JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 73 из 223It was not in this damned vale of shadows where the enemy could skulk and hide and creep and murder.
A twig cracked, he twisted, but it was only Marie from the village who stared with huge, worried eyes at him. “Go back,” Killick barked.
“The fort,” Marie said.
“What about it?” Killick was searching the southern shadows, watching for the flicker that might betray an enemy movement.
“The flag’s gone,” Marie said.
“Shot away,” Killick said, then ignored the girl’s news because British muskets sparked and the far tree-line was puffed with clouds of powder smoke. “Go back, Marie! Back!”
Some of the Thuella’s crew fired back, using the French muskets that were sold so widely in America. If only the bastards would show themselves, Killick thought, then his six guns could tear the guts out of them. “Liam! Liam!” he shouted.
“Sir?”
“Do you see anything?” Killick ran through dead pine-needles towards his main battery.
“Only their bloody smoke. Bastards won’t show themselves!”
A soldier, Killick thought, would know what to do at this point. Perhaps he should throw men into the trees, cutlasses and muskets ready, but what good would that do? They would simply become meat for the Marines’ muskets. Perhaps, he thought, another volley would stir the bastards up. “Liam? Aim high and fire!”
“Sir!”
The brass elevating screws were turned and the portfires touched vent tubes and the fire slipped down to the coarse powder that hammered more grapeshot to slice into the undergrowth across the clearing. A bird squawked and flapped heavily away from the shredded trees, but that was the only visible result of the volley.
Smoke drifted over the clearing. Good sense told Cornelius Killick that this was the moment to run like hell. He had lost his greatest weapon, surprise, and he risked losing much more, but he was not a man to admit failure. Instead he imagined victory. Perhaps, he thought, the bastards had gone. No muskets fired across the clearing now, no redcoats moved, nothing showed. Perhaps, astonished and shredded by the volleys of grape, the yellow-bellied bastards had turned and run. Killick licked dry lips, tested the surprising thought, and decided it must be the truth. “We’ve beaten the bastards, lads!”
“Not these bastards, you haven’t.”
Killick turned with the speed of a snake, then froze. Standing behind him was a one-eyed man whose face would have terrified an imp of Satan.
A twig cracked, he twisted, but it was only Marie from the village who stared with huge, worried eyes at him. “Go back,” Killick barked.
“The fort,” Marie said.
“What about it?” Killick was searching the southern shadows, watching for the flicker that might betray an enemy movement.
“The flag’s gone,” Marie said.
“Shot away,” Killick said, then ignored the girl’s news because British muskets sparked and the far tree-line was puffed with clouds of powder smoke. “Go back, Marie! Back!”
Some of the Thuella’s crew fired back, using the French muskets that were sold so widely in America. If only the bastards would show themselves, Killick thought, then his six guns could tear the guts out of them. “Liam! Liam!” he shouted.
“Sir?”
“Do you see anything?” Killick ran through dead pine-needles towards his main battery.
“Only their bloody smoke. Bastards won’t show themselves!”
A soldier, Killick thought, would know what to do at this point. Perhaps he should throw men into the trees, cutlasses and muskets ready, but what good would that do? They would simply become meat for the Marines’ muskets. Perhaps, he thought, another volley would stir the bastards up. “Liam? Aim high and fire!”
“Sir!”
The brass elevating screws were turned and the portfires touched vent tubes and the fire slipped down to the coarse powder that hammered more grapeshot to slice into the undergrowth across the clearing. A bird squawked and flapped heavily away from the shredded trees, but that was the only visible result of the volley.
Smoke drifted over the clearing. Good sense told Cornelius Killick that this was the moment to run like hell. He had lost his greatest weapon, surprise, and he risked losing much more, but he was not a man to admit failure. Instead he imagined victory. Perhaps, he thought, the bastards had gone. No muskets fired across the clearing now, no redcoats moved, nothing showed. Perhaps, astonished and shredded by the volleys of grape, the yellow-bellied bastards had turned and run. Killick licked dry lips, tested the surprising thought, and decided it must be the truth. “We’ve beaten the bastards, lads!”
“Not these bastards, you haven’t.”
Killick turned with the speed of a snake, then froze. Standing behind him was a one-eyed man whose face would have terrified an imp of Satan.