JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 71 из 223He slumped against the wall and tasted thick, salty blood on histongue. He scrabbled vainly for his fallen sword.
A French shout of command made him turn his face left, but he could see nothing. Carbines fired. A ball fluttered overhead, another slapped the wall beside him, then a Baker rifle’s quick crack, that Sharpe had heard a million times before, sounded to his right and he could hear the scrape of boots on stone as the riflemen came into the courtyard. Another crack, a scream, and another Baker rifle had found a victim, then Frederickson was shouting orders.
A volley splintered the dusk, sparking pricks of flame from rifle muzzles, then half the Green Jackets went forward, their comrades covering them, and the long sword-bayonets were carried up the stone ramp and Sharpe heard them cheer and knew that the fort was taken. He was blind.
Slowly, fearfully, Sharpe raised a hand to his throbbing head and gouged at his right eye. He scraped blood away and saw a shimmer of light. His eyes were thick with blood, sealed by it, and he spat on a filthy hand and scraped at the gore to clear his right eye and dimly saw Frederickson’s men scouring the water-bastion with their bayonets. He felt a pang of relief, clear as spring water, that he could see. He could see the enemy leaping from the embrasures, abandoning fort and guns, and he saw a shot from the Scylla, that had been firing vainly for ninety minutes, take the head from a Rifleman on the western ramparts. The body, streaming blood like a squirting wine-bag, tumbled down on to the courtyard’s cobbles.
“Get the flag down!” Sharpe bellowed it. He was on his hands and knees, blood soaking his shirt and threatening to close his right eye again. “The flag!”
Lieutenant Minver, understanding, cut the halyard with his sword so that the tricolour fluttered down. That would stop the Scylla’s guns.
“Close the gate!” Sharpe shouted again, and the effort lanced such quick agony through his skull that he sobbed. He shook his head, trying to clear the pain, but it pulsed like a needle of fire behind his eyes.
A massive volley sounded to the south and Sharpe, his head hurting with every move, twisted round to see the blossom of smoke from the grove of trees. “Captain Frederickson! Captain Frederickson!”
Frederickson took the stairs to the upper rampart three at a time. “Jesus!” He stooped beside Sharpe and tried to wipe the blood away from his face, but Sharpe, still on his hands and knees, twisted away. “Minver’s Company to the ramparts. Take yours and clear those damned American guns.” He saw Frederickson hesitate.
A French shout of command made him turn his face left, but he could see nothing. Carbines fired. A ball fluttered overhead, another slapped the wall beside him, then a Baker rifle’s quick crack, that Sharpe had heard a million times before, sounded to his right and he could hear the scrape of boots on stone as the riflemen came into the courtyard. Another crack, a scream, and another Baker rifle had found a victim, then Frederickson was shouting orders.
A volley splintered the dusk, sparking pricks of flame from rifle muzzles, then half the Green Jackets went forward, their comrades covering them, and the long sword-bayonets were carried up the stone ramp and Sharpe heard them cheer and knew that the fort was taken. He was blind.
Slowly, fearfully, Sharpe raised a hand to his throbbing head and gouged at his right eye. He scraped blood away and saw a shimmer of light. His eyes were thick with blood, sealed by it, and he spat on a filthy hand and scraped at the gore to clear his right eye and dimly saw Frederickson’s men scouring the water-bastion with their bayonets. He felt a pang of relief, clear as spring water, that he could see. He could see the enemy leaping from the embrasures, abandoning fort and guns, and he saw a shot from the Scylla, that had been firing vainly for ninety minutes, take the head from a Rifleman on the western ramparts. The body, streaming blood like a squirting wine-bag, tumbled down on to the courtyard’s cobbles.
“Get the flag down!” Sharpe bellowed it. He was on his hands and knees, blood soaking his shirt and threatening to close his right eye again. “The flag!”
Lieutenant Minver, understanding, cut the halyard with his sword so that the tricolour fluttered down. That would stop the Scylla’s guns.
“Close the gate!” Sharpe shouted again, and the effort lanced such quick agony through his skull that he sobbed. He shook his head, trying to clear the pain, but it pulsed like a needle of fire behind his eyes.
A massive volley sounded to the south and Sharpe, his head hurting with every move, twisted round to see the blossom of smoke from the grove of trees. “Captain Frederickson! Captain Frederickson!”
Frederickson took the stairs to the upper rampart three at a time. “Jesus!” He stooped beside Sharpe and tried to wipe the blood away from his face, but Sharpe, still on his hands and knees, twisted away. “Minver’s Company to the ramparts. Take yours and clear those damned American guns.” He saw Frederickson hesitate.