bcornwell.sharpescompany-第8部分

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dventurers；　gambling　with　their　lives。　He　looked　at　the　Colonel。　It　was　such　a　waste。
　
　Sharpe　listened　to　the　great　noise　ing　from　the　city；　a　noise　of　rampage　and　victory。　Once；　perhaps；　he　thought；　an　adventurer　had　a　future；　back　when　the　world　was　free　and　a　sword　was　the　passport　to　any　hope。　Not　now。　Everything　was　changing　with　a　suddenness　and　pace　that　was　bewildering。　Three　years　before；　when　the　army　had　defeated　the　French　at　Vimiero；　it　had　been　a　small　army；　almost　an　intimate　army；　and　the　General　could　inspect　all　his　troops　in　a　single　morning　and　have　time　to　recognize　them；　remember　them。　Sharpe　had　known　most　officers　in　the　line　by　face；　if　not　by　name；　and　was　wele　at　their　evening　fires。　Not　now。　Now　there　were　generals　of　this　and　generals　of　that；　of　division　and　brigade；　and　provost…marshals　and　senior　chaplains；　and　the　army　was　far　too　large　to　see　on　a　single　morning　or　even　march　on　a　single　road。　Wellington；　perforce；　had　bee　remote。　There　were　bureaucrats　with　the　army；　defenders　of　files；　and　soon；　Sharpe　knew；　a　man　would　be　less　important　than　the　pieces　of　paper　like　that　folded；　forgotten　gazette　in　Whitehall。
　
　'Sharpe！'　Major　Forrest　was　shouting　at　him；　waving；　hurrying　over　the　rubble。　He　was　leading　a　small　group　of　men；　some　of　whom　carried　a　door；　Lawford's　stretcher。　'What　happened？'
　
　Sharpe　gestured　at　the　ruin　about　them。　'A　mine；　sir。　He　was　caught　by　it。　'
　
　Forrest　shook　his　head。　'Oh　God！　What　do　we　do？'　The　question　was　not　surprising　from　the　Major。　He　was　a　kind　man；　a　good　man；　but　not　a　decisive　man。　　Captain　Leroy；　the　loyalist　American；　leaned　down　to　light　his　thin；　black　cigar　from　the　flickering　flames　of　the　timber　baulk。　'Must　be　a　hospital　in　town。　'
　
　Forrest　nodded。　'Into　town。　'　He　stared　in　horror　at　the　Colonel。　'My　God！　He's　lost　his　arm！'
　
　'Yes；　sir。　'
　'Will　he　live？'
　Sharpe　shrugged。　'God　knows；　sir。　'
　
　It　was　suddenly　freezing　cold；　the　wind　reaching　over　the　breach　to　chill　the　men　who　rolled　the　Colonel；　still　mercifully　unconscious；　on　to　the　makeshift　stretcher。　Sharpe　wiped　the　sword　blade　on　a　scrap　of　Lawford's　cloak；　sheathed　it；　and　pulled　the　collar　of　his　greatcoat　high　up　his　neck。
　
　It　was　not　the　entry　into　Ciudad　Rodrigo　that　he　had　imagined。　It　was　one　thing　to　fight　through　a　breach；　overe　the　last　obstacle；　and　feel　the　elation　of　victory；　but　to　follow　Lawford　in　a　slow；　almost　funeral　march　was　destroying　the　triumph。　Inevitably；　too；　though　Sharpe　hated　himself　for　thinking　of　it；　there　were　other　questions　that　hung　on　this　moment。
　
　There　would　be　a　new　Colonel　of　the　South　Essex；　a　stranger。　The　Battalion　would　be　changed；　maybe　for　the　better；　but　probably　not　for　the　betterment　of　Sharpe。　Lawford；　whose　own　future　was　seeping　into　the　crude　bandages；　had　learned　to　trust　Sharpe　years　before；　at　Seringapatam；　Assaye；　and　Gawilghur；　but　Sharpe　could　expect　no　favors　from　a　new　man。　Lawford's　replacement　would　bring　his　own　debts　to　be　repaid；　his　own　ideas；　and　the　old　ties　of　loyalty；　friendship；　and　even　gratitude　that　had　held　the　Battalion　together　would　be　untied。　Sharpe　thought　of　the　gazette。　If　it　was　refused；　and　the　thought　persisted　that　it　might；　then　Lawford　would　have　ignored　the　refusal。　He　would　have　kept　Sharpe　as　Captain　of　the　Light　pany；　e　what　may；　but　no　longer。　The　new　man　would　make　his　own　dispositions　and　Sharpe　felt　the　chill　of　uncertainty。
　
　They　pushed　deeper　into　the　town；　through　crowds　of　men　intent　on　repense　for　the　night's　effort。　A　group　of　the　88th　had　hacked　open　a　wine…shop；　splintering　the　door　with　bayonets；　and　now　had　set　up　their　own　business　selling　the　stolen　wine。　Some　officers　tried　to　restore　order；　but　they　were　outnumbered　and　ignored。　Bolts　of　cloth　cascaded　from　an　upper　window；　draping　the　narrow　street　in　a　grotesque　parody　of　a　holiday　as　soldiers　destroyed　what　they　did　not　want　to　loot。　A　Spaniard　lay　beside　a　door；　blood　trickling　in　a　dozen　spreading　streams　from　his　scalp；　while　in　the　house　behind　were　screams；　shouts；　and　the　sobbing　of　women。
　
　The　main　square　was　like　a　bedlam　let　loose。　A　soldier　of　the　45th　reeled　past　Sharpe　and　waved　a　bottle　in　the　Rifleman's　face。　The　man　was　hopelessly　drunk。　'The　store！　We　opened　the　store。　'　He　fell　down。
　
　The　French　spirit　store　had　been　broken　apart。　Shouts　came　from　the　building's　interior；　thumps　as　the　casks　were　stove　in；　and　musket　shots　as　crazed　men　fought　for　the　contents。　A　house　nearby　was　in　flames　and　a　soldier；　his　red　jacket　decorated　with　the　45th's　green　facings；　staggered　in　agony；　his　back　burning；　and　he　tried　to　douse　the　flames　by　pouring　a　bottle　over　his　shoulder。　The　spirit　flared；　scorched　his　hand；　and　the　man　fell；　writhing；　to　die　on　the　stones。　Across　the　plaza　a　second　house　was　burning　and　men　shouted　for　help　from　its　upper　windows。　On　the　pavement　outside　women　screamed；　pointing　at　their　trapped　men；　but　the　women　were　scooped　up　by　redcoats　and　carried　shrieking　into　an　alley。　Nearby　a　shop　was　being　looted。　Loaves　and　hams　were　slung　from　the　door；　to　be　caught　on　outstretched　bayonets；　and　Sharpe　could　see　the　flicker　of　flame　deep　inside　the　building。
　
　Some　troops　had　kept　their　discipline　and　followed　their　officers　in　futile　attempts　to　stop　the　riot。　One　horseman　rode　at　a　group　of　drunks；　and　flailing　down　with　a　scabbarded　sword；　split　the　group　apart；　and　rode　out　with　a　young　girl；　screaming；　clinging　to　his　saddle。　The　horseman　took　the　girl　to　a　growing　huddle　of　women；　sheltered　by　sober　troops；　and　turned　his　horse　back　into　the　melee。　Shrieks　and　screams；　laughter　and　tears；　the　sound　of　victory。
　
　Watching　it　all；　in　silent　awe；　the　survivors　of　the　French　garrison　had　gathered　in　the　centre　of　the　plaza　to　surrender。　They　were　mostly　still　armed；　but　submitted　patiently　to　the　British　troops　who　systematically　worked　their　way　down　the　losers'　ranks　and　pillaged　them。　Some　women　clung　to　their　French　husbands　or　lovers；　and　those　women　were　left　alone。　No　one　was　taking　revenge　on　the　French。　The　fight　had　been　short　and　there　was　little　ill　will。　Sharpe　had　heard　a　suggestion；　floating　as　a　rumor　before　the　assault；　that　all　surviving　Frenchmen　were　to　be　massacred；　not　as　revenge；　but　as　a　warning　to　the　garrison　at　Badajoz　what　to　expect　if　they　chose　to　resist　in　their　larger　fortress。　It　was　no　more　than　a　rumor。　These　French；　silent　in　the　midst　of　rampage；　would　be　marched　into　Portugal；　over　the　winter　roads　to　Oporto；　and　then　back　by　ships　to　the　fetid　prison　hulks　or　even　the　brand　new　prison；　built　for　prisoners　of　war；　in　the　bleakness　of　Dartmoor。
　
　'Good　God。　'　Major　Forrest's　eyes　widened　as　he　stared　at　the　rioting　troops。　'They're　animals！　Just　animals！'
　
　Sharpe　said　nothing。　There　were　few　rewards　for　a　soldier。　The　pay　would　make　no　man　rich；　and　the　battlefields　that　yielded　booty　were　few　and　far　between。　A　siege　was　the　hardest　fighting　and　soldiers　had　always　regarded　victory　in　a　breach　as　reason　for　losing　all　discipline　and　taking　their　reward　from　the　conquered　fortress。　And　if　the　fortress　was　a　city；　so　much　the　more　loot；　and　if　the　inhabitants　of　the　city　were　your　allies；　then　that　was　bad　luck；　they　were　in　the　wrong　place；　at　the　wrong　time。　Life　had　always　been　like　that；　and　always　would；　because　this　was　ancient　custom；　soldiers'　custom。　In　truth　Ciudad　Rodrigo　was　not　suffering　much。　There　were；　to　Sharpe's　eyes；　plenty　of　sober；　disciplined　troops　who　had　not　joined　the　riot　and　who　would；　by　morning；　have　swept　up　the　drunks；　disposed　of　the　corpses；　and　the　city's　ordeal　would　soon　end　in　alcoholic　exhaustion。　He　looked　round；　trying　to　identify　a　hospital。
　
　'Sir！　Sir！〃　Sharpe　turned。　It　was　Robert　Knowles；　who　had　been　his　Lieutenant　till　the　previous　year；　but　was　now　a　Captain　himself。　The　'sir'　was　pure　habit。　'How　are　you？'
　
　Knowles　smiled　in　delight。　He　wore　the　uniform　of　his　new　Regiment。　Sharpe　gestured　at　Lawford's　body　and　the　young　Captain's　face　fell。　'How？'
　
　'A　mine。　'
　'Christ！　Will　he　live？'
　'God　knows。　We　need　a　hospital。　'
　'This　way。　'　Knowles　had　entered　the　town　through　the　smaller　breach；　attacked　by　the　Light　Division；　and　he　led　the　party　north；　through　the　crowds；　and　into　a　narrow　street。　'I　passed　it　on　the　way　here。　A　convent。　Crauford's　there。　'
　
　'Wounded？'　Sharpe　had　thought　Black　Bob　Crauford　to　be　indestructible。　The　General　of　the　Light　Division　was　the　toughest　man　in　the　army。
　
　Knowles　nodded。　'Shot。　It's　bad。　They　don't　think　he'll　live。　There。　'　He　pointed　to　a　big；　stone　building　which　was　topped　by　a　cross　and　fronted　by　an　arched　cloister　lit　by　bracketed　torches。　Wounded　men　were　lying　outside；　tended　by　friends；　while　screams　came　from　the　upper　windows　behind　which　the　surgeons　were　already　at　work　with　their　serrated　blades。
　
　'Inside！'　Sharpe　pushed　through　the　men　in　the　doorway；　ignored　a　nun　who　tried　to　stop　him；　and　forced　a　path　for　the　Colonel's　stretcher。　The　tiled　floor　was　gleaming　with　fresh　blood　that　looked　black　in　the　candlelight。　A　second　nun　pushed　Sharpe　aside　and　looked　down　at　Lawford。　Her　eyes　saw　the　gold　lace；　the　torn　elegance　of　the　blood…st