bcornwell.sharpescompany-第26章

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re　fighting　purely　for　trade！　If　Boney　hadn't　closed　Portugal's　harbors　you'd　be　snug　in　your　Chelmsford　bed。'
　
　Forrest　remembered　the　conversation　and　looked　at　Sharpe。　'Sharpe？　Why　are　we　fighting？'
　
　'Sir？'　For　a　moment　Sharpe　wondered　if　Forrest　was　proposing　a　surrender　to　the　Picurina　Fort。　'Why　are　we　fighting？'
　
　'Yes；　Sharpe。　Why　do　you　fight？　Are　you　against　Republicanism？'
　
　'Me；　sir？　I　couldn't　even　spell　it。'　He　grinned　at　Forrest；　saw　that　the　Major　was　serious。　'Good　Lord；　sir。　We　always　fight　the　French。　Every　twenty　years　or　so。　If　we　didn't　they'd　invade　us。　Then　we'd　all　be　forced　to　eat　snails　and　speak　French。'　He　laughed　at　Forrest。　'I　don't　know；　sir。　We　fight　them　because　they're　meddlesome　bastards　and　someone　has　to　stamp　all　over　them。'
　
　Forrest　sighed。　He　was　saved　trying　to　explain　the　political　forces　of　the　world　to　Sharpe　because　Colonel　Windham　and　a　group　of　the　Battalion's　officers　spotted　them　and　joined　them　at　the　parapet。　Windham　was　in　a　good　mood。　He　looked　at　the　British　shot　flailing　at　the　remains　of　the　French　parapet　and　slapped　a　palm　with　a　clenched　fist。　'Well　done；　lads！　Give　the　bastards　hell！'　He　nodded　civilly　to　Sharpe　and　grinned　at　Forrest。　'Excellent　day；　Forrest；　excellent。　Two　foxes！'
　
　Hogan　had　once　mentioned　to　Sharpe　that　nothing　cheered　up　a　British　officer　as　much　as　a　dead　fox。　In　addition　to　this　double　cause　for　satisfaction　Windham　had　more　good　news。　He　pulled　a　letter　from　his　pocket　and　brandished　it　towards　Forrest。　'Letter　from　Mrs。　Windham；　Forrest。　Splendid　news！'
　
　'Good；　sir。'　Forrest；　like　Sharpe；　was　wondering　whether　the　chinless　Jessica　had　given　birth　to　another　young　Windham；　but　it　was　not　to　be。　The　Colonel　opened　the　letter；　hummed　and　hawed　as　he　glanced　down　the　first　few　lines；　and　Sharpe　could　tell　from　the　expressions　of　Leroy　and　the　other　newers　that　Windham　had　already　been　spreading　whatever　the　good　news　turned　out　to　be。
　
　'Here　it　is！　We've　had　poacher　trouble；　Forrest；　damned　bad　trouble。　Some　rascal's　been　in　among　the　pheasants。　My　good　lady　caught　him！'
　
　'Splendid；　sir。'　Forrest　tried　to　sound　enthusiastic。
　
　'More　than　caught　him！　She　bought　a　new　kind　of　mantrap。　Damned　thing　did　so　much　damage　that　he　died　of　the　gangrene。　Here　we　are。　Mrs。　Windham　writes：　〃It　so　inspired　the　Rector　that　he　incorporated　Same　into　last　Sunday's　sermon　to　the　undoubted　Edification　of　those　in　the　Parish　Unmindful　of　their　Station！〃　Windham　beamed　at　the　assembled　officers。　Sharpe　doubted　if　anyone　in　the　Colonel's　parish　was　unmindful　of　their　station　while　Mrs。　Windham　was　so　mindful　of　her　own；　but　he　judged　it　not　the　right　moment　to　say　so。　Windham　looked　again　at　the　letter。　'Splendid　man；　our　Rector。　Rides　like　a　trooper。　Know　what　his　text　was？'
　
　Sharpe　waited　for　a　gun　to　fire。　'Numbers。　Chapter　thirty…two；　verse　twenty…three；　sir？'　He　spoke　mildly。
　
　The　Colonel　looked　at　him。　'How　the　devil　did　you　know？'　He　seemed　to　suspect　that　the　Rifleman　might　have　been　reading　his　post。　Leroy　was　grinning。
　
　 Sharpe　decided　not　to　say　that　he　had　slept　in　a　dormitory　in　a　foundling　home　that　had　the　text　painted　in　letters　three　feet　high　down　the　wall。　'It　seemed　appropriate；　sir。　'
　
　'Quite　right；　Sharpe；　damned　appropriate。　〃Be　sure　your　sin　will　find　you　out。'　It　found　him　out；　eh？　Died　of　the　gangrene！'　Windham　laughed　and　turned　to　greet　Major　Collett　who　was　bringing　the　Colonel's　servant　laden　with　bottles　of　wine。　The　Colonel　smiled　at　his　officers。　'Thought　we'd　celebrate。　We'll　drink　to　tonight's　attack。　'
　
　The　guns　fired　through　dusk；　and　on　till；　in　the　darkness；　the　bugles　brought　an　overwhelming　force　of　British　infantry　forward　against　the　small　redoubt。　The　gunners　on　the　city　wall；　hearing　the　British　cannonade　stop；　lowered　their　own　muzzle　and　fired　over　the　Picurina　at　the　hill…slope。　The　round　shot　smashed　into　file　after　file　of　the　attackers；　but　they　closed　up　and　walked　on；　and　then　there　were　deeper　explosions　from　the　city　and　the　watchers　on　the　hill　saw　the　dark　red　streaks　of　the　shell…fuses　arc　over　the　lake　as　the　howitzers　started　firing。　The　shells　exploded　in　scarlet　blossoms。　Riflemen　of　the　95th　formed　a　skirmish　line；　curving　round　the　fort；　and　Sharpe　could　see　the　needle　flames　flickering　round　the　line；　seeking　the　loopholes。　The　French　in　the　fort　held　their　fire；　hearing　the　mands　in　the　darkness；　listening　to　the　rifle　bullets　overhead；　waiting　for　the　actual　assault。
　
　On　the　hill　the　watching　officers　could　see　little　except　the　flames　of　guns　and　explosions。　Sharpe　was　fascinated　by　the　guns　on　the　city's　parapets。　Each　shot　spewed　flame　that；　for　a　few　seconds；　was　bright　and　stabbing　as　the　shot　sped　away；　but　then；　for　a　brief　moment；　the　flame　contracted　into　a　strange；　writhing　shape　that　existed　independently　of　the　cannon；　a　fading；　twisting　beauty；　like　a　fire　ghost；　like　intricate　folds　of　flame…made　drapery　that　swirled　and　disappeared。　The　sight　had　a　mesmerizing　beauty；　nothing　to　do　with　war；　and　he　stood　and　watched；　drinking　the　Colonel's　wine；　until　a　cheer　from　the　dark　field　told　him　that　the　attacking　battalions　had　lowered　their　bayonets　for　the　charge。　And　stopped。
　
　Something　had　gone　wrong。　The　cheer　died。　The　ditch；　that　ran　clear　round　the　small　fort；　was　deeper　than　anyone　expected　and；　unseen　from　the　low　hilltop；　flooded　with　rainwater。　The　attackers　had　expected　to　jump　into　the　ditch　and；　using　the　short　ladders　they　carried；　climb　easily　on　to　the　fort　and　carry　their　bayonets　to　an　outnumbered　enemy。　Instead　they　were　checked。　The　French　defenders　crawled　to　their　splintered　ramparts　and　opened　fire。　Muskets　crackled　over　the　ditch。　The　British　fire　hammered　uselessly　at　the　fort's　stonework　and　shattered　palisades　while　the　French　toppled　men　into　the　water　or　drove　them　back　into　the　ranks　behind。　The　French；　sensing　victory；　rammed　and　fired；　rammed　and　fired；　and　then；　to　light　their　helpless　targets；　lit　the　oil…soaked　carcasses　they　had　been　keeping　for　the　final　assault；　and　rolled　the　lights　down　the　face　of　the　fort。
　
　It　was　a　fatal　mistake。　Sharpe；　on　the　hilltop；　saw　the　attackers　milling　helplessly　at　the　lip　of　the　ditch。　In　the　sudden　flame…light；　the　British　were　easy　targets　for　the　French　gunners　on　the　city　walls　who　fired　at　the　sides　of　the　fort；　slicing　whole　ranks　of　men　into　eternity　with　single　shots　and　forcing　the　attackers　to　the　shelter　of　the　fort's　front　edge。　But　the　light　also　revealed　a　strange　weakness　in　the　fort。　Sharpe　borrowed　Forrest's　glass　and；　through　the　dim　lens；　could　see　that　the　defenders　had　driven　wooden　spikes　into　the　face　of　the　ditch　to　stop　an　attempt　to　climb　its　inner　face。　The　spikes　effectively　reduced　the　width　of　the　ditch　to　less　than　thirty　feet　and；　as　the　glass　was　impatiently　snatched　from　him　by　Major　Collett；　he　saw　the　first　ladders　laid　like　a　bridge　on　to　the　convenient　spikes。　It　was　the　88th；　the　same　Regiment　that　he　had　fought　beside　at　Ciudad　Rodrigo；　the　men　from　Connaught。　Three　ladders　held；　despite　their　green；　wet；　sagging　timbers；　and　the　Irishmen　made　their　precarious　crossing；　into　the　eye　of　a　musket　storm；　and　some　dropped　into　the　drowning　ditch；　but　others　scrambled　across　and　the　dark　uniforms；　lit　by　fire；　climbed　the　fort's　escarpment　as　others　crossed　behind　them。
　
　The　lights　of　the　carcasses　died；　the　battlefield　went　dark；　and　only　the　sounds　told　the　story　of　the　fight　to　the　hilltop。　Screams　came　clearly；　but　few　shots；　which　told　those　who　understood　that　the　bayonets　were　at　work。　Then　there　were　cheers；　that　spread　back　among　the　attackers；　and　Sharpe　knew　that　the　British　had　won。　The　Connaught　Rangers　would　be　hunting　the　French　survivors　in　the　round　shot…shattered　fort；　the　long；　thin　blades　searching　the　broken　timber　and　he　grinned　in　the　night　at　the　thought　of　a　fight　well　fought。　Patrick　Harper　would　be　jealous。　The　men　from　Connaught　would　have　a　few　tales　to　tell；　of　how　they　had　walked　the　precarious　bridge；　and　won。　Windham's　voice　disturbed　his　thoughts。
　
　'That's　it；　gentlemen。　Our　turn　next。'
　
　There　was　a　brief　silence；　then　Leroy's　voice。　'Our　turn？'
　
　'We're　going　to　blow　up　the　dam！'　Windham's　voice　was　full　of　enthusiasm。
　
　There　were　a　dozen　questions；　all　asked　at　once；　and　Windham　chose　one　to　answer。　'When？　I　don't　know　when。　Three　days'　time；　probably。　Keep　it　to　yourselves；　gentlemen；　I　don't　want　every　Tom；　Dick　and　Harry　to　know。　There…should　be　some　surprise　in　our　attack。'　Windham　laughed；　his　good　mood　had　lasted。
　
　'Sir？'　Sharpe's　voice　was　low。
　
　'Sharpe？　That　you？'　It　was　difficult　to　distinguish　shapes　in　the　darkness。
　
　'Yes；　sir。　Permission　to　rejoin　the　pany　for　the　attack。'
　
　'You're　a　bloodthirsty　bastard；　Sharpe。'　Windham's　voice　was　cheerful。　'You　ought　to　be　my　gamekeeper。　I'll　think　about　it！'　He　moved　off　down　the　trench；　leaving　Sharpe　uncertain　whether　he　was　being　considered　as　gamekeeper　or　soldier。
　
　There　was　a　sudden　glow　in　the　trench　beside　him　and　the　smell　of　pungent　tobacco。　Leroy's　voice；　deep　and　amused；　came　with　the　smoke。　'With　any　luck；　Sharpe；　one　of　us　will　die。　You'll　get　your　Captaincy　back。'
　
　'It　had　occurred　to　me。'
　
　The　American　laughed。　'Do　you　think　any　of　us　think　of　anything　else？　You're　a　bloody　ghost；　Sharpe！'　He　put　on　a　morbid　tone。　'You　remind　us　of　our　mortality。　Which　one　of　us　will　you　replace？'
　
　'Any　offers？'
　
　Leroy　laughed。　'Not　me；　Mr。　Sharpe；　not　me。　If　you　think　I　left　Boston　just　so　you　could　get　my　shoes；　you're　wrong。'　'Why　did　you　leave　Boston？'
　
　I'm　an　American；　with　a　French　name；　from　a　Royalist　family；　fighting　for　the　English；　for　a　German　king；　who's　mad。　There；　what　does　that　tell　you？'
　
　Sharpe　shrugged　in　the　darkness。　He　could　think　of　nothing　to　say。　'I　don't　know。'
　
　'Nor　do　I；　Sharpe；　nor　do　I。'　The　cigar　glowed　bright；　then　faded。　Leroy's　voice　was　low　and　private。　'I　sometimes　wonder　if　I　chose　the　wrong　side。'
　
　'Did　you？'
　
　Leroy　was　silent　for　a　moment。　Sharpe　could　see　his　profile　staring　down　at　the　dark　city。　'I　suppose　so；　Sharpe。　My　Father　took　an　oath　to　defend　the　King's　Majesty　and　I　kind　of　inherited　the　burden。'　He　laughed。　'Here　I　am；　defending　away。　Sharpe　had　rarely　heard　Leroy　talk　so　much。　The　American　was　a　silent　man　who　watched　the　world　with　ironic　amusement。　'You　know　America　is　spoiling　for　war？'
　
　'I　heard。'
　
　'They　want　to　invade　Canada。　They　probably　will。　I　could　be　a　General　in　that　army；　Sharpe。　I'd　have　streets　named　after　me。　Hell！　Even　whole　towns！'　He　fell　silent　again　and　Sharpe　knew　that　Leroy　was　thinking　about　his　probable　fate；　an　unmarked　Spanish　grave。　Sharpe　knew　a　score　of　men　like　Leroy；　men　whose　families　had　stayed　loyal　after　the　American　Revolution　and　who　now　fought；　as　exiles；　for　King　George。　Leroy　laughed　again；　a　bitter　laugh。　'I　envy　you；　Sharpe。'
　
　'Envy　me？　Why？'
　
　'I'm　just　a　drunk　American　with　a　French　name　fighting　for　a　German　lunatic　and　I　don't　know　why。　You　know　where　you're　going。'
　
　'Do　I？'
　
　'Yes；　Mr。　Sharpe；　you　do。　To　the　top；　wherever　that　is。　And　that's　why　our　happy　band　of　Captains　are