bcornwell.sharpescompany-第12部分

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go　had　been　blessedly　light。　The　South　Essex；　like　the　rest　of　the　army；　thought　that　if　they　could　storm　the　breaches　at　Ciudad　Rodrigo　for　only　sixty　dead；　men　they　would　slice　through　the　defences　of　Badajoz　for　a　similarly　light　loss。　Teresa　listened　to　them　and　had　shaken　her　head。　'They　don't　know　Badajoz。'　Perhaps；　Sharpe　thought；　it　was　as　well　that　they　did　not。
　
　'Where　are　we　going？'
　
　'Badajoz！'
　
　They　stopped　three　days　in　Portalegre；　letting　a　rainstorm　hammer　overhead　that　had　made　the　roads　treacherous　and　a　river　crossing　impassable。　They　were　the　only　battalion　in　town；　living　in　fort；　but　Sharpe　could　see　from　the　doorposts　of　the　houses　how　frequently　the　army　had　used　this　road。　The　missary　marked　the　doors　with　chalk；　thus　SE/L/6　meant　that　six　men　of　the　South　Essex's　Light　pany　were　to　be　billeted　in　that　particular　house；　but　each　house　had　a　jumble　of　such　fading　marks　that　spoke　of　the　years　of　this　war。　The　marks　told　of　English　Regiments；　Irish；　Welsh；　Scottish；　German；　Portuguese；　and　there　were　even　strange　markings　left　by　the　French　battalions。　Only　when　Badajoz　was　taken　would　the　war　move　again　into　Spain　and　leave　Portalegre　to　its　customary　peace。
　
　Sharpe　and　Teresa　slept　in　an　inn；　the　Battalion's　headquarters；　and　for　Sharpe　the　three　days　were　a　period　of　contentment；　perhaps　his　last　before　they　would　meet　again；　if　they　did；　inside　high；　dark　fortress　walls。　Teresa　was　leaving　soon；　riding　on　ahead　to　Badajoz；　to　the　small；　sick　baby。　She　had　to　leave　before　the　British　arrived　at　the　city　and　its　gates　were　shut。
　
　'Why　Badajoz？'　Sharpe　asked　the　question　again；　lying　in　the　Portalegre　attic　as　the　afternoon　rained　itself　into　a　soaking　night。
　
　'I　had　family　there。　I　didn't　want　her　born　at　home。'
　
　He　knew　why！　Because　his　daughter　was　a　bastard；　with　the　mark　of　shame　on　her。　'But　they　know；　don't　they？'
　
　She　shrugged。　'They　know；　but　they　don't　see　what　they　know；　so　they　pretend　they　do　not　know。'　She　shrugged　again。　'And　my　father's　brother　is　a　rich　man；　they're　childless；　and　they　look　after　her　well。'
　
　Antonia　was　ill。　Teresa　did　not　know　what　was　the　matter；　nor　indeed　did　the　doctors；　but　the　child　was　small；　did　not　hold　her　food；　and　the　sisters　in　the　convent　had　said　that　the　child　would　die。
　
　Teresa　shook　her　head。　'She　will　not。'　It　was　said　with　grim　determination；　no　child　of　hers　would　give　up　easily　its　hold　on　life。
　
　'And　she　has　black　hair？'　Sharpe　was　enthralled　by　any　scrap　of　information。
　
　'You　know　she　has；　I　have　told　you　a　hundred　times。　Long；　black　hair；　and　she　was　born　with　it；　then　it　all　fell　out；　and　now　it　is　ing　back。　And　she　has　a　little　nose。　Not　like　mine；　and　not　bent　like　yours。'
　
　'Perhaps　she　isn't　mine。'
　
　She　hit　him；　laughing。　'She's　yours。　She　scowls；　like　this。'　And　she　screwed　up　her　face　in　imitation　of　Sharpe　and　growled　at　him　so　that　he　pulled　her　down　on　to　the　bed　and　they　lay　in　silence；　the　rain　slapping　at　the　window；　and　he　wondered　what　lay　ahead　on　the　greasy；　stony　road。
　
　'Perhaps　we　should　marry？'
　
　She　did　not　reply　at　first。　She　lay　beside　him　and　listened　to　the　rain；　to　voices　downstairs；　and　then　the　clatter　of　hooves　in　the　stable　yard。　'Someone's　traveling。'
　
　He　said　nothing。
　
　She　traced　the　scar　on　his　cheek。　'Would　you　live　in　Casatejada？'
　
　He　still　lay　silent。　To　be　a　stranger　in　a　strange　land？　To　be　Teresa's　man；　dependant　on　her　for　survival？　He　sighed。　'Maybe。　After　the　war。'
　
　She　smiled；　knowing　the　answer　to　be　meaningless。　This　was　the　fourth　year　of　fighting　the　French　in　Spain；　and　still　the　country　was　occupied　by　the　enemy。　No　one　could　remember　a　time　of　peace。　Before　they　fought　France；　the　Spanish　had　fought　against　the　English　until　their　fleet　sailed　to　utter　defeat　at　Trafalgar；　sunk　or　captured　with　the　French　fleet。　There　was　no　peace　beyond　the　borders。　Russia；　Austria；　Italy；　Prussia；　Denmark；　Egypt；　India；　war　everywhere；　until　now　even　the　Americans　were　talking　of　war　as　if　the　young　nation　wanted　to　prove　it　could　stand　with　the　old　world　in　a　game　that　had　racked　the　globe　for　two　decades。　It　was　a　war　fought　on　three　continents；　on　all　the　oceans；　and　some　men　believed　this　was　the　final　war；　the　ending　of　everything；　the　withering　destruction　foretold　in　the　Bible。　God　only　knew　when　it　would　end。　Perhaps　only　when　the　last　Frenchman；　still　dreaming　of　ruling　the　world；　was　hammered　and　battered　into　the　blood…soaked　mud。
　
　Teresa　kissed　him。　'After　the　war；　Richard。'
　
　Her　hand　lay　over　the　pocket　in　his　shirt　and　she　pushed　in　her　fingers　to　draw　out　the　gold　locket　which　contained　Jane　Gibbons's　picture。　Sharpe　had　stolen　the　locket　from　her　murdered　brother。　Teresa　clicked　it　open　and　mocked　him　with　her　smile。　'You　met　her；　in　England？'
　
　'Yes。'
　
　'She's　pretty。'
　
　'I　suppose　so。'
　
　He　tried　to　take　the　locket　from　her；　but　she　closed　strong　fingers　on　it。
　
　'You　suppose　so！　She　is　pretty；　isn't　she？'
　
　'Yes；　very。'
　
　She　nodded；　satisfied。　'You'll　marry　her。'　He　laughed；　thinking　of　the　impossibility　of　the　idea；　but　she　shook　her　head。　'You　will；　I　can　tell。　Otherwise　why　do　you　carry　this？'
　
　He　shrugged。　'Superstition？　It　keeps　me　alive。'
　
　She　frowned　at　him　and　crossed　herself；　forehead；　belly；　nipple　to　nipple；　an　extravagant　cross　to　warn　off　a　demon。　'What's　she　like？'
　
　Sharpe　pulled　a　blanket　over　Teresa；　her　only　dress　was　drying　by　the　small　fire。　'She's　slim；　she　smiles　a　lot。　She's　very　rich　and　she'll　marry　a　very　rich　man。'　He　grinned　at　her。　'She's　soft。　fortable。'
　
　Teresa　dismissed　the　implied　criticism；　anyone　who　had　the　chance　to　live　in　soft　fort　was　a　fool　to　refuse。　'How　did　you　meet　her？'
　
　Sharpe　was　feeling　unfortable　and　tried　to　change　the　subject；　but　she　insisted。　'Tell　me；　how？'
　
　'She　wanted　to　know　how　her　brother　died。'
　
　Teresa　laughed。　'And　you　told　her？'
　
　'Not　the　truth。　I　told　her　he　was　killed　by　the　French；　fighting　bravely。'
　
　She　laughed　again。　She　knew　the　story；　how　Lieutenant　Gibbons　had　tried　to　kill　Sharpe　and　how　Patrick　Harper　had　bayoneted　the　Lieutenant。　Sharpe　thought　back　to　the　small；　dark　church　in　Essex；　the　blonde　girl　listening　to　his　stumbling　story；　and　the　white　marble　stone　that　mocked　the　truth　about　her　vicious；　selfish；　and　sadistic　brother。
　
　To　the　memory　of　Lieutenant　Christian　Gibbons；　a　Native　of　this　Parish；　who　Volunteered　4　February；　1809；　from　the　Militia　of　this　County　into　the　Regiment　of　the　South　Essex；　then　United　with　the　British　Army　in　the　Wars　against　Tyranny　in　Spain。　He　Distinguished　Himself　on　the　Field　of　Talavera　where；　by　Night　and　by　Day；　the　Attacks　of　the　Enemy　were　Routed。　Such　was　his　Intrepidity　that；　having　Endured　the　Assault　of　the　Outnumbering　Enemy；　He　and　His　pany　Attacked　and　Captured　a　Standard　of　the　French；　the　First　such　Glory　to　be　Gained　by　our　Armies　in　Spain。　While　thus　Confirming　his　Courage　and　Spirit；　he　met　a　Hero's　Death　on　the　8th　Day　of　July；　1809；　in　the　Twenty…Fifth　Year　of　his　Age。　This　Monument　is　erected　as　a　Just　Tribute　to　so　much　Heroism　and　Worth　by　Sir　Henry　Simmerson；　mander　of　the　Victorious　Regiment；　and　by　His　Fellow　Parishioners。　A。　D。　1810。
　
　Sharpe　had　laughed　to　himself；　not　just　because　Sir　Henry　had　managed　to　claim　a　marble　credit　for　the　capture　of　the　Eagle；　which　had　happened　after　Sir　Henry　had　been　relieved　of　mand；　but　because　the　whole　stone　was　a　lie。　Gibbons　had　been　nowhere　near　the　Eagle　when　Sharpe　and　Harper　had　fought　their　way　through　the　enemy　battalion；　but　the　marble　would　still　be　there；　surmounted　by　its　carved　pile　of　weapons；　when　the　truth　had　long　been　forgotten。　There　was　a　knock　on　the　door。　'Who　is　it？'
　
　'Price；　sir。'
　
　'What　is　it？'
　
　'Someone　to　see　you；　sir。　Downstairs。'
　
　Sharpe　swore。　'Who？'
　
　'Major　Hogan；　sir？〃　Price　made　it　a　question；　as　if　Sharpe　might　not　recognize　the　name。
　
　'Good　God！　I'm　on　my　way　down！'
　
　Teresa　watched　as　he　pulled　on　long　boots　and　buckled　the　sword。　'Is　this　the　Hogan　we　send　papers　to？'
　
　'Yes。　You'll　like　him。'　He　felt　her　dress；　it　was　still　damp。　'You'll　e　down？'
　
　She　nodded。　'Soon。'
　
　The　main　room　of　the　inn　was　noisy；　good　natured；　and　boisterous。　Sharpe　pushed　his　way　through　the　officers　and　saw　Hogan；　dripping　wet；　by　the　serving　hatch。　The　Irish　Major　held　out　a　hand　in　wele；　but　gestured　first　at　the　officers。　'They're　in　good　spirits。'
　
　'They　think　Badajoz　will　be　easy。'
　
　'Oh。'　Hogan　raised　his　eyebrows；　then　made　room　for　Sharpe　on　the　bench。　'I　hear　you're　a　father。'
　
　'Does　anybody　not　know？'
　
　'Don't　be　ashamed。　It's　a　fine　thing；　so　it　is。　Wine？'
　
　Sharpe　nodded。　'How　are　you？〃
　
　'Cold；　wet；　busy。　Yourself？'
　
　'Dry；　warm　and　lazy。　What's　the　news？'
　
　Hogan　poured　wine　and　took　out　his　snuffbox。　'The　French　are　dithering　like　wet　hens。　They're　not　trying　to　retake　Ciudad　Rodrigo；　and　they're　not　sending　troops　to　the　south；　instead　they're　all　sending　letters　to　each　other；　blaming　each　other。'　Hogan　raised　his　glass。　'Your　health；　Richard；　your　family's　health。'
　
　Shar