JК
Sharpes Gold :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 69 из 179And I doubt that.
'You prayed with him?
'I did, Captain. He went to heaven with a prayer, and with all his ribs removed, one by one. El Catolico laughed.
It was Sharpe's turn to smile. 'We have our own prisoner. I'm sure he can deny or confirm your straggler's story.
El Catolico pointed a finger up the stairs. 'The Polish Sergeant? Is that your prisoner?
Sharpe nodded. The lies would be nailed. 'That's the one.
'How very sad. The hands came together with a graceful hint of prayerful regret. 'I cut his throat as I arrived. In a moment of anger."
The eyes were not smiling, whatever the mouth did, and Sharpe knew this was not the moment to accept, or even acknowledge, the delicate challenge. He shrugged, as if the death of the Sergeant meant nothing to him, and followed the tall Spaniard up the steps and into the hermitage that was noisy with newcomers who quietened as their leader appeared. Sharpe stood, in the thick, sweet smell, and watched the grey-cloaked man move easily among his followers: the figure of a leader who disbursed favour, reward, and consolation.
A soldier, Sharpe knew, was judged not merely by his actions but by the enemies he destroyed, and the Rifleman's fingers reached, unconsciously, for his big sword. Nothing had been admitted, nothing openly said, but in the gloom of the vault, in the wreckage of British hopes, Sharpe had found the enemy, and now, in the scent of death, he groped for the way to victory in this sudden, unwanted, and very private little war.
CHAPTER 10
The rapier moved invisibly, one moment on Sharpe's left, the next, as if by magic, past his guard and quivering at his chest. There was enough pressure to bend the blade, to feel the point draw a trace of blood; then El Catolico stepped backwards, flicked the slim blade into a salute, and took up his guard again.
'You are slow, Captain.
Sharpe hefted his blade. 'Try changing weapons.
El Catolico shrugged, reversed his blade, and held it to Sharpe. Taking the heavy cavalry sword in return, he held it level, turned his wrist, and lunged into empty air. 'A butcher's tool, Captain. En garde!
The rapier was as delicate as a fine needle, yet even with its balance, its responsiveness, he could do nothing to pierce El Catolico's casual defence. The Partisan leader teased him, led him on, and with a final contemptuous flick he beat Sharpe's lunge aside and stopped his hand half an inch before he would have laid open Sharpe's throat.
'You are no swordsman, Captain.
'I'm a soldier.
'You prayed with him?
'I did, Captain. He went to heaven with a prayer, and with all his ribs removed, one by one. El Catolico laughed.
It was Sharpe's turn to smile. 'We have our own prisoner. I'm sure he can deny or confirm your straggler's story.
El Catolico pointed a finger up the stairs. 'The Polish Sergeant? Is that your prisoner?
Sharpe nodded. The lies would be nailed. 'That's the one.
'How very sad. The hands came together with a graceful hint of prayerful regret. 'I cut his throat as I arrived. In a moment of anger."
The eyes were not smiling, whatever the mouth did, and Sharpe knew this was not the moment to accept, or even acknowledge, the delicate challenge. He shrugged, as if the death of the Sergeant meant nothing to him, and followed the tall Spaniard up the steps and into the hermitage that was noisy with newcomers who quietened as their leader appeared. Sharpe stood, in the thick, sweet smell, and watched the grey-cloaked man move easily among his followers: the figure of a leader who disbursed favour, reward, and consolation.
A soldier, Sharpe knew, was judged not merely by his actions but by the enemies he destroyed, and the Rifleman's fingers reached, unconsciously, for his big sword. Nothing had been admitted, nothing openly said, but in the gloom of the vault, in the wreckage of British hopes, Sharpe had found the enemy, and now, in the scent of death, he groped for the way to victory in this sudden, unwanted, and very private little war.
CHAPTER 10
The rapier moved invisibly, one moment on Sharpe's left, the next, as if by magic, past his guard and quivering at his chest. There was enough pressure to bend the blade, to feel the point draw a trace of blood; then El Catolico stepped backwards, flicked the slim blade into a salute, and took up his guard again.
'You are slow, Captain.
Sharpe hefted his blade. 'Try changing weapons.
El Catolico shrugged, reversed his blade, and held it to Sharpe. Taking the heavy cavalry sword in return, he held it level, turned his wrist, and lunged into empty air. 'A butcher's tool, Captain. En garde!
The rapier was as delicate as a fine needle, yet even with its balance, its responsiveness, he could do nothing to pierce El Catolico's casual defence. The Partisan leader teased him, led him on, and with a final contemptuous flick he beat Sharpe's lunge aside and stopped his hand half an inch before he would have laid open Sharpe's throat.
'You are no swordsman, Captain.
'I'm a soldier.