JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 68 из 223The ditch water, fed by a rivulet from the millstream, seemed shallow enough, but it would still be a cloying obstacle to men trying to assault the gaunt, rough-faced wall of the fort’s enceinte.
The fortress guns bellowed to Sharpe’s left, jetting smoke and flame towards the frigate that was now beyond Cap Ferrat. The battle had become a long-range duel as Grant teased the fort and, doubtless, cursed the land force for their late arrival.
“What’s the crapaud bastard doing?” Harper growled softly.
“Gone to fetch the officer of the guard?” Sharpe guessed. Harper shivered. The light was dying in the west, a cold evening promised frost in the night, and the huge Irishman was stripped to the waist. “Not long now,” Sharpe said, the words spoken more in nervousness than for comfort.
Suddenly a bolt clanged, scraped, then a bar thudded to the ground from its brackets.
“Christ!” Frederickson’s voice betrayed relief that their ruse, so quickly devised and then made possible by Harper’s pain, was working.
“Wait for my word.” Sharpe said it softly as he saw Harper’s muscles, beneath their crazed and shivering quilt of dried blood, suddenly tense.
The hinges of the gate squealed like a tormented soul. Lieutenant Minver, two hundred yards away, would see the huge door leafing open and should already be moving. “Now,” Sharpe said.
The French guard was eager to help the wounded man. The guard himself was injured, his leg setting in plaster, and he gestured at the cast as if to explain the slowness with which he tugged the huge, iron-studded gate open.
Harper, rolling from the cart, did not see the thick plaster on the man’s leg, nor did he see the welcoming, reassuring smile; he only saw a man in an enemy jacket, a man who barred a door that must be opened, and Harper came up from the roadway with a sword-bayonet in his right hand and the Frenchman gave a horrid, pathetic sigh as the twenty-three inch blade, held like a long dagger, ripped into his belly. Sharpe saw the blood spilling like water on the cobbles of the archway as he pushed his full weight on to the half-opened gate.
Harper twisted the bayonet free and left the guard bleeding and twitching on the drawbridge. He kicked the man’s musket into the ditch, then fetched his rifle and seven-barrelled gun from the cart. Frederickson, sword in hand, dragged the empty handcart into the tunnel that pierced the ramparts. No one had seen them, no one raised the alarm; they had taken the garrison utterly by surprise.
Sharpe bolted both doors open.
The fortress guns bellowed to Sharpe’s left, jetting smoke and flame towards the frigate that was now beyond Cap Ferrat. The battle had become a long-range duel as Grant teased the fort and, doubtless, cursed the land force for their late arrival.
“What’s the crapaud bastard doing?” Harper growled softly.
“Gone to fetch the officer of the guard?” Sharpe guessed. Harper shivered. The light was dying in the west, a cold evening promised frost in the night, and the huge Irishman was stripped to the waist. “Not long now,” Sharpe said, the words spoken more in nervousness than for comfort.
Suddenly a bolt clanged, scraped, then a bar thudded to the ground from its brackets.
“Christ!” Frederickson’s voice betrayed relief that their ruse, so quickly devised and then made possible by Harper’s pain, was working.
“Wait for my word.” Sharpe said it softly as he saw Harper’s muscles, beneath their crazed and shivering quilt of dried blood, suddenly tense.
The hinges of the gate squealed like a tormented soul. Lieutenant Minver, two hundred yards away, would see the huge door leafing open and should already be moving. “Now,” Sharpe said.
The French guard was eager to help the wounded man. The guard himself was injured, his leg setting in plaster, and he gestured at the cast as if to explain the slowness with which he tugged the huge, iron-studded gate open.
Harper, rolling from the cart, did not see the thick plaster on the man’s leg, nor did he see the welcoming, reassuring smile; he only saw a man in an enemy jacket, a man who barred a door that must be opened, and Harper came up from the roadway with a sword-bayonet in his right hand and the Frenchman gave a horrid, pathetic sigh as the twenty-three inch blade, held like a long dagger, ripped into his belly. Sharpe saw the blood spilling like water on the cobbles of the archway as he pushed his full weight on to the half-opened gate.
Harper twisted the bayonet free and left the guard bleeding and twitching on the drawbridge. He kicked the man’s musket into the ditch, then fetched his rifle and seven-barrelled gun from the cart. Frederickson, sword in hand, dragged the empty handcart into the tunnel that pierced the ramparts. No one had seen them, no one raised the alarm; they had taken the garrison utterly by surprise.
Sharpe bolted both doors open.