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.
"Rifles! Front rank, down! Second rank, fire!" Sharpe bellowed. skachat knigi pro strelka sharpa
The Spanish dawn was thick enough to chew. Lieutenant Richard Sharpe adjusted the heavy leather strap of his Baker rifle, the cold morning dew soaking through his green jacket. Beside him, Sergeant Patrick Harper spit a stream of tobacco into the mud, his seven-barrelled gun resting casually on his shoulder. "Quiet morning, sir," Harper rumbled. Harper didn’t need a second order
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. "Rifles