JК
Sharpes Escape :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 273 из 283It did not travel far, it did not even look particularly powerful, but it struck Sharpe in his bandaged ribs and was like a cannonball's strike, and if he had not already decided to step back he would have been floored by the blow, but his legs were already moving as the pain seared up his ribs. He flicked out his own left hand, aiming again at the swollen eye, but Ferragus swatted it aside, released his left hand again, but Sharpe was safely back now.
Ferragus could see nothing from his left eye, and the pain of it was a flaring red agony in his skull, but he knew he had hurt Sharpe and knew if he could get close he could do more than just hurt the rifleman, who was now stepping back between the wounded redcoats and the big hearth. Ferragus hurried, reckoning to take Sharpe's best blows and then get close enough to murder the English bastard, but Slingsby, drunk as a judge and sitting in the hearth, stuck out his right leg and Ferragus tripped on it and Sharpe was back in his face, the left fist again pulping Ferragus's damaged eye and ramming the heel of his right hand into Ferragus's nose. Something broke there and Ferragus, swatting at Slingsby with his left hand, threw out his right to stop Sharpe, but Sharpe had stepped back again. "Let him be, Mister Slingsby," Sharpe said. "Are your men watching out the windows, Mister Bullen?"
"They are, sir."
"Make damn sure they are."
Sharpe was past the wounded men now, in the open space between the front and back windows where no one dared stand for fear of the French bullets, and he backed towards the window facing the yard, heard a bullet whack into the window frame, stabbed a quick left at Ferragus who swayed to let it pass and rushed at Sharpe. Sharpe stepped back, going to Ferragus's left because that was his blind side, and Ferragus turned to face Sharpe who knew he had to take the punishment now and he stepped into the big man's range and drove his fists one after the other into his enemy's belly and it was like punching an oak board. Sharpe knew those blows would not hurt and he did not care because all he wanted to do was drive Ferragus backwards. He rammed his head forward, banging his forehead into the bloody mess of Ferragus's face, and he heaved forward and his head rang as a blow struck him on the side of the skull. His vision went red and black. He pushed again and Ferragus's left hand hit him on the other side of the head and Sharpe knew he could not take more than one other such blow, and he was not even sure he would survive that for his senses were reeling and he gave a last heave, and felt Ferragus jar up against the window sill. Sharpe ducked then, trying to avoid the next blow, which glanced off the top of his head, but even that glancing blow was enough to send a stab of pain down through his skull, but then he felt Ferragus quiver.
Ferragus could see nothing from his left eye, and the pain of it was a flaring red agony in his skull, but he knew he had hurt Sharpe and knew if he could get close he could do more than just hurt the rifleman, who was now stepping back between the wounded redcoats and the big hearth. Ferragus hurried, reckoning to take Sharpe's best blows and then get close enough to murder the English bastard, but Slingsby, drunk as a judge and sitting in the hearth, stuck out his right leg and Ferragus tripped on it and Sharpe was back in his face, the left fist again pulping Ferragus's damaged eye and ramming the heel of his right hand into Ferragus's nose. Something broke there and Ferragus, swatting at Slingsby with his left hand, threw out his right to stop Sharpe, but Sharpe had stepped back again. "Let him be, Mister Slingsby," Sharpe said. "Are your men watching out the windows, Mister Bullen?"
"They are, sir."
"Make damn sure they are."
Sharpe was past the wounded men now, in the open space between the front and back windows where no one dared stand for fear of the French bullets, and he backed towards the window facing the yard, heard a bullet whack into the window frame, stabbed a quick left at Ferragus who swayed to let it pass and rushed at Sharpe. Sharpe stepped back, going to Ferragus's left because that was his blind side, and Ferragus turned to face Sharpe who knew he had to take the punishment now and he stepped into the big man's range and drove his fists one after the other into his enemy's belly and it was like punching an oak board. Sharpe knew those blows would not hurt and he did not care because all he wanted to do was drive Ferragus backwards. He rammed his head forward, banging his forehead into the bloody mess of Ferragus's face, and he heaved forward and his head rang as a blow struck him on the side of the skull. His vision went red and black. He pushed again and Ferragus's left hand hit him on the other side of the head and Sharpe knew he could not take more than one other such blow, and he was not even sure he would survive that for his senses were reeling and he gave a last heave, and felt Ferragus jar up against the window sill. Sharpe ducked then, trying to avoid the next blow, which glanced off the top of his head, but even that glancing blow was enough to send a stab of pain down through his skull, but then he felt Ferragus quiver.