bcornwell.sharpescompany-第3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！


　from　his　eye。　'A　last　woman；　indeed！'　He　turned　to　stare　once　more　at　the　town。　'Listen；　my　friend；　I　must　be　busy；　or　I'll　be　the　last　Irishman　on　Wellington's　staff。　Will　you　look　after　yourself　now？'
　
　Sharpe　grinned　and　nodded。　'I'll　survive。　'
　
　'That's　a　useful　delusion。　It's　good　you're　back。　'　He　smiled　and　began　trudging　through　the　snow　towards　Wellington's　headquarters。　Sharpe　turned　back　towards　Ciudad　Rodrigo。　Survival。　It　was　a　bad　time　to　be　fighting。　The　turn　of　a　year　was　when　men　looked　ahead；　dreamed　of　far…away　pleasures；　of　a　small　house　and　a　good　woman；　and　friends　of　an　evening。　Winter　was　a　time　when　armies　stayed　in　their　quarters；　waiting　for　the　spring　sunshine　to　dry　the　roads　and　shrink　the　rivers；　but　Wellington　had　marched　in　the　first　days　of　the　New　Year；　and　the　French　garrison　of　Ciudad　Rodrigo　had　woken　one　cold　morning　to　find　that　war　and　death　had　e　early　in　1812。
　
　Ciudad　Rodrigo　was　just　the　beginning。　There　were　only　two　roads　from　Portugal　into　Spain　that　could　take　the　weight　of　heavy　artillery；　the　endless　grinding　of　supply　carts；　and　the　pounding　of　battalions　and　squadrons。　Ciudad　Rodrigo　guarded　the　northern　road　and　tonight；　as　the　church　bell　sounded　seven；　Wellington　planned　to　take　the　fortress。　Then；　as　all　the　army　knew；　as　all　Spain　knew；　there　was　the　southern　road　to　capture。　To　be　safe；　to　protect　Portugal；　to　attack　into　Spain；　the　British　must　control　both　roads；　and　to　control　the　southern　road　they　must　first　take　Badajoz。
　
　Badajoz。　Sharpe　had　been　there；　after　Talavera　and　before　the　Spanish　army　had　feebly　surrendered　the　city　to　the　French。　Ciudad　Rodrigo　was　big；　but　small　pared　with　Badajoz；　the　walls　in　this　snow　looked　formidable；　but　they　were　puny　next　to　the　bastions　of　Badajoz。　Richard　Sharpe　let　his　thoughts　go　south；　drifting　with　the　cannon…smoke　over　Ciudad　Rodrigo；　south　over　the　mountains；　to　where　the　vast　fortress　cast　dark　shadows　on　the　cold　waters　of　the　Guadiana　River。　Badajoz。　Twice　the　British　had　failed　to　take　the　city　from　the　French。　Soon　they　must　try　again。
　
　He　turned　away；　to　rejoin　his　pany　at　the　foot　of　the　hill。　There　could　be　a　miracle；　of　course。　The　garrison　of　Badajoz　might　get　the　fever；　the　magazine　might　blow　up；　the　war　might　end；　but　Sharpe　knew　they　were　vain　hopes　in　a　cold　wind。　He　thought　of　his　Captaincy；　of　his　gazette；　and　though　he　knew　that　Lawford；　his　Colonel；　would　never　take　the　Light　pany　from　his　mand；　he　still　wondered　why　he　had　not　volunteered　for　the　Forlorn　Hope。　It　would　have　made　his　rank　secure　and　he　would　have　passed　the　test　of　overing　the　fear　that　each　man　had　of　being　first　into　a　defended　breach。　He　had　not　volunteered　and　if　he　could　not　prove　his　bravery；　that　had　been　proved　so　many　times　before；　in　the　breach　at　Ciudad　Rodrigo；　then　the　proof　would　have　to　e　later。
　
　At　Badajoz。
　
　CHAPTER　2
　
　The　orders　came　late　in　the　afternoon；　surprising　no　one；　but　stirring　the　battalions　into　quiet　activity。　Bayonets　were　sharpened　and　oiled；　muskets　checked　and　re…checked；　and　still　the　siege　guns　hammered　at　the　French　defences；　trying　to　unseat　the　hidden；　waiting　cannon。　Grey　smoke　blossomed　out　of　the　batteries　and　drifted　up　to　join　the　low；　bellying　clouds　that　were　the　colour　of　wet　gunpowder。
　
　Sharpe's　Light　pany；　as　Hogan　had　requested；　were　to　join　the　Engineers　on　the　approach　to　the　largest　breach。　They　would　be　carrying　huge　hay…bags　that　would　be　thrown　down　the　steep　face　of　the　ditch　to　make　a　vast　cushion　on　to　which　the　Forlorn　Hope　and　the　attacking　battalions　could　safely　jump。　Sharpe　watched　as　his　men　filed　into　the　forward　trench；　each　holding　one　of　the　grotesquely　stuffed　bags。　Sergeant　Harper　dropped　his　bag；　sat　on　it；　pummeled　it　into　fort；　and　then　lay　back。　'Better　than　a　feather　bed；　sir。　'
　
　Nearly　one　man　in　three　of　Wellington's　army　came；　like　the　Sergeant；　from　Ireland。　Patrick　Harper　was　a　huge　man；　six　feet　four　inches　of　muscle　and　contentment；　who　no　longer　thought　it　odd　that　he　fought　for　an　army　not　his　own。　He　had　been　recruited　by　hunger　from　his　native　Donegal　and　kept　in　his　head　a　memory　of　his　homeland；　a　love　of　its　religion　and　language；　and　a　fierce　pride　in　its　ancient　warrior　heroes。　He　did　not　fight　for　England；　less　still　for　the　South　Essex　Regiment；　but　instead　he　fought　for　himself　and　for　Sharpe。　Sharpe　was　his　officer；　a　fellow　Rifleman　and　a　friend　if　it　was　possible　for　a　Captain　and　a　Sergeant　to　be　friends。　Harper　was　proud　to　be　a　soldier；　even　in　his　enemy's　army；　because　a　man　could　take　pride　in　doing　a　job　well。　One　day；　perhaps；　he　would　fight　for　Ireland；　but　he　could　not　imagine　how　that　could　happen　because　the　land　was　crushed　and　persecuted；　the　flames　of　resistance　trampled　out；　and；　in　truth；　he　did　not　give　the　prospect　much　thought　or　hope。　For　the　moment　he　was　in　Spain　and　his　job　was　to　inspire；　discipline；　humour；　and　cajole　the　Light　pany　of　the　South　Essex。　He　did　it　brilliantly。
　
　Sharpe　nodded　at　the　hay…bag。　'It's　probably　full　of　fleas。　'
　
　'Aye；　sir；　it　probably　is。　'　Harper　grinned。　'But　there's　no　room　on　my　body　for　another　flea。　'　The　whole　army　was　verminous；　lice…ridden；　flea…bitten；　but　so　inured　to　the　disfort　that　they　hardly　noticed　it。　Tomorrow；　thought　Sharpe；　in　the　fort　of　Ciudad　Rodrigo；　they　could　all　strip　off；　smoke　out　the　lice　and　fleas；　and　crush　the　uniform　seams　with　a　hot　iron　to　break　the　eggs。　But　that　was　tomorrow。
　'Where's　the　Lieutenant？'
　'Being　sick；　sir。　'
　'Drunk？'
　Harper's　face　flickered　in　a　frown。　That's　not　for　me　to　say；　sir。　'　Which　meant；　Sharpe　knew；　that　Lieutenant　Harold　Price　was　drunk。
　'Will　he　be　all　right？'
　'He　always　is；　sir。　'
　Lieutenant　Price　was　new　to　the　pany。　He　was　a　Hampshire　man；　the　son　of　a　ship…builder；　and　gambling　debts　and　unwanted　pregnancies　among　the　local　girls　had　persuaded　his　sober；　church…loving　father　that　the　best　place　for　young　Price　was　in　the　army。　The　ship…builder　had　purchased　his　son　an　Ensign's　mission　and；　four　years　later；　had　been　happy　to　pay　the　five　hundred　and　fifty　pounds　that　had　secured　Master　Price's　promotion　to　Lieutenant。　The　father　had　been　happy　because　the　vacant　Lieutenancy　was　in　the　South　Essex；　a　Regiment　that　was　safely　abroad；　and　he　was　glad　to　see　as　great　a　distance　as　possible　between　himself　and　his　youngest　son。
　
　Robert　Knowles；　Sharpe's　previous　Lieutenant；　had　gone。　He　had　bought　himself　a　Captaincy　in　a　Fusilier　Battalion；　making　the　vacancy　Price　had　purchased；　and　Sharpe；　at　first；　had　not　liked　the　change。　He　had　asked　Price　why；　as　the　son　of　a　ship…builder；　he　had　not　joined　the　navy。
　
　'Seasick；　sir。　Could　never　stand　up　straight。　'
　'You　can't　do　that　on　land。　'
　
　Price　had　taken　a　few　moments　to　understand；　then　his　round；　friendly；　misleadingly　innocent　face　had　grinned。　'Very　good；　sir。　Droll。　But　still；　sir；　on　land；　if　you　follow　me；　there's　always　something　solid　underneath。　I　mean　if　you　fall　over；　then　at　least　you　know　it's　the　drink　and　not　the　bloody　ship。　'
　
　The　dislike　had　not　lasted。　It　was　impossible　to　dislike　Lieutenant　Price。　His　life　was　a　single…minded　pursuit　of　the　debauchery　denied　him　by　his　stern；　God…fearing　family；　and　he　retained　enough　sense　to　make　sure　that　when　he　was　supposed　to　be　sober　he　was；　at　the　very　least；　upright。　The　men　of　Sharpe's　pany　liked　him；　were　protective　towards　him　because　they　believed　he　was　not　long　for　this　world。　They　reasoned　that　if　a　French　bullet　did　not　kill　him；　then　the　drink　would；　or　the　mercury　salts　he　took　for　the　pox；　or　a　jealous　husband；　or；　as　Harper　said　admiringly；　sheer　bloody　exhaustion。　The　big　Sergeant　looked　up　from　his　hay…bag；　nodded　down　the　trench。　'Here　he　is　now；　sir。　'
　
　Price　grinned　weakly　at　them；　winced　as　twenty…four　pounds　of　round　shot　hammered　overhead　towards　the　city；　then　stared　agape　at　Harper。　'What　are　you　sitting　on；　Sergeant？'
　
　'Hay…bag；　sir。　'
　Price　shook　his　head　in　admiration。　'Christ！　They　should　issue　them　every　day。　Can　I　borrow　it？'
　'My　pleasure；　sir。　'
　　Harper　stood　up　and　courteously　waved　the　Lieutenant　to　the　bag。
　Price　collapsed；　groaned　in　satisfaction。　'Wake　me　when　glory　calls。　'　'
　'Yes；　sir。　Which　one's　Glory？'
　
　'Irish　wit；　oh　God；　Irish　wit。　'　Price　closed　his　eyes。
　
　The　sky　was　darkening；　the　grey　clouds　turning　sinister；　bringing　on　the　inexorable　moment。　Sharpe　pulled　his　huge　sword　a　few　inches　from　the　scabbard；　tested　the　honed　edge；　and　pushed　it　back。　The　sword　was　one　of　his　symbols；　with　the　rifle；　which　proclaimed　he　was　a　fighter。　As　a　Light　pany　officer；　he　should　have　kept　to　the　tradition　that　decreed　he　carried　a　Light　Cavalry　sabre。　He　hated　the　curved；　light　blade。　Instead　he　used　a　Heavy　Cavalry　sword；　straight…bladed　and　ill…balanced；　that　he　had　picked　up　from　a　battlefield。　It　was　a　brute　of　a　weapon；　thirty…five　inches　of　cumbersome　steel；　but　Sharpe　was　tall　and　strong　enough　to　wield　it　easily。　Harper　saw　Sharpe's　thumb　test　the　edge。　'Expecting　to　use　it；　sir？'
　
　'No。　We　don't　go　beyond　the　glacis。　'
　
　Harper　grunted。　'There's　always　hope。　'　He　was　loading　his　seven…barreled　gun；　a　weapon　of　extreme　unor