csf.mrmidshipmanhornblower-第27节

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　He　entered　the　main　street　of　the　town　and　rounded　the　slight　bend　to　the　central　square；　to　see　something　that　made　him；　without　his　own　volition；　tug　at　his　reins　and　halt　his　horse。　The　square　was　full　of　people；　townsfolk　and　soldiers；　and　in　the　centre　of　the　square　a　tall　narrow　rectangle　reached　upwards　towards　the　sky　with　a　glittering　blade　at　its　upper　end。　The　blade　fell　with　a　reverberating　thump；　and　the　little　group　of　men　round　the　base　of　the　rectangle　dragged　something　to　one　side　and　added　it　to　the　heap　already　there。　The　portable　guillotine　was　at　work。
　Hornblower　sat　sick　and　horrified…this　was　worse　than　any　flogging　at　the　gratings。　He　was　about　to　urge　his　horse　forward　when　a　strange　sound　caught　his　ear。　A　man　was　singing；　loud　and　clear；　and　out　from　a　building　at　the　side　of　the　square　emerged　a　little　procession。　In　front　walked　a　big　man　with　dark　curly　hair；　wearing　a　white　shirt　and　dark　breeches。　At　either　side　and　behind　him　walked　soldiers。　It　was　this　man　who　was　singing；　the　tune　meant　nothing　to　Hornblower；　but　he　could　hear　the　words　distinctly…it　was　one　of　the　verses　of　the　French　revolutionary　song；　echoes　of　which　had　penetrated　even　across　the　Channel。
　'Oh；　sacred　love　of　the　Fatherland　。　。　。'　sang　the　man　in　the　white　shirt；　and　when　the　civilians　in　the　square　heard　what　he　was　singing；　there　was　a　rustle　among　them　and　they　dropped　to　the　knees；　their　heads　bowed　and　their　hands　crossed　upon　their　breasts。
　The　executioners　were　winding　the　blade　up　again；　and　the　man　in　the　white　shirt　followed　its　rise　with　his　eyes　while　he　still　sang　without　a　tremor　in　his　voice。　The　blade　reached　the　top；　and　the　singing　ceased　at　last　as　the　executioners　fell　on　the　man　with　the　white　shirt　and　led　him　to　the　guillotine。　Then　the　blade　fell　with　another　echoing　crash。
　It　seemed　that　this　was　to　be　the　last　execution；　for　the　soldiers　began　to　push　the　civilians　back　towards　their　homes；　and　Hornblower　urged　his　horse　forward　through　the　dissolving　crowd。　He　was　nearly　thrown　from　his　saddle　when　the　animal　plunged　sideways；　snorting　furiously…it　had　scented　the　horrid　heap　that　lay　beside　the　guillotine。　At　the　side　of　the　square　was　a　house　with　a　balcony；　and　Hornblower　looked　up　at　it　in　time　to　see　Pouzauges　still　standing　there；　wearing　his　white　uniform　and　blue　ribbon；　his　staff　about　him　and　his　hands　on　the　rail。　There　were　sentries　at　the　door；　and　to　one　of　them　Hornblower　handed　over　his　horse　as　he　entered；　Pouzauges　was　just　descending　the　stairs。
　'Good　evening；　sir；'　said　Pouzauges　with　perfect　courtesy。　'I　am　glad　you　have　found　your　way　to　headquarters。　I　trust　it　was　without　trouble？　We　are　about　to　dine　and　will　enjoy　your　pany。　You　have　your　horse；　I　suppose？　M。　de　Villers　here　will　give　orders　for　it　to　be　looked　after；　I　am　sure。'
　It　was　all　hard　to　believe。　It　was　hard　to　believe　that　thin　polished　gentleman　had　ordered　the　butchery　that　had　just　ended；　it　was　hard　to　believe　that　the　elegant　young　men　with　whom　he　sat　at　dinner　were　staking　their　lives　on　the　overthrow　of　a　barbarous　but　lusty　young　republic。　But　it　was　equally　hard　to　believe；　when　he　climbed　into　a　four…poster　bed　that　night；　that　he；　Midshipman　Horatio　Hornblower；　was　in　imminent　deadly　peril　himself。
　Outside　in　the　street　women　wailed　as　the　headless　corpses；　the　harvest　of　the　executions；　were　carried　away；　and　he　thought　he　would　never　sleep；　but　youth　and　fatigue　had　their　way；　and　he　slept　for　most　of　the　night；　although　he　awoke　with　the　feeling　that　he　had　just　been　fighting　off　a　nightmare。　Everything　was　strange　to　him　in　the　darkness；　and　it　was　several　moments　before　he　could　account　for　the　strangeness。　He　was　in　a　bed　and　not…as　he　had　spent　the　preceding　three　hundred　nights…in　a　hammock；　and　the　bed　was　steady　as　a　rock　instead　of　swaying　about　with　the　lively　motion　of　a　frigate。　The　stuffiness　about　him　was　the　stuffiness　of　bed　curtains；　and　not　the　stuffiness　of　the　midshipmen's　berth　with　its　pound　smell　of　stale　humanity　and　stale　bilgewater。　He　was　on　shore；　in　a　house；　in　a　bed；　and　everything　about　him　was　dead　quiet；　unnaturally　so　to　a　man　accustomed　to　the　noises　of　a　wooden　ship　at　sea。
　Of　course；　he　was　in　a　house　in　the　town　of　Muzillac　in　Brittany。　He　was　sleeping　in　the　headquarters　of　Brigadier　General　the　Marquis　de　Pouzauges；　manding　the　French　troops　who　constituted　part　of　this　expedition；　which　was　itself　part　of　a　larger　force　invading　Revolutionary　France　in　the　royalist　cause。　Hornblower　felt　a　quickening　of　the　pulse；　a　faint　sick　feeling　of　insecurity；　as　he　realized　afresh　that　he　was　now　in　France；　ten　miles　from　the　sea　and　the　Indefatigable　with　only　a　rabble　of　Frenchmen…half　of　them　mercenaries　only　nominally　Frenchmen　at　that…around　him　to　preserve　him　from　death　or　captivity。　He　regretted　his　knowledge　of　French…if　he　had　had　none　he　would　not　be　here；　and　good　fortune　might　even　have　put　him　among　the　British　half…battalion　of　the　43rd　guarding　the　ford　a　mile　away。
　It　was　partly　the　thought　of　the　British　troops　which　roused　him　out　of　bed。　It　was　his　duty　to　see　that　liaison　was　kept　up　with　them；　and　the　situation　might　have　changed　while　he　slept。　He　drew　aside　the　bed　curtains　and　stepped　down　to　the　floor；　as　his　legs　took　the　weight　of　his　body　they　protested　furiously…all　the　riding　he　had　done　yesterday　had　left　every　muscle　and　joint　aching　so　that　he　could　hardly　walk。　But　he　hobbled　in　the　darkness　over　to　the　window；　found　the　latch　of　the　shutters；　and　pushed　them　open。　A　three…quarter　moon　was　shining　down　into　the　empty　street　of　the　town；　and　looking　down　he　could　see　the　three…cornered　hat　of　the　sentry　posted　outside；　and　the　bayonet　reflecting　the　moonlight。　Returning　from　the　window；　he　found　his　coat　and　his　shoes　and　put　them　on；　belted　his　cutlass　about　him；　and　then　he　crept　downstairs　as　quietly　as　he　could。　In　the　room　off　the　entrance　hall　a　tallow　dip　guttered　on　the　table；　and　beside　it　a　French　sergeant　slept　with　his　head　on　his　arms；　lightly；　for　he　raised　his　head　as　Hornblower　paused　in　the　doorway。　On　the　floor　of　the　room　the　rest　of　the　guard　off　duty　were　snoring　stertorously；　huddled　together　like　pigs　in　a　sty；　their　muskets　stacked　against　the　wall。
　Hornblower　nodded　to　the　sergeant；　opened　the　front　door　and　stepped　out　into　the　street。　His　lungs　expanded　gratefully　as　he　breathed　in　the　clean　night　air…morning　air；　rather；　for　there　to　the　east　the　sky　was　assuming　a　lighter　tinge…and　the　sentry；　catching　sight　of　the　British　naval　officer；　came　clumsily　to　attention。　In　the　square　there　still　stood　the　gaunt　harsh　framework　of　the　guillotine　reaching　up　to　the　moonlit　sky；　and　round　it　the　black　patch　of　the　blood　of　its　victims。　Hornblower　wondered　who　they　were；　who　it　could　have　been　that　the　Royalists　should　seize　and　kill　at　such　short　notice；　and　he　decided　that　they　must　have　been　petty　officials　of　the　Revolutionary　government…the　mayor　and　the　customs　officer　and　so　on…if　they　were　not　merely　men　against　whom　the　émigrés　had　cherished　grudges　since　the　days　of　the　Revolution　itself。　It　was　a　savage；　merciless　world；　and　at　the　moment　he　was　very　much　alone　in　it；　lonely；　depressed；　and　unhappy。
　He　was　distracted　from　these　thoughts　by　the　sergeant　of　the　guard　emerging　from　the　door　with　a　file　of　men；　the　sentry　in　the　street　was　relieved；　and　the　party　went　on　round　the　house　to　relieve　the　others。　Then　across　the　street　he　saw　four　drummers　appear　from　another　house；　with　a　sergeant　manding　them。　They　formed　into　a　line；　their　drumsticks　poised　high　before　their　faces；　and　then　at　a　word　from　the　sergeant；　the　eight　drumsticks　fell　together　with　a　crash；　and　the　drummers　proceeded　to　march　slowly　along　the　street　beating　out　a　jerky　exhilarating　rhythm。　At　the　first　corner　they　stopped；　and　the　drums　rolled　long　and　menacingly；　and　then　they　marched　on　again；　beating　out　the　previous　rhythm。　They　were　beating　to　arms；　calling　the　men　to　their　duties　from　their　billets；　and　Hornblower；　tone…deaf　but　highly　sensitive　to　rhythm；　thought　it　was　fine　music；　real　music。　He　turned　back　to　headquarters　with　his　depression　fallen　away　from　him。　The　sergeant　of　the　guard　came　marching　back　with　the　relieved　sentries；　the　first　of　the　awakened　soldiers　were　beginning　to　appear　sleepily　in　the　streets；　and　then；　with　a　clatter　of　hoofs；　a　mounted　messenger　came　riding　up　to　headquarters；　and　the　day　was　begun。
　A　pale　young　French　officer　read　the　note　which　the　messenger　brought；　and　politely　handed　it　to　Hornblower　to　read；　he　had　to　puzzle　over　it　for　a　space…he　was　not　accustomed　to　hand…written　French…but　its　meaning　became　clear　to　him　at　length。　It　implied　no　new　development；　the　main　expeditionary　force；　landed　yesterday　at　Quiberon；　would　move　forward　this　morning　on　Vannes　and　Rennes　while　the　subsidiary　force　to　which　Hornblower　was　attached　must　maintain　its　position　at　Muzillac；　guarding　its　flank。　The　Marquis　de　Pouzauges；　immaculate　in　his　white　uniform　and　blue　ribbon；　appeared　at　that　moment；　read　the　note　without　ment；　and　turned　to　Hornblower　with　a　polite　invitation　to　breakfast。
　They　went　back　to　the　big　kitchen　with　its　copper　cooking　pans　glittering　o