JК
Sharpes Sword :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 137 из 213Sharpe looked up at Harper. “You did it?”
“Aye, well, you know, sir. Not much to do, sir. Passed the time, so it did.”
Sharpe twisted the blade back and the light ran down the steel. “It’s beautiful.”
“Just the old ‘96 pattern, sir. Standard issue. Nothing special. I took the odd nick out the edge, sir. Would it be’true, sir, that we’re moving tomorrow? To higher circles, I hear?”
Sharpe nodded, but he was not listening to Harper’s words properly. He was looking at the blade, letting his gaze go up and down the steel, from the new point on the sword to the place where the steel buried itself into the reshaped guard. The weight was too much for him and it sank, slowly, until the tip rested on the rush matting. He looked up at Harper. “Thank you.”
“For nothing, sir. Thought you might need it.”
„I’ll kill the bastard with it.“ Sharpe grimaced with the effort, but the blade came up again. „I’ll slaughter the bastard.”
Patrick Harper grinned. Richard Sharpe was going to live.
PART THREE
Tuesday, July 21st to Thursday, July 23rd, 1812
CHAPTER 17
Sometimes the river was silver, a sheen of pitted silver, and sometimes it was dark green like velvet. At dusk it could look like molten gold, heavy and slow, pouring itself richly towards the Roman bridge and then on towards its junction with the River Douro and then, the far off sea. Sometimes it was mirror smooth, so the far bank was perfectly seen upside down on its surface, and at other times it was grey and broken,r but Sharpe never tired of sitting in the pillared shelter that a previous Marques had built right on the water’s edge. It was a private place, entered only through one door, and when the door was shut and bolted, the sounds of the house and garden faded.
He exercised for hours in the shelter, strengthening his sword arm, and he walked further each day so that by the time they had been in the house six nights he could walk the mile to the city and back and the only pain was a dull, tugging ache. He ate prodigiously, wolfing down the beef that, as a true Englishman, he knew to be the only source of strength. Captain Lossow, of the King’s German Legion, contrived to send Sharpe a wooden crate that proved to be full of stone-bottled beer. A letter was nailed to the crate. It was very short. “The French could not kill you, so drink yourself to death. Your Friend. Lossow.
“Aye, well, you know, sir. Not much to do, sir. Passed the time, so it did.”
Sharpe twisted the blade back and the light ran down the steel. “It’s beautiful.”
“Just the old ‘96 pattern, sir. Standard issue. Nothing special. I took the odd nick out the edge, sir. Would it be’true, sir, that we’re moving tomorrow? To higher circles, I hear?”
Sharpe nodded, but he was not listening to Harper’s words properly. He was looking at the blade, letting his gaze go up and down the steel, from the new point on the sword to the place where the steel buried itself into the reshaped guard. The weight was too much for him and it sank, slowly, until the tip rested on the rush matting. He looked up at Harper. “Thank you.”
“For nothing, sir. Thought you might need it.”
„I’ll kill the bastard with it.“ Sharpe grimaced with the effort, but the blade came up again. „I’ll slaughter the bastard.”
Patrick Harper grinned. Richard Sharpe was going to live.
PART THREE
Tuesday, July 21st to Thursday, July 23rd, 1812
CHAPTER 17
Sometimes the river was silver, a sheen of pitted silver, and sometimes it was dark green like velvet. At dusk it could look like molten gold, heavy and slow, pouring itself richly towards the Roman bridge and then on towards its junction with the River Douro and then, the far off sea. Sometimes it was mirror smooth, so the far bank was perfectly seen upside down on its surface, and at other times it was grey and broken,r but Sharpe never tired of sitting in the pillared shelter that a previous Marques had built right on the water’s edge. It was a private place, entered only through one door, and when the door was shut and bolted, the sounds of the house and garden faded.
He exercised for hours in the shelter, strengthening his sword arm, and he walked further each day so that by the time they had been in the house six nights he could walk the mile to the city and back and the only pain was a dull, tugging ache. He ate prodigiously, wolfing down the beef that, as a true Englishman, he knew to be the only source of strength. Captain Lossow, of the King’s German Legion, contrived to send Sharpe a wooden crate that proved to be full of stone-bottled beer. A letter was nailed to the crate. It was very short. “The French could not kill you, so drink yourself to death. Your Friend. Lossow.