bcornwell.sharpescompany-第28部分

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e　trophy；　they　had　been　promised　a　reward　of　one　dollar。
　
　Sharpe　began　walking　to　the　top　of　the　hill；　parallel　to　the　trench；　keeping　pace　with　the　French　who　hurled　spades　and　picks　to　their　rades　beyond　the　parapet。　In　front　of　the　enemy；　like　startled　rabbits；　other　working　parties　leaped　from　the　earth　and　scampered　for　safety。　No　one　had　been　hurt　in　the　attack。　Sharpe　doubted　if　any　man　had　tried　to　fire　a　musket　or　lunge　with　a　bayonet。　It　was　almost　farcical。
　
　Above　the　enemy　was　chaos。　The　British；　mostly　unarmed；　moved　like　a　herd　while　the　enemy；　just　yards　away；　systematically　stripped　the　parallel。　Some　of　the　French　tried　to　push　the　parapet　down；　but　the　earth　was　so　sodden　that　it　was　impossible。　The　British；　glad　of　a　diversion　from　the　unending　digging；　jeered　at　them。　One　or　two　Frenchmen　leveled　their　muskets；　but　the　British　were　fifty　yards　away；　doubtful　musket　range；　and　the　rain　was　still　pouring　down。　The　French　were　unwilling　to　unwrap　their　locks　if　there　was　not　to　be　a　real　fight。
　
　'Bloody　chaos；　sir。'　Sergeant　Harper　had　caught　up　with　Sharpe；　strode　easily　alongside　with　a　spade　gripped　in　his　hand。　He　grinned　cheerfully。
　
　Sergeant　Hakeswill；　the　front　of　his　uniform　still　smeared　with　thick　mud；　ran　past　them。　He　gave　them　one　malevolent　glance　and　hurried　on　towards　the　rear　of　the　hill。　Sharpe　wondered　what　the　man　was　doing　and　then　forgot　about　it　as　Captain　Rymer　caught　him。　'Shouldn't　we　be　doing　something？'
　
　Sharpe　shrugged。　'See　if　anyone's　missing？'　There　was　not　much　else　to　be　done；　not　till　the　guard　panies　that　had　been　ordered　to　carry　weapons　could　organize　an　attack　on　the　busy　French。
　
　An　Engineer　in　blue　coat　and　wearing　an　ornate　cocked　hat　ran　towards　the　French。　He　was　shouting　at　the　working　parties　that　were　still　scrambling　for　safety。　'Keep　your　spades！　Keep　your　spades！'　It　had　taken　dozens　of　ox…carts　to　bring　the　precious　tools　from　Lisbon　and　now　they　were　being　casually　abandoned　to　the　French。　Sharpe　recognized　the　blue…coated　man　as　Colonel　Fletcher；　the　Chief　Engineer。
　
　A　few　men　turned　back　to　pick　up　their　discarded　spades　and　the　leading　French　troops　tugged　the　rags　off　their　muskets；　aimed；　and　shot。　It　was　a　miracle　that　any　fired；　but　three　were　dry　enough；　the　smoke　coughed　and　Colonel　Fletcher　fell　backwards；　hands　clutching　at　his　groin。　There　was　a　French　cheer　as　the　Colonel　was　carried　away　to　safety。
　
　The　South　Essex　Grenadier　pany　came　running　past　Sharpe；　muskets　at　the　trail；　with　Captain　Leroy　at　their　head。　He　had　his　inevitable　cigar　in　his　mouth；　sodden　and　unlit；　and　as　he　ran　past　he　raised　an　eyebrow　to　Sharpe　in　ironic　acknowledgement　of　the　chaos。　There　was　another　armed　pany　just　ahead　and　Leroy　lined　his　men　up　next　to　them。　The　American　looked　back　to　Sharpe。　'Want　to　join　in？'
　
　The　French　had　captured　half　the　first　parallel；　three　hundred　yards　of　trench；　and　were　still　pushing　up　the　hill。　The　two　panies　of　British　infantry；　outnumbered　ten　to　one；　pulled　out　their　bayonets　and　twisted　the　blades　on　to　the　muskets。　Leroy　looked　at　his　men。　'Don't　bother　pulling　your　triggers。　Just　cut　the　bastards。'　He　drew　his　sword　and　swished　the　thin　blade　through　the　rain。　A　third　pany；　panting　and　hurried；　attached　themselves　to　the　small　line。　The　Captains　nodded　to　each　other　and　ordered　the　advance。
　
　Other　panies　were　scrambling　into　position；　but　the　first　danger　to　the　French　was　from　the　three　panies　advancing　from　the　flank。　They　lined　the　trench；　unwrapped　the　rags　from　the　musket　locks；　and　waited。　Sharpe　doubted　if　one　musket　in　ten　would　work。　He　drew　his　own　sword；　suddenly　happy　to　feel　the　weight　in　his　hand　after　the　weeks　of　boredom；　and　then　the　British　line　began　a　stumbling　run　as　if　they　wanted　to　reach　the　trench　before　the　French　could　fire　their　muskets。
　
　A　French　officer's　sword　flashed　down。　'　Tirez！'　Sharpe　saw　the　men's　faces　flinch　as　they　pulled　the　triggers；　but　the　rain　had　done　the　work　for　the　British。　A　few　shots　banged　out；　but　most　of　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　Fre