bcornwell.sharpescompany-第56部分

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ove　his　legs　towards　the　dark　sky　beyond　the　row　of　shining　blades。
　
　'Sharpe！　Sharpe！　Sharpe！'
　
　Private　Cresacre　was　dying；　his　guts　strung　blue　on　his　lap；　his　tears　for　himself　and　for　his　wife；　who　he　would　suddenly　miss　though　he　had　beat　her　cruelly。　And　Sergeant　Read；　the　Methodist；　the　quiet　man　who　never　swore；　or　drank；　was　blind；　and　could　not　cry　because　the　guns　had　taken　his　eyes。　And　past　them；　mad　with　lust；　a　battle　madness；　went　the　dark　horde　who　followed　Sharpe　and　tore　their　hands　on　the　rough　stone；　going　up　the　slope；　up；　where　they　had　never　dreamed　to　go；　and　some　went　back；　torn　by　the　guns；　piling　the　new　ditch　as　the　other　was　piled；　but　the　fine　madness　was　on　them。
　
　'Sharpe！　Sharpe！　Sharpe！'
　
　You　save　your　breath　for　climbing；　but　shouting　dulls　the　fear；　and　who　needs　breath　when　death　waits　at　the　summit？　A　bullet　clanged　on　Sharpe's　sword；　jerking　it　in　his　hand；　but　it　was　whole；　and　the　blades　were　near。　He　went　to　the　right；　his　whole　brain　singing　with　the　scream　of　death；　and　a　stone　moved　beneath　his　left　hand；　throwing　him；　and　a　huge　hand　pushed　at　him；　heaved　him；　and　Sharpe　grabbed　at　the　thick　chain　that　anchored　the　Chevatix　de　Frise。　The　top；　death's　peak。
　
　'Sharpe！　Sharpe！　Sharpe！'
　
　The　French　fired　once　more；　the　guns　slamming　backwards；　and　the　new　breach　was　'taken；　two　vast　men　standing　at　its　crest；　untouched　by　fire；　and　the　French　ran　with　nowhere　to　run；　and　Harper　screamed　at　the　sky　because　he　had　done　a　great　thing。
　
　Sharpe　leaped；　downhill；　into　the　city；　and　the　sword　was　a　live　thing　in　his　hand。　A　breach　was　taken；　death　cheated；　and　death　wanted　a　payment。　The　sword　chopped　down　on　the　blue　uniforms；　and　he　did　not　see　men；　just　enemy；　and　he　ran；　slipping；　falling；　down　the　breach　until　the　ground　was　firm　beneath　him　and　he　was　inside。　Inside！　Badajoz。　And　he　snarled　at　the　bastards；　killed　them；　found　a　gun　crew　cowering　by　a　wall　and　remembered　the　song　of　death；　the　leaping　flames。　The　sword　hacked　at　them；　cut　them；　chopped　them；　and　an　axe　was　whirled　at　them；　and　the　French　abandoned　the　new；　low　wall　behind　the　breaches；　because　the　night　was　lost。
　
　A　dark　tide　flowed　over　the　breach；　over　the　other　breaches；　a　tide　that　made　now　no　coherent　sound。　It　was　terrifying　in　its　incoherence；　the　sound　of　the　banshee；　the　keening　of　too　much　sorrow；　too　much　death；　and　the　madness　turned　to　insensate　rage；　and　they　killed。　They　killed　till　their　arms　were　tired；　till　they　were　soaked　with　blood；　and　there　were　not　enough　men　to　kill　and　they　turned　into　the　streets；　a　scrabbling；　dark　flood；　up　into　Badajoz。
　
　Harper　leaped　the　wall　built　behind　the　breaches。　A　man　cowered　there；　pleading；　but　the　axe　dropped　and　Harper's　lips　were　drawn　back　around　his　teeth　and　he　was　sobbing　an　anger　at　the　city。　There　were　more　men　ahead；　blue…uniformed；　and　he　ran　at　them；　the　axe　circling；　and　Sharpe　was　there；　and　they　killed　because　so　many　were　dead；　so　much　blood；　an　army　had　nearly　died；　and　these　were　the　bastards　who　had　jeered　at　it。　Blood　and　more　blood。　An　account　to　be　balanced　with　a　ditch　full　of　blood。　Badajoz。
　
　Sharpe　was　crying。　Venting　an　anger　that　had　waited　for　this　moment。　He　stood；　the　sword　dark　red；　and　he　wanted　more　Frenchmen　to　e　to　his。　sword；　and　he　stalked　them；　teeth　bared；　screaming　at　the　night；　and　a　body　moved；　a　blue　arm　lifted；　and　the　blade　whirled；　bit；　was　lifted　again；　and　bit　down　once　more；　clean　to　the　pavement。
　
　A　Frenchman；　a　mathematician　conscripted　as　an　artillery　officer；　who　had　counted　forty　separate　attacks　on　the　Trinidad　and　had　repulsed　them　all；　stood　quiet　in　the　shadows。　He　was　still；　quite　still；　waiting　for　this　madness　to　pass；　this　blood　lust；　and　he　thought　of　his　fiancée；　far　away；　and　prayed　she　would　never　see　anything　as　horrid。　He　watched　the　Rifle　officer　and　prayed　for　himself　that　he　would　not　be　seen；　but　the　face　turned；　the　eyes　hard…bright　with　tears；　and　the　mathematician　called　out。　'No！　Monsieur；　no！'　The　sword　took　him；　disemboweled　him　as　Cresacre　had　been　disemboweled；　and　Sharpe　sobbed　in　rage　as　he　ripped　again　and　again；　thrusting　down　at　the　gunner；　ripping　him；　mutilating　the　bastard；　and　then　the　giant　hands　gripped　Mm。　'Sir！'　Harper　shook　him。　'Sir！'
　
　'Christ！'
　
　'Sir！'　The　hands　pulled　on　Sharpe's　shoulders；　turning　him。
　
　'Christ。'
　
　'Sir！'　Harper　slapped　him。　'Sir。'
　
　Sharpe　leaned　back　against　the　wall；　his　head　back；　touching　the　stone。　'Oh　Jesus。　Oh　God。'　He　was　panting；　the　sword　arm　limp；　and　the　pavement　ahead　was　shredded　with　blood。　He　looked　down　at　the　artillery　officer；　torn　into　a　grotesque　death。　'Oh　God。　He　was　surrendering。'
　
　'It　doesn't　matter。'　Harper　had　recovered　first；　the　axe　shattered　in　a　killing　strike；　and　he　had　watched　in　awe　as　Sharpe　had　killed。　Now　he　quieted　Sharpe；　soothed　him；　and　watched　the　sense　e　back　even　as　the　madness　climbed　up　the　city　streets。
　
　Sharpe　looked　up；　calm　now；　his　voice　bereft　of　all　feeling。　'We　did　it。'
　
　'Yes。'
　
　Sharpe　leaned　his　head　back　again；　on　to　the　wall；　and　his　eyes　closed。　It　was　done；　the　breach。　And　to　do　it　he　had　discovered　that　a　man　must　banish　fear　as　never　before；　and　with　that　fear　must　go　all　other　emotion　except　rage　and　anger；　humanity　must　go；　feeling；　all　must　go　except　rage。　Only　that　would　conquer　the　unconquerable。
　
　'Sir？'　Harper　plucked　at　Sharpe's　elbow。　No　one　else　could　have　done　this；　Harper　thought；　no　one　but　Sharpe　could　have　led　men　past　death's　peak。
　
　'Sir？'
　
　The　eyes　opened；　the　face　came　down；　and　Sharpe　stared　at　the　bodies。　He　had　slaked　his　pride；　carried　it　through　a　breach；　and　it　was　done。　He　looked　at　Patrick　Harper。　'I　wish　I　could　play　the　flute。'
　
　'Sir？'
　
　'Patrick？'
　
　'Teresa；　sir。　Teresa。'
　
　God　in　heaven。　Teresa。
　
　CHAPTER　28
　
　Hakeswill　had　not　meant　to　go　into　the　ditch；　but；　as　soon　as　the　South　Essex　made　their　attack　and　had　left　the　Light　pany　to　give　covering　fire　from　the　glacis　lip；　he　had　seen　that　there　was　greater　safety　for　him　in　the　shadow　of　the　ravelin。　No　chance；　there；　of　an　axe…blow　in　the　dark　from　Harper；　and　so　he　had　swung　himself　down　a　ladder；　snarling　at　the　frightened　men；　and　then；　in　the　chaos；　had　burrowed　deep　into　the　bodies　in　the　shadowed　ditch。　He　saw　the　attack　go　in；　saw　it　fail；　and　he　watched　as　Windham　and　Forrest　tried　to　rouse　other　attacks；　but　Sergeant　Hakeswill　was　snug　and　safe。　Three　bodies　covered　him；　still　warm　in　death；　and　he　felt　them　shudder　from　time　to　time　as　the　grape　fragments　struck　home；　but　he　was　safe。　At　some　time　in　the　night　a　Lieutenant；　a　stranger　to　Hakeswill；　tried　to　provoke　him　from　his　lair；　screaming　at　the　Sergeant　to　move　and　attack；　but　it　was　simple　to　grip　the　Lieutenant's　ankle；　trip　him；　and　the　bayonet　slid　so　easily　between　the　ribs　and　Hakeswill　had　a　fourth　body；　surprise　on　its　face；　and　he　cackled　as　he　slid　expert　hands　over　the　pockets　and　pouches　and　counted　his　loot。　Four　gold　coins；　a　silver　locket　and；　best　of　all；　an　inlaid　pistol　that　Hakeswill　tugged　from　the　Lieutenant's　belt。　The　weapon　was　loaded；　balanced　to　perfection；　and　he　grinned　as　he　thrust　it　into　his　jacket。　Every　little　helped。
　
　He　had　tied　his　shako　with　strings　beneath　his　chin。　He　fumbled　at　the　knot；　tore　it　apart；　and　held　the　hat　close　before　his　face。　'We're　safe　now；　safe。　'　His　voice　was　ingratiating；　plaintive。　'I　promise　you。　Obadiah　won't　let　you　down。'　Near　to　him；　just　beyond　his　parapet　of　corpses；　a　man　sobbed　and　screamed　and　called　for　his　mother。　He　was　a　long　time　dying。　Hakeswill　listened；　his　head　cocked　like　an　animal；　and　then　he　looked　again　into　the　hat。　'He　wants　his　mother；　he　does。'　Tears　came　to　his　eyes。　'His　mother。'　He　looked　up　into　the　darkness；　over　the　flames；　and　he　howled　at　the　sky。
　
　There　were　periods　of　quietness　in　the　ditch；　periods　when　the　death　did　not　plunge　downwards　and　when　the　mass　of　men；　living　and　dead；　crouched　motionless　beneath　the　high　muzzles；　and　then；　just　when　it　seemed　that　the　fight　might　be　over；　there　would　be　a　stir　in　the　ditch。　Men　would　try　to　rush　the　breaches；　be　restrained　by　othe