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Sharpe’s Prey: The Expedition to Copenhagen, 1807. Bernard Cornwell
Читать онлайн.Название Sharpe’s Prey: The Expedition to Copenhagen, 1807
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isbn 9780007338702
Автор произведения Bernard Cornwell
Жанр Приключения: прочее
Издательство HarperCollins
SHARPE’S
PREY
Richard Sharpe and the Expedition to Copenhagen, 1807
BERNARD CORNWELL
Copyright
This novel is a work of fiction. The incidents and some of the characters portrayed in it, while based on real historical events and figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2001
Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 2001
Map © Ken Lewis
Bernard Cornwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007130559
Ebook Edition © JULY 2009 ISBN: 9780007338702
Version: 2017-05-06
Sharpe’s Prey is for Jarl, Gerda, Bo and Christine
‘Bernard Cornwell’s sharp, tough infantryman hero, who chose to fight on his feet, is a man we shall hear more from’
Daily Mail
Table of Contents
The SHARPE Series (in chronological order)
The SHARPE Series (in order of publication)
CHAPTER ONE
Captain Henry Willsen of His Majesty’s Dirty Half Hundred, more formally the 50th Regiment of West Kent, parried his opponent’s sabre. He did it hurriedly. His right hand was low so that his sabre’s blade was raised in the position known to the fencing masters as the quarte basse and the knowledgeable spectators thought the parry was feeble. A surprised murmur sounded, for Willsen was good. Very good. He had been attacking, but it was apparent he had been slow to see his taller opponent’s counter and now he was in disorganized retreat. The taller man pressed, swatting the quarte basse aside and lunging so that Willsen skittered backwards, his slippers squeaking with a staccato judder on the wooden floor which was liberally scattered with French chalk. The very sound of the slippers on the chalked wood denoted panic. The sabres clashed harshly again, the taller man stamped forward, his blade flickering, clanging, reaching, and Willsen was countering in apparent desperation until, so fast that those watching could scarce follow his blade’s quick movement, he stepped to one side and riposted at his opponent’s cheek. There seemed little power in the riposte, for its force all came from Willsen’s wrist rather than from his full arm, but the sabre’s edge still struck the taller man with such might that he lost his balance. He swayed, right arm flailing, and Willsen gently touched his weapon’s point to his opponent’s chest so that he toppled to the floor.
‘Enough!’ the Master-at-Arms called.
‘God’s teeth.’ The fallen man swept his blade at Willsen’s ankles in a fit of pique. The blow was easily blocked and Willsen just walked away.
‘I said enough, my lord!’ the Master-at-Arms shouted angrily.
‘How the devil did you do that, Willsen?’ Lord Marsden pulled off the padded leather helmet with its wire visor that had protected his face. ‘I had you on your damned arse!’
Willsen, who had planned the whole passage of the fight from the moment he made a deliberately soft quarte basse, bowed. ‘Perhaps I was just fortunate, my lord?’
‘Don’t