bcornwell.sharpstiger-第1部分

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　Muir　Sutherland　and　Malcolm　Craddock；　with　many　thanks
　
　CHAPTER　1
　
　It　was　funny；　Richard　Sharpe　thought；　that　there　were　no　vultures　in　England。　None　that　he　had　seen；　anyway。　Ugly　things　they　were。　Rats　with　wings。
　He　thought　about　vultures　a　lot；　and　he　had　a　lot　of　time　to　think　because　he　was　a　soldier；　a　private；　and　so　the　army　insisted　on　doing　a　lot　of　his　thinking　for　him。　The　army　decided　when　he　woke　up；　when　he　slept；　when　he　ate；　when　he　marched；　and　when　he　was　to　sit　about　doing　nothing　and　that　was　what　he　did　most　of　the　time　…　nothing。　Hurry　up　and　do　nothing；　that　was　the　army's　way　of　doing　things；　and　he　was　fed　up　with　it。　He　was　bored　and　thinking　of　running。
　Him　and　Mary。　Run　away。　Desert。　He　was　thinking　about　it　now；　and　it　was　an　odd　thing　to　worry　about　right　now　because　the　army　was　about　to　give　Richard　Sharpe　his　first　proper　battle。　He　had　been　in　one　fight；　but　that　was　five　years　ago　and　it　had　been　a　messy；　confused　business　in　fog；　and　no　one　had　known　why　the　33rd　Regiment　was　in　Flanders　or　what　they　were　supposed　to　be　doing　there；　and　in　the　end　they　had　done　nothing　except　fire　some　shots　at　the　mist…shrouded　French　and　the　whole　thing　had　been　over　almost　before　young　Richard　Sharpe　had　known　it　had　begun。　He　had　seen　a　couple　of　men　killed。　He　remembered　Sergeant　Hawthorne's　death　best　because　the　Sergeant　had　been　hit　by　a　musket　ball　that　drove　a　rib　clean　out　of　his　red　coat。　There　was　hardly　a　drop　of　blood　to　be　seen；　just　the　white　rib　sticking　out　of　the　faded　red　cloth。　'You　could　hang　your　hat　on　that；'　Hawthorne　had　said　in　a　tone　of　wonder；　then　he　had　sobbed；　and　after　that　he　had　choked　up　blood　and　collapsed。　Sharpe　had　gone　on　loading　and　firing；　and　then；　just　as　he　was　beginning　to　enjoy　himself；　the　battalion　had　marched　away　and　sailed　back　to　England。　Some　batde。
　Now　he　was　in　India。　He　did　not　know　why　he　was　invading　Mysore　and　hor　did　he　particularly　care。　King　George　III　wanted　Richard　Sharpe　to　be　in　India；　so　in　India　Richard　Sharpe　was；　but　Richard　Sharpe　had　now　bee　bored　with　the　King's　service。　He　was　young　and　he　reckoned　life　had　more　to　offer　than　hurrying　up　and　doing　nothing。　There　was　money　to　be　made。　He　was　not　sure　how　to　make　money；　except　by　thieving；　but　he　did　know　that　he　was　bored　and　that　he　could　do　better　than　stay　on　the　bottom　of　the　dungheap。　That　was　where　he　was；　he　kept　telling　himself；　the　bottom　of　a　dungheap　and　everyone　knew　what　was　piled　on　top　of　a　dungheap。　Better　to　run；　he　told　himself。　All　that　was　needed　to　get　ahead　in　the　world　was　a　bit　of　sense　and　the　ability　to　kick　a　bastard　faster　than　the　bastard　could　kick　you；　and　Richard　Sharpe　reckoned　he　had　those　talents　right　enough。
　Though　where　to　run　in　India？　Half　the　natives　seemed　to　be　in　British　pay　and　those　would　turn　you　in　for　a　handful　of　tin　pice；　and　the　pice　was　only　worth　a　farthing；　and　the　other　Indians　were　all　fighting　against　the　British；　or　readying　to　fight　them；　and　if　he　ran　to　them　he　would　just　be　forced　to　serve　in　their　armies。　He　would　fetch　more　pay　in　a　native　army；　probably　far　more　than　the　tuppence　a　day　Sharpe　got　now　after　stoppages；　but　why　change　one　uniform　for　another？　No；　he　would　have　to　run　to　some　place　where　the　army　would　never　find　him；　or　else　it　would　be　the　firing　squad　on　some　hot　morning。　A　blast　of　musket　shots；　a　scrape　in　the　red　earth　for　a　grave；　and　next　day　the　rats　with　wings　would　be　yanking　the　guts　out　of　your　belly　like　a　bunch　of　blackbirds　tugging　worms　out　of　a　lawn。
　That　was　why　he　was　thinking　about　vultures。　He　was　thinking　that　he　wanted　to　run；　but　that　he　did　not　want　to　feed　the　vultures。　Do　not　get　caught。　Rule　number　one　in　the　army；　and　the　only　rule　that　mattered。　Because　if　you　got　caught　the　bastards　would　flog　you　to　death　or　else　reorganize　your　ribs　with　musket　balls；　and　either　way　the　vultures　got　fat。
　The　vultures　were　always　there；　sometimes　circling　on　long　wings　that　tilted　to　the　sudden　winds　of　the　warm　upper　air　and　sometimes　standing　hunched　on　branches。　They　fed　on　death　and　a　marching　army　gave　them　a　glutton's　diet；　and　now；　in　this　last　year　of　the　eighteenth　century；　two　allied　armies　were　crossing　this　hot　fertile　plain　in　southern　India。　One　was　a　British　army　and　the　other　belonged　to　a　British　ally；　the　Nizam　of　Hyderabad；　and　both　armies　provided　a　feast　of　vulture　fodder。　Horses　died；　oxen　died；　camels　died；　even　two　of　the　elephants　that　had　seemed　so　indestructible　had　died；　and　then　the　people　died。　The　twin　armies　had　a　tail　ten　times　longer　than　themselves：　a　great　sprawl　of　camp　followers；　merchants；　herders；　whores；　wives；　and　children；　and　among　all　of　those　people；　as　it　did　among　the　armies　themselves；　the　plagues　ran　riot。　Men　died　with　bloody　dysentery；　or　shaking　with　a　fever　or　choking　on　their　own　vomit。　They　died　struggling　for　breath　or　drenched　in　sweat　or　raving　like　mad　things　or　with　skins　blistered　raw。　Men；　women　and　children　all　died；　and　whether　they　were　buried　or　burned　it　did　not　matter　because；　in　the　end；　the　vultures　fed　on　them　anyway；　for　there　was　never　enough　time　nor　sufficient　timber　to　make　a　proper　funeral　pyre　and　so　the　vultures　would　rip　the　half…cooked　flesh　off　the　scorched　bones；　and　if　the　bodies　were　buried　then　no　amount　of　stones　heaped　on　the　soil　would　stop　the　scavenging　beasts　from　digging　up　the　swollen；　rotting　flesh　and　the　vultures'　hooked　beaks　took　what　the　ravenous　teeth　left　behind。And　this　hot　March　day　promised　food　in　abundance　and　the　vultures　seemed　to　sense　it　for；　as　the　early　afternoon　passed；　more　and　more　birds　joined　the　spiring　column　of　wings　that　circled　above　the　marching　men。　The　birds　did　not　flap　their　wings；　but　simply　soared　in　the　warm　air　as　they　glided；　tilted；　slid　and　waited；　always　waited；　as　if　they　knew　that　death's　succulence　would　fill　their　gullets　soon　enough。　'Ugly　bastard　birds；　'　Sharpe　said；　'just　rats　with　wings；　'　but　no　one　in　the　33rd's　Light　pany　answered　him。　No　one　had　the　breath　to　answer　him。　The　air　was　choking　from　the　dust　kicked　up　by　the　men　ahead　so　that　the　rearward　ranks　stumbled　through　a　warm；　gritty　mix　that　parched　their　throats　and　stung　their　eyes。　Most　of　the　men　were　not　even　aware　of　the　vultures；　while　others　were　so　weary　that　they　had　not　even　noticed　the　troop　of　cavalry　that　had　suddenly　appeared　a　half…mile　to　the　north。　The　horsemen　trotted　beside　a　grove　of　trees　that　were　bright　with　red　blossom；　then　accelerated　away。　Their　drawn　sabres　flashed　reflected　sunlight　as　they　wheeled　away　from　the　infantrymen；　but　then；　as　inexplicably　as　they　had　hurried　and　swerved　away；　they　suddenly　stopped。　Sharpe　noticed　them。　British　cavalry；　they　were。　The　fancy　boys　e　to　see　how　proper　soldiers　fought。
　Ahead；　from　the　low　rise　of　land　where　a　second　group　of　horsemen　was　silhouetted　against　the　furnace　whiteness　of　the　sky；　a　gun　fired。　The　crack　of　the　cannon　was　immense；　a　billow　of　sound　that　punched　hollow　and　malignant　across　the　plain。　The　gun's　smoke　billowed　white　as　the　heavy　ball　thrashed　into　some　bushes；　tore　leaves　and　blossoms　to　tatters；　struck　dust　from　the　baked　ground；　then　ran　on　in　ever　decreasing　bounces　to　lodge　against　a　gnarled　fallen　tree　from　which　a　pale　shower　of　decaying　wood　spurted。　The　shot　had　missed　the　red…coated　infantry　by　a　good　two　hundred　paces；　but　the　sound　of　the　cannon　woke　up　the　weary。　Jesus！'　a　voice　in　the　rear　file　said。　'What　was　that？''A　bleeding　camel　farted；　what　the　hell　do　you　think　it　was？'　a　corporal　answered。
　'It　was　a　bloody　awful　shot；　'　Sharpe　said。　'My　mother　could　lay　a　gun　better　than　that。　'
　'I　didn't　think　you　had　a　mother；　'　Private　Garrard　said。
　'Everyone's　got　a　mother；　Tom。　'
　'Not　Sergeant　Hakeswill；　'　Garrard　said；　then　spat　a　mix　of　dust　and　spittle。　The　column　of　men　had　momentarily　halted；　not　because　of　any　orders；　but　rather　because　the　cannon　shot　had　unnerved　the　officer　leading　the　front　pany　who　was　no　longer　sure　exactly　where　he　was　supposed　to　lead　the　battalion。　'Hakeswill　wasn't　born　of　a　mother；　'　Garrard　said　vehemently。　He　took　off　his　shako　and　used　his　sleeve　to　wipe　the　dust　and　sweat　from　his　face。　The　woollen　sleeve　left　a　faint　trace　of　red　dye　on　his　forehead。　'Hakeswill　was　spawned　of　the　devil；　'　Garrard　said；　jamming　the　shako　back　on　his　white…powdered　hair。
　Sharpe　wondered　whether　Tom　Garrard　would　run　with　him。　Two　men　might　survive　better　than　one。　And　what　about　Mary？　Would　she　e？　He　thought　about　Mary　a　lot；　when　he　was　not　thinking　about　everything　else；　except　that　Mary　was　inextricably　twisted　into　everything　else。　It　was　confusing。　She　was　Sergeant　Bickerstaff's　widow　and　she　was　half　Indian　and　half　English　and　she　was　twenty…two；　which　was　the　same　age　as　Sharpe；　or　at　least　he　thought　it　was　the　same　age。　It　could　be　that　he　was　twenty…one；　or　twenty…three；　he　was　not　really　sure　on　account　of　not　ever　having　had　a　mother　to　tell　him。　Of　course　he　did　have　a　mother；　everyone　had　a　mother；　but　not　everyone　had　a　Cat　Lane　whore　for　a　mother　who　disappeared　just　after　her　son　was　born。　The　child　had　been　named　for　the　wealthy　patron　of　the　foundling　home　that　had　raised　him；　but　the　naming　had　not　brought　Richard　Sharpe　any　patronage；　only　brought　him　to　the　reeking　bottom　of　the　army's　dungheap。　Still；　Sharpe　reckoned；　he　could　have　a　future；　and　Mary　spoke　one　or　two　Indian　languages　which　could　be　useful　if　he　and　Tom　did　run。
　The　cavalry　off　to　Sharpe's　right　spurred　into　a　trot　again　and　disappeared　beyond　the　red…blossomed　trees；　leaving　only　a　drifting　cloud　of　dust　behind。　Two　galloper　guns；　light　six…pounder　cannons；　followed　them；　bouncing　dangerously　on　the　uneven　ground　behind　their　teams　of　horses。　Every　other　cannon　in　the　army　was　drawn　by　oxen；　but　the　galloper　guns　had　horse　teams　that　were　three　times　as　fast　as　the　plodding　draught　cattle。　The　lone　enemy　cannon　fired　again；　its　brutal　sound　punching　the　warm　air　with　an　almost　palpable　impact。　Sharpe　could　see　more　enemy　guns　on　the　ridge；　but　they　were　smaller　than　the　gun　that　had　just　fired　and　Sharpe　presumed　they　did　not　have　the　long　range　of　the　bigger　cannon。　Then　he　saw　a　trace　of　grey　in　the　air；　a　flicker　like　a　vertical　pencil