bcornwell.sharpescompany-第51部分

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　The　guns　were　winning　the　night。　The　ditch　was　blocked　by　fire。　Men　could　not　go　right　or　left　because　of　the　flaming　timbers　that　jammed　the　main　ditch　on　either　side　of　the　two　bastions；　just　as　the　approaches　to　the　third　breach　were　blocked。　The　four　fires；　fed　with　fresh　timber　from　the　walls；　defined　where　the　British　could　go；　a　space　that　was　terrible　with　gunfire。　Yet　still　more　men　went　over　the　edge；　hurrying　down　the　ladders　as　if　there　was　some　safety　in　the　milling；　scrambling　horde　that　bulged　at　the　edges　as　fresh　groups　charged　towards　a　breach。　The　ditch　was　filling　with　men；　hundreds　and　hundreds　of　men；　shouting　men；　holding　their　bayonets　above　the　crush；　and　the　grapeshot　would　lick　down　and　clear　a　space　of　the　living　and　the　space　would　be　filled　again　as　men　trampled　the　dying。　The　guns　would　belch　again；　and　again；　and　the　metal　scraps　turned　the　ditch　into　a　charnel　house。　Still　they　went　forward；　incoherently　brave；　trying　to　reach　an　enemy　they　could　not　see　or　touch；　and　they　died　as　they　cursed　and　struggled　forward。
　
　They　went　in　small　groups　and　Sharpe；　crouched　on　the　glacis；　watched　as　an　officer　or　Sergeant　led　them　forward。　Mostly　they　died　in　the　ditch；　but　some；　at　last；　reached　the　breach　and　clambered　upwards。　A　dozen　men　would　go　and；　in　seconds；　there　would　be　six；　and　three　would　reach　the　stone　and　begin　to　climb　while　the　men　on　the　glacis　lip；　next　to　Sharpe；　knelt　up　and　fired　their　muskets　at　the　walls　as　if　they　could　clear　the　path　for　the　scrambling　men。　Sharpe　wondered　if　the　French　were　playing　with　them。　Sometimes　no　gun　would　fire　on　the　small；　desperate　groups；　even　though　guns　swept　the　approach　to　the　breach；　and　he　would　watch　them　struggle；　higher　and　higher　until；　casually　almost；　the　enemy　would　pluck　them　off　the　stone；　tumble　them　dead；　and　a　new　high…tide　mark　of　blood　was　marked　on　the　breach。　Once　a　man　even　reached　the　Chesaux　de　Frise；　he　swept　at　the　sabre　blades　with　a　musket；　bellowing　defiance；　and　then　he　was　hit　by　an　unseen　French　infantryman　and　he　fell；　twisting　like　a　rag　doll；　down　the　slope　and　the　French　jeered　him　and　poured　fire　down。
　
　Sharpe　went　right；　looking　for　the　Fourth　Division　and　the　South　Essex；　but　the　ditch　was　a　massive　sink　of　death；　of　weird　shadows　cast　by　the　fires；　and　he　could　make　out　no　faces　in　the　packed　crowd　that　was　filling　the　space　between　the　ravelin　and　glacis。　Men　sheltered　behind　parapets　made　from　the　dead；　others　clumsily　reloaded　muskets　and　fired　them　uselessly　at　the　towering　stone　that　crushed　them　with　fire。　He　ran　for　a　minute；　right　on　the　edge　of　the　glacis；　stumbling　on　the　uneven　paving　and　hearing　the　canister　above　him；　in　front　of　him；　yet　he　was　untouched。　Small　groups　of　men　were　on　the　glacis　lip；　Light　panies　mostly；　who　rammed　and　fired；　rammed　and　fired；　hoping　that　their　bullets　might　ricochet　from　an　embrasure　and　kill　a　Frenchman。　The　canister　flung　them　backwards；　ragged　down　the　slope；　and　beyond　the　bodies；　in　the　darkness；　more　men　waited　for　the　orders　that　would　send　them　running　to　the　light；　to　the　ditch；　to　the　hundreds　of　dead。　Sharpe　had　never　seen　so　many　dead。
　
　He　was　still　fifty　yards　from　the　Trinidad；　but　he　could　see　that　its　breach　was　no　better　than　the　Santa　Maria。　The　foot　of　the　breach　was　smeared　with　bodies；　its　approaches　bare　of　the　living；　though　small　groups　of　men　dashed　from　the　shadows　of　the　ravelin　and　screamed　defiance　as　they　clawed　at　the　stones　and　were　blasted　away。　Bugles　sounded　to　the　right；　the　shouts　of　officers　and　Sergeants；　and　there　was　the　South　Essex！　He　saw　them　flowing　up　the　glacis　in　close　column　and　his　pany；　Rymer's　pany；　lined　the　ditch　and　fired　their　ineffectual　muskets　at　the　wall's　height　while　the　other　men　scrambled　at　the　ladders；　flung　themselves　on　hay…bags；　frantic　in　their　haste。　Men　bunched　at　the　ditch's　edge；　the　guns　hammered　from　the　wall；　their　hot　breath　hard　on　the　glacis；　and　Sharpe　saw　the　Battalion　shudder　like　a　wounded　thing；　reform；　smash　itself　under　new　impacts。　But　they　were　over；　scrambling　in　the　ditch　and　he　saw　Windham；　his　cocked　hat　gone；　scything　his　sword　towards　the　breach；　and　new　guns　fired　until　the　sound　of　the　city　was　like　a　weight　of　solid　thunder。
　
　They　died　in　dozens；　but　still　they　went　towards　the　breach；　and　more　men　came　from　the　ditch；　from　other　Regiments；　and　they　tried；　and　pushed；　and　fought；　and　scrambled　up　the　stone　till　it　seemed　they　had　to　win　for　there　was　not　enough　shot　in　the　world　to　kill　so　many　men。　The　gunners　rammed　and　fired；　loaded　and　fired；　and　the　powder　kegs　banged　down　the　slope；　and　the　shells　were　thrown；　fuses　lit；　so　the　dark　explosions　splintered　the　men；　and　they　died　and　it　was　done。　The　dead　choked　the　living；　the　breach　had　won。　A　few　men；　very　few；　still　lived　and　struggled　upwards；　shredding　their　hands　on　the　nailed　boards　laid　down　the　upper　slope；　and　Sharpe　saw　Leroy；　sword　in　hand；　cigar　inevitably　between　his　teeth；　look　up　into　the　night；　so　slow；　and　then　he　fell；　tumbling；　fell；　screaming　into　the　ditch。　A　last　man　reached　the　sword　blades；　the　very　top；　he　clawed　at　them；　blood　on　his　hands；　and　then　he　shook；　quivered；　filled　with　a　dozen　bullets　and　the　highest　man；　dead　on　the　Trinidad；　slid　down；　blood　on　stone；　till　he　was　caught。
　
　The　survivors　were　behind　the　ravelin；　digging　into　the　dead；　and　the　French　mocked　them。　'e　to　Badajoz；　English。'
　
　Sharpe　had　not　been　with　them。　He　knelt；　fired　once　at　the　wall；　and　watched　the　death　of　the　Battalion；　Collett；　Jack　Collett；　neck　severed　by　a　round　shot；　even　Sterritt；　poor；　worried　Sterritt；　a　hero　now；　killed　in　the　ditch　at　Badajoz。
　
　'Sir？'　A　voice　curiously　calm　in　the　torment　of　sound。　'Sir？'
　
　He　looked　up。　Daniel　Hagman；　strange　in　red　coat；　stood　over　him。　He　stood　up。　'Daniel？'
　
　'You'd　better　e；　sir。'
　
　He　went　towards　the　Light　pany；　close　to　him　now　and　still　on　the　glacis；　and　he　saw　in　the　ditch　where　men　had　drowned　in　the　deep　water。　The　black　humps　of　their　bodies　broke　up　the　ripples　in　red　and　dark　patterns。　The　guns　were　quieter　now；　saving　their　anger　for　the　fools　who　would　e　from　behind　the　ravelin。　The　breaches　were　empty　of　all　but　the　dead。　The　huge　fires　roared；　greedy　for　the　lumber　that　was　tossed　from　the　walls；　and　an　army　was　dying　between　their　flames。
　
　'Sir？'　Lieutenant　Price；　his　eyes　stark　with　the　horror；　ran　to　Sharpe。　'Sir？'
　
　'What？'
　
　'Your　pany；　sir。'
　
　'Mine？'
　
　Price　pointed。　Rymer　was　dead；　a　tiny　wound；　an　insignificant　wound；　red　on　his　pale　forehead。　He　lay　backwards　on　the　slope；　arms　wide；　staring　at　nothing；　and　Sharpe　shuddered　when　he　remembered　how　he　had　wanted　this　pany；　and　thus　this　man's　death；　and　now　it　was　given　to　him。
　
　So　easy。　It　was　all　done？　Out　of　the　horror；　the　pulverizing　fire　and　iron　that　smothered　the　south…east　corner　of　Badajoz；　death　had　given　Sharpe　back　what　had　once　been　his。　He　could　stay　on　the　glacis；　firing　at　the　night；　safe　from　the　carnage；　a　Captain　again；　the　pany　his；　and　men　would　account　him　a　hero　because　he　had　lived　through　Badajoz。
　
　A　musket　ball　whirred　past　his　head；　making　him　jerk　back；　and　there　was　Harper；　the　red　jacket　discarded；　huge　in　a　blood…stained　shirt；　and　the　Irish　face　was　stone　hard　'What　do　we　do；　sir？'
　
　Do？　There　was　only　one　thing　to　do。　A　man　did　not　go　into　a　breach　to　fight　for　a　pany；　not　even　a　Captaincy。　Sharpe　looked　over　the　ditch；　over　the　scoured　ravelin　and　there；　untouched　by　blood；　was　the　third　breach；　the　new　breach；　the　unattacked　breach。　A　man　went　first　into　a　breach　for　pride；　nothing　else；　just　pride。　A　poor　reason；　paltry　even；　but　enough；　perhaps；　to　win　a　city。　He　looked　up　at　Harper。　'Sergeant。　We're　going　to　Badajoz。'
　
　CHAPTER　25
　
　Captain　Robert　Knowles　crossed　the　bridge　by　the　ruined　mill　and　wondered　at　the　calmness　of　the　night。　Beneath　him　the　Rivillas　stream　whispered　from　the　dam；　ahead　the　huge　castle　blotted　out　the　sky　and；　in　the　darkness；　it　seemed　impossible　that　men　could　dare　hope　escalade　the　giant　bastion。　Wind　rustled　the　new　foliage　in　the　trees　that　grew　precariously　on　the　steep　hill　that　led　up　to　the　castle。　Behi