bcornwell.sharpescompany-第25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 French Sergeant； his single arm…stripe bloodied in the fight； looked round his own dead and then at the sword which had so nearly killed him。 He had seen the tall officer change the death…stroke； swerve the blow； and he nodded to him。 'Merci； Monsieur'。
Harper looked at the dozen men。 'What do we do with them； sir？'
'Let them go。' It was no place to take prisoners。 They took their weapons and hurled them across the parallel； out of reach； and searched each Frenchman for wine or brandy。 Ahead of Sharpe the battle still raged。 The main body of the French had fought their way to within fifty yards of the first battery； but had been held。 Scattered parties of men； some armed； some with nothing more than lengths of timber； were charging the French and starting vicious fights in the mud。 Officers on horseback galloped at the fringe of the fight； trying to restore order to chaos； but the British soldiers did not want order。 They wanted a break from the tedium of digging and the drowning rain； and they wan
