JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 69 из 223His rifle was slung, his sword naked, and at any second he expected a shout of alarm or a musket shot, but the three Riflemenwere undetected. They smiled at each other, made nervous by success, then their ears were punched by the shattering pulse of air as the fortress guns fired towards the Scylla. Harper hefted his seven-barrelled gun. “I’ll teach those bastards how to fire guns.”
“Sergeant!” Sharpe called, but Harper was already running, gun cocked, towards the courtyard.
A shout sounded from the sand-dunes and, at the same instant, two muskets coughed above Sharpe. He realized there must be other guards on the gate’s roof, men who could see Minver’s assault approaching, and Sharpe looked for a route that would take him to the ramparts. A low, arched doorway lay to his right and he ducked through it.
He found himself in a guardroom. A wooden musket rack, varnished and polished, held eight muskets upright. A table was littered with playing cards before a black-leaded potbellied stove that silted smoke from an ill-fitting chimney pipe. Stairs climbed through an arch on the far side of the room and, exchanging his sword for the rifle, Sharpe took the steps at a rush.
He could hear, above him, the rattle of ramrods in barrels. The stairs turned a right angle, the sky was grey overhead, then a moustached face, just ten feet away, turned towards the sound of feet on the stairs and Sharpe pulled the rifle’s trigger and saw the man twitch backwards. More blood.
A movement to his left as he cleared the stairs made Sharpe twist round. A second man was desperately pulling a ramrod free of his musket’s long barrel, then, seeing that he could not free his weapon of the encumbrance, the Frenchman just raised the gun to his shoulder.
Sharpe fell and rolled to his right.
The musket banged and flamed and the ramrod, which could have impaled Sharpe like a skewer, cartwheeled across the inner courtyard to clang against the stone ramp.
„ Non! Non!“ The man was backing away now as Sharpe, unscathed, rose from the stones with his sword in his right hand.
„Non!“ The guard dropped his musket, raised his hands, and Sharpe accepted the man’s surrender by the simple expedient of tipping him over the ramparts into the flooded ditch twenty feet below. Minver’s Riflemen, pouches, scabbards, canteens and horns flapping as they ran, were on the road now; the fastest men already close to the glacis.
Sharpe turned towards the sound of the fortress guns. He could see an empty wall on which vast, cold guns stood mute.
“Sergeant!” Sharpe called, but Harper was already running, gun cocked, towards the courtyard.
A shout sounded from the sand-dunes and, at the same instant, two muskets coughed above Sharpe. He realized there must be other guards on the gate’s roof, men who could see Minver’s assault approaching, and Sharpe looked for a route that would take him to the ramparts. A low, arched doorway lay to his right and he ducked through it.
He found himself in a guardroom. A wooden musket rack, varnished and polished, held eight muskets upright. A table was littered with playing cards before a black-leaded potbellied stove that silted smoke from an ill-fitting chimney pipe. Stairs climbed through an arch on the far side of the room and, exchanging his sword for the rifle, Sharpe took the steps at a rush.
He could hear, above him, the rattle of ramrods in barrels. The stairs turned a right angle, the sky was grey overhead, then a moustached face, just ten feet away, turned towards the sound of feet on the stairs and Sharpe pulled the rifle’s trigger and saw the man twitch backwards. More blood.
A movement to his left as he cleared the stairs made Sharpe twist round. A second man was desperately pulling a ramrod free of his musket’s long barrel, then, seeing that he could not free his weapon of the encumbrance, the Frenchman just raised the gun to his shoulder.
Sharpe fell and rolled to his right.
The musket banged and flamed and the ramrod, which could have impaled Sharpe like a skewer, cartwheeled across the inner courtyard to clang against the stone ramp.
„ Non! Non!“ The man was backing away now as Sharpe, unscathed, rose from the stones with his sword in his right hand.
„Non!“ The guard dropped his musket, raised his hands, and Sharpe accepted the man’s surrender by the simple expedient of tipping him over the ramparts into the flooded ditch twenty feet below. Minver’s Riflemen, pouches, scabbards, canteens and horns flapping as they ran, were on the road now; the fastest men already close to the glacis.
Sharpe turned towards the sound of the fortress guns. He could see an empty wall on which vast, cold guns stood mute.