Sharpe 3-Book Collection 2: Sharpe’s Havoc, Sharpe’s Eagle, Sharpe’s Gold. Bernard Cornwell

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СКАЧАТЬ the patch so that, when the rifle fired, the expanding bullet would force the leather into the barrel’s lands. The leather also stopped any of the gasses escaping past the bullet and so concentrated the powder’s force. He pushed the leather-wrapped ball into the barrel, then used the rammer to force it down. It was hard work and he grimaced with the effort, then nodded his thanks as Sharpe took over. Sharpe put the butt end of the steel ramrod against a rock and eased the rifle slowly forward until he felt the bullet crunch against the powder. He took out the ramrod, slid it into the hoops under the barrel and gave the gun back to Hagman who used powder from his horn to prime the pan. He smoothed the priming with a blackened index finger, lowered the frizzen and grinned again at Vicente. ‘She’s like a woman, sir,’ Hagman said, patting the rifle, ‘take care of her and she’ll take care of you.’

      ‘You’ll notice he let Mister Sharpe do the ramming, sir,’ Harper said guilelessly.

      Vicente laughed and Sharpe suddenly remembered the horsemen and he snatched up the small telescope and trained it on the road leading into the village, but all that was left of the newcomers was the dust thrown up by their horses’ hooves. They were hidden by the trees around the Quinta and so he could not tell whether the horsemen had brought a mortar. He swore. Well, he would learn soon enough.

      Hagman lay on his back, his feet towards the enemy, then pillowed the back of his neck against a rock. His ankles were crossed and he was using the angle between his boots as a rest for the rifle’s muzzle and, because the weapon was just under four feet long, he had to curl his torso awkwardly to bring the stock into his shoulder. He settled at last, the rifle’s brass butt at his shoulder and its barrel running the length of his body and, though the pose looked clumsy, it was favoured by marksmen because it held the rifle so rigidly. ‘Wind, sir?’

      ‘Left to right, Dan,’ Sharpe said, ‘very light.’

      ‘Very light,’ Hagman repeated softly, then he pulled back the flint. The swan-neck cock made a slight creaking noise as it compressed the mainspring, then there was a click as the pawl took the strain and Hagman hinged the backsight up as high as it would go, then lined its notch with the blade-sight dovetailed at the muzzle. He had to lower his head awkwardly to see down the barrel. He took a breath, let it half out and held it. The other men on the hilltop also held their breath.

      Hagman made some tiny adjustments, edging the barrel to the left and drawing the stock down to give the weapon more elevation. It was not only an impossibly long shot, but he was firing downhill which was notoriously difficult. No one moved. Sharpe was watching the howitzer crew through the telescope. The gunner was just bringing the portfire to the breech and Sharpe knew he should interrupt Hagman’s concentration and order his men to take cover, but just then Hagman pulled his trigger, the crack of the rifle startled birds up from the hillside, smoke wreathed about the rocks and Sharpe saw the gunner spin round and the portfire drop as the man clutched his right thigh. He staggered for a few seconds, then fell.

      ‘Right thigh, Dan,’ Sharpe said, knowing that Hagman could not see through the smoke of his rifle, ‘and you put him down. Under cover! All of you! Quick!’ Another gunner had snatched up the portfire.

      They scrambled behind rocks and flinched as the shell exploded on the face of a big boulder. Sharpe slapped Hagman’s back. ‘Unbelievable, Dan!’

      ‘I was aiming for his chest, sir.’

      ‘You spoiled his day, Dan,’ Harper said. ‘You spoiled his bloody day.’ The other riflemen were congratulating Hagman. They were proud of him, delighted that the old man was back on his feet and as good as ever. And the shot had somehow compensated for Williamson’s treachery. They were an elite again, they were riflemen.

      ‘Do it again, sir?’ Hagman asked Sharpe.

      ‘Why not?’ Sharpe said. If a mortar did come then its crew would be frightened if they discovered they were within range of the deadly rifles.

      Hagman began the laborious process all over again, but no sooner had he wrapped the next bullet in its leather patch than, to Sharpe’s astonishment, the howitzer’s trail was lifted onto the limber and the gun was dragged away into the trees. For a moment Sharpe was exultant, then he feared that the French were simply taking away the howitzer so that the mortar could use the cleared patch of land. He waited with a heavy sense of dread, but no mortar appeared. No one appeared. Even the infantry who had been posted close to the howitzer had gone back into the trees and, for the first time since Sharpe had retreated to the watchtower, the northern slope was deserted. Dragoons still patrolled to the east and west, but after a half-hour they too rode north towards the village.

      ‘What’s happening?’ Vicente asked.

      ‘God knows.’

      Then, suddenly, Sharpe saw the whole French force, the gun, the cavalry and the infantry, and they were all marching away down the road from Vila Real de Zedes. They must be going back to Oporto and he gazed, dumbfounded, not daring to believe what he saw. ‘It’s a trick,’ Sharpe said, ‘has to be.’ He gave the telescope to Vicente.

      ‘Maybe it is peace?’ Vicente suggested after he had stared at the retreating French. ‘Maybe the fighting really is over. Why else would they go?’

      ‘They’re going, sir,’ Harper said, ‘that’s all that matters.’ He had taken the glass from Vicente and could see a farm wagon loaded with the French wounded. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he exulted, ‘but they’re going!’

      But why? Was it peace? Had the horsemen, whom Sharpe had feared were escorting a mortar, brought a message instead? An order to retreat? Or was it a trick? Were the French hoping he would go down to the village and so give the dragoons a chance to attack his men on level ground? He was as confused as ever.

      ‘I’m going down,’ he said. ‘Me, Cooper, Harris, Perkins, Cresacre and Sims.’ He deliberately named the last two because they had been friends of Williamson and if any men were likely to follow the deserter it was those two and he wanted to show them he still trusted them. ‘The rest of you stay here.’

      ‘I would like to come,’ Vicente said and, when he saw Sharpe was about to refuse, he explained. ‘The village, senhor. I want to see the village. I want to see what happened to our people.’

      Vicente, like Sharpe, took five men; Sergeant Harper and Sergeant Macedo were left in charge on the hilltop, and Sharpe’s patrol set off down the hill. They went past the great fanshaped scorch mark which showed where the howitzer had been fired and Sharpe half expected a volley to blast from the wood, but no gun sounded and then he was under the shade of the trees. He and Cooper led, going stealthily, watching for an ambush among the laurels, birch and oak, but they were undisturbed. They followed the path to the Quinta which had its blue shutters closed against the sun and looked quite undamaged. A tabby cat washed itself on the sun-warmed cobbles beneath the stable arch and paused to stare indignantly at the soldiers, then went back to its ablutions. Sharpe tried the kitchen door, but it was locked. He thought of breaking it down, then decided to leave it and led the men round to the front of the house instead. The front door was locked, the driveway deserted. He backed slowly away from the Quinta, watching the shutters, almost expecting them to be thrown open to loose a blast of musketry, but the big house slept on in the early-afternoon warmth.

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