bcornwell.sharpescompany-第9部分

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arpe　aside　and　looked　down　at　Lawford。　Her　eyes　saw　the　gold　lace；　the　torn　elegance　of　the　blood…stained　uniform；　and　she　rapped　orders　at　her　sisters。　The　Colonel　was　carried　through　an　arched　doorway　to　whatever　horrors　the　surgeons　would　inflict。
　
　The　small　group　of　men　looked　at　each　other；　saying　nothing；　but　on　each　face　there　were　deep　lines　of　tiredness　and　sorrow。　The　South　Essex；　that　had　achieved　so　much　under　Lawford's　leadership；　was　about　to　change。　Soldiers　might　belong　to　an　army；　wear　the　uniform　of　a　Regiment；　but　they　lived　inside　a　battalion　and　the　mander　of　the　Battalion　made　or　broke　their　happiness。　Their　thoughts　were　all　the　same。
　
　'What　now？'　Forrest　was　weary。
　'You　get　some　sleep；　sir。'　Leroy　spoke　brutally。　'Parade　in　the　morning；　sir？'　Sharpe　suddenly　realized　that　Forrest　was　in　mand　until　the　new　man　was　appointed。　'The　Brigade　Major　will　have　orders。'
　
　Forrest　nodded。　He　waved　a　hand　towards　the　doorway　where　Lawford　had　disappeared。　'I　must　report　this。'
　
　Knowles　put　a　hand　on　Forrest's　elbow。　'I　know　where　the　Headquarters　will　be；　sir。　I'll　take　you。'
　
　'Yes。'　Forrest　hesitated。　He　saw　a　severed　hand　lying　on　the　checkered　tiles　and　he　nearly　gagged。　Sharpe　kicked　the　hand　out　of　sight　beneath　a　dark　wooden　chest。　'Go　on；　sir。'
　
　Forrest；　Leroy；　and　Knowles　left。　Sharpe　turned　to　Lieutenant　Price　and　Sergeant　Harper。　'Find　the　pany。　Make　sure　they　have　billets。'
　
　'Yes；　sir。'　Price　seemed　shocked。　Sharpe　tapped　him　on　the　chest。
　'Stay　sober。'
　The　Lieutenant　nodded；　then　pleaded。　'Half　sober？'　'Sober。'
　'e　on；　sir。'　Harper　led　Price　away。　There　was　no　doubt　about　which　man　was　in　mand。
　
　Sharpe　watched　the　men　ing　into　the　convent；　the　blinded；　the　lamed；　the　bleeding；　French　and　British。　He　tried　to　blot　the　screaming　from　his　ears；　but　it　was　impossible；　the　sound　penetrated　the　senses　like　the　acrid　smoke　that　hung　in　the　city's　streets　this　night。　An　officer　of　the　95th　Rifles　came　down　the　main　stairway；　crying；　and　saw　Sharpe。　'He's　bad。'　He　did　not　know　who　he　was　talking　to；　except　that　he　saw　in　Sharpe　another　Rifleman。　'Crauford？'
　
　'There's　a　bullet　in　his　spine。　They　can't　get　it　out。　The　bastard　was　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　breach；　right　in　the　bloody　middle；　and　telling　us　to　move　our　arses。　They　shot　him！'
　
　The　Rifle　officer　went　out　into　the　cold　night。　Crauford　never　asked　his　men　to　do　anything　he　would　not　do　himself；　and　he　would　be　there；　cursing　and　spitting；　leading　his　men　on；　and　now　he　would　die。　The　army　would　not　be　the　same。
　
　Things　were　changing。
　
　A　clock　struck　ten　o'clock　and　Sharpe　thought　it　had　been　just　three　hours　since　they　slipped　over　the　snow　towards　the　breach。　Just　three　hours！　The　door　through　which　Lawford　had　been　carried　was　opened　and　a　soldier　dragged　out　a　corpse。　It　was　not　the　Colonel。　The　body；　pulled　by　the　heels；　left　a　jellied　slime　of　bloodied　mud　on　the　tiles。　The　door　was　left　open　and　Sharpe　crossed　to　it；　leaned　on　the　post；　and　stared　into　the　candle…bright　charnel　house。　He　remembered　the　soldier's　prayer；　morning　and　evening；　that　God　keep　him　from　the　surgeon's　knife。　Lawford　was　on　the　table　strapped　tight；　his　uniform　cut　away。　An　orderly　leaned　on　his　chest；　obscuring　the　face；　while　a　surgeon；　his　apron　stiff　with　blood　the　colour　of　burnt　ochre；　grunted　as　he　pushed　in　the　knife。　Sharpe　saw　Lawford's　feet；　still　encased　in　the　boots　with　the　swan…neck　spurs；　jerk　in　the　leather　straps。　The　surgeon　was　sweating。　The　candles　guttered　in　the　draught　and　he　turned　a　blood…spattered　face。　'Shut　the　bloody　door！'
　
　Sharpe　closed　it；　cutting　off　the　view　of　severed　limbs；　the　waiting　bodies。　He　wanted　a　drink。　Things　were　changing。　Lawford　under　the　knife；　Crauford　dying　upstairs；　the　New　Year　mocking　them。　He　stood　in　the　hallway；　in　dark　shadow；　and　remembered　the　gas　lighting　he　had　seen　in　London's　Pall　Mall　just　two　months　ago。　A　wonder　of　the　world；　he　had　been　told；　but　he　did　not　think　so。　Gas　lighting；　steam　power；　and　stupid　men　in　offices　with　dirty　spectacles　and　neat　files；　the　new　denizens　of　England　that　would　tie　up　the　world　in　pipes；　conduits；　paper；　and　above　all　order。　Neatness　above　all。　England　did　not　want　to　know　about　the　war。　A　hero　was　a　week…long　wonder；　so　long　as　he　was　not　untidily　scarred　like　the　beggars　in　the　streets　of　London。　There　were　men　with　only　half　a　face；　covered　in　suppurating　sores；　rodent　ulcers；　men　with　empty　eye　sockets；　torn　mouths；　ragged　stumps　who　had　cried　out　for　a　penny　for　an　old　soldier。　He　had　watched　them　being　moved　on　so　they　did　not　sully　the　pristine；　hissing　light　in　Pall　Mall。　Sharpe　had　fought　beside　some　of　them；　watched　them　drop　on　a　battlefield；　but　their　country　did　not　care。　There　were　the　military　hospitals；　of　course；　at　Chelsea　and　Kilmainham；　but　it　was　the　soldiers　who　paid　for　those；　not　the　country。　The　country　wanted　the　soldiers　out　of　the　way。　Sharpe　wanted　a　drink。
　
　The　door　of　the　surgeon's　room　banged　open　and　Sharpe　turned　to　see　Lawford　being　carried　on　a　canvas　stretcher　to　the　wide　staircase。　He　hurried　to　the　orderlies。　'How　is　he？'　'If　the　rot　doesn't　get　him；　sir。。。　〃　The　man　left　the　sentence　unfinished。　His　nose　was　dripping；　but　he　could　not　wipe　it　because　both　hands　were　on　the　stretcher。　He　sniffed。　'Friend　of　yours；　sir？'　'Yes。　'
　
　'Nothing　you　can　do　tonight；　sir。　e　back　tomorrow。　We'll　look　after　him。　'　He　jerked　his　head　upwards。　'Lieutenant　Colonels　and　above　are　on　the　second　floor；　sir。　Bleeding　luxury。　Not　like　those　in　the　cellar。　'　Sharpe　could　imagine　it；　had　seen　it　often　enough；　the　dank　cellars　where　the　wounded　were　crammed　on　verminous　pallets；　one　part　of　the　'ward'　always　left　as　a　death　room　where　the　hopeless　could　simply　rot。　He　let　them　go；　and　turned　away。
　
　Ciudad　Rodrigo　had　fallen；　the　great　fortress　of　the　north；　and　the　history　books　would　record　the　fact　and；　for　years　to　e；　the　victory　would　be　remembered　with　pride。　In　just　twelve　days　Wellington　had　surprised；　surrounded；　assaulted　and　taken　a　city。　A　victory。　And　no　one　would　remember　the　names　of　the　men　who　had　died　in　the　breach；　who　had　struggled　to　silence　the　great；　killing　guns　sunk　in　the　wide　wall。　The　English　would　celebrate。　They　liked　victories；　especially　those　far　from　home　that　fortified　their　sense　of　superiority　over　the　French；　but　they　did　not　want　to　know　about　this；　the　screams　of　the　wounded；　the　thump　of　severed　limbs；　the　slow　drip　of　thick　blood　from　the　hallway　ceiling。　Sharpe　pushed　into　the　cold　street　and　hunched　down　inside　his　collar　against　a　sudden　flurry　of　snow。　There　was　no　joy　for　him　in　this　victory；　only　a　sense　of　loss；　of　loneliness；　and　of　some　unfinished　task　he　must　perform　in　a　breach。　It　could　all　wait。　He　went　in　search　of　drink。
　
　CHAPTER　5
　
　It　had　begun　to　snow　again；　a　thin　sprinkling　that　flecked　the　greatcoats　of　the　collapsed　drunks　in　the　street。　It　was　cold。　Sharpe　knew　he　should　find　somewhere　warm；　somewhere　to　clean　the　big　sword　properly　before　the　rust　pits　began；　somewhere　to　sleep；　but　he　wanted　a　drink　first。
　
　The　city　was　quieter。　There　were　still　shouts　echoing　down　empty　alleyways；　an　odd　musket　shot；　and　once；　inexplicably；　a　muffled　explosion。　Sharpe　did　not　care。　He　wanted　drink　to　drive　away　the　self…pity；　the　nagging　thought　that；　without　Lawford；　he　could　be　a　Lieutenant　again　under　the　orders　of　a　Captain　ten　years　younger　than　himself；　without　experience；　and　his　mood　turned　savage　as　he　made　his　way　towards　the　flickering　lights　of　the　plaza　where　the　French　spirit　store　had　been　broken　open。
　
　The　French　prisoners　were　still　in　the　square's　centre；　though　without　their　officers　who　had　given　their　parole　and　gone　off　to　bed　or　to　drink　with　their　captors。　The　French　soldiers　sat　shivering　and　weaponless。　Their　guards　watched　them　with　curious　eyes；　their　hands　thrust　into　pockets；　their　loaded　and　bayoneted　muskets　slung　on　cold　shoulders。　Other　sentries　guarded　the　houses；　stopping　the　last　looters　who　still　staggered；　drunk；　in　the　light　of　the　burning　buildings。　Sharpe　was　stopped　at　the　liquor　store　by　a　nervous　sentry。　'Can't　go　in　there；　sir。'
　
　'Why　not？'
　'General's　orders；　sir。　Orders。　'
　Sharpe　snarled　at　him。　'The　General　sent　me。　He's　thirsty。　'
　The　sentry　grinned；　but　still　brought　his　musket　down　across　the　doorway。　I'm　sorry；　sir。　It's　orders；　sir。　'
　'〃What's　going　on？'　A　Sergeant　appeared；　a　big　man；　walking　slowly。　'Trouble？'
　Sharpe　faced　the　Sergeant。　I'm　going　in　there　for　drink。　Do　you　want　to　stop　me？'
　The　Sergeant　shrugged。　'Up　to　you；　sir；　but　I'd　advise　against　it。　Bloody　raw　alcohol；　that　is；　sir。　It's　killed　a　couple　of　lads。　'　He　looked　Sharpe　up　and　down；　saw　the　blood　on　the　uniform。　'In　the　breach；　were　you；　sir？'
　'Yes。'
　The　Sergeant　nodded　and　unslung　a　canteen　from　his　neck。　'Here　you　are；　sir。　Brandy。　Took　it　off　a　prisoner。　pliments　of　the　83rd。'
　Sharpe　took　it；　made　his　thanks；　and　the　Sergeant　let　out　a　long；　slow　breath　as　he　watched　the　Rifleman　walk　away。　'You　know　who　that　was；　lad？'
　'No；　Sarge。'
　'Sharpe。　That's　who　that　was。　Lucky　I　was　here。　'
　'Lucky；　Sarge？'
　'Yes；　lad。　Otherwise