Somewhere ahead, the French were waiting. They were "Crapauds"—tough, disciplined, and currently holding the vital ridge that Wellesley needed. Sharpe didn't care about the high-room politics or the Duke's grand strategy; he cared about his "Chosen Men" and the ammunition they were running dangerously low on.
With a roar that drowned out the drums of the French, the green-jackets charged. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't honorable—it was a "gutter fight," the kind Richard Sharpe knew best. Where to Find More Sharpe Stories skachat knigi pro strelka sharpa
Harper didn’t need a second order. The roar of his volley gun was like a small cannon. The French officer vanished in a cloud of dust. Somewhere ahead, the French were waiting
"Rifles! Front rank, down! Second rank, fire!" Sharpe bellowed. With a roar that drowned out the drums
Unlike the redcoats who fought in rigid lines, Sharpe’s 95th Rifles were ghosts in the smoke. They used the terrain, firing with deadly precision from behind olive trees and stone walls. Sharpe saw a French officer rallying a column of infantry—a battering ram of men designed to crush the British line. "Harper! That officer on the gray horse," Sharpe pointed.