bcornwell.sharpescompany-第7章

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d　ties　of　loyalty；　friendship；　and　even　gratitude　that　had　held　the　Battalion　together　would　be　untied。　Sharpe　thought　of　the　gazette。　If　it　was　refused；　and　the　thought　persisted　that　it　might；　then　Lawford　would　have　ignored　the　refusal。　He　would　have　kept　Sharpe　as　Captain　of　the　Light　pany；　e　what　may；　but　no　longer。　The　new　man　would　make　his　own　dispositions　and　Sharpe　felt　the　chill　of　uncertainty。
　
　They　pushed　deeper　into　the　town；　through　crowds　of　men　intent　on　repense　for　the　night's　effort。　A　group　of　the　88th　had　hacked　open　a　wine…shop；　splintering　the　door　with　bayonets；　and　now　had　set　up　their　own　business　selling　the　stolen　wine。　Some　officers　tried　to　restore　order；　but　they　were　outnumbered　and　ignored。　Bolts　of　cloth　cascaded　from　an　upper　window；　draping　the　narrow　street　in　a　grotesque　parody　of　a　holiday　as　soldiers　destroyed　what　they　did　not　want　to　loot。　A　Spaniard　lay　beside　a　door；　blood　trickling　in　a　dozen　spreading　streams　from　his　scalp；　while　in　the　house　behind　were　screams；　shouts；　and　the　sobbing　of　women。
　
　The　main　square　was　like　a　bedlam　let　loose。　A　soldier　of　the　45th　reeled　past　Sharpe　and　waved　a　bottle　in　the　Rifleman's　face。　The　man　was　hopelessly　drunk。　'The　store！　We　opened　the　store。　'　He　fell　down。
　
　The　French　spirit　store　had　been　broken　apart。　Shouts　came　from　the　building's　interior；　thumps　as　the　casks　were　stove　in；　and　musket　shots　as　crazed　men　fought　for　the　contents。　A　house　nearby　was　in　flames　and　a　soldier；　his　red　jacket　decorated　with　the　45th's　green　facings；　staggered　in　agony；　his　back　burning；　and　he　tried　to　douse　the　flames　by　pouring　a　bottle　over　his　shoulder。　The　spirit　flared；　scorched　his　hand；　and　the　man　fell；　writhing；　to　die　on　the　stones。　Across　the　plaza　a　second　house　was　burning　and　men　shouted　for　help　from　its　upper　windows。　On　the　pavement　outside　women　screamed；　pointing　at　their　trapped　men；　but　the　women　were　scooped　up　by　redcoats　and　carried　shrieking　into　an　alley。　Nearby　a　shop　was　being　looted。　Loaves　and　hams　were　slung　from　the　door；　to　be　caught　on　outstretched　bayonets；　and　Sharpe　could　see　the　flicker　of　flame　deep　inside　the　building。
　
　Some　troops　had　kept　their　discipline　and　followed　their　officers　in　futile　attempts　to　stop　the　riot。　One　horseman　rode　at　a　group　of　drunks；　and　flailing　down　with　a　scabbarded　sword；　split　the　group　apart；　and　rode　out　with　a　young　girl；　screaming；　clinging　to　his　saddle。　The　horseman　took　the　girl　to　a　growing　huddle　of　women；　sheltered　by　sober　troops；　and　turned　his　horse　back　into　the　melee。　Shrieks　and　screams；　laughter　and　tears；　the　sound　of　victory。
　
　Watching　it　all；　in　silent　awe；　the　survivors　of　the　French　garrison　had　gathered　in　the　centre　of　the　plaza　to　surrender。　They　were　mostly　still　armed；　but　submitted　patiently　to　the　British　troops　who　systematically　worked　their　way　down　the　losers'　ranks　and　pillaged　them。　Some　women　clung　to　their　French　husbands　or　lovers；　and　those　women　were　left　alone。　No　one　was　taking　revenge　on　the　French。　The　fight　had　been　short　and　there　was　little　ill　will。　Sharpe　had　heard　a　suggestion；　floating　as　a　rumor　before　the　assault；　that　all　surviving　Frenchmen　were　to　be　massacred；　not　as　revenge；　but　as　a　warning　to　the　garrison　at　Badajoz　what　to　expect　if　they　chose　to　resist　in　their　larger　fortress。　It　was　no　more　than　a　rumor。　These　French；　silent　in　the　midst　of　rampage；　would　be　marched　into　Portugal；　over　the　winter　roads　to　Oporto；　and　then　back　by　ships　to　the　fetid　prison　hulks　or　even　the　brand　new　prison；　built　for　prisoners　of　war；　in　the　bleakness　of　Dartmoor。
　
　'Good　God。　'　Major　Forrest's　eyes　widened　as　he　stared　at　the　rioting　troops。　'They're　animals！　Just　animals！'
　
　Sharpe　said　nothing。　There　were　few　rewards　for　a　soldier。　The　pay　would　make　no　man　rich；　and　the　battlefields　that　yielded　booty　were　few　and　far　between。　A　siege　was　the　hardest　fighting　and　soldiers　had　always　regarded　victory　in　a　breach　as　reason　for　losing　all　discipline　and　taking　their　reward　from　the　conquered　fortress。　And　if　the　fortress　was　a　city；　so　much　the　more　loot；　and　if　the　inhabitants　of　the　city　were　your　allies；　then　that　was　bad　luck；　they　were　in　the　wrong　place；　at　the　wrong　time。　Life　had　always　been　like　that；　and　always　would；　because　this　was　ancient　custom；　soldiers'　custom。　In　truth　Ciudad　Rodrigo　was　not　suffering　much。　There　were；　to　Sharpe's　eyes；　plenty　of　sober；　disciplined　troops　who　had　not　joined　the　riot　and　who　would；　by　morning；　have　swept　up　the　drunks；　disposed　of　the　corpses；　and　the　city's　ordeal　would　soon　end　in　alcoholic　exhaustion。　He　looked　round；　trying　to　identify　a　hospital。
　
　'Sir！　Sir！〃　Sharpe　turned。　It　was　Robert　Knowles；　who　had　been　his　Lieutenant　till　the　previous　year；　but　was　now　a　Captain　himself。　The　'sir'　was　pure　habit。　'How　are　you？'
　
　Knowles　smiled　in　delight。　He　wore　the　uniform　of　his　new　Regiment。　Sharpe　gestured　at　Lawford's　body　and　the　young　Captain's　face　fell。　'How？'
　
　'A　mine。　'
　'Christ！　Will　he　live？'
　'God　knows。　We　need　a　hospital。　'
　'This　way。　'　Knowles　had　entered　the　town　through　the　smaller　breach；　attacked　by　the　Light　Division；　and　he　led　the　party　north；　through　the　crowds；　and　into　a　narrow　street。　'I　passed　it　on　the　way　here。　A　convent。　Crauford's　there。　'
　
　'Wounded？'　Sharpe　had　thought　Black　Bob　Crauford　to　be　indestructible。　The　General　of　the　Light　Division　was　the　toughest　man　in　the　army。
　
　Knowles　nodded。　'Shot。　It's　bad。　They　don't　think　he'll　live。　There。　'　He　pointed　to　a　big；　stone　building　which　was　topped　by　a　cross　and　fronted　by　an　arched　cloister　lit　by　bracketed　torches。　Wounded　men　were　lying　outside；　tended　by　friends；　while　screams　came　from　the　upper　windows　behind　which　the　surgeons　were　already　at　work　with　their　serrated　blades。
　
　'Inside！'　Sharpe　pushed　through　the　men　in　the　doorway；　ignored　a　nun　who　tried　to　stop　him；　and　forced　a　path　for　the　Colonel's　stretcher。　The　tiled　floor　was　gleaming　with　fresh　blood　that　looked　black　in　the　candlelight。　A　second　nun　pushed　Sharpe　aside　and　looked　down　at　Lawford。　Her　eyes　saw　the　gold　lace；　the　torn　elegance　of　the　blood…stained　uniform；　and　she　rapped　orders　at　her　sisters。　The　Colonel　was　carried　through　an　arched　doorway　to　whatever　horrors　the　surgeons　would　inflict。
　
　The　small　group　of　men　looked　at　each　other；　saying　nothing；　but　on　each　face　there　were　deep　lines　of　tiredness　and　sorrow。　The　South　Essex；　that　had　achieved　so　much　under　Lawford's　leadership；　was　about　to　change。　Soldiers　might　belong　to　an　army；　wear　the　uniform　of　a　Regiment；　but　they　lived　inside　a　battalion　and　the　mander　of　the　Battalion　made　or　broke　their　happiness。　Their　thoughts　were　all　the　same。
　
　'What　now？'　Forrest　was　weary。
　'You　get　some　sleep；　sir。'　Leroy　spoke　brutally。　'Parade　in　the　morning；　sir？'　Sharpe　suddenly　realized　that　Forrest　was　in　mand　until　the　new　man　was　appointed。　'The　Brigade　Major　will　have　orders。'
　
　Forrest　nodded。　He　waved　a　hand　towards　the　doorway　where　Lawford　had　disappeared。　'I　must　report　this。'
　
　Knowles　put　a　hand　on　Forrest's　elbow。　'I　know　where　the　Headquarters　will　be；　sir。　I'll　take　you。'
　
　'Yes。'　Forrest　hesitated。　He　saw　a　severed　hand　lying　on　the　checkered　tiles　and　he　nearly　gagged。　Sharpe　kicked　the　hand　out　of　sight　beneath　a　dark　wooden　chest。　'Go　on；　sir。'
　
　Forrest；　Leroy；　and　Knowles　left。　Sharpe　turned　to　Lieutenant　Price　and　Sergeant　Harper。　'Find　the　pany。　Make　sure　they　have　billets。'
　
　'Yes；　sir。'　Price　seemed　shocked。　Sharpe　tapped　him　on　the　chest。
　'Stay　sober。'
　The　Lieutenant　nodded；　then　pleaded。　'Half　sober？'　'Sober。'
　'e　on；　sir。'　Harper　led　Price　away。　There　was　no　doubt　about　which　man　was　in　mand。
　
　Sharpe　watched　the　men　ing　into　the　convent；　the　blinded；　the　lamed；　the　bleeding；　French　and　British。　He　tried　to　blot　the　screaming　from　his　ears；　but　it　was　impossible；　the　sound　penetrated　the　senses　like　the　acrid　smoke　that　hung　in　the　city's　streets　this　night。　An　officer　of　the　95th　Rifles　came　down　the　main　stairway；　crying；　and　saw　Sharpe。　'He's　bad。'　He　did　not　know　who　he　was　talking　to；　except　that　he　saw　in　Sharpe　another　Rifleman。　'Crauford？'
　
　'There's　a　bullet　in　his　spine。　They　can't　get　it　out。　The　bastard　was　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　breach；　right　in　the　bloody　middle；　and　telling　us　to　move　our　arses。　They　shot　him！'
　
　The　Rifle　officer　went　out　into　the　cold　night。　Crauford　never　asked　his　men　to　do　anything　he　would　not　do　himself；　and　he　would　be　there；　cursing　and　spitting；　leading　his　men　on；　and　now　he　would　die。　The　army　would　not　be　the　same。
　
　Things　were　changing。
　
　A　clock　struck　ten　o'clock　and　Sharpe　thought　it　had　been　just　three　hours　since　they　slipped　over　the　snow　towards　the　breach。　Just　three　hours！　The　door　through　which　Lawford　had　been　carried　was　opened　and　a　soldier　dragged　out　a　corpse。　It　was　not　the　Colonel。　The　body；　pulled　by　the　heels；　left　a　jellied　slime　of　bloodied　mud　on　the　tiles。　The　door　was　left　open　and　Sharpe　crossed　to　it；　leaned　on　the　post；　and　stared　into　the　candle…bright　charnel　house。　He　remembered　the　soldier's　prayer；　morning　and　evening；　that　God　keep　him　from　the　surgeon's　knife。　Lawford　was　on　the　table　strapped　tight；　his　uniform　cut　away。　An　orderly　leaned　on　his　chest；　obscuring　the　face；　while　a　surgeon；　his　apron　stiff　with　blood　the　colour　of　burnt　ochre；　grunted　as　he　pushed　in　the　knife。　Sharpe　saw　Lawford's　feet；　still　encased　in　the　boots　with　the　swan…neck　spurs；　jerk　in　the　leather　straps。　The　surgeon　was　sweating。　The　candles　guttered　in　the　draught　and　he　turned　a　blood…spattered　face。　'Shut　the　bloody　door！'
　
　Sharpe　closed　it；　cutting　off　the　view　of　severed　limbs；　the　waiting　bodies。　He　wanted　a　drink。　Things　were　changing。　Lawford　under　the　knife；　Crauford　dying　upstairs；　the　New　Year　mocking　them。　He　stood　in　the　hallway；　in　dark　shadow；　and　remembered　the　gas　lighting　he　had　seen　in　London's　Pall　Mall　just　two　months　ago。　A　wonder　of　the　world；　he　had　been　told；　but　he　did　not　think　so。　Gas　lighting；　steam　power；　and　stupid　men　in　offices　with　dirty　spectacles　and　neat　files；　the　new　denizens　of　England　that　would　tie　up　the　world　in　pipes；　conduits；　paper；　and　above　all　order。　Neatness　above　all。　England　did　not　want　to　know　about　the　war。　A　hero　was　a　week…long　wonder；　so　long　as　he　was　not　untidily　scarred　like　the　beggars　in　the　streets　of　London。　There　were　men　with　only　half　a　face；　covered　in　suppurating　sores；　rodent　ulcers；　men　with　empty　eye　sockets；　torn　mouths；　ragged　stumps　who　had　cried　out　for　a　penny　for　an　old　soldier。　He　had　watched　them　being　moved　on　so　they　did　not　sully　the　pristine；　hissing　light　in　Pall　Mall。　Sharpe　had　fought　beside　some　of　them；　watched　them　drop　on　a　battlefield；　but　their　country　did　not　care。　There　were　the　military　hospitals；　of　course；　at　Chelsea　and　Kilmainham；　but　it　was　the　soldiers　who　paid　for　those；　not　the　country。　The　country　wanted　the　soldiers　out　of　the　way。　Sharpe　wanted　a　drink。
　
　The　door　of　the　surgeon's　room　banged　open　and　Sharpe　turned　to　see　Lawford　being　carried　on　a　canvas　stretcher　to　the　wide　staircase。　He　hurried　to　the　orderlies。　'How　is　he？'　'If　the　r