bcornwell.sharpescompany-第41节

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ld　them；　not　awed　by　the　pany；　but　he　added　little　to　Fletcher's　account。　He　had　not　been　able　to　see　clearly；　the　darkness　was　relieved　only　by　a　very　occasional　gun…flash　from　the　city's　walls；　and　much　of　his　account　was　based　on　the　sounds　he　had　heard　as　he　lay　on　the　glacis　lip　and　listened；　not　just　to　the　French　working　parties；　but　to　the　British　grapeshot　smashing　through　the　weeds　and　rattling　on　the　walls。　Wellington　let　him　finish。　It　had　been　a　concise　statement。　The　General's　eyes　held　Sharpe's。　'One　question。'　'Sir？'
　
　'Are　the　breaches　practical？'　　Wellington's　eyes　were　unreadable；　cold　like　steel。
　
　Sharpe's　gaze　was　as　hard；　as　unyielding。　'Yes。'　A　murmur　round　the　table。　Wellington　leaned　back。　Colonel　Fletcher's　voice　rose　above　the　noise。　'With　respect；　my　Lord；　I　do　not　think　it　within　Captain；　Lieutenant　Sharpe's　petency　to　pronounce　on　a　breach。'　'He's　been　there。'　Fletcher　muttered　something　about　sending　a　heathen　to　Kirk　and　not　making　him　a　Christian。　The　quill　in　his　hand　bent　almost　double　under　the　pressure　of　his　fingers；　he　let　it　go　and　the　split　nib　spattered　ink　across　the　two　bastions。　He　thumped　the　pen　down。　'It's　too　soon。'
　
　Wellington　pushed　himself　away　from　the　table；　stood　up。　'One　day；　gentlemen；　one　day。'　He　looked　round　the　table。　No　one　challenged　him。　It　was　too　soon；　he　knew　that；　but　perhaps　any　day　would　be　too　soon　to　take　on　this　fortress。　Perhaps；　as　the　French　claimed；　it　was　impregnable。　'Tomorrow；　gentlemen；　Sunday　the　fifth。　We　assault　Badajoz。'
　
　'Sir！'　Sharpe　spoke　and　the　General；　who　had　been　expecting　a　protest　from　the　Engineers；　turned　towards　him。　'Sharpe？'
　
　'One　question；　sir？'　Sharpe　could　hardly　believe　that　he　was　talking；　let　alone　in　such　challenging　tones　and　in　such　a　pany；　but　he　might　not　get　this　chance　again。
　
　'Go　on。'
　
　'The　Hope；　sir。　I　would　like　to　lead　the　Hope。'
　
　Wellington's　eyes　were　cold　and　glinting。　'Why？'
　
　What　was　he　to　say？　That　it　was　a　test？　The　supreme　test；　perhaps；　of　a　soldier？　Or　that　he　wanted　his　revenge　on　a　system；　a　system　represented　by　a　pox…scarred　clerk　in　Whitehall；　that　had　made　him　superfluous；　unwanted？　He　suddenly　thought　of　Antonia；　his　daughter；　of　Teresa。　He　thought　that　he　might　never　see　Madrid；　Paris；　or　know　how　the　war　would　end；　but　the　die　was　cast。　He　shrugged；　looking　for　words；　unsettled　by　the　impenetrable　eyes。　'I　don't　know；　sir。　I　want　it。'　He　sounded　to　himself　like　a　petulant　child。　He　could　sense　the　eyes　of　the　senior　officers　on　him；　curious　eyes；　looking　at　his　shabby　uniform；　his　old；　irregular　sword；　and　he　damned　them　to　hell。　Their　pride　was　buttressed　by　money。
　
　Wellington's　voice　was　softer。　'You　want　your　pany？'
　
　'Yes；　sir。'　He　felt　a　fool；　a　shabby　fool　in　a　glittering　setting；　and　he　knew　that　all　of　them　could　see　his　broken　pride。
　
　Wellington　nodded　towards　Colonel　Fletcher。　'The　Colonel　will　tell　you；　Sharpe；　and　pray　God　he　is　wrong；　that　on　Monday　morning　we'll　be　handing　Captaincies　out　with　the　rations。'
　
　Fletcher　said　nothing。　The　room　was　silent；　embarrassed　by　Sharpe's　request。　The　Rifleman　felt　as　if　all　his　life；　all　that　had　been　and　all　that　might　never　be；　was　balanced　on　this　silence。
　
　Wellington　smiled。　'God　knows；　Sharpe；　that　I　think　you　are　a　rogue。　A　useful　rogue　and；　thankfully；　a　rogue　who　is　on　my　side。'　He　smiled　again　and　Sharpe　knew　that　the　General　was　remembering　the　gory　Indian　bayonets　reaching　for　him　at　Assaye；　but　that　debt　had　long　been　paid。　Wellington　picked　up　his　papers。　'I　don't　think　I　want　you　dead；　Sharpe。　The　army　would　be；　somehow；　less　interesting。　Your　request　is　denied。'　He　left　the　room。
　
　Sharpe　stood　there；　quite　still　as　the　other　officers　filed　out；　and　he　thought　how；　in　these　past　few　miserable　weeks；　he　had　fixed　all　his　hopes　and　ambitions　on　that　one　thing。　His　Captaincy；　his　pany；　their　jackets；　rifles　and　trust；　even；　because　he　did　not　seriously　believe　he　would　be　killed；　the　chance　to　reach　the　house　with　the　two　orange　trees　before　the　maniacal　horde；　before　Hakeswill；　and　all　had　been　fixed　on　the　Hope；　the　Forlorn　Hope。　And　it　had　been　denied。
　
　He　should　have　felt　disappointment；　anger　even；　at　the　refusal；　but　he　could　not。　Instead；　flooding　through　him　like　pure　water　scouring　a　foul　ditch；　was　relief；　utter；　blissful　relief。　He　was　ashamed　of　the　feeling。
　
　Hogan　came　back　into　the　room　and　smiled　up　at　him。　'There。　You've　asked；　you　got　the　right　answer。'
　
　'No。'　Sharpe's　face　was　stubborn。　'There's　still　time；　sir；　still　time。'　He　did　not　know　what　he　meant；　or　why　he　said　it；　except　that　on　the　morrow；　in　the　first　darkness　of　evening；　he　would　somehow　face　that　test。　And　win。
　
　CHAPTER　22
　
　Sergeant　Obadiah　Hakeswill　was　feeling　contented。　He　sat　by　himself；　church　parade　done；　and　stared　into　the　depths　of　his　shako。　He　spoke　to　his　hat。　'Tonight；　it　is；　tonight。　I'll　be　a　good　boy；　I　won't　let　you　down。'　He　cackled；　showing　his　few　rotting　teeth；　and　looked　round　the　pany。　They　were　watching　him；　he　knew；　but　would　take　care　not　to　catch　his　eye。　He　looked　back　into　the　greasy　depths　of　the　hat。　'Scared；　they　are；　of　me。　Oh　yes。　Scared　of　me。　Be　more　scared　tonight。　A　lot　of　them　will　die　tonight。'　He　cackled　again　and　raised　his　eyes　fast　so　that　he　might　catch　a　man　staring　at　him。　They　were　all　studiously　avoiding　his　eyes。　'You'll　die　tonight！　Like　little　bloody　pigs　under　the　pole…axe！'
　
　He　would　not　die。　He　knew　it；　despite　what　Sharpe　had　said。　He　looked　back　into　the　shako。　'Bloody　Sharpe！　He's　scared　of　me。　He　ran　away！　He　can't　kill　me。　No　one　can　kill　me！'　He　almost　shouted　the　last　words。　They　were　true。　He　had　been　touched　by　death　and　he　had　survived。　He　reached　up　and　scratched　the　livid；　red　scar。　He　had　hung　for　an　hour　on　the　gallows；　a　scrap　of　a　boy；　and　no　one　had　pulled　his　feet　so　that　his　neck　would　snap。　He　did　not　remember　much　of　the　experience；　the　crowds；　the　other　prisoners　who　had　joked　with　him；　but　he　would　always　be　grateful　to　the　sadistic　bastard　who　had　hung　them　the　slow　way；　without　a　drop；　so　that　the　crowd　would　have　a　spectacle　to　watch。　They　had　cheered　every　spasmodic　jerk　and　useless　struggle　until　the　executioner's　assistants；　grinning　like　actors　who　are　pleasing　their　audience；　came　to　hold　the　dangling　ankles。　They　had　looked　at　the　crowd；　asking　their　permission　to　pull；　and　teased　the　prisoners。　They　had　not　bothered　with　the　twelve…year…old　Obadiah　Hakeswill。　He　was　cunning　then　as　now　and　had　hung　still；　even　as　the　pain　drifted　him　in　and　out　of　consciousness；　so　the　crowd　thought　he　was　already　dead。　He　had　not　known　why　he　clung　so　tenaciously　to　life；　it　would　have　been　faster　and　far　less　painful　to　be　ankle…tugged　to　death；　but　then　the　rain　had　e。　The　clouds　had　split　apart　in　a　downpour　that　cleared　the　streets　in　minutes　and　no　one　could　be　bothered　with　the　last　small　body。　His　uncle；　furtive　and　frightened；　had　cut　him　down　and　hurried　the　limp　body　into　an　alleyway。　He　had　slapped　Obadiah's　face。　'Listen；　you　bastard！　Can　you　hear　me？'
　
　Obadiah　must　have　said　something；　or　moaned；　because　he　remembered　his　uncle's　face；　peering　close。　'You're　alive。　Understand？　Little　bastard！　I　don't　know　why　I　bothered；　except　your　mother　wanted　me　to。　Can　you　hear　me？'　'Yes。'　His　face　was　twitching　and　he　could　not　stop　it。　'You're　to　bugger　off；　understand？　Bugger　off。　You　can't　go　home；　they'll　get　you　again；　you　hear　me？'
　
　He　had　heard；　and　understood；　and　buggered　off；　and　never　saw　his　family　again。　Not　that　he　missed　them　much。　He　had　found　the　army；　like　so　many　hopeless　men；　and　it　had　served　him　well。　And　he　could　not　die；　he　had　known　it　since　he　was　alone　in　the　alleyway；　had　tested　it　in　battle；　and　he　knew　that　he　had　cheated　death。
　
　He　unsheathed　his　bayonet　and　wondered；　for　a　second；　whether　to　give　it　to　one　of　the　Privates　to　sharpen。　He　would　like　to　humiliate　the　big　Irish　bastard；　but　on　the　other　hand　he　always　liked　to　do　the　job　himself　when　there　was　killing　ahead。　The　assault　would　happen　today；　everyone　knew　it；　though　no　announcement　had　been　made；　and　there　would　be　killing　enough　for　everyone。　He　looked　into　the　hat。　'You'll　excuse　me　a　moment？　I'll　talk　again　soon。'
　
　He　put　the　shako　down　and　picked　up　his　stone。　It　blurred　in　his　hand；　honing　the　bayonet's　leading　edge；　but　he　did　not　look　at　the　work。　He　stared　instead　at　the　pany；　recognizing　their　fear　and　feeding　from　it。　Hakeswill　was　content。　He　had　broken　the　bastards　until　they　fetched　his　food；　washed　his　clothes；　and　changed　the　straw　in　his　shelter。
　
　Two　of　them　he　had　beaten　into　pulp；　but　now　they　were　like　puppy　dogs；　eager　to　please。　He　had　won　his　major　battles。　Sharpe　was　out　of　the　way；　and　Harper　was　broken　down　into　a　Private；　a　red…coated　Private。　The　Captain　was　afraid　of　Hakeswill；　so　was　Price　and　so　were　the　Sergeants。　Life　could　be；　Hakeswill　knew；　a　lot　worse。　He　put　a　thumb　on　the　blade；　knew　the　edge　could　be　sharper；　and　the　stone　started　again　on　long；　whispering　strokes。
　
　Private　Clayton　looked　sideways　at　Hakeswill；　laughed；　and　said　something　to　his　panion。　Hakeswill　saw　the　laugh；　but　pretended　not　to　no