JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 212 из 223The first Riflemen were in the water,wading towards the boats, reaching for them.
Cornelius Killick, in the leading boat, bellowed an order and Sharpe saw the oars back, saw the clumsy boats swing, and he knew that Killick was turning the craft so that the wider sterns would face the shore.
“Form line!” Frederickson was shouting.
Sharpe swerved towards the shout, pawing sand from his eyes. Thirty Riflemen were bumping into a crude line at the very edge of the sea. Sharpe and Harper joined it.
“Front rank kneel! Present!” Frederickson, as if on a battlefield, faced the cavalry with two ranks that bristled with blades. The leading horseman, an officer, leaned from his saddle to swing his sabre, but the light blade clanged along the sword bayonets like a child’s stick dragged on iron palings.
“Back! Back!” Sharpe shouted it.
The small line marched backwards, step by step, into the sea. Waves drove at their calves, their thighs, and the shock of the cold water reached for their groins.
Horsemen spurred into the sea. The horses, frightened by the blades and waves, reared.
“Come on, you bastards!” Killick shouted. “Swim!”
“Break ranks!” Sharpe shouted it. “Go!” He stayed as rearguard. His rifle encumbered him and he let it drop into the water.
A horseman swung a sabre at Sharpe and the Rifleman’s long sword, used with both Sharpe’s hands, broke the man’s forearm. The Frenchman hissed with pain, dropped his sabre, then his horse jerked back towards dry land. Another horseman was twisting his sabre’s point in a Rifleman’s neck. There was blood, splashes, and more yellow-teethed horses plunging into the foam. Harper, still holding the axe, swung it at the horseman who sheered clumsily away while the body of a Rifleman was tugged by the tide. Harper dragged the body towards the boats, not knowing that the man was already dead.
The infantry had jumped from the ramparts and shouted at the cavalry to make way. Sharpe, teeth snarling, dared them to come. He taunted them. He stepped towards them, wanting one of them to try, just one.
“Sir!” a voice shouted from behind. “Sir!”
Sharpe stepped backwards and, seeing it, the French attacked.
A sergeant led them. He was old in war, toughened by years of campaigning, and he knew the Englishman would lunge.
Sharpe lunged. The Frenchman jerked his musket aside, parrying, and bellowed his victory as he thrust forward.
He was still shouting as Sharpe’s sword, which had been twisted over the bayonet’s stab, punctured his belly.
Cornelius Killick, in the leading boat, bellowed an order and Sharpe saw the oars back, saw the clumsy boats swing, and he knew that Killick was turning the craft so that the wider sterns would face the shore.
“Form line!” Frederickson was shouting.
Sharpe swerved towards the shout, pawing sand from his eyes. Thirty Riflemen were bumping into a crude line at the very edge of the sea. Sharpe and Harper joined it.
“Front rank kneel! Present!” Frederickson, as if on a battlefield, faced the cavalry with two ranks that bristled with blades. The leading horseman, an officer, leaned from his saddle to swing his sabre, but the light blade clanged along the sword bayonets like a child’s stick dragged on iron palings.
“Back! Back!” Sharpe shouted it.
The small line marched backwards, step by step, into the sea. Waves drove at their calves, their thighs, and the shock of the cold water reached for their groins.
Horsemen spurred into the sea. The horses, frightened by the blades and waves, reared.
“Come on, you bastards!” Killick shouted. “Swim!”
“Break ranks!” Sharpe shouted it. “Go!” He stayed as rearguard. His rifle encumbered him and he let it drop into the water.
A horseman swung a sabre at Sharpe and the Rifleman’s long sword, used with both Sharpe’s hands, broke the man’s forearm. The Frenchman hissed with pain, dropped his sabre, then his horse jerked back towards dry land. Another horseman was twisting his sabre’s point in a Rifleman’s neck. There was blood, splashes, and more yellow-teethed horses plunging into the foam. Harper, still holding the axe, swung it at the horseman who sheered clumsily away while the body of a Rifleman was tugged by the tide. Harper dragged the body towards the boats, not knowing that the man was already dead.
The infantry had jumped from the ramparts and shouted at the cavalry to make way. Sharpe, teeth snarling, dared them to come. He taunted them. He stepped towards them, wanting one of them to try, just one.
“Sir!” a voice shouted from behind. “Sir!”
Sharpe stepped backwards and, seeing it, the French attacked.
A sergeant led them. He was old in war, toughened by years of campaigning, and he knew the Englishman would lunge.
Sharpe lunged. The Frenchman jerked his musket aside, parrying, and bellowed his victory as he thrust forward.
He was still shouting as Sharpe’s sword, which had been twisted over the bayonet’s stab, punctured his belly.