JК
Sharpes Battle :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 83 из 244He motioned Harper to stay behind, but Father Sarsfield also lingered for Sharpe's attention. "I'm sorry, Sharpe," the priest said.
"Why?"
Sarsfield flinched at Sharpe's harsh tone. "I imagine you do not need Irish problems intruding on your life."
"I don't need any damn problems, Father. I've got a job to do, and the job is to turn your boys into soldiers, good soldiers."
Sarsfield smiled. "I think you are a rare thing, Captain Sharpe: an honest man."
"Of course I'm not," Sharpe said, almost blushing as he remembered the horrors done to the three men caught by El Castrador at Sharpe's request. "I'm not a bloody saint, Father, but I do like to get things done. If I spent my damn life dreaming dreams I'd still be in the ranks. You can only afford dreams if you're rich and privileged." He added the last words viciously.
"You speak of Kiely," Sarsfield said and started walking slowly back along the ramparts beside Sharpe. The skirts of the priest's soutane were wet with the dew from the ragweed and grass that grew inside the fort. "Lord Kiely is a very weak man, Captain,"
Sarsfield went on. "He had a very strong mother" — the priest grimaced at the memory—"and you would not know, Captain, what a trial to the church strong women can be, but I think they can be even more of a trial to their sons. Lady Kiely wanted her son to be a great Catholic warrior, an Irish warrior! The Catholic warlord who would succeed where the Protestant lawyer Wolfe Tone failed, but instead she drove him into drink, pettiness and whoring. I buried her last year" — he made a quick sign of the cross — "and I fear her son did not mourn her as a son should mourn his mother nor, alas, will he ever be the Christian she wanted him to be. He told me last night that he intends to marry the Lady Juanita and his mother, I think, will be weeping in purgatory at the thought of such a match." The priest sighed. "Still, I didn't want to talk to you about Kiely. Instead, Captain, I beg you to be a little patient with us."
"I thought I was being patient with you," Sharpe said defensively.
"With us Irish," Father Sarsfield explained. "You are a man with a country, Captain, and you don't know what it's like to be an exile. You cannot know what it is like to be listening to the harps beside the waters of Babylon." Sarsfield smiled at the phrase, then shrugged. "It's like a wound, Captain Sharpe, that never heals, and I pray to God that you never have to feel that wound for yourself
Sharpe felt a stab of embarrassed pity as he looked into the priest's kindly face. "Were you never in Ireland, Father?"
"Once, my son, years ago.
"Why?"
Sarsfield flinched at Sharpe's harsh tone. "I imagine you do not need Irish problems intruding on your life."
"I don't need any damn problems, Father. I've got a job to do, and the job is to turn your boys into soldiers, good soldiers."
Sarsfield smiled. "I think you are a rare thing, Captain Sharpe: an honest man."
"Of course I'm not," Sharpe said, almost blushing as he remembered the horrors done to the three men caught by El Castrador at Sharpe's request. "I'm not a bloody saint, Father, but I do like to get things done. If I spent my damn life dreaming dreams I'd still be in the ranks. You can only afford dreams if you're rich and privileged." He added the last words viciously.
"You speak of Kiely," Sarsfield said and started walking slowly back along the ramparts beside Sharpe. The skirts of the priest's soutane were wet with the dew from the ragweed and grass that grew inside the fort. "Lord Kiely is a very weak man, Captain,"
Sarsfield went on. "He had a very strong mother" — the priest grimaced at the memory—"and you would not know, Captain, what a trial to the church strong women can be, but I think they can be even more of a trial to their sons. Lady Kiely wanted her son to be a great Catholic warrior, an Irish warrior! The Catholic warlord who would succeed where the Protestant lawyer Wolfe Tone failed, but instead she drove him into drink, pettiness and whoring. I buried her last year" — he made a quick sign of the cross — "and I fear her son did not mourn her as a son should mourn his mother nor, alas, will he ever be the Christian she wanted him to be. He told me last night that he intends to marry the Lady Juanita and his mother, I think, will be weeping in purgatory at the thought of such a match." The priest sighed. "Still, I didn't want to talk to you about Kiely. Instead, Captain, I beg you to be a little patient with us."
"I thought I was being patient with you," Sharpe said defensively.
"With us Irish," Father Sarsfield explained. "You are a man with a country, Captain, and you don't know what it's like to be an exile. You cannot know what it is like to be listening to the harps beside the waters of Babylon." Sarsfield smiled at the phrase, then shrugged. "It's like a wound, Captain Sharpe, that never heals, and I pray to God that you never have to feel that wound for yourself
Sharpe felt a stab of embarrassed pity as he looked into the priest's kindly face. "Were you never in Ireland, Father?"
"Once, my son, years ago.