bcornwell.sharpescompany-第41部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


e　rocking　his　child　into　a　restless　sleep；　but　Sharpe；　stumbling　through　the　night；　felt　that　he　would　never　see　the　child。　Never。　Badajoz　would　kill　him；　as　it　had　killed　the　boy；　as　it　was　killing　all　he　had　worked　and　fought　for　in　nineteen　years　of　soldiering。
　
　'You　stupid　bastards！'　Hakeswill　appeared　in　the　darkness；　his　voice　like　the　croaking　of　the　thousands　of　frogs　that　lived　upstream。　He　sneered　at　them；　punched　at　Harper。　'You　pig…brained　Irish　bastard！　Move！'　He　thrust　at　them　with　the　squat　barrels　of　the　huge　gun　and　Harper；　still　helping　Sharpe；　smelt　the　burnt　powder　from　the　seven　barrels。　The　gun　had　been　fired　and　Harper　had　a　vague　memory；　no　more　than　an　impression；　of　bullets　ing　from　the　ravine　that　had　struck　Sharpe　down。　Harper　turned　to　look　for　Hakeswill；　but　the　Sergeant　had　gone　into　the　night　and　Sharpe；　his　leg　bleeding　and　hurt；　slipped　and　the　Irishman　had　to　hold　him　and　pull　him　up　the　slope。
　
　His　words　were　drowned　by　a　sudden　clamor　of　bells。　Each　bell　in　Badajoz；　from　every　church；　hammered　into　the　darkness　and　for　a　second　Harper　thought　they　were　celebrating　the　failure　of　the　night's　fight。　Then　he　remembered。　Midnight　had　turned　and　now　it　was　Sunday；　Easter　Sunday；　and　the　bells　rejoiced　for　the　greatest　of　all　miracles。　Harper　listened　to　the　cacophony　and　promised　himself　a　most　unchristian　promise。　He　would　perform　his　own　miracle。　He　would　kill　the　man　who　had　tried　to　kill　Sharpe。　If　it　was　the　last　thing　he　would　do　on　this　earth；　he　would　kill　the　man　who　could　not　die。　Dead。
　
　CHAPTER　19
　
　'Hold　still！'　the　doctor　muttered；　not　so　much　to　Sharpe　who　was　rigid；　but　because　he　always　said　the　words　when　operating。　He　twiddled　the　probe　in　his　fingers；　looking　at　it；　then　wiped　it　on　his　apron　before　pushing　it　delicately　into　the　wound　in　Sharpe's　thigh。　'You've　been　wounded　a　fair　bit；　Mr。　Sharpe。'
　
　'Yes；　sir。'　Sharpe　hissed　the　words。　His　leg　felt　as　if　a　serpent　with　red　hot　fangs　was　tearing　at　him。
　
　The　doctor　grunted；　pushed　down。　'Ah！　Splendid！　Splendid！'　Blood　welled　from　the　bullet　wound。　'I　have　it。'　He　pushed；　feeling　the　bullet　grate　beneath　the　probe's　tip。
　
　'Jesus！'
　
　'A　very　present　help　in　trouble。'　The　doctor　said　the　words　automatically。　He　straightened　up；　leaving　the　probe　in　the　wound。　'You're　a　lucky　man；　Mr。　Sharpe。'
　
　'Lucky；　sir？'　His　leg　was　on　fire；　streaking　pain　from　ankle　to　groin。
　
　'Lucky。'　The　doctor　picked　up　a　glass　of　claret　that　his　orderly　kept　always　full。　He　stared　at　the　probe。　'To　leave　or　not　to　leave；　that　is　the　question。'　He　glanced　at　Sharpe。　'You're　a　healthy　bastard；　yes？'
　
　'Yes；　sir。'　It　came　out　as　a　groan。
　
　The　doctor　sniffed。　His　cold　had　not　improved　since　Harper's　flogging。　'It　could　stay　in　there；　Mr。　Sharpe；　but　I　think　not。　You're　lucky。　It's　not　deep。　The　ball　must　have　lost　most　of　its　force。　'　He　looked　behind　him　and　selected　a　long；　thin　pair　of　pincers。　He　inspected　the　ridged　tips；　spotted　a　piece　of　dirt；　and　spat　on　the　instrument；　wiping　it　dry　on　his　sleeve。　'Right！　Hold　still；　think　of　England！'　He　pushed　the　forceps　into　the　wound；　following　the　track　of　the　probe；　and　Sharpe　hissed　imprecations　at　him　which　the　doctor　ignored。　He　felt　（or　the　bullet；　brought　out　the　probe；　pushed　down　again　with　the　forceps；　and　then　tightened　his　grip。　'Splendid！　A　moment　more！'　He　twisted；　Sharpe's　leg　exploded　with　agony；　and　the　doctor　pulled　out　the　forceps　and　dropped　them；　the　bullet　in　their　jaws；　on　the　table　behind　him。　'Splendid！　Nelson　should　have　known　me。　Right。　Tie　him　up；　Harvey。　'
　
　'Yes；　sir。'　The　orderly　let　go　of　Sharpe's　ankles　and　rooted　around　under　the　table　looking　for　a　clean　bandage。
　
　The　doctor　took　the　bullet；　still　in　the　forceps；　and　shook　the　blood　from　it　in　a　pail　of　discolored　water。　'Ah！'　He　held　the　bullet　up。'　A　pistol　bullet！　No　wonder　it　didn't　penetrate。　The　range　must　have　been　too　great。　Do　you　want　it？'
　
　Sharpe　nodded　and　held　out　his　hand。　It　was　no　musket　bullet。　The　grey　ball　was　just　half　an　inch　across　and　Sharpe　remembered　the　fore…shortened　yellow　flame。　The　seven…barreled　gun　used　half…inch　bullets。　'Doctor？'
　
　'Sharpe？'
　
　'The　other　wound。　Is　the　bullet　still　in？'
　
　'No。'　The　doctor　was　wiping　his　hands　on　his　apron；　already　stiff　with　blood。　It　was　the　mark　of　seniority　in　his　profession。　'Straight　through；　Sharpe；　all　it　did　was　break　the　skin。　Here。　'　He　held　out　a　tumbler　of　brandy。
　
　Sharpe　drank　it　and　leaned　back　on　the　table　while　the　orderly　washed　and　bandaged　his　leg。　He　felt　no　particular　anger　that　Hakeswill　had　tried　to　kill　him；　merely　a　curiosity　and　a　thankfulness　that　he　had　survived。　He　was　certainly　not　shocked。　Had　he　been　holding　the　volley　gun；　and　had　he　seen　Hakeswill；　he　would　have　pulled　the　trigger　and　sent　the　Sergeant　spinning　to　the　devil；　and　all　without　a　second　thought。　He　looked　at　the　doctor。　'What's　the　time；　sir？'
　
　'Dawn；　Sharpe；　dawn。　An　Easter　dawn；　when　all　men　should　rejoice。'　He　sneezed　violently。　'You　should　take　things　gently。'
　
　'Yes；　sir。'　He　swung　his　legs　off　the　table　and　pulled　on　the　cavalry　overalls。　There　was　a　neat　hole　in　the　leather　reinforcements　of　the　right　inner　thigh　where　the　bullet　had　entered。　The　doctor　looked　at　the　hole　and　laughed。
　
　'Three　inches　higher　and　you'd　have　been　the　last　of　your　line。'
　
　'Yes；　sir。'　Very　droll。　He　tested　his　weight　and　found　his　leg　could　take　it。　
　
　'Thank　you；　sir。'
　
　'For　nothing；　Sharpe；　except　my　small　skill　and　humble　duty。　Half　a　bottle　of　rum　and　you'll　be　skipping　like　a　lamb。　A　credit　to　the　Medical　Board　and　the　Apothecary　General　whose　obedient　servant　I　am。'　He　pulled　open　the　flap　of　his　tent。　'e　and　see　me　if　you　ever　need　a　limb　removed。'
　
　'I　shall　see　no　one　else；　sir。'
　
　The　troops　had　stood　down　from　the　morning　alert；　had　piled　arms；　and　were　finishing　meager　breakfasts。　The　guns　were　hard　at　work；　firing　now　at　the　Santa　Maria　bastion　as　well　as　the　Trinidad；　and　Sharpe　imagined　the　smoke　lying　over　the　lake。　Damn　the　powder！　The　amount　of　powder　needed　had　been　grossly　under…estimated　otherwise　Sharpe；　Harper　and　the　Riflemen　would　be　heroes　this　morning。　As　it　was　they　were　pariahs。　Trouble　was　brewing；　Sharpe　could　smell　it。　The　night's　failure　needed　scapegoats。
　
　Bells　clamored　from　the　city。　Easter。　Sharpe　limped　towards　his　shelter　and；　to　his　right；　saw　a　group　of　Portuguese　or　Spanish　women；　followers　of　the　army；　picking　small；　white　flowers　from　a　ditch　bank。　Spring　was　softening　the　landscape。　Soon　it　would　open　the　roads　and　the　rivers　to　the　French　armies　and　Sharpe　wondered　if　it　was　his　imagination　or　were　the　guns　today　firing　at　a　faster　tempo？　Pounding　at　a　city　that　the　British　must　take　if　they　were　to　carry　the　war　into　the　heart　of　Spain。　The　guns　of　Badajoz　could　be　heard　by　the　troops　far　to　the　north；　at　Alcantara　and　Caceres；　and　east　at　Merida；　where　British　outposts　stared　down　the　empty　roads　waiting　for　a　French　relief　army　and　listened　to　the　growl　of　the　distant　thunder。　The　guns。　They　dominated　the　Easter　service；　wrenching　the　thoughts　of　the　people　in　the　cathedral　away　from　the　celebrations。　The　High　Altar　was　resplendent　in　a　white　and　gold　facing；　the　Virgin　draped　in　gorgeous；　bejeweled　robes；　but　the　sound　of　the　guns　started　dust　from　the　high；　gold…painted　cornice　that　circled　the　Cathedral's　interior；　sifted　it　down　past　the　Stations　of　the　Gross；　and　the　women　prayed；　told　their　beads；　and　the　guns　foretold　a　bloody　assault。　Badajoz　knew　what　was　to　e；　the　city　had　a　long　memory　of　other　sieges　when　Moors　and　Christians　had　taken　turns　to　massacre　the　inhabitants。　Be　with　us　now　and　in　the　hour　of　our　need。
　
　'Sharpe！'　Major　Collett；　tired　and　irascible；　gestured　from　Windham's　tent。
　
　'Sir？'
　
　'How's　the　leg？'　The　question　was　grudging。
　
　'It　hurts。'
　
　Collett　offered　no　sympathy。　〃The　Colonel　wants　you。'
　
　The　light　was　yellowed　inside　the　tent；　the　canvas　giving　Windham's　face　a　tint　of　jaundice。　He　nodded　at　Sharpe；　not　unfriendly；　and　gestured　at　a　wooden　crate。　'You'd　better　sit。'
　
　'Thank　you；　sir。'　The　leg　was　shooting　pain　in