Читать книгу Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe’s Company, Sharpe’s Sword, Sharpe’s Enemy - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 29

Rain, and more rain, increasing in vehemence, so by dawn it was seen that the river had flooded, was foaming white and high on the stone arches of the old bridge and, far more seriously, had swept the pontoon bridge downstream.

‘Company!’ The last syllable was drawn out, mingling with the shouts of other Sergeants. ‘Shun!’

‘Stand still! Eyes front!’

A jingle of bridles and bits brought the Battalion’s senior officers into the cleared space at the centre of the paraded Companies. Two sides of the rectangle were each formed by three Companies; four Companies were paraded on one long side and faced the solitary wooden triangle.

‘Order arms!’ Again and again. Hands slapped on wet wood, the brass hilts slopped into the muck. Rain slanted on the ranks.

Sergeants marched stiffly through the sludge, slammed into attention and saluted. ‘Company on parade, sir!’ The mounted Captains, miserable in their cloaks, acknowledged.

‘Battalion ready for punishment parade, sir!’

‘Very good, Major. At ease.’

‘’Talion!’ Collett’s voice rode over wind and rain. ‘Stand at … ease!’ There was a convulsive shuffle in the mud.

Sharpe, his head foul from the night’s drinking, had paraded with the Light Company. Rymer was embarrassed, but it was Sharpe’s place, and Hakeswill’s yellow face was expressionless. A pulse throbbed beneath the livid scar on the Sergeant’s neck. Daniel Hagman, the old Rifleman, had come to Sharpe before the parade and told him that the Company was mutinous. It was doubtless an exaggeration, but Sharpe could see the men were sullen, angry and, above all, shocked. The only good news was that Windham had cut the punishment to sixty lashes. Major Hogan had paid the Colonel a visit and, although the Engineer had failed to persuade Windham of Harper’s innocence, he had impressed him by describing Harper’s record. The Battalion waited in the sweeping rain, full of cold misery.

‘’Talion! Shun!’ Another shuffle and Harper appeared between two guards. The Irishman was stripped to the waist, showing the massive muscles of his arms and chest. He walked easily, ignoring the rain and mud, and grinned towards the Light Company. He seemed the least concerned man on the parade.

They lashed his wrists high on the triangle, spread his legs and tied them at the base, and then a Sergeant pushed the folded leather between Harper’s teeth so that he would not bite his tongue off in the pain. The Battalion’s doctor, a sickly man with a streaming nose, gave Harper’s back a cursory inspection. He was obviously healthy. A leather strip was tied round his kidneys, the doctor nodded miserably at Collett, the Major spoke to Windham, and the Colonel nodded. ‘Carry on!’

The drumsticks came down on soggy skins. The Sergeant nodded at the two lads. ‘One!’

Sharpe remembered it. His own flogging had been in a village square in India. He had been tied to an ox-cart, not a triangle, but he remembered the first slashing cut with the leather thongs, the involuntary arching of the back, the teeth grinding into the leather, and the surprise that it was not as bad as he had expected. He had almost got used to the blows, was feeling confident, and resented it when the doctor stopped the lashes to check that he was still capable of receiving more punishment. Later, the pain had blurred. It had begun to hurt, really to hurt, as the lashes tore at the skin and the alternate blows, from two sides, ripped and frayed till the watching Battalion saw the glint of bone laid open as the blood dripped on to the village dust.

God! It had hurt!

The South Essex watched in silence. The drums, their skins stretched by the rain, could hardly be heard; they were like the muffled beats of a funeral. The lashes sounded soggy as they drew blood, the Sergeant in charge of the flogging chanted the numbers, and in the background the French guns fired on.

The drummer boys paused. The doctor stepped close to Harper’s back, sneezed, and nodded to the Sergeant.

‘Twenty-five!’

The rain diluted the blood.

‘Twenty-six!’

Sharpe looked at Hakeswill. Was there a glint of triumph in the face? It was impossible to tell. The face twitched in a spasm.

‘Twenty-seven!’

Harper turned his head to face the Light Company. He was not moving at all as the blows hit him. He spat out the leather gag, grinned at them.

‘Twenty-eight! Harder!’

A drummer boy used all his strength. Harper grinned even wider.

‘Stop it!’ Collett stepped his horse forward. ‘Put the gag in!’

They pushed the leather back in Harper’s mouth, but he spat it out again, and grinned through the punishment. There was an appreciative murmur from the Light Company, almost a laugh, and they saw that Harper was chatting to the drummer boys. The bastard had beaten the punishment! Sharpe knew it was hurting him, but knew that Harper’s pride would not let it show, would only let him pretend a total unconcern.

The punishment finished, made almost farcical by Harper’s unbelievable bravery. ‘Cut him down!’

Sharpe had seen men crumple to the ground after just two dozen strokes, but Harper stepped away from the cut thongs, still grinning, and did nothing more than massage his wrists. The doctor asked him a question and the Irishman laughed, refused the offer of a blanket to be draped over his bleeding back, and turned to follow his escort off the parade.

‘Private Harper!’ Windham had spurred his horse forward.

‘Sir?’ There was almost a contempt in Harper’s voice.

‘You’re a brave man. Here.’ Windham tossed a gold coin towards the Ulsterman. For a brief fraction of a second it seemed as if Harper might ignore the coin, then a huge hand whipped up, snatched it from the air, and he gave the Colonel his big, infections grin. ‘Thank you, sir.’

The Battalion gave a low, collective sigh of relief. Windham must have realized, even as the punishment was happening, that he was flogging the most popular man in the Battalion. There had been hostility in the parade, an unusual hostility. Soldiers did not object to a flogging, why should they? If a man deserved punishment then a battalion would line up and watch punishment done. But soldiers also had a keen sense of injustice and Sharpe, watching Windham, knew that the Colonel had sensed the Battalion’s outrage. A mistake had been made. It could not be admitted or reversed, not without proof, but the gold coin had been a clever touch. Windham, for all his pretence at being a simple country squire, was a clever man.

And Hakeswill a cunning man. The Sergeant kept his face expressionless as the parade was dismissed. Hakeswill was triumphant. Harper had been defeated, demoted, and the Company was at Hakeswill’s mercy. He now wanted one thing more, and would get it, Sharpe’s misery; and thanks to Company rumour, the Sergeant knew where that misery could be accomplished, at the house behind the Cathedral with its two orange trees.

Sharpe found Harper in a shelter, two of the wives putting grease on his back and bandaging the wounds. ‘Well?’

Harper grinned. ‘Hurt like hell, sir. I couldn’t have taken much more.’ He held up the golden guinea. ‘What do I do with this?’

‘Spend it?’

‘No.’ The Irishman stared past Sharpe into the sea of mud that was swept by great curtains of grey rain. ‘I’ll keep it, sir, until I’ve killed the bastard.’

‘Or until I kill him?’

‘One of us, sir. But make it soon. Before we leave this place.’

If ever they would leave Badajoz, Sharpe thought. That afternoon he took a working party east, towards the Portuguese border. They found the precious pontoons aground in the flood and stripped naked to manhandle the great boats to where oxen could haul them back. The siege was bogged down, in rain, mud and misery. Badajoz was like a great castle in mid-ocean. The rain had flooded the fields to the south, the west, and the north, and still the wind shrieked at them, brought more water, and though it was a time for effort, the effort could not be made. The trenches were flooded, the sides collapsed, and when gabions were used to shore the batteries, the water dissolved their earth filling into liquid sludge that flowed out leaving a hollow, useless wicker shell.

Everything was fouled with mud. Carts, supplies, forage, food, uniforms, weapons and men. The camp was foul, the only movement the slow flapping of wet canvas in the wind, and fever killed as many as the ceaseless French guns. The time that the French had hoped to gain by their attack on the parallel was given to them by the weather. Morale slumped. The first Monday of the siege was the worst. It had rained for a week, and it still rained, and darkness fell on an army that could scarce even light a fire any more. Nothing was dry, nothing was warm, and a man from a Welsh Regiment, a fusilier, went mad. There were shouts in the night, a terrifying scream as he carved his wife with a bayonet, and then hundreds of men were fumbling in the darkness, thinking it was a French attack, while the madman ran through the camp, slashing left and right with his weapon. He screamed that the resurrection of the dead was here and now, that he was the new Messiah, and finally his Sergeant cornered him and, sensible that no one wanted a court-martial and execution, killed the man with one neat stab.

Sharpe met Hogan that Sunday night. The Major was busy. Colonel Fletcher’s wound was keeping the Chief Engineer in his tent and Hogan had taken much of his work. The Irishman was gloomy. ‘We’ll be defeated by the rain, Richard.’ Sharpe said nothing. The spirit of the army was crushed by the water; they wanted to strike back, to hear their own guns firing at the French, but the guns, like the army, were bogged down. Hogan stared into the wet, pelting night. ‘If only it would stop.’

‘And if it doesn’t?’

‘Then we give up. We’ve lost.’

Outside, in the cold night, the rain smashed down, dripped heavily from the lip of Hogan’s tent, and the slow drops seemed to Sharpe to be the drumbeats of defeat. Unthinkable defeat.