By Bernard Cornwell

ISBN-10: 0006165737

ISBN-13: 9780006165736

Richard Sharpe and the Siege of Badajoz, January to April 1812 the total Sharpe assortment with a brand new creation via the writer It was once a troublesome wintry weather. For Richard Sharpe it was once the worst he might consider. He had misplaced his command to a filthy rich guy -- a guy with cash to shop for the promoting Sharpe coveted. And from England got here his oldest enemy -- the ruthless, indestructible Hakeswill -- totally rationale on ruining Sharpe. yet Sharpe is set to alter his good fortune. And the most reliable approach is to steer the bloody assault at the impregnable citadel city of Badajoz, a highway to nearly sure dying -- or unimagined glory!

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Example text

I'm well. ' Sharpe scram­bled to his feet. He beat the snow off his great­coat and shook Hogan's gloved hand. The En­gi­neer laughed at him. 'You look like a drowned tin­ker, so you do, but it's good to see you. ' The Irish voice was rich and warm. ' 'Cold and wet. ' 'Ah well, it's a Protes­tant coun­try. " Hogan con­ve­nient­ly ig­nored the freez­ing damp­ness of the Span­ish coun­try­side around them. 'And how is Sergeant Harp­er? ' 'He did, and most of what he en­joyed was plump and gig­gled.

Christ! They should is­sue them ev­ery day. ' 'My plea­sure, sir. ' Harp­er stood up and cour­te­ous­ly waved the Lieu­tenant to the bag. Price col­lapsed, groaned in sat­is­fac­tion. 'Wake me when glo­ry calls. ' ' 'Yes, sir. ' 'Irish wit, oh God, Irish wit. ' Price closed his eyes. The sky was dark­en­ing, the grey clouds turn­ing sin­is­ter, bring­ing on the in­ex­orable mo­ment. Sharpe pulled his huge sword a few inch­es from the scab­bard, test­ed the honed edge, and pushed it back. The sword was one of his sym­bols, with the ri­fle, which pro­claimed he was a fight­er.

The men of Con­naught had lost friends on the breach, old friends, and the blades were used in short, ef­fi­cient strokes. The bay­onets ig­nored the French cries, worked swift­ly, and the case­ment was thick with the smell of fresh blood. ' There were still en­emies on the wall, en­emies that could fire down in­to the gun-​pit, and Sharpe climbed the stairs, the sword a streak of re­flect­ed fire­light ahead of him, and sud­den­ly the night air was cool and clear and he was on the wall. The in­fantry had fall­en back down the ram­parts, fear­ful of the car­nage round the gun, and Sharpe stood at the stair's head and watched them.

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Sharpe's Adventure 13 Sharpe's Company by Bernard Cornwell

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