bcornwell.sharpescompany-第11部分

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ings。　Sharpe　was　stopped　at　the　liquor　store　by　a　nervous　sentry。　'Can't　go　in　there；　sir。'
　
　'Why　not？'
　'General's　orders；　sir。　Orders。　'
　Sharpe　snarled　at　him。　'The　General　sent　me。　He's　thirsty。　'
　The　sentry　grinned；　but　still　brought　his　musket　down　across　the　doorway。　I'm　sorry；　sir。　It's　orders；　sir。　'
　'〃What's　going　on？'　A　Sergeant　appeared；　a　big　man；　walking　slowly。　'Trouble？'
　Sharpe　faced　the　Sergeant。　I'm　going　in　there　for　drink。　Do　you　want　to　stop　me？'
　The　Sergeant　shrugged。　'Up　to　you；　sir；　but　I'd　advise　against　it。　Bloody　raw　alcohol；　that　is；　sir。　It's　killed　a　couple　of　lads。　'　He　looked　Sharpe　up　and　down；　saw　the　blood　on　the　uniform。　'In　the　breach；　were　you；　sir？'
　'Yes。'
　The　Sergeant　nodded　and　unslung　a　canteen　from　his　neck。　'Here　you　are；　sir。　Brandy。　Took　it　off　a　prisoner。　pliments　of　the　83rd。'
　Sharpe　took　it；　made　his　thanks；　and　the　Sergeant　let　out　a　long；　slow　breath　as　he　watched　the　Rifleman　walk　away。　'You　know　who　that　was；　lad？'
　'No；　Sarge。'
　'Sharpe。　That's　who　that　was。　Lucky　I　was　here。　'
　'Lucky；　Sarge？'
　'Yes；　lad。　Otherwise　you　might　have　had　to　shoot　a　bleedin'　hero。'　The　Sergeant　shook　his　head。　'Well；　well；　well；　so　he　likes　a　drop；　does　he？'
　
　Sharpe　walked　close　to　one　of　the　burning　houses　where　the　heat　of　the　fire　had　melted　the　snow　into　a　glistening　sheen　on　the　cobbles。　A　broken　table　was　tipped　on　its　side　and　he　perched　on　it；　watching　the　prisoners　in　the　snow；　and　wished　he　could　get　drunk。　He　knew　he　would　not。　As　soon　as　the　first；　fierce　brandy　was　in　his　throat　he　knew　that　he　was　being　indulgent。　He　must　find　the　pany；　clean　the　sword；　think　of　tomorrow；　but　not　yet。　It　was　warm　by　the　burning　house；　the　first　warmth　he　had　known　in　days；　and　he　wanted　to　be　alone　for　a　while。　Damn　Lawford　for　walking　into　a　breach　where　he　had　no　business！
　
　Hooves　clattered　on　stones　and　a　group　of　horsemen　entered　the　plaza。　They　wore　long；　dark　cloaks；　broad…brimmed　hats；　and　Sharpe　could　see　the　outlines　of　muskets　and　swords。　Partisans。　He　felt　an　obscure；　unfair　anger。　The　Guerilleros　were　the　men　and　women　of　Spain　who　fought　the　'Guerilla'；　the　'little　war'；　and　they　were　achieving　what　the　Spanish　armies　had　failed　to　achieve；　they　were　pinning　down　thousands　and　thousands　of　Napoleon's　troops；　troops　the　British　would　not　have　to　face；　but　somehow　the　presence　of　the　Spanish　horsemen　in　the　plaza　of　Ciudad　Rodrigo　annoyed　Sharpe。　These　partisans　had　not　fought　through　a　breach；　had　not　faced　the　cannon；　yet　here　they　were；　e　to　pick　like　vultures　at　a　carcass　they　had　done　nothing　to　kill。　The　horsemen　stopped。　They　stared　at　the　French　prisoners　with　a　silent　menace。
　
　Sharpe　turned　away。　He　drank　again　and　stared　into　the　white…heat　where　the　house　had　collapsed　into　a　furnace…like　intensity。　He　thought　of　Badajoz；　waiting　to　the　south；　Badajoz　the　impregnable。　Perhaps　the　pox…scarred　Whitehall　clerk　could　write　the　garrison　a　letter；　telling　them　their　presence　was　'irregular'；　and　Sharpe　laughed　at　the　thought。　Damn　the　bloody　clerk。
　
　There　was　a　shout　behind　him　that　made　him　turn　round。　A　single　rider　had　left　the　group　of　horsemen　and　was　walking　his　horse　along　the　front　row　of　prisoners。　The　French　squirmed　back；　fearing　the　revenge　of　the　Spanish；　and　the　British　sentries　tried　ineffectually　to　force　the　horse　away。　The　rider　spurred　into　a　trot；　into　a　canter；　and　the　snow　spurted　from　the　hooves　that　crashed　on　the　cobbles　beneath。　The　rider's　face　turned　towards　Sharpe；　the　heels　slammed　down；　and　the　horse　came　towards　the　lone　Rifleman　in　the　light　of　the　burning　house。
　
　Sharpe　watched　the　man　e。　If　he　wanted　drink；　then　he　could　find　his　own。　There　were　sparks　from　the　cobbles　as　the　horse　was　reined　in　and　Sharpe　found　himself　wishing　grimly　that　the　beast　would　slip　and　tip　its　rider　into　an　ignominious　heap。　So　the　man　was　a　brilliant　horseman；　but　that　did　not　give　him　the　right　to　disturb　a　man　who　had　deserved　a　quiet　drink。　Sharpe　turned　away；　ignoring　the　dismounting　Spaniard。
　
　'You've　forgotten　me？'　Sharpe　heard　the　voice　and　the　drink　was　forgotten。　He　spun　round；　standing　up；　and　the　rider　took　off　the　broad…brimmed　hat；　shook　her　head；　and　the　long　dark　hair　fell　either　side　of　a　face　that　was　like　a　hawk。
　
　Slim；　cruel；　and　very；　very　beautiful。　She　smiled　at　him。　'I　came　here　to　find　you。　'
　
　'Teresa？'　The　wind　snatched　snow　from　a　rooftop；　whirled　it　crazily　above　the　sparks　of　the　burning　house。　Teresa？'　He　reached　out　for　her　and　she　came　to　him　and　he　held　her　as　he　had　held　her　that　first　time；　two　years　ago；　beneath　the　blades　of　the　French　lancers。　'Teresa？　It's　you？'
　She　looked　up　at　him；　mocking　him。　'You　forgot　me。　'
　'Christ　in　heaven！　Where　have　you　been？'　He　began　to　laugh；　his　misery　banished；　and　touched　her　face　as　if　he　wanted　to　prove　it　was　her。　'Teresa？'
　She　laughed；　too；　with　real　pleasure　and　put　a　finger　to　his　scarred　cheek。　'I　thought　you　might　forget　me。　'
　'Forget　you？　No。　'　He　shook　his　head；　suddenly　tongue…tied；　though　there　was　so　much　to　say。　He　had　hoped　to　find　her　the　year　before　when　the　army　had　marched　to　Fuentes　de　Onoro　just　a　few　miles　from　Ciudad　Rodrigo。　This　was　Teresa's　country。　He　had　thought　she　might　look　for　him　last　year；　but　there　had　been　no　sign　of　her；　and　then　he　had　gone　to　England　and　met　Jane　Gibbons。　He　pushed　that　thought　away　and　looked　instead　at　Teresa　and　wondered　how　he　could　have　forgotten　this　face；　the　life　in　it；　the　sheer　force　of　her　presence。
　
　She　smiled　and　jerked　her　head　at　the　rifle　on　her　shoulder。　'I　still　have　your　gun。　'
　
　'How　many　have　you　killed　with　it？'
　'Nineteen。　'　She　made　a　grimace。　'Not　enough。　'　She　hated　the　French　with　a　pure；　terrifying　hatred。　She　turned　in　his　arms　and　stared　at　the　prisoners。　'How　many　did　you　kill　tonight？'
　Sharpe　thought　of　the　fight　in　the　casement。　He　shrugged。　'I　don't　know。　Two　maybe；　three？'
　She　looked　up　at　him　again　and　grinned。　'Not　enough。　Did　you　miss　me？'
　He　had　forgotten　how　she　would　mock　him。　He　nodded；　embarrassed。　'Yes。'
　'I　missed　you。'　The　statement　was　said　matter…of…factly；　almost　flatly；　that　gave　it　a　ring　of　absolute　truth。　She　pulled　away　from　him。　'Listen。'　She　jerked　her　head　at　the　other　horsemen。　'They　are　impatient。　Are　you　going　to　Badajoz？'
　He　was　confused　by　her　sudden　question。　'Badajoz？'　He　nodded。　It　was　an　open　secret。　Nothing　had　been　said　to　the　army；　but　every　man　knew　that　both　fortresses　must　be　〃taken。　'Yes；　I　suppose　so。'
　'Good。　Then　I'm　staying。　I　must　tell　my　people。'　She　turned　to　her　horse。
　'You're　what？'
　'You　don't　want　me　to？'　She　was　mocking　him　again；　and　laughed。　'I　will　explain；　Richard；　later。　Do　we　have　somewhere　to　stay？'
　'No。　'
　'We'll　find　somewhere。'　She　swung　herself　on　to　the　horse　and　nodded　again　towards　the　Partisans。　'They　want　to　be　on　their　way。　I'll　tell　them　they　can　go。　Will　you　wait　here？'
　He　saluted　her。　'Yes；　ma'am。'
　
　'That's　better。'　She　smiled　at　him；　dazzling　him　with　her　beauty；　with　the　joy　on　her　face；　and　then　she　spurred　back　across　the　slush。
　
　He　grinned　and　turned　back　to　the　fire；　facing　its　warmth；　and　felt　a　vast　relief　that　she　had　e。　He　wished　she　would　never　go。　Then　he　wondered　at　her　words；　hearing；　distantly　in　his　mind；　the　faint　alarm　at　the　very　mention　of　the　name。　Badajoz。　Tonight　was　a　victory；　but　it　led　only　to　one　place；　to　the　place　where　the　British；　the　French；　the　Spanish；　to　where　the　gunners　and　the　infantry；　the　cavalry　and　the　Engineers；　all　marched。
　
　And　now；　it　seemed；　the　lovers　were　marching　too。　To　Badajoz。
　
　They　found　a　house；　hard　by　the　walls；　that　had　been　used　by　French　gunners。　There　was　food　in　the　kitchen；　hard　bread　and　cold　tongue；　and　Sharpe　lit　a　fire　and　watched　Teresa　as　she　stabbed　the　loaf　with　her　bayonet　and　ripped　the　blade　downwards。　He　laughed。　She　glared　at　him。　'What's　funny？'　'I　don't　see　you　as　a　housewife。'
　
　She　pointed　the　blade　at　him。　'Listen；　Englishman；　I　can　keep　a　house；　but　not　for　a　man　who　laughs　at　me。'　She　shrugged。　'What　happens　when　the　war　ends？'　He　laughed　again。　'You　go　back　to　your　kitchen；　woman。'　She　nodded；　sad