bcornwell.sharpstiger-第7部分

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　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　and　guessed　it　was　made　of　some　kind　of　bean。　He　tossed　the　food　aside　and　spat　a　curse　at　the　dying　man。　'Where's　your　bleeding　money？'
　The　man　gasped；　made　a　choking　sound；　then　his　whole　body　jerked　as　his　heart　finally　gave　up　the　struggle。　Sharpe　tore　at　the　tunic　that　was　decorated　with　mauve　tiger　stripes。　He　felt　the　seams；　looking　for　coins；　found　none　so　pulled　off　the　wide　red　turban　that　was　sticky　with　fresh　blood。　The　dead　man's　face　was　already　crawling　with　flies。　Sharpe　pulled　the　turban　apart　and　there；　in　the　very　centre　of　the　greasy　cloth；　he　found　three　silver　and　a　dozen　small　copper　coins。　'Knew　you'd　have　something；'　he　told　the　dead　man；　then　pushed　the　coins　into　his　own　pouch。
　The　cavalry　was　finishing　off　the　remnants　of　the　Tippoo's　infantry。　The　Tippoo　himself；　with　his　entourage　and　standard…bearers；　had　gone　from　the　top　of　the　ridge；　and　there　were　no　cannon　firing　there　either。　The　enemy　had　slipped　away；　abandoning　their　trapped　infantry　to　the　sabres　and　lances　of　the　British　and　Indian　cavalry。　The　Indian　cavalry　had　been　recruited　from　the　city　of　Madras　and　the　East　Coast　states　which　had　all　suffered　from　the　Tippoo's　raids　and　now　they　took　a　bloody　revenge；　whooping　and　laughing　as　their　blades　cut　down　the　terrified　fugitives。　Some　cavalrymen；　running　out　of　targets；　were　already　dismounted　and　searching　the　dead　for　plunder。　The　sepoy　infantry；　too　late　to　join　the　killing；　arrived　to　join　the　plunder。Sharpe　twisted　the　bayonet　off　his　musket；　wiped　it　clean　on　the　dead　man's　sash；　scooped　up　the　sabre　and　pistol；　then　went　to　find　more　loot。　He　was　grinning；　and　thinking　that　there　was　nothing　to　this　fighting　business；　nothing　at　all。　A　few　shots　in　Flanders；　one　volley　here；　and　neither　fight　was　worthy　of　the　name　battle。　Flanders　had　been　a　muddle　and　this　fight　had　been　as　easy　as　slaughtering　sheep。　No　wonder　Sergeant　Hakeswill　would　live　for　ever。　And　so　would　he；　Sharpe　reckoned；　because　there　was　nothing　to　this　business。　Just　a　couple　of　bangs　and　it　was　all　over。　He　laughed；　slid　the　bayonet　into　its　sheath　and　knelt　beside　another　dead　man。　There　was　work　to　do　and　a　future　to　finance。
　If　only　he　could　decide　where　it　would　be　safe　to　run。
　
　CHAPTER　2
　
　Sergeant　Obadiah　Hakeswill　glanced　about　to　see　what　his　men　were　doing。　Just　about　all　of　them　were　plundering；　and　quite　right　too。　That　was　a　soldier's　privilege。　Fight　the　battle　then　strip　the　enemy　of　anything　worth　a　penny。　The　officers　were　not　looting；　but　officers　never　did；　at　least　not　so　that　anyone　noticed　them；　but　Hakeswill　did　see　that　Ensign　Fitzgerald　had　somehow　managed　to　get　himself　a　jewelled　sabre　that　he　was　now　flashing　around　like　a　shilling　whore　given　a　guinea　fan。　Mister　bloody　Ensign　Fitzgerald　was　getting　above　himself　in　Sergeant　Hakeswill's　considered　opinion。　Ensigns　were　the　lowest　of　the　low；　apprentice　officers；　lads　in　silver　lace；　and　Mister　bloody　Fitzgerald　had　no　business　countermanding　Hakeswill's　orders　so　Mister　bloody　Fitzgerald　must　be　taught　his　place；　but　the　trouble　was　that　Mister　Fitzgerald　was　Irish　and　Hakeswill　was　of　the　opinion　that　the　Irish　were　only　half　civilized　and　never　did　understand　their　place。　Most　of　them；　anyway。　Major　Shee　was　Irish；　and　he　was　civilized；　at　least　when　he　was　sober；　and　Colonel　Wellesley；　who　was　from　Dublin；　was　wholly　civilized；　but　the　Colonel　had　possessed　the　sense　to　make　himself　more　English　than　the　English；　while　Mister　bloody　Fitzgerald　made　no　pretence　about　his　birth。
　'See　this；　Hakeswill？'　Fitzgerald；　sublimely　unaware　of　Hakeswill's　glowering　thoughts；　stepped　across　a　body　to　show　off　his　new　sabre。
　'See　what；　sir？''Damned　blade　is　made　in　Birmingham！　Will　you　credit　that？　Birmingham！　Says　so　on　the　blade；　see？　〃Made　in　Birmingham。'〃
　Hakeswill　dutifully　examined　the　legend　on　the　blade；　then　fingered　the　sabre's　pommel　which　was　elegantly　set　with　a　ring　of　seven　small　rubies。　'Looks　like　glass　to　me；　sir；'　he　said　dismissively；　hoping　he　could　somehow　persuade　Fitzgerald　to　relinquish　the　blade。
　'Nonsense！'　Fitzgerald　said　cheerfully。　'Best　rubies！　Bit　small；　maybe；　but　I　doubt　the　ladies　will　mind　that。　Seven　pieces　of　glitter？　That　adds　up　to　a　week　of　sin；　Sergeant。　It　was　worth　killing　the　rascal　for　that。'
　If　you　did　kill　him；　Hakeswill　thought　sourly　as　he　stumped　away　from　the　exuberant　Ensign。　More　likely　picked　it　up　off　the　ground。　And　Fitzgerald　was　right；　seven　rubies；　even　small　ones；　would　buy　a　lot　of　Naig's　ladies。　'Nasty'　Naig　was　a　merchant　from　Madras；　one　of　the　many　travelling　with　the　army；　and　he　had　brought　his　brothel　with　him。　It　was　an　expensive　brothel；　officers　only；　or　at　least　only　those　who　could　pay　an　officer's　price；　and　that　made　Hakeswill　think　of　Mary　Bickerstaff。　Mrs　Mary　Bickerstaff。　She　was　a　half　and　half；　half　Indian　and　half　British；　and　that　made　her　valuable。　Very　valuable。　Most　of　the　women　who　followed　the　army　were　dark　as　Hades；　and　while　Obadiah　Hakeswill　had　no　distaste　for　dark　skin　he　did　miss　the　touch　of　white　flesh。　So　did　many　of　the　officers；　and　there　was　a　guinea　or　two　to　be　made　out　of　that　lust。　Naig　would　pay　well　for　a　skin　as　pale　as　Mary　Bickerstaff's。
　She　was　a　rare　beauty；　Mary　Bickerstaff。　A　beauty　amongst　a　pack　of　ugly；　rancid　women。　Hakeswill　watched　as　a　group　of　the　battalion's　wives　ran　to　take　part　in　the　plundering　and　almost　shuddered　as　he　contemplated　their　ugliness。　About　two　thirds　of　the　wives　were　bibbis；　Indians；　and　most　of　those；　Hakeswill　knew；　were　not　properly　married　with　the　Colonel's　permission；　while　the　rest　were　those　lucky　British　womenwho　had　won　the　brutal　lottery　that　had　taken　place　on　the　night　before　the　battalion　had　sailed　from　England。　The　wives　had　been　gathered　in　a　barrack　room；　their　names　had　been　put　into　ten　shakos；　one　for　each　pany；　and　the　first　ten　names　drawn　from　each　hat　were　allowed　to　acpany　their　husbands。　The　rest　had　to　stay　in　Britain；　and　what　happened　to　them　there　was　anybody's　guess。　Most　went　on　the　parish；　but　parishes　resented　feeding　soldiers'　wives；　so　as　Eke　as　not　they　were　forced　to　bee　whores。　Barrack…gate　whores；　for　the　most　part；　because　they　lacked　the　looks　for　anything　better。　But　a　few；　a　precious　few；　were　pretty；　and　none　was　prettier　than　Sergeant　Bickerstaff's　half　and　half　widow。
　The　women　spread　out　among　the　dead　and　dying　Mysore…ans。　If　anything　they　were　even　more　efficient　than　their　men　at　plundering　the　dead；　for　the　men　tended　to　hurry　and　so　missed　the　hiding　places　where　a　soldier　secreted　his　money。　Hakeswill　watched　Flora　Placket　strip　me　body　of　a　tall　tiger…striped　corpse　whose　throat　had　been　slashed　to　the　backbone　by　the　slice　of　a　cavalryman's　sabre。　She　did　not　rush　her　work；　but　searched　carefully；　garment　by　garment；　then　handed　each　piece　of　clothing　to　one　of　her　two　children　to　fold　and　stack。　Hakeswill　approved　of　Flora　Placket　for　she　was　a　large　and　steady　woman　who　kept　her　man　in　good　order　and　made　no　fuss　about　a　campaign's　disforts。　She　was　a　good　mother　too；　and　that　was　why　Obadiah　did　not　care　that