bcornwell.sharpescompany-第34章

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ions。'
　
　Fletcher　said　nothing。　The　room　was　silent；　embarrassed　by　Sharpe's　request。　The　Rifleman　felt　as　if　all　his　life；　all　that　had　been　and　all　that　might　never　be；　was　balanced　on　this　silence。
　
　Wellington　smiled。　'God　knows；　Sharpe；　that　I　think　you　are　a　rogue。　A　useful　rogue　and；　thankfully；　a　rogue　who　is　on　my　side。'　He　smiled　again　and　Sharpe　knew　that　the　General　was　remembering　the　gory　Indian　bayonets　reaching　for　him　at　Assaye；　but　that　debt　had　long　been　paid。　Wellington　picked　up　his　papers。　'I　don't　think　I　want　you　dead；　Sharpe。　The　army　would　be；　somehow；　less　interesting。　Your　request　is　denied。'　He　left　the　room。
　
　Sharpe　stood　there；　quite　still　as　the　other　officers　filed　out；　and　he　thought　how；　in　these　past　few　miserable　weeks；　he　had　fixed　all　his　hopes　and　ambitions　on　that　one　thing。　His　Captaincy；　his　pany；　their　jackets；　rifles　and　trust；　even；　because　he　did　not　seriously　believe　he　would　be　killed；　the　chance　to　reach　the　house　with　the　two　orange　trees　before　the　maniacal　horde；　before　Hakeswill；　and　all　had　been　fixed　on　the　Hope；　the　Forlorn　Hope。　And　it　had　been　denied。
　
　He　should　have　felt　disappointment；　anger　even；　at　the　refusal；　but　he　could　not。　Instead；　flooding　through　him　like　pure　water　scouring　a　foul　ditch；　was　relief；　utter；　blissful　relief。　He　was　ashamed　of　the　feeling。
　
　Hogan　came　back　into　the　room　and　smiled　up　at　him。　'There。　You've　asked；　you　got　the　right　answer。'
　
　'No。'　Sharpe's　face　was　stubborn。　'There's　still　time；　sir；　still　time。'　He　did　not　know　what　he　meant；　or　why　he　said　it；　except　that　on　the　morrow；　in　the　first　darkness　of　evening；　he　would　somehow　face　that　test。　And　win。
　
　CHAPTER　22
　
　Sergeant　Obadiah　Hakeswill　was　feeling　contented。　He　sat　by　himself；　church　parade　done；　and　stared　into　the　depths　of　his　shako。　He　spoke　to　his　hat。　'Tonight；　it　is；　tonight。　I'll　be　a　good　boy；　I　won't　let　you　down。'　He　cackled；　showing　his　few　rotting　teeth；　and　looked　round　the　pany。　They　were　watching　him；　he　knew；　but　would　take　care　not　to　catch　his　eye。　He　looked　back　into　the　greasy　depths　of　the　hat。　'Scared；　they　are；　of　me。　Oh　yes。　Scared　of　me。　Be　more　scared　tonight。　A　lot　of　them　will　die　tonight。'　He　cackled　again　and　raised　his　eyes　fast　so　that　he　might　catch　a　man　staring　at　him。　They　were　all　studiously　avoiding　his　eyes。　'You'll　die　tonight！　Like　little　bloody　pigs　under　the　pole…axe！'
　
　He　would　not　die。　He　knew　it；　despite　what　Sharpe　had　said。　He　looked　back　into　the　shako。　'Bloody　Sharpe！　He's　scared　of　me。　He　ran　away！　He　can't　kill　me。　No　one　can　kill　me！'　He　almost　shouted　the　last　words。　They　were　true。　He　had　been　touched　by　death　and　he　had　survived。　He　reached　up　and　scratched　the　livid；　red　scar。　He　had　hung　for　an　hour　on　the　gallows；　a　scrap　of　a　boy；　and　no　one　had　pulled　his　feet　so　that　his　neck　would　snap。　He　did　not　remember　much　of　the　experience；　the　crowds；　the　other　prisoners　who　had　joked　with　him；　but　he　would　always　be　grateful　to　the　sadistic　bastard　who　had　hung　them　the　slow　way；　without　a　drop；　so　that　the　crowd　would　have　a　spectacle　to　watch。　They　had　cheered　every　spasmodic　jerk　and　useless　struggle　until　the　executioner's　assistants；　grinning　like　actors　who　are　pleasing　their　audience；　came　to　hold　the　dangling　ankles。　They　had　looked　at　the　crowd；　asking　their　permission　to　pull；　and　teased　the　prisoners。　They　had　not　bothered　with　the　twelve…year…old　Obadiah　Hakeswill。　He　was　cunning　then　as　now　and　had　hung　still；　even　as　the　pain　drifted　him　in　and　out　of　consciousness；　so　the　crowd　thought　he　was　already　dead。　He　had　not　known　why　he　clung　so　tenaciously　to　life；　it　would　have　been　faster　and　far　less　painful　to　be　ankle…tugged　to　death；　but　then　the　rain　had　e。　The　clouds　had　split　apart　in　a　downpour　that　cleared　the　streets　in　minutes　and　no　one　could　be　bothered　with　the　last　small　body。　His　uncle；　furtive　and　frightened；　had　cut　him　down　and　hurried　the　limp　body　into　an　alleyway。　He　had　slapped　Obadiah's　face。　'Listen；　you　bastard！　Can　you　hear　me？'
　
　Obadiah　must　have　said　something；　or　moaned；　because　he　remembered　his　uncle's　face；　peering　close。　'You're　alive。　Understand？　Little　bastard！　I　don't　know　why　I　bothered；　except　your　mother　wanted　me　to。　Can　you　hear　me？'　'Yes。'　His　face　was　twitching　and　he　could　not　stop　it。　'You're　to　bugger　off；　understand？　Bugger　off。　You　can't　go　home；　they'll　get　you　again；　you　hear　me？'
　
　He　had　heard；　and　understood；　and　buggered　off；　and　never　saw　his　family　again。　Not　that　he　missed　them　much。　He　had　found　the　army；　like　so　many　hopeless　men；　and　it　had　served　him　well。　And　he　could　not　die；　he　had　known　it　since　he　was　alone　in　the　alleyway；　had　tested　it　in　battle；　and　he　knew　that　he　had　cheated　death。
　
　He　unsheathed　his　bayonet　and　wondered；　for　a　second；　whether　to　give　it　to　one　of　the　Privates　to　sharpen。　He　would　like　to　humiliate　the　big　Irish　bastard；　but　on　the　other　hand　he　always　liked　to　do　the　job　himself　when　there　was　killing　ahead。　The　assault　would　happen　today；　everyone　knew　it；　though　no　announcement　had　been　made；　and　there　would　be　killing　enough　for　everyone。　He　looked　into　the　hat。　'You'll　excuse　me　a　moment？　I'll　talk　again　soon。'
　
　He　put　the　shako　down　and　picked　up　his　stone。　It　blurred　in　his　hand；　honing　the　bayonet's　leading　edge；　but　he　did　not　look　at　the　work。　He　stared　instead　at　the　pany；　recognizing　their　fear　and　feeding　from　it。　Hakeswill　was　content。　He　had　broken　the　bastards　until　they　fetched　his　food；　washed　his　clothes；　and　changed　the　straw　in　his　shelter。
　
　Two　of　them　he　had　beaten　into　pulp；　but　now　they　were　like　puppy　dogs；　eager　to　please。　He　had　won　his　major　battles。　Sharpe　was　out　of　the　way；　and　Harper　was　broken　down　into　a　Private；　a　red…coated　Private。　The　Captain　was　afraid　of　Hakeswill；　so　was　Price　and　so　were　the　Sergeants。　Life　could　be；　Hakeswill　knew；　a　lot　worse。　He　put　a　thumb　on　the　blade；　knew　the　edge　could　be　sharper；　and　the　stone　started　again　on　long；　whispering　strokes。
　
　Private　Clayton　looked　sideways　at　Hakeswill；　laughed；　and　said　something　to　his　panion。　Hakeswill　saw　the　laugh；　but　pretended　not　to　notice。　He　would　take　care　of　young　Clayton；　but　after　the　siege；　when　he　had　time　to　think　the　problem　through。　Clayton　had　a　pretty　wife；　the　prettiest　in　the　Battalion；　and　Hakeswill　had　his　eye　on　Sally。　She　would　have　to　wait　until　he　had　done　with　Teresa。
　
　The　thought　of　Sharpe's　woman　made　him　scowl。　He　was　not　certain　why　he　wanted　her　so　much；　but　he　did。　She　had　bee　an　obsession　that　disturbed　his　sleep。　He　would　take　the　bitch　and　kill　her　afterwards。　It　was　not　because　she　had　fought　him；　and　won；　others　had　done　that。　He　remembered　the　woman　in　Dublin　who　had　stuck　a　gutting…knife　in　his　belly。　She　had　got　away　and　he　had　felt　no　resentment；　but　Teresa　was　different。　Perhaps　it　was　because　she　had　shown　no　fear；　and　Hakeswill　liked　to　see　fear。　He　could　remember　the　ones　he　had　killed；　the　ones　he　had　not　needed　to　kill；　right　back　to　that　prig　of　a　vicar's　daughter　who　had　stripped　for　him　as　he　held　the　adder　close　by　her　neck。　Dorcas；　that　was　her　name；　and　her　father　had　trumped　up　a　sheep　stealing　charge　that　had　nearly　killed　him。　Hakeswill　smiled　to　himself。　He　had　burned　down　the　vicar's　tithe　barn　on　his　first　night　after　the　hanging。　He　thought　again　of　Teresa；　and　the　edge　of　his　bayonet　became　sharper；　and　he　knew　that　he　wanted　her　very　much。　Not　just　for　revenge；　not　just　because　she　was　Sharpe's　woman；　though　that　was　important；　but　because　he　wanted　her。　She　was　so　beautiful；　so　utterly　beautiful；　and　he　would　take　her；　kill　her；　and　the　bastard　Sharpe　would　lose　her。　The　anticipation　brought　on　his　involuntary　twitch。
　
　He　changed　hands　so　that　the　bayonet　was　in　his　right　hand　and；　wedging　the　stone　between　his　knees；　he　spat　on　it　and　began　on　the　point。　It　would　be　needle　sharp　when　he　had　finished；　so　sharp　that　it　would　slide　sweetly　into　a　man's　guts　as　if　there　was　no　skin　to　puncture　on　the　way。　Or　a　woman's！　He　cackled　aloud　at　the　thought；　alarming　the　pany；　and　he　thought　of　Teresa。　Sharpe　would　know　who　had　done　it；　but　there　was　nothing　he　could　do　about　it！　Hakeswill　could　not　be　killed！　He　looked　up　at　the　pany。　They　wanted　to　kill　him；　he　knew；　but　so　had　the　men　of　a　dozen　other　panies　and　all　had　tried。　He　could　remember　the　musket　balls　going　past　him　in　battle；　fired　from　behind；　and　once　he　had　seen　a　man　taking　deliberate　aim。　He　stroked　the　bayonet；　remembering　his　revenge；　and　then　thought　of　the　night　ahead。
　
　He　had　planned　his　assault　carefully。　The　South　Essex；　with　the　rest　of　the　Fourth　Division；　would　be　attacking　the　breached　face　of　the　Trinidad　bastion；　but　Hakeswill　would　take　care　in　the　ditch。　He　would　hang　back；　let　others　do　the　fighting；　so　that　he　was　fresh　when　the　cheers　came　from　the　top　of　the　breach。　Then；　when　the　chaos　started；　he　would　cross　the　wall　and　go　up　into　the　dark　streets　that　led　to　the　Cathedral。　He　only　needed　two　minutes'　lead；　which　was　all　he　was　likely　to　get；　but　he　knew；　as　he　tested　the　perfectly　prepared　blade　in　his　hands；　that　he　would　succeed。　He　always　did　succeed。　He　had　been　touched　by　death；　released；　and　he　felt　in　his　soul　that　he　had　been　inspired　to　succeed　ever　since。　He　looked　up。　'Clayton！'
　
　The　pany　froze　and　stared　at　Clayton。　The　young　Private　grinned；　as　if　he　was　not　worried。　'Sergeant？'
　
　'Oil；　get　me　oil。'
　
　'Yes；　Sergeant。'
　
　Hakeswill　cackled　as　the　boy　walked　away。　He　would　save　him　for　after　Badajoz；　after　the　killing；　for　the　time　when　he　would　have　to　pick　up　the　other　problems　that　he　had　deferred。　There　was　the　oilskin　bundle　that　was　buried　beneath　a　boundary　stone　two　miles　down　the　Seville　Road。　Hakeswill　had　visited　the　spot　last　night；　heaved　the　stone　off　the　field　embankment；　and　rummaged　through　the　stolen　goods。　It　was　all　safe　and　he　had　left　most　of　it　there　because　there　would　be　no　point　in　trying　to　sell　anything　in　the　next　few　days。　Badajoz　would　be　stuffed　with　loot；　prices　would　drop　to　rock…bottom。　It　could　all　wait。　He　had　taken　only　Sharpe's　telescope；　with　its　distinctive　brass　plate；　which　he　planned　to　leave　beside　Teresa's　body。　He　picked　up　his　hat；　stared　down　into　the　interior。　'Then　he'll　be　blamed；　won't　he？　Or　else　that　bastard　Irishman！'
　
　'Sergeant？'
　
　The　eyes　rolled　up。　'Private　Clayton？'
　
　'The　oil；　Sergeant。'
　
　'Don't　bloody　stand　there！'　Hakeswill　held　up　his　bayonet。　'Oil　it。　And　be　careful！　Don't　spoil　the　edge。　'　He　let　Clayton　walk　away　and　then　looked　down　into　the　hat。　'Nasty　little　boy！　Perhaps　he'll　die　tonight；　and　that　will　make　things　easier　for　us。'
　
　Harper　watched　the　twitching；　malevolent　face　and　wondered　what　was　inside　the　shako。　The　whole　pany　wondered；　but　no　one　dared　ask。　It　was　Harper's　opinion　that　there　was　nothing　inside；　that　the　whole　performance　was　a　contrived　demonstration　of　madness　to　unsettle　the　pany。　The　Irishman　sharpened　his　own　bayonet；　the　unfamiliar　musket　bayonet　that　lacked　the　rifle　blade's　handle；　and　he　made　his　own　plans　for　the　night。　There　were　still　no　orders；　but　the　army；　with　its　strange；　collective　instinct；　knew　that　the　assault　was　planned　and　if；