bcornwell.sharpstiger-第7节

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　here　to　the　sea。'
　'If　Allah　pleases；'　Gudin　said　resignedly。　Officially　he　was　an　adviser　to　the　Tippoo；　sent　by　the　Directorate　in　Paris　to　help　Mysore　defeat　the　British；　and　the　patient　Gudin　had　just　done　his　best　to　give　advice　and　it　was　none　of　his　fault　if　the　advice　was　spurned。　He　brushed　flies　from　his　face；　then　watched　as　the　33rd　brought　their　muskets　to　their　shoulders。　When　those　muskets　flamed；　the　Frenchman　thought；　the　front　of　the　Tippoo's　column　would　crumple　like　a　honeyb　hit　by　a　hammer；　but　at　least　the　slaughter　would　teach　the　Tippoo　that　battles　could　not　be　won　against　disciplined　troops　unless　every　weapon　was　used　against　them：　cavalry　to　force　them　to　bunch　up　in　protection；　then　artillery　and　infantry　to　pour　fire　into　the　massed　ranks。　The　Tippoo　surely　knew　that；　yet　he　had　insisted　on　throwing　his　three　thousand　infantry　forward　without　cavalry　support；　and　Gudin　could　only　suppose　that　either　the　Tippoo　believed　Allah　would　befighting　on　his　side　this　afternoon；　or　else　he　was　so　consumed　by　his　famous　victory　over　the　British　seventeen　years　before　that　he　believed　he　could　always　beat　them　in　open　conflict。
　Gudin　slapped　at　flies　again。　It　was　time；　he　thought；　to　go　home。　Much　as　he　liked　India　he　felt　frustrated。　He　suspected　that　the　government　in　Paris　had　forgotten　about　his　existence；　and　he　was　keenly　aware　that　the　Tippoo　was　not　receptive　to　his　advice。　He　did　not　blame　the　Tippoo；　Paris　had　made　so　many　promises；　but　no　French　army　had　e　to　fight　for　Mysore　and　Gudin　sensed　the　Tippoo's　disappointment　and　even　sympathized　with　it；　while　Gudin　himself　felt　useless　and　abandoned。　Some　of　his　contemporaries　were　already　generals；　even　little　Bonaparte；　a　Corsican　whom　Gudin　had　known　slightly　in　Toulon；　now　had　an　army　of　his　own；　while　Jean　Gudin　was　stranded　in　distant　Mysore。　Which　made　victory　all　the　more　important；　and　if　the　British　were　not　broken　here　then　they　would　have　to　be　beaten　by　the　massed　artillery　and　rockets　that　waited　on　Seringapa…tam's　walls。　That　was　also　where　Gudin's　small　battalion　of　European　soldiers　was　waiting；　and　Seringapatam；　he　suspected；　was　where　this　campaign　would　be　decided。　And　if　there　was　victory；　and　if　the　British　were　thrown　out　of　southern　India；　then　Gudin's　reward　would　surely　be　back　in　France。　Back　home　where　the　flies　did　not　swarm　like　mice。
　The　enemy　regiment　waited　with　levelled　muskets。　The　Tippoo's　men　cheered　and　charged　impetuously　onwards。　The　Tippoo　leaned　forward；　unconsciously　biting　his　lower　lip　as　he　waited　for　the　impact。
　Gudin　wondered　whether　his　woman　in　Seringapatam　would　like　Provence；　or　whether　Provence　would　like　her。　Or　maybe　it　was　time　for　a　new　woman。　He　sighed；　slapped　at　flies；　then　involuntarily　shuddered。
　For；　beneath　him；　the　killing　had　begun。
　'Fire！'　Colonel　Wellesley　shouted。
　
　Seven　hundred　men　pulled　their　triggers　and　seven　hundred　flints　snapped　forward　onto　frizzens。　The　sparks　ignited　the　powder　in　the　pans；　there　was　a　pause　as　the　fire　fizzed　through　the　seven　hundred　touchholes；　then　an　almighty　crackling　roar　as　the　heavy　muskets　flamed。
　The　brass　butt　of　the　gun　slammed　into　Sharpe's　shoulder。　He　had　aimed　the　weapon　at　a　sashed　officer　leading　the　enemy　column；　though　even　at　sixty　yards'　range　it　was　hardly　worth　aiming　a　musket　for　it　was　a　frighteningly　inaccurate　weapon；　but　unless　the　ball　flew　high　it　ought　to　hit　someone。　He　could　not　tell　what　damage　the　volley　had　caused　for　the　instant　the　musket　banged　into　his　shoulder　his　vision　was　obscured　by　the　filmy　bank　of　rolling　smoke　coughed　out　of　the　seven　hundred　musket　muzzles。　He　could　hardly　hear　anything　either；　for　the　sound　of　the　rear　rank　muskets；　going　off　close　beside　his　head；　had　left　his　ears　ringing。　His　right　hand　automatically　went　to　find　a　new　cartridge　from　his　pouch；　but　then；　above　the　ringing　in　his　ears；　he　heard　the　Colonel's　brusque　voice。　'Forward！　Thirty…third；　forward！'
　'Go　on；　boys！'　Sergeant　Green　called。　'Steady　now！　Don't　run！　Walk！'
　'Damn　your　eagerness！'　Ensign　Fitzgerald　shouted　at　the　pany。　'Hold　your　ranks！　This　ain't　a　race！'
　The　regiment　marched　into　the　musket　smoke　which　stank　like　rotting　eggs。　Lieutenant　Lawford　suddenly　remembered　to　draw　his　sword。　He　could　see　nothing　beyond　the　smoke；　but　imagined　a　terrible　enemy　waiting　with　raised　muskets。　He　touched　the　pocket　of　his　coat　in　which　he　kept　the　Bible　given　to　him　by　his　mother。
　The　front　rank　advanced　clear　of　the　stinking　smoke　fog　and　suddenly　there　was　nodiing　ahead　but　chaos　and　carnage。
　The　seven　hundred　lead　balls　had　converged　on　the　front　of　the　column　to　strike　home　with　a　brutal　efficiency。　Where　there　had　been　orderly　ranks　there　were　now　only　dead　menand　dying　men　who　writhed　on　the　ground。　The　rearward　ranks　of　the　enemy　could　not　advance　over　the　barrier　of　the　dead　and　injured；　so　they　stood　uncertainly　as；　out　of　the　smoke；　the　seven　hundred　bayonets　appeared。
　'On　the　double！　On　the　double！　Don't　let　them　stand！'　Colonel　Wellesley　called。
　'Give　them　a　cheer；　boys！'　Sergeant　Green　called。　'Go　for　them　now！　Kill　the　buggers！'
　Sharpe　had　no　thought　of　deserting　now；　for　now　he　was　about　to　fight。　If　there　was　any　one　good　reason　to　join　the　army；　it　was　to　fight。　Not　to　hurry　up　and　do　nothing；　but　to　fight　the　King's　enemies；　and　this　enemy　had　been　shocked　by　the　awful　violence　of　the　close…range　volley　and　now　they　stared　in　horror　as　the　redcoats　screamed　and　ran　towards　them。　The　33rd；　released　from　the　tight　discipline　of　the　ranks；　charged　eagerly。　There　was　loot　ahead。　Loot　and　food　and　stunned　men　to　slaughter　and　there　were　few　men　in　the　33rd　who　did　not　like　a　good　fight。　Not　many　had　joined　the　ranks　out　of　patriotism；　instead；　like　Sharpe；　they　had　taken　the　King's　shilling　because　hunger　or　desperation　had　forced　them　into　uniform；　but　they　were　still　good　soldiers。　They　came　from　the　gutters　of　Britain　where　a　man　survived　by　savagery　rather　than　by　cleverness。　They　were　brawlers　and　bastards；　alley…fighters　with　nothing　to　lose　but　tuppence　a　day。
　Sharpe　howled　as　he　ran。　The　sepoy　battalions　were　closing　up　on　the　left；　but　there　was　no　need　for　their　musketry　now；　for　the　Tippoo's　vaunted　tiger　infantry　were　not　staying　to　contest　the　afternoon。　They　were　edging　backwards；　looking　for　escape；　and　then；　out　of　the　north　where　they　had　been　half　hidden　by　the　red…blossomed　trees；　the　British　and　Indian　cavalry　charged　to　the　sound　of　a　trumpet's　call。　Lances　were　lowered　and　sabres　held　like　spears　as　the　horsemen　thundered　onto　the　enemy's　flank。
　The　Tippoo's　infantry　fled。　A　few；　the　lucky　few；　scrambledback　up　the　ridge；　but　most　were　caught　in　the　open　ground　between　the　33rd　and　the　ridge's　slope　and　there　the　killing　became　a　massacre。　Sharpe　reached　the　pile　of　dead　and　leapt　over　them。　Just　beyond　the　bloody　pile　a　wounded　man　tried　to　bring　up　his　musket；　but　Sharpe　slammed　the　butt　of　his　gun　onto　the　man's　head；　kicked　the　musket　out　of　his　enfeebled　hands　and　ran　on。　He　was　aiming　for　an　officer；　a　brave　man　who　had　tried　to　rally　his　troops　and　who　now　hesitated　fatally。　The　man　was　carrying　a　drawn　sabre；　then　he　remembered　the　pistol　in　his　belt　and　fumbled　to　draw　it；　but　saw　he　was　too　late　and　turned　to　run　after　his　men。　Sharpe　was　faster。　He　rammed　his　bayonet　forward　and　struck　the　Indian　officer　on　the　side　of　the　neck。　The　man　turned；　his　sabre　whistling　as　he　sliced　the　curved　blade　at　Sharpe's　head。　Sharpe　parried　the　blow　with　the　barrel　of　his　musket。　A　sliver　of　wood　was　slashed　off　the　stock　as　Sharpe　kicked　the　officer　between　the　legs。　Sharpe　was　screaming　a　challenge；　a　scream　of　hate　mat　had　nothing　to　do　with　Mysore　or　me　enemy　officer；　and　everydiing　to　do　with　the　frustrations　of　his　life。　The　Indian　staggered；　hunched　over　and　Sharpe　slammed　the　musket's　heavy　butt　into　the　dark　face。　The　enemy　officer　went　down；　his　sabre　falling　from　his　hand。　He　shouted　something；　maybe　offering　his　surrender；　but　Sharpe　did　not　care。　He　just　put　his　left　foot　on　the　man's　sword　arm；　men　drove　the　bayonet　hard　down　into　his　throat。　The　fight　might　have　lasted　diree　seconds。
　Sharpe　advanced　no　farther。　Orner　men　ran　past；　screaming　as　they　pursued　the　fleeing　enemy；　but　Sharpe　had　found　his　victim。　He　had　thrust　the　bayonet　so　hard　that　the　blade　had　gone　clean　through　the　officer's　neck　into　the　soil　beneath　and　it　was　hard　work　to　pull　the　steel　free；　and　in　the　end　he　had　to　put　a　boot　on　the　dying　man's　forehead　before　he　could　tug　the　bayonet　out。　Blood　gushed　from　the　wound；　men　subsided　to　a　throbbing　pulse　of　spilling　red　as　Sharpe　knelt　and　began　rifling　the　man's　gaudy　uniform；　obliviousof　the　choking；　bubbling　sound　that　the　officer　was　making　as　he　died。　Sharpe　ripped　off　the　yellow　silk　sash　and　tossed　it　aside　together　with　the　silver…hilled　sabre　and　the　pistol。　The　sabre　scabbard　was　made　of　boiled　leather；　nothing　of　any　value　to　Sharpe；　but　behind　it　was　a　small　embroidered　pouch　and　Sharpe　drew　out　his　knife；　unfolded　the　blade　and　slashed　through　the　pouch's　straps。　He　fumbled　the　pouch　open　to　find　that　it　was　filled　with　nothing　but　dry　rice　and　one　small　scrap　of　what　looked　like　cake。　He　smelt　it　gingerly　a