JК
Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 65 из 244"
"It isn't the way agentleman fights, Captain," Father Sarsfield said. The priest had edged his horse close to the two British officers.
"There's no future in being a gentleman in a fight, Father," Sharpe said. "If you think wars should only be fought by gentlemen then you should stop recruiting people like me out of the gutter."
"No need to mention your origins, Sharpe," Runciman hissed reprovingly. "You are an officer now, remember!"
"I pray for the day when no gentleman fights at all, nor other men either," Father Sarsfield said. "I do so dislike fighting."
"Yet you're a chaplain in the army?" Sharpe asked.
"I go where the need is greatest," the chaplain said, "and where will a man of God look to find the greatest concentration of sinners outside of a prison? In an army, I would suggest, begging your presence." Sarsfield smiled, then flinched as the duellists charged and their long swords clashed again. Lord Kiely's stallion instinctively ducked its head to avoid the blades that hissed above its ears. Lord Kiely lunged at his opponent and one of Kiely's officers cheered when he thought that his Lordship had skewered the Frenchman, but the sword had merely pierced the cloak that was rolled onto the cantle of the dragoon's saddle. Kiely dragged his sword free of the cloak just in time to parry a vicious backslash from the dragoon's heavier blade.
"Will Kiely win, do you think?" Runciman asked Sharpe anxiously.
"God knows, General," Sharpe said. The two horses were virtually motionless now, just standing still as the riders exchanged blows. The sound of the steel was continuous and Sharpe knew the men would be getting tired for swordfighting was damned hard work. Their arms would be weary from the weight and Sharpe could imagine the breath rasping in their throats, the grunts as they cut down with the steel and the pain as the sweat stung their eyes. And every now and then, Sharpe knew, each man would feel the strange sensation of catching the dispassionate gaze of the stranger he was trying to kill. The blades clashed and scraped for another few seconds, then the grey dragoon yielded that phase of the fight by touching spurs to his horse.
The Frenchman's horse started forward, then put a hoof into a rabbit's hole.
The horse stumbled. Kiely spurred forward as he saw his opportunity. He slashed down hard, rising out of the saddle to put all the weight of his body behind the killing blow, but somehow the dragoon parried the cut, even though the strength of it almost knocked him out of the saddle.
"It isn't the way agentleman fights, Captain," Father Sarsfield said. The priest had edged his horse close to the two British officers.
"There's no future in being a gentleman in a fight, Father," Sharpe said. "If you think wars should only be fought by gentlemen then you should stop recruiting people like me out of the gutter."
"No need to mention your origins, Sharpe," Runciman hissed reprovingly. "You are an officer now, remember!"
"I pray for the day when no gentleman fights at all, nor other men either," Father Sarsfield said. "I do so dislike fighting."
"Yet you're a chaplain in the army?" Sharpe asked.
"I go where the need is greatest," the chaplain said, "and where will a man of God look to find the greatest concentration of sinners outside of a prison? In an army, I would suggest, begging your presence." Sarsfield smiled, then flinched as the duellists charged and their long swords clashed again. Lord Kiely's stallion instinctively ducked its head to avoid the blades that hissed above its ears. Lord Kiely lunged at his opponent and one of Kiely's officers cheered when he thought that his Lordship had skewered the Frenchman, but the sword had merely pierced the cloak that was rolled onto the cantle of the dragoon's saddle. Kiely dragged his sword free of the cloak just in time to parry a vicious backslash from the dragoon's heavier blade.
"Will Kiely win, do you think?" Runciman asked Sharpe anxiously.
"God knows, General," Sharpe said. The two horses were virtually motionless now, just standing still as the riders exchanged blows. The sound of the steel was continuous and Sharpe knew the men would be getting tired for swordfighting was damned hard work. Their arms would be weary from the weight and Sharpe could imagine the breath rasping in their throats, the grunts as they cut down with the steel and the pain as the sweat stung their eyes. And every now and then, Sharpe knew, each man would feel the strange sensation of catching the dispassionate gaze of the stranger he was trying to kill. The blades clashed and scraped for another few seconds, then the grey dragoon yielded that phase of the fight by touching spurs to his horse.
The Frenchman's horse started forward, then put a hoof into a rabbit's hole.
The horse stumbled. Kiely spurred forward as he saw his opportunity. He slashed down hard, rising out of the saddle to put all the weight of his body behind the killing blow, but somehow the dragoon parried the cut, even though the strength of it almost knocked him out of the saddle.