bcornwell.sharpescompany-第21章

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　the　flints　sparked　on　to　wet　powder　that　was　like　thick　putty；　and　the　French　cursed　and　waited　with　their　bayonets。
　
　The　British　cheered。　The　frustration　of　days　and　nights　of　rain；　of　the　interminable　digging；　was　suddenly　to　be　vented　on　the　enemy；　and　men　who　had　nothing　but　spades；　or　even　bare　hands；　came　in　behind　the　armed　panies　and　screamed　defiance　at　the　French。　Sharpe　swung　the　sword；　slipped；　and　half　fell；　half　jumped　into　the　trench。　A　bayonet　stabbed　at　him　and　he　hammered　it　to　one　side　and　kicked　the　man　down。　Other　Frenchmen　were　trying　to　scramble　out　the　far　side　of　the　parallel；　helped　by　rades　on　the　parapet。　The　British　bayonets　reached　for　them　and　blue…uniformed　bodies　slumped　down。
　
　'Watch　right！'　Someone　shouted。　A　group　of　French　were　working　their　way　up　the　trench；　rescuing　the　men　overwhelmed　at　the　point　of　the　British　attack；　and　then　they　themselves　were　suddenly　fighting　for　survival。　A　motley　band　of　soldiers；　mostly　armed　with　spades；　waded　into　the　French　and　Sharpe　could　see　Harper　swinging　murderously　with　his　makeshift　weapon。　The　Sergeant　leaped　into　the　trench；　swept　a　bayonet　to　one　side；　and　rammed　the　blade　of　his　spade　into　the　man's　solar　plexus。　He　was　shouting　his　Gaelic　challenge；　clearing　the　trench　with　massive；　scything　blows；　and　no　Frenchman　would　stand　and　fight。
　
　The　enemy　still　possessed　the　parapet。　They　clubbed　down　at　the　British　in　the　trench；　jabbed　with　long　bayonets；　and；　every　once　in　a　while；　succeeded　in　making　a　musket　fire　down　into　the　parallel。　Sharpe　knew　they　had　to　be　forced　away。　He　hacked　at　the　feet　of　the　men　nearest　him；　clawed　at　the　side；　and　a　boot　kicked　him　back　to　the　trench　floor。
　
　The　French　were　recovering；　drawing　their　forces　together；　and　the　parallel　was　an　unhealthy　place。　There　was　a　ragged　volley　of　shots　as　a　rank　of　the　enemy　uncovered　their　flintlocks；　men　fell　into　the　water　that　poured　like　a　small　stream　down　the　trench。　Sharpe　swung　again　at　the　enemy's　legs；　dodged　a　bayonet；　and　knew　that　the　sensible　thing　was　to　retreat。　He　ran　down　the　trench；　the　mud　fouled　and　slippery　beneath　his　boots；　and　then　a　massive　hand　checked　him　and　Sergeant　Harper　grinned　at　him。　'This　is　better　than　digging；　sir。'　He　was　holding　a　captured　musket；　the　bayonet　bloodied　and　bent。
　
　Sharpe　turned。　The　French　still　held　a　portion　of　the　trench　in　the　centre　of　the　parallel；　but　the　British　were　attacking　from　the　hill。　Only　to　the　north；　where　Sharpe　and　Harper　caught　their　breath　in　the　bloodied　trench；　were　the　French　undisturbed。　They　were　not　planning　to　stay　long。　Already　their　officers　were　sending　back　half　panies；　loaded　with　captured　tools；　and　the　sight　made　Sharpe　climb　up　on　the　parapet　of　the　French　side　of　the　trench。　About　half　of　his　old　pany　were　with　Harper；　some　with　captured　muskets；　most　with　spades。　He　grinned　at　them；　glad　to　be　back。　'e　on；　lads。　Up　here。'
　
　One　pany　of　Frenchmen　formed　a　guard　facing　north　and　the　officer　watched　nervously　as　Sharpe's　ragged　band；　their　uniforms　plastered　with　wet　mud；　came　towards　them。　They　would　not　attack。　The　British　were　not　properly　armed；　under…strength；　but　suddenly　a　sword　was　raised　and　the　small　group　burst　on　him；　and　it　was　bayonets　against　spades；　and　two　tall　devils　were　hacking　at　his　men。　No　one　likes　hand…to…hand　bat；　but　Sharpe　and　Harper　hurled　themselves　at　the　pany　and　the　South　Essex　came　with　them。　They　snarled　at　the　French；　clubbed　them　with　spades；　and　Harper　used　his　captured　musket　like　a　mace。　The　French　went　backwards；　stumbling　on　the　slick　mud；　blinded　by　rain；　and　still　the　madmen　came　at　them。　Sharpe　pushed　with　the　sword；　going　for　faces　and　throats；　once　having　to　parry　a　Sergeant's　efficient　bayonet。　He　knocked　the　blade　aside；　the　Frenchman　slipped；　the　sword　was　up　and　falling　like　an　axe　into　the　man's　head。　Sharpe　tried　to　stop　the　blow；　the　Sergeant　was　defenseless；　and　the　sword　swerved　and　thudded　into　the　wet　earth　of　the　parapet。　The　French　were　running；　back　to　their　main　body；　and　the　half…pany　of　the　South　Essex　were　left　with　a　dozen　prisoners　who　had　fallen　on　the　slippery　ground。　The　French　Sergeant；　his　single　arm…stripe　bloodied　in　the　fight；　looked　round　his　own　dead　and　then　at　the　sword　which　had　so　nearly　killed　him。　He　had　seen　the　tall　officer　change　the　death…stroke；　swerve　the　blow；　and　he　nodded　to　him。　'Merci；　Monsieur'。
　
　Harper　looked　at　the　dozen　men。　'What　do　we　do　with　them；　sir？'
　
　'Let　them　go。'　It　was　no　place　to　take　prisoners。　They　took　their　weapons　and　hurled　them　across　the　parallel；　out　of　reach；　and　searched　each　Frenchman　for　wine　or　brandy。　Ahead　of　Sharpe　the　battle　still　raged。　The　main　body　of　the　French　had　fought　their　way　to　within　fifty　yards　of　the　first　battery；　but　had　been　held。　Scattered　parties　of　men；　some　armed；　some　with　nothing　more　than　lengths　of　timber；　were　charging　the　French　and　starting　vicious　fights　in　the　mud。　Officers　on　horseback　galloped　at　the　fringe　of　the　fight；　trying　to　restore　order　to　chaos；　but　the　British　soldiers　did　not　want　order。　They　wanted　a　break　from　the　tedium　of　digging　and　the　drowning　rain；　and　they　wanted　a　fight。　It　was　like　a　street　brawl。　There　was　no　smoke　because　the　muskets　would　not　fire；　the　noise　of　the　fight　was　metal　clashing　on　metal；　wood　on　metal；　the　screams　of　the　wounded　and　sobs　of　the　dying。　From　the　side；　where　Sharpe　and　his　half…pany　shared　brandy　with　their　prisoners；　it　looked　like　hundreds　of　swamp　monsters　grappling　in　grotesque　slow　motions。　Sharpe　pointed　the　French　Sergeant　towards　the　city。　'Go！'　The　Frenchman　grinned；　gave　Sharpe　a　friendly　salute；　and　led　his　small　band　away。　Twenty　yards　from　the　trench　they　stopped；　picked　up　six　spades。　Harper　shouted。　'Bring　Them　back！'　The　French　Sergeant　made　a　rude　gesture　and　began　running　towards　Badajoz。
　
　'Let　them　go。'　Sharpe　turned　back　to　the　fight。　'e　on。'　They　trudged　up　beside　the　parapet；　the　rain　sweeping　across　them　and　down　on　to　the　dead　in　the　trench。　Broken　spades　and　shattered　muskets　littered　the　slope。　The　sound　of　the　fight；　the　sound　of　men　clawing　each　other　to　death　in　the　mud；　was　muffled　by　the　rain。　A　French　officer　had　organized　a　small　group　with　spades　and　was　trying　to　fill　in　the　parallel。　Sharpe　began　to　hurry；　the　ground　treacherous；　and　he　turned　to　see　his　men　strung　out　as　they　followed　him；　but　Harper　was　beside　him　and　the　French　turned　and　saw　them　ing。　It　was　the　turn　of　the　French　to　use　spades。　A　huge　man　swung　at　them；　forced　them　back；　parried　Harper's　thrust　and　Sharpe　flailed　his　sword　at　the　brute；　cutting　through　the　spade…handle；　and　still　the　Frenchman　came　at　them。　Harper　bayoneted　him；　and　still　he　came　on；　and　Sharpe　cut　at　the　back　of　the　man's　neck　until　he　finally　collapsed。　'e　on！'
　
　There　was　a　stinging　pain　in　his　back；　he　whipped　round　and　the　French　officer；　white…faced；　was　going　back　from　the　sword　lunge。　'You　bastard！'　Sharpe　went　forward；　blade　level；　and　the　Frenchman　came　at　him。　The　blades　rattled；　Sharpe　twisted　his　wrist　so　that　the　heavy　sword　went　from　the　Frenchman's　left　to　his　right；　under　his　guard；　and　Sharpe　stamped　his　right　foot　forward；　ignored　his　opponent's　blade　and　caught　him　in　the　ribs。　The　French　officer　tried　to　back　away；　slipped　on　blood　and　mud　but　Sharpe　kept　on　going　forward；　feeling　the　steel　scrape　on　ribs。　His　men　swept　past　him　with　their　bayonets　held　out；　their　captured　bayonets；　and　Sharpe　watched　them　drive　the　enemy　back。
　
　Bugles　called　the　French　back　to　the　city　and；　within　seconds；　the　hillside　was　a　mass　of　retreating　enemy　carrying　their　wounded　and　bundles　of　captured　shovels　and　picks。　They　were　heading　straight　for　the　city　as　if　frightened　of　cavalry　pursuit　and　Sharpe　watched　as　men　waded　into　the　floodwater　rather　than　go　the　long　way　round　by　the　dam。　For　ten；　twenty　yards　it　was　fine；　the　water　came　up　to　their　thighs　and　then；　with　horrid　suddenness；　the　bottom　dropped　away。　French　officers　shouted　at　their　men；　ordered　them　away　from　the　water；　shepherded　them　to　the　Rivillas　dam。　The　sortie　was　over。
　
　The　French　cannon　opened　fire；　the　round　shot　ploughing　into　mud…soaked　red；　and　the　British　leaped　for　the　damaged　trench。　Harper　looked　at　Sharpe's　drawn　and　gory　sword。　'Like　old　times；　sir。　'
　
　Sharpe　looked　round　his　small　group。　All　his　Riflemen　were　there；　grinning　at　him；　and　a　good　number　of　the　rest　of　the　Light　pany。　He　grinned　at　them；　then　picked　up　a　piece　of　wet　sacking　and　wiped　the　sword　blade。　'You'd　better　get　back　to　the　pany。'
　
　'Rather　stay　here；　sir。'　Sharpe　could　not　see　who　had　spoken。　He　looked　at　Harper。
　
　'Take　them　back；　Sergeant。'
　
　'Sir。'　Harper　grinned　at　him。　'And　thank　you；　sir。'
　
　'For　nothing。'　He　was　left　alone。　Small　groups　wandered　the　area　of　fighting　and　picked　up　the　wounded　and　stacked　the　dead。　There　were　a　lot　of　bodies；　more；　he　guessed；　than　had　been　in　the　breach　at　Ciudad　Rodrigo。　A　spade　brought　down　on　a　man's　head　is　a　vicious　instrument　and　the　British　troops　had　been　frustrated　and　ready　for　a　fight；　for　a　savage　brawl　in　the　mud。　A　dead　Frenchman　was　curled　at　Sharpe's　feet　and　the　Rifleman　crouched　and　ran　his　hands　through　the　corpse's　pockets　and　pouches。　There　was　nothing　worth　taking。　A　letter　folded　into　quarters　which　smeared　as　soon　as　Sharpe　pulled　it　into　the　rain；　a　copper　coin；　and　a　loose　musket　ball　that　may　have　been　the　dead　man's　talisman。　Round　the　neck；　thick　with　blood；　was　a　cheap　metal　crucifix。　He　had　tried　to　grow　a　moustache；　to　look　like　a　veteran；　but　the　hairs　were　wispy　and　thin。　He　was　hardly　more　than　a　boy。　One　of　his　boot　soles　had　e　loose；　was　hanging　free　and　vibrating　fitfully　as　the　rain　struck　it。　Had　that　killed　him？　Had　the　sole　e　loose　in　the　fight　and；　as　his　rades　ran；　had　he　limped；　or　stumbled；　and　had　a　British　bayonet　sliced　into　his　neck？　The　ink　washed　off　the　letter；　ran　into　the　mud；　but　Sharpe　could　see　the　last　word　on　the　page　that　was　written　larger　than　the　rest。　'Maman。'
　
　He　looked　at　the　city；　now　fringed　again　with　the　long　flames　as　the　guns　hammered　the　threnody　that　would　not　cease　till　the　siege　was　over。　Teresa　was　there。　He　looked　at　the　Cathedral　tower；　squat　and　arched　with　bell　windows；　and　thought　how　close　the　bell　must　sound　to　her。　The　Cathedral　only　seemed　to　have　the　one　bell；　a　harsh　bell　whose　note　died　almost　as　soon　as　it　was　struck　on　the　hour　and　its　quarters。　He　wondered；　quite　suddenly；　if　she　ever　sang　to　the　child？　And　what　was　mother　in　Spanish？　Maman？　Like　the　French？
　
　'Sir！　Sir！'　It　was　Ensign　Matthews；　blinking　through　the　rain。　'Sir？　Is　that　you；　sir？　Captain　Sharpe？'
　
　'It's　me。'　Sharpe　did　not　correct　the　Captain　to　Lieutenant。
　
　'You'd　better　e；　sir。'
　
　'What　is　it？'
　
　'The　officers'　baggage；　sir。　It's　been　rifled。'
　
　'Rifled？'　He　was　scrambling　out　of　the　trench。
　
　'The　Colonel's　lost　some　silver；　sir。　Everyone's　lost　something；　sir。'
　
　Sharpe　swore。　He　had　been　in　charge　of　the　baggage　and；　instead　of　guarding　it；　he　had　been　brawling　in　the　mud。　He　swore　again　and　began　to　run。
　
　CHAPTER　14
　
　'God　damn　it！'　Colonel　Windham　paced　up　and　down　in　the　tiny　sheepfold。　He　was　carrying　a　riding　cr