But the column kept coming. Sharpe unsheathed his heavy cavalry sword—a weapon too big for a gentleman, but perfect for a man who had fought his way up from the gutters of London. "Fix swords!" he cried.
A sudden crack of a musket shattered the silence. Then another. The mist erupted in orange flashes. skachat knigi pro strelka sharpa
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. But the column kept coming