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Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 211 из 223Harper screamed triumph, defying the French, daring them to come to challenge his blade. He stopped a few feet from the bottom of the ramp, victorious, and the rain dripped pink from the broad-bladed axe that he held in his right hand. He laughed at the French.
“Sergeant!” Sharpe bellowed. “Patrick!”
The longboats, at last, were pushing back to the shore.
“Patrick!” Sharpe cupped his hands. “Come back!”
Harper shouldered the axe. He turned, disdaining to run, and walked slowly up the stone ramp to where Frederickson waited. He turned there and stared down into the courtyard. The officer with the percussion pistol, its barrel charged with powder from a dry horn, slipped a percussion cap over the gun’s nipple, but Calvet, who recognized bravery when he saw it, shook his head. That Rifleman, Calvet thought, should be in the Imperial Guard.
“Citadels!” Sharpe’s shout was sudden in the odd silence that followed Harper’s lone attack. “Retreat! Retreat!”
The Riflemen who had guarded the extremities of the west wall scrambled from their strongholds and ran to the ladders.
Calvet, seeing it, knew his enemy was finished. “Charge!”
“Back! Back! Back!” Sharpe pushed his men away. Now the French could have the fort, but now came the worst moment, the difficult moment, the end of Sharpe’s battle and the race for the boats.
The Riflemen had no time to queue at the ladders, instead they jumped from the walls and fell headlong in the sand. Sharpe waited, standing in one of the embrasures with his sword drawn. Harper came to his side but Sharpe snarled at him to go.
The French charged over the bodies of the dead. They wanted revenge, but found an empty rampart. Empty but for the one officer, sword drawn, whose face was like death. That face checked them for a few seconds, enough to let Sharpe’s men scramble towards the sea’s edge.
Then Sharpe turned and jumped.
The landing knocked all the breath from him. He pitched forward, rifle falling from his shoulder, and his face hit the wet sand.
A hand grabbed his collar and hauled him up. Harper’s voice shouted, “Run!”
Sharpe’s mouth was filled with gritty sand. He spat. He stumbled on the body of one of the Frenchmen dumped on this strip of sand the day before, sprawled, then ran again. His shako was gone. Frenchmen were standing on the ramparts above while to his right, from the north, the cavalry appeared.
The two longboats, oars rising and falling with painful slowness, inched towards the small breaking waves of the channel’s beach.
“Sergeant!” Sharpe bellowed. “Patrick!”
The longboats, at last, were pushing back to the shore.
“Patrick!” Sharpe cupped his hands. “Come back!”
Harper shouldered the axe. He turned, disdaining to run, and walked slowly up the stone ramp to where Frederickson waited. He turned there and stared down into the courtyard. The officer with the percussion pistol, its barrel charged with powder from a dry horn, slipped a percussion cap over the gun’s nipple, but Calvet, who recognized bravery when he saw it, shook his head. That Rifleman, Calvet thought, should be in the Imperial Guard.
“Citadels!” Sharpe’s shout was sudden in the odd silence that followed Harper’s lone attack. “Retreat! Retreat!”
The Riflemen who had guarded the extremities of the west wall scrambled from their strongholds and ran to the ladders.
Calvet, seeing it, knew his enemy was finished. “Charge!”
“Back! Back! Back!” Sharpe pushed his men away. Now the French could have the fort, but now came the worst moment, the difficult moment, the end of Sharpe’s battle and the race for the boats.
The Riflemen had no time to queue at the ladders, instead they jumped from the walls and fell headlong in the sand. Sharpe waited, standing in one of the embrasures with his sword drawn. Harper came to his side but Sharpe snarled at him to go.
The French charged over the bodies of the dead. They wanted revenge, but found an empty rampart. Empty but for the one officer, sword drawn, whose face was like death. That face checked them for a few seconds, enough to let Sharpe’s men scramble towards the sea’s edge.
Then Sharpe turned and jumped.
The landing knocked all the breath from him. He pitched forward, rifle falling from his shoulder, and his face hit the wet sand.
A hand grabbed his collar and hauled him up. Harper’s voice shouted, “Run!”
Sharpe’s mouth was filled with gritty sand. He spat. He stumbled on the body of one of the Frenchmen dumped on this strip of sand the day before, sprawled, then ran again. His shako was gone. Frenchmen were standing on the ramparts above while to his right, from the north, the cavalry appeared.
The two longboats, oars rising and falling with painful slowness, inched towards the small breaking waves of the channel’s beach.