bcornwell.sharpescompany-第7部分

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e　ramparts；　but　still　the　fool　came　forward；　incensed　by　the　Irish　laughter；　and　again　Sharpe　had　to　parry　and　force　him　back。
　
　Harper　finished　the　farce。　He　had　worked　his　way　behind　the　officer　and；　as　the　Frenchman　looked　at　Sharpe　for　another　attack；　the　Sergeant　coughed。　'Sir？　Monsieur？'　The　officer　looked　round。　The　giant　Irishman　smiled　at　him；　came　forward　unarmed　and　very　slowly。　'Monsieur？'
　
　The　officer　nodded　to　Harper；　frowned；　and　said　something　in　French。　The　huge　Sergeant　nodded　seriously。　'Quite　right；　sir；　quite　right。　'　Then　a　giant　fist　traveled　from　some　place　low　down；　up；　and　straight　on　to　the　Frenchman's　chin。　He　crumpled；　the　Connaught　men　gave　an　ironic　cheer；　and　Harper　laid　the　senseless　body　beside　the　rampart。　'Poor　wee　fool。　'　He　grinned　at　Sharpe；　immensely　pleased　with　himself；　and　looked　over　towards　the　breach。　The　fight　still　went　on；　but　Harper　knew　his　part　in　the　assault　was　done；　and　well　done；　and　that　nothing　could　touch　him　this　night。　He　jerked　his　thumb　at　the　Connaught　Rangers　and　looked　at　Sharpe。　'Connaught　lads；　sir。　Good　fighters。　'
　
　'They　are。　'　Sharpe　grinned。　'Where's　Connaught？　Wales？'
　
　Harper　made　a　joke　at　Sharpe's　expense；　but　in　Gaelic；　so　that　he　was　forced　to　listen　to　the　Rangers'　good…humored　laughter。　They　were　in　good　spirits；　happy；　like　the　Sergeant　from　Donegal；　that　they　had　played　a　good　part　in　this　night's　fight；　a　part　that　would　make　a　fine　story　to　weave　through　the　long　winter　nights　in　some　unimaginable　future。　Harper　knelt　to　go　through　the　unconscious　Frenchman's　pockets　and　Sharpe　turned　to　look　at　the　breach。
　
　The　45th；　on　the　far　side；　were　dealing　with　the　second　gun。　They　had　found　planks；　abandoned　in　the　trench；　and　thrown　them　over　to　the　casement　lip　and　Sharpe　watched；　admiringly；　as　the　Nottinghamshire　men　charged　across　the　perilous　path　and　took　their　long　bayonets　to　the　gun　crew。　The　growl　had　bee　a　whoop　of　victory　and　the　dark　beast　in　the　ditch　uncoiled　across　the　undefended　breach　and　swarmed　past　the　two　silent　guns　towards　the　streets　of　the　town。　A　few　shots　came　from　doors　and　windows；　but　only　a　few；　and　the　British　horde　flooded　down　the　rubble　to　where　the　breach　had　smothered　the　old　mediaeval　wall。　It　was　over。
　
　Or　nearly。　A　second　mine　had　been　put　in　the　ruins　of　the　old　wall。　Black　powder　had　been　crammed　into　an　old　postern　and　now　the　French　lit　the　fuse　and　ran　back　into　the　streets。　The　mine　exploded。　Flame　streaked　up　from　the　darkness；　old　stones　shattered　outwards；　boiling　smoke　and　dust；　and　with　it　came　the　stench　of　roasted　flesh　and　the　head　of　the　victorious　column　was　uselessly　decimated。　For　a　second　there　was　a　stunned　silence；　time　just　to　draw　breath；　and　then　the　shout　was　not　for　victory；　but　for　revenge；　and　the　troops　took　their　anger　into　the　defenseless　streets。
　
　Harper　watched　the　howling　mob　flow　into　the　city。　'You　think　we're　invited？'
　
　'Why　not？'
　
　The　Frenchman　was　a　slim　man　with　a　thin；　fair　moustache　beneath　a　straight；　hooked　nose。　Sharpe　could　see　the　man's　fear。　The　Frenchman　did　not　want　to　make　a　solo　attack；　but　he　had　his　pride；　and　he　hoped　his　men　would　follow。　They　did　not。　Instead　they　called　to　him；　told　him　not　to　be　a　fool；　but　he　walked　on；　looking　at　Sharpe；　and　his　sword　was　ridiculously　slim　as　he　lowered　it　to　the　guard。　He　said　something　to　Sharpe；　who　shook　his　head；　but　the　Frenchman　insisted　and　lunged　at　Sharpe；　who　was　forced　to　leap　back　and　bring　up　the　huge　sword　in　a　clumsy　parry。　Sharpe's　anger　had　gone　in　the　cool　air；　the　fight　was　over；　and　he　was　irritated　by　the　Frenchman's　insistence。　'Go　away！　Vamos！'　He　tried　to　remember　the　words　in　French；　but　he　could　not。
　
　The　Irish　laughed。　'Put　him　over　your　knee；　Captain！'　The　Frenchman　was　little　more　than　a　boy；　ridiculously　young；　but　brave。　He　came　forward　again；　the　sword　level；　and　this　time　Sharpe　jumped　towards　him；　growled；　and　the　Frenchman　rocked　back。
　
　Sharpe　dropped　his　own　blade。　'Give　up！'
　
　The　answer　was　another　lunge　that　came　close　to　Sharpe's　chest。　He　leaned　back　and　beat　the　sword　aside。　He　could　feel　his　anger　returning。　He　swore　at　the　man；　jerked　his　head　down　the　ramparts；　but　still　the　fool　came　forward；　incensed　by　the　Irish　laughter；　and　again　Sharpe　had　to　parry　and　force　him　back。
　
　Harper　finished　the　farce。　He　had　worked　his　way　behind　the　officer　and；　as　the　Frenchman　looked　at　Sharpe　for　another　attack；　the　Sergeant　coughed。　'Sir？　Monsewer？'　The　officer　looked　round。　The　giant　Irishman　smiled　at　him；　came　forward　unarmed　and　very　slowly。　'Monsewer？'
　
　The　officer　nodded　to　Harper；　frowned；　and　said　something　in　French。　The　huge　Sergeant　nodded　seriously。　'Quite　right；　sir；　quite　right。　'　Then　a　giant　fist　traveled　from　some　place　low　down；　up；　and　straight　on　to　the　Frenchman's　chin。　He　crumpled；　the　Connaught　men　gave　an　ironic　cheer；　and　Harper　laid　the　senseless　body　beside　the　rampart。　'Poor　wee　fool。　'　He　grinned　at　Sharpe；　immensely　pleased　with　himself；　and　looked　over　towards　the　breach。　The　fight　still　went　on。
　
　
　
　CHAPTER　4
　
　There　was　a　scream　from　inside　the　town；　shots　as　men　blew　open　the　doors　of　houses；　and　over　it　all　the　sound　of　triumphant　voices。　After　the　fight；　the　reward。
　
　Harper　reached　the　body　first；　plucked　the　cloak　to　one　side；　and　bent　over　the　bloodied　chest。　'He's　alive；　sir。　'
　
　It　seemed　to　Sharpe　like　a　parody　of　life。　The　explosion　had　sheared　Lawford's　left　arm　almost　clean　from　his　body；　crushed　the　ribs　and　flicked　them　open　so　they　protruded　through　the　remnants　of　skin　and　flesh。　The　blood　was　flowing　beneath　the　once　immaculate　uniform。　Harper　began　tearing　the　cloak　into　strips；　his　mouth　a　tight　line　of　anger　and　sorrow。　Sharpe　looked　towards　the　breach　where　men　still　clambered　towards　the　houses。　'Bandsmen！'
　
　The　bands　had　played　during　the　assault。　He　remembered　hearing　the　music　and　now；　idiotically；　he　could　suddenly　identify　the　tune　he　had　heard。　'The　Downfall　of　Paris'。　By　now　the　bandsmen　should　be　doing　their　other　job；　of　caring　for　the　wounded；　but　he　could　see　none。　'Bandsmen！'
　
　Miraculously　Lieutenant　Price　appeared；　pale　and　unsteady；　and　with　him　a　small　group　of　the　Light　pany。　'Sir？'
　'A　stretcher。　Fast！　And　send　someone　back　to　battalion。　'
　Price　saluted。　He　had　forgotten　the　drawn　sword　in　his　hand　so　that　the　blade；　a　curved　sabre；　nearly　sliced　into　Private　Peters。　'Sir。　'　The　small　group　ran　back。
　Lawford　was　unconscious。　Harper　was　binding　the　chest；　his　huge　fingers　astonishingly　gentle　with　the　tattered　flesh。　He　looked　up　at　Sharpe。　'Take　the　arm　off；　sir。　'
　'What？'
　'Better　now　than　later；　sir。　'　The　Sergeant　pointed　at　the　Colonel's　left　arm；　held　by　a　single；　glistening　shred　of　tissue。　'He　might　live；　sir；　so　he　might；　but　the　arm　will　have　to　go…'
　
　A　splintered　piece　of　bone　protruded　from　the　stump。　The　arm　was　bent　unnaturally　upwards；　pointing　towards　the　city；　and　Harper　was　binding　the　brief　stump　to　stop　the　weakly　pulsing　blood。　Sharpe　picked　his　way　to　Lawford's　head；　treading　carefully　for　the　ground　was　slick；　though　whether　with　blood　or　ice　it　was　impossible　to　see。　The　only　light　came　from　the　burning　timber。　He　put　the　point　of　his　sword　down　into　the　bloodied　mess　and　Harper　moved　the　blade　till　it　was　in　the　right　place。　'Leave　the　skin；　sir。　It'll　flap　over。　'
　
　It　was　no　different　from　butchering　a　pig　or　a　bullock；　but　it　felt　different。　He　could　hear　crashes　from　the　city；　punctuating　the　screams。　'Is　that　right？'　He　could　feel　Harper　manipulating　the　blade。
　'Now；　sir。　Straight　down。　'
　
　Sharpe　pushed　down；　with　both　hands；　almost　as　if　he　was　driving　a　stake　into　mud。　Human　flesh　is　resilient；　proof　against　all　but　the　hottest　stroke；　and　Sharpe　felt　the　gorge　rise　in　his　throat　as　the　sword　met　resistance　and　he　heaved　down　so　that　Lawford　tipped　in　the　scarlet　slush　and　the　Colonel's　lips　grimaced。　Then　it　was　done；　the　arm　free；　and　Sharpe　stooped　to　the　dead　fingers　and　pulled　off　a　gold　ring。　He　would　give　it　to　Forrest　to　be　sent　home　with　the　Colonel　or；　God　forbid；　to　be　sent　to　his　relatives。
　Lieutenant　Price　was　back。　'They're　ing；　sir。　〃
　'Who？'
　〃The　Major；　sir。　'
　'A　stretcher？'
　Price　nodded；　looking　sick。　'Will　he　live；　sir？'
　'How　the　hell　do　I　know？'　It　was　not　fair　to　vent　his　anger　on　Price。　'What　was　he　doing　here　anyway？'
　Price　shrugged　miserably。　'He　said　he　was　going　to　find　you；　sir。　'
　Sharpe　stared　down　at　the　handsome　Colonel　and　swore。
　Lawford　had　no　business　in　the　breach。　The　same；　perhaps；　could　have　been　said　of　Sharpe　and　Harper；　but　the　tall　Rifleman　saw　a　difference。　Lawford　had　a　future；　hopes；　a　family　to　protect；　ambitions　that　were　within　his　grasp；　and　soldiering　was　not　where　those　ambitions　finally　lay。　They　might　all　be　thrown　away　for　one　mad　moment　in　a　breach；　a　moment　to　prove　something。　Sharpe　and　Harper　had　no　such　future；　no　such　hopes；　only　the　knowledge　that　they　were　soldiers；　as　good　as　their　last　battle；　useful　as　long　as　they　could　fight。　They　were　both；　Sharpe　thought；　adventurers；　gambling　with　their　lives。　He　looked　at　the　Colonel。　It　was　such　a　waste。
　
　Sharpe