bcornwell.sharpstiger-第6部分

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ing；　confident　mass　that　was　plunging　straight　towards　the　pair　of　British　colours　under　which　Colonel　Arthur　Wellesley　waited。　The　tiger　men　were　hurrying　now；　their　front　rank　breaking　apart　as　they　began　running。　The　wagon　was　about　to　hit　the　fence。
　Arthur　Wellesley　had　waited　six　years　for　this　moment。　He　was　twenty…nine　years　old　and　had　begun　to　fear　that　he　would　never　see　battle；　but　now；　at　last；　he　would　discover　whether　he　and　his　regiment　could　fight；　and　so　he　filled　his　lungs　to　give　the　order　that　would　start　the　slaughter。
　Colonel　Jean　Gudin　sighed；　then；　for　the　thousandth　time　in　the　last　hour；　he　fanned　his　face　to　drive　away　the　flies。　He　liked　India；　but　he　hated　flies；　which　made　India　quite　hard　to　like；　but　on　balance；　despite　the　flies；　he　did　like　India。　Not　nearly　as　much　as　he　liked　his　native　Provence；　but　where　on　earth　was　as　lovely　as　Provence？　'Your　Majesty？'　he　ventured　diffidently；　then　waited　as　his　interpreter　struggled　to　gain　the　Tippoo's　attention。　The　interpreter　was　exchangingGudin's　French　for　the　Tippoo's　Persian　tongue。　The　Tippoo　did　understand　some　French　and　he　spoke　the　local　Kanarese　language　well　enough；　but　he　preferred　Persian　for　it　reminded　him　that　his　lineage　went　back　to　the　great　Persian　dynasties。　The　Tippoo　was　ever　mindful　that　he　was　superior　to　the　darker…skinned　natives　of　Mysore。　He　was　a　Muslim；　he　was　a　Persian　and　he　was　a　ruler；　while　they　were　mostly　Hindus；　and　all　of　them；　whether　rich；　poor；　great　or　lowly；　were　his　obedient　subjects。　'Your　Majesty？'　Colonel　Gudin　tried　again。
　'Colonel？'　The　Tippoo　was　a　short　man　inclined　to　plumpness；　with　a　moustached　face；　wide　eyes　and　a　prominent　nose。　He　was　not　an　impressive…looking　man；　but　Gudin　knew　the　Tippoo's　unprepossessing　appearance　disguised　a　decisive　mind　and　a　brave　heart。　Although　the　Tippoo　acknowledged　Gudin；　he　did　not　turn　to　look　at　the　Colonel。　Instead　he　leaned　forward　in　his　saddle　with　one　hand　clasped　over　the　tiger　hilt　of　his　curved　sabre　as　he　watched　his　infantry　march　on　the　infidel　British。　The　sword　was　slung　on　a　silken　sash　that　crossed　the　pale　yellow　silk　jacket　that　the　Tippoo　wore　above　chintz　trousers。　His　turban　was　of　red　silk　and　pinned　with　a　gold　badge　showing　a　tiger's　mask。　The　Tippoo's　every　possible　accoutrement　was　decorated　with　the　tiger；　for　the　tiger　was　his　mascot　and　inspiration；　but　the　badge　on　his　turban　also　incorporated　his　reverence　for　Allah；　for　the　tiger's　snarling　face　was　formed　by　a　cunning　cipher　that　spelled　out　a　verse　of　the　Koran：　'The　Lion　of　God　is　the　Conqueror。'　Above　it；　pinned　to　the　turban's　brief　white　plume　and　brilliant　in　the　day's　sunlight；　there　glittered　a　ruby　the　size　of　a　pigeon's　egg。　'Colonel？'　the　Tippoo　said　again。
　'It　might　be　wise；　Your　Majesty；'　Gudin　suggested　hesitantly；　'if　we　advanced　cannon　and　cavalry　onto　the　British　flank。'　Gudin　gestured　to　where　the　33rd　waited　in　its　thin　red　line　to　receive　the　charge　of　the　Tippoo's　column。　If　the　Tippoo　threatened　a　flank　of　that　fragile　line　with　cavalrythen　the　British　regiment　would　be　forced　to　shrink　into　square　and　thus　deny　three　quarters　of　their　muskets　a　chance　to　fire　at　the　column。
　The　Tippoo　shook　his　head。　'We　shall　sweep　that　scum　away　with　our　infantry；　Gudin；　then　send　the　cavalry　against　the　baggage。'　He　let　go　of　his　sword's　hilt　to　touch　his　fingers　fleetingly　together。　'Please　Allah。'
　'And　if　it　does　not　please　Allah？'　Gudin　asked；　and　suspected　that　his　interpreter　would　change　the　insolence　of　the　question　into　something　more　acceptable　to　the　Tippoo。
　'Then　we　shall　fight　them　from　the　walls　of　Seringapatam；'　the　Tippoo　answered；　and　turned　briefly　from　watching　the　imminent　battle　to　offer　Colonel　Gudin　a　quick　smile。　It　was　not　a　friendly　smile；　but　a　feral　grimace　of　anticipation。　'We　shall　destroy　them　with　cannon；　Colonel；'　the　Tippoo　continued　with　relish；　'and　shatter　them　with　rockets；　and　in　a　few　weeks　the　monsoon　will　drown　their　survivors；　and　after　that；　if　Allah　pleases；　we　shall　hunt　fugitive　Englishmen　from　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