shoulder, drove his blade into the sergeant’s groin.
The fort could be lost for all Sharpe knew. He only understood that these bloodslick stones must be fought for and that the Marines were fighting like men possessed, overbearing the enemy with a ferocity and confidence that put terror into the French who had to fight them. And terror was the first and chief weapon of war. It was terror that brought this murderous rage beneath the dragon-slayer’s banner that was wind-lifted above the fight.
A scream, prolonged, rising to a shout that would have chilled the horsemen of the devil, sounded beyond the enemy.
Sharpe knew that sound. “Patrick!”
Harper, the courtyard cleansed of the enemy, climbed the ramp that twitched with the wounded thrown down by the cannon. He led a charge of bayonets to the ramparts and the French, assailed on three sides, began to give.
Frenchmen, come to the ladders’ tops with fear, saw that their fear was justified. They forced their way back down, shouting to the men who waited behind that the enemy was imminent. One ladder, its rungs green, broke to tumble six men on to the sand.
Riflemen, sent by Frederickson on to the western rampart, cleared the water bastion and, leaning in its cannon embrasures, enfiladed the ladders. Captain Palmer led more Marines from the north.
“Charge!” Sharpe yelled it unnecessarily, for the victory was clear. The Marines had fought half the length of a rampart and now they carried their blades the rest of the way and the French, who had seen the redcoats snatch victory from defeat, took to the ladders or jumped into the ditch.
Harper had a lunge of his bayonet-tipped rifle deflected into an enemy’s thigh so kept the rifle swinging so that the brass-bound butt smashed the man’s jaw. He kicked him aside, ripped the blade into another man, and saw the rampart was empty of opponents. Marines were kneeling in embrasures to fire at the French conscripts. Captain Palmer, sword red with blood, was standing by the flagstaff that had somehow stood with its trophy of table-linen and uniform sleeves still flying.
“God save Ireland.