bcornwell.sharpescompany-第47节

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e　pushed　behind；　and　then　the　whole　ladder　with　its　human　cargo　disintegrated　in　splinters　and　flesh　as　a　barrel…full　of　grapeshot；　fired　from　the　San　Pedro　bastion；　found　a　full　target。　Stones　were　being　hurled　from　the　castle　parapets　that　crashed　into　knots　of　men　and　bounced　down　the　rock　face。　Suddenly　Knowles's　pany　seemed　to　be　halved　in　strength；　he　felt　the　frustrations　of　defeat　and　looked　frantically　for　the　second　ladder。　It　had　gone；　back　down　the　slope；　and　then　there　were　voices　shouting　at　him。　'Back！　Back！'　He　recognized　his　Major's　voice；　saw　the　face；　and　he　jumped　into　the　shadows　and　left　behind　the　broken　ladders　and　bodies　of　the　first　attack　beneath　the　triumphant　shouts　of　the　enemy。
　
　'Any　news　from　the　casde？'
　
　'No；　my　Lord。'　The　Generals　fidgeted。　In　front　of　them　the　south…east　corner　of　Badajoz　flickered　with　bright　fire。　The　two　soaring　bastions；　scarred　by　the　unconquered　breaches；　framed　the　flames；　fed　them；　and　the　smoke　boiled　scarlet　into　the　night。　To　the　right；　and　seemingly　far　away；　more　fire　glowed　above　the　silhouetted　castle　and　Wellington；　cloaked　and　gloved；　tugged　nervously　at　his　reins。　'Picton　won't　do　it；　y'know。　He　won't。　'
　
　An　aide…de…camp　leaned　closer。　'My　Lord？'　'Nothing。　Nothing。'　He　was　irritable；　helpless。　He　knew　what　was　happening　in　the　great　pit　of　fire　ahead。　His　men　were　marching　into　it　and　could　not　get　out　the　other　side。　He　was　appalled。　The　walls　were　three　times　bigger　than　Ciudad　Rodrigo；　the　fight　unimaginably　worse；　but　he　had　to　have　the　city。　Kemmis；　from　the　Fourth　Division；　pushed　in　by　his　side。
　
　'My　Lord？'
　
　'General？'
　
　'Do　we　reinforce；　sir？'　Kemmis　was　hatless；　his　face　smeared　with　dirt　as　if　he　had　been　firing　a　musket　himself。　'Do　we　send　in　more　men？〃
　
　Wellington　hated　sieges。　He　could　be　patient　when　he　had　to　be；　when　he　was　enticing　the　enemy　into　a　trap；　but　a　siege　was　not　like　that。　Inevitably　this　moment　had　to　e；　when　the　troops　had　to　be　ordered　into　the　one；　small；　deadly　point；　and　there　was　no　escaping　it　unless　the　enemy　was　simply　starved　into　submission　and　there　had　been　no　time　for　that。　He　had　to　have　this　city。
　
　Sharpe！　For　a　second　the　General　was　tempted　to　damn　Sharpe；　who　had　assured　him　the　breaches　were　practical。　But　Wellington　suppressed　the　thought。　The　Rifleman　had　said　what　Wellington　had　wanted　him　to　say　and　even　if　he　had　not；　then　Wellington　would　still　have　sent　in　the　troops。　Sharpe！　If　Wellington　had　one　thousand　Sharpes　then　the　city　might　be　his。　He　listened　gloomily　to　the　sounds　of　battle。　The　French　cheers　were　loud　and　he　knew　they　were　beating　him。　He　could　withdraw　now　and　leave　the　dead　and　wounded　to　be　recovered　under　a　flag　of　truce；　or　he　could　send　in　more　men　and　hope　to　turn　the　battle。　He　had　to　have　the　city！　Otherwise　there　could　be　no　march　on　Spain　this　summer；　no　advance　to　the　Pyrenees；　and　Napoleon　would　be　given　another　year　of　power。　'Send　them　in！〃
　
　Feed　the　monster；　he　thought；　that　was　grinding　his　army；　his　fine　army；　but　the　monster　must　be　fed　until　it　gave　up。　He　could　make　up　the　shattered　battalions；　the　reinforcements　would　e；　but　without　Badajoz　there　was　no　victory。　Damn　the　Engineers。　There　were　miners　in　Britain；　hundreds　in　Cornwall　alone；　but　none　with　the　army；　no　Corps　of　Sappers　who　could　have　tunneled　under　the　bastions；　packed　the　cavern　with　powder；　and　blown　the　French　to　kingdom　e。　He　found　himself　wondering　whether　he　should　have　slaughtered　the　garrison　at　Ciudad　Rodrigo；　whether　he　could　have　lined　them　up　in　tens　and　shot　them；　then　left　the　bodies　to　rot　in　the　town　ditch　so　that　any　Frenchmen　who　chose　to　contest　another　breach　could　only　expect　the　terrible　vengeance　of　the　English。　He　could　not　have　ordered　it；　any　more　than　he　would　order　it　here　if　they　won　this　night。　If。
　
　He　turned　irritably　towards　his　aides。　His　face　was　long　and　harsh…shadowed　in　the　torchlight　cast　from　Lord　March's　hand。　'Any　news　of　the　Fifth？'
　
　The　answering　voice　was　low；　anxious　not　to　add　to　the　bad　news。　'They　should　be　attacking　now；　my　Lord；　General　Leith　sends　his　apologies。　'
　
　'God　damn　his　apologies。　Why　can't　he　be　on　time？'　His　horse　shied；　struck　by　a　spent　musket　bullet；　and　the　General　soothed　it。　He　could　expect　nothing　of　the　escalades。　Leith　was　late　and　the　garrison　at　San　Vincente　would　be　warned；　while　Picton　was　hoping　for　the　moon　if　he　thought　he　could　lay　his　long　ladders　against　the　castle　wall。　Victory；　he　knew；　would　have　to　be　carved　here；　at　the　south…east　corner；　where　flame　and　smoke　churned　over　the　ghastly　ditch。　Distantly；　like　a　reminder　of　another　world　echoing　in　the　depths　of　hell；　the　Cathedral　bell　tolled　eleven；　and　Wellington　looked　up　into　the　blackness　and　then　back　at　the　flames。　'One　more　hour；　gentlemen；　one　more　hour。'　And　then　what；　he　wondered？　Failure？　Hell　was　no　place　for　miracles。
　
　On　the　walls　the　French　gunners　slackened　their　fire。　They　had　drowned　the　ditch　in　death　and　now　they　listened　to　the　screams　and　moans　that　came　from　below。　The　attacks　seemed　to　have　stopped；　so　the　gunners　stretched；　soaked　their　faces　with　water　splashed　from　the　buckets　used　to　wet　the　sponges；　and　watched　as　fresh　ammunition　was　brought　up　the　ramp。　They　did　not　expect　much　more　effort　from　the　British。　A　few　men　had　climbed　the　breaches；　one　was　even　impaled　on　the　sabre　blades；　but　it　was　a　hopeless　effort。　Poor　bastards！　There　was　no　joy　any　longer　in　shouting　insults。　A　sergeant；　leather…skinned　and　hard；　leaned　on　a　gun　wheel　and　flinched。　'Christ！　I　wish　they'd　stop　screaming。'
　
　A　few　men　had　lit　surreptitious　cigars　that　they　hid　from　their　officers　by　leaning　deep　into　the　gun　embrasures。　One　man　wriggled　forward；　past　the　acrid　muzzle；　until　he　could　peer　down　into　the　ditch。　The　Sergeant　called　wearily　to　him。　'e　back！　Those　Rifle　bastards　will　get　you。'
　
　The　man　stayed。　He　peered　down；　far　down；　at　the　writhing　horror　in　the　ditch。　He　pulled　himself　back。　'If　they　get　in　they'll　bloody　slaughter　us！'
　
　The　Sergeant　laughed。　'They　won't　get　in；　lad；　not　a　chance。　In　two　hours　you'll　be　tucked　in　bed　with　that　horrid　thing　you　call　a　woman。'
　
　'You're　jealous；　Sergeant。'
　
　'Me？　I'd　rather　go　to　bed　with　this。'　The　Sergeant　slapped　the　barrel　of　his　gun。　The　wreathed　'N'；　Napoleon's　symbol；　was　searing　hot。　'Now　get　back　here；　lad；　put　that　bloody　cigar　out；　and　look　smart。　I　might　need　you；　God　help　me。　'
　
　A　call　from　the　observation　point。　'Make　ready！'
　
　The　Sergeant　sighed　and　stood　up。　Another　tiny　group　of　idiot　British　were　running　towards　the　Santa　Maria　breach　and　his　gun　covered　the　approach。　He　watched　them　down　the　length　of　his　glistening　gun；　saw　them　slip　on　blood；　stumble　on　stone；　and　then　they　were　in　his　target　zone。　He　stood　to　one　side；　touched　the　match　to　the　powder…filled　reed；　and　the　green…jacketed　men　were　beaten　into　fragments。　It　was　so　easy。　The　Sergeant　bellowed　orders　for　the　reloading；　listened　to　the　hiss　as　the　sponge　seared　down　the　bore；　and　was　glad　that　he　was　at　Badajoz　this　night。　The　French　had　begun　to　fear　this　Lord　Wellington；　to　turn　him　into　a　bogey　man　to　frighten　their　sleep；　and　it　was　pleasing　to　show　that　the　English　Lord　could　be　beaten。　The　Sergeant　grinned　as　the　bulbous　lumps　of　canvas…wrapped　grapeshot　were　rammed　into　the　cannon。　This　night　Wellington　would　taste　defeat；　utter　defeat；　and　the　whole　Empire　would　rejoice。　This　night　belonged　to　France；　only　to　France；　and　Britain's　hopes　were　being　buried　where　they　belonged；　in　a　ditch　for　the　dead。
　
　CHAPTER　26
　
　'This　way！　This　way！〃　They　were　going　right；　away　from　the　San　Pedro　bastion；　clawing　a　path　on　the　hill's　steep　side　until　they　had　turned　a　corner　and　would　receive　some　shelter　from　the　grapeshot。　The　first　attack　had　been　horribly　repulsed；　but　the　Third　Division　would　try　again。　They　could　hear　the　fury　at　the　main　breach；　far　away；　and　see　on　the　sheeted　floodwaters　the　dim　reflections　of　the　fires　that　were　consuming　the　Light　and　Fourth　Divisions。　Knowles　could　feel　a　madness　in　the　air；　beating　its　dark　wings　against　a　city；　bringing　a　night　of　insane　death　and　crazy　effort。　'Light　pany！　Light　pany！'
　
　'Here；　sir。'　An　old　Sergeant；　steadying　his　Captain　with　a　hand；　and　then　a　Lieutenant　leading　a　dozen　men。　My　God；　Knowles　thought；　is　this　all　that　is　left？　But　then　he　saw　more　men；　tugging　the　cumbersome　ladder。　Another　Sergeant　grinned　at　him。　'Do　we　go　again；　sir？'
　
　'Wait　for　the　bugle。'　He　knew　there　was　no　point　in　making　a　scattered　attack　that　could　be　picked　off　piecemeal　by　the　defenders。　The　whole　Division　must　go　together。
　
　Knowles　suddenly　felt　good。　There　was　an　impression　in　his　head；　one　that　had　been　nagging　him；　and　now　he　pinned　it　down。　The　musket　fire　had　been　light　from　the　parapet。　The　grapeshot　had　confused　him；　but　now；　thinking　back　to　the　chaos　of　the　first　attack；　the　shattering　ladder；　he　remembered　how　few　had　been　the　musket　flashes　from　the　walls。　The　French　must　have　left　a　skeleton　garrison　in　the　castle；　and　a　confidence　surged　through　him！　They　would　do　it。　He　grinned　at　his　men；　slapped　their　backs；　and　they　were　glad　that　he　was　confident。