Читать книгу Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe’s Company, Sharpe’s Sword, Sharpe’s Enemy - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 31

‘What do you think?’ Hogan sounded worried.

‘It’s too complicated.’ Sharpe shrugged. ‘Fifty men could do it. You don’t need a whole battalion.’

Hogan nodded, but whether the nod meant agreement was impossible to tell. He looked up at the thick clouds. ‘At least the weather’s on our side.’

‘If it doesn’t rain.’

‘It won’t rain.’ Hogan made the statement as if he controlled the weather. ‘But it will be dark.’ He looked over the parapet at the fort which protected the dam. ‘You’re right. It’s too complicated, but the Colonel insists. I wish you were going.’

‘So do I, but the Colonel insists.’ Windham had refused Sharpe’s request. The Rifleman was not to go with the Light Company, but, instead, he was to stay with Colonel Windham. Sharpe grinned at Hogan. ‘I’m his aide-de-camp.’

‘His aide-de-camp?’ Hogan laughed. ‘I suppose that’s a promotion of a sort. What are you supposed to do? Run messages for him?’

‘Something like that. He didn’t want me with the Light Company. He said my presence would embarrass Captain Rymer.’

Hogan shook his head. ‘I just hope your Captain Rymer’s up to it. I really do.’ He looked at his watch, snapped the lid shut. ‘Two hours to darkness.’

The plan sounded simple enough. One Company, the Light Company, was to escort twenty sappers to the dam. The rest of the Battalion was to create a diversion by making a false attack on the fort and, under the cover of the noise, the sappers were to stack their twenty kegs of powder at the dam’s base. It sounded simple, but Sharpe did not trust it. Night attacks, as the army had discovered only four nights before, could lead to confusion, and the whole of Windham’s plan depended on the Light Company reaching the foot of the dam by precisely eleven o’clock. If they were late, and the Colonel would have no way of knowing their progress, the false attack would merely wake up the garrison and put sentries on the alert. Sharpe had suggested to Windham that the false attack was unnecessary, that the Light Company should go alone, but the Colonel had shaken his head. He wanted to lead the Battalion into action, was looking forward to the night’s events, and seemed unworried by Sharpe’s doubts. ‘Of course they’ll make it on time!’

There seemed little reason why not. The Light Company and their sappers did not have far to go. In the darkness they would leave the first parallel and head north for the river. Once on the bank of the Guadiana they would turn to their left and follow a path that led to the Rivillas stream below the castle walls. Their faces would be blackened, their equipment muffled, and they would move silently down into the ravine of the Rivillas and turn left. The most difficult moments would be the approach, upstream, towards the dam. It would be a journey of a hundred and fifty yards, within earshot of Badajoz’s walls, till the men were between the San Pedro bastion and the dam’s fort. It was not a long journey, they had plenty of time to make it, but it would be slowed by the need for absolute silence. Hogan fidgeted with the lid of his watch. It was he who had convinced Wellington that the dam could be blown up, but his scheme was at the mercy of Windham’s implementation. He exchanged his watch for his snuffbox and forced a smile on his face. ‘At least everything else is going well!’

The second parallel was being dug. It was much closer to the walls of Badajoz and, from its cover, new batteries were being made that would bring the siege guns within four hundred yards of the city’s south-east corner where, on the Trinidad bastion, the chipped dent had become a hole exposing the rubble at the wall’s core. The French were sending out work parties at night to repair the damage, while the British kept firing in the hope of killing the workmen. All day and all night the guns fired.

At dusk, Sharpe watched the Light Company move out. Harper was with them, in the ranks, insisting that his back was mended well enough. Hakeswill paraded them. He was making himself indispensable to Captain Rymer, anticipating his wishes, flattering him, taking the burden of discipline from his shoulders. It was a classic performance; the reliable Sergeant, tireless and efficient, and it disguised Hakeswill’s victory over the Company. He had divided them, made them suspicious, and there was nothing Sharpe could do. Colonel Windham inspected the Company before they set off. He stopped in front of Harper and pointed to the massive seven-barrelled gun slung on the Irishman’s shoulder.

‘What’s that?’

‘Seven-barrelled gun, sir.’

‘Is it regulation issue?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then take it off.’

Hakeswill stepped forward, his mouth twisted into a grin. ‘Give it to me, Private!’

The gun had been a present from Sharpe to Harper, but there was nothing Harper could do. He took the gun from his shoulder, slowly, and Hakeswill snatched it from him. The Sergeant put it on his own shoulder and looked at the Colonel. ‘Punishment, sir?’

Windham looked puzzled. ‘Punishment?’

‘For carrying a non-issue weapon, sir?’

Windham shook his head. He had punished Harper already. ‘No, Sergeant. No.’

‘Very good, sir!’ Hakeswill scratched at his scar and followed Windham and Rymer down the rank. After the inspection, when the Colonel told the Company to stand easy, Hakeswill took off his shako and stared into its greasy interior. There was a curious smile on his face, and Sharpe was puzzled. He found Lieutenant Price, pale beneath the burnt cork on his skin, and jerked his head towards the Sergeant. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘God knows, sir.’ Price still thought of Sharpe as a Captain. ‘He’s always doing it now. Takes his hat off, stares inside, smiles, then puts it on again. He’s mad, sir.’

‘He takes his hat off? And stares into it?’

‘That’s right, sir. He should be in bloody Bedlam, sir, not here.’ Price grinned. ‘Perhaps the army is a madhouse sir, I don’t know.’

Sharpe was about to demand the seven-barrelled gun from Hakeswill when Windham, now mounted on his horse, called the Light Company to attention. Hakeswill put his shako on, snapped his heels together, and stared at the Colonel. Windham wished them luck, told them their job was to protect the sappers in case they were discovered and, if they were not detected, to do nothing. ‘Off you go! And good hunting!’

The Light Company filed into the trench, Hakeswill still carrying the seven-barrelled gun, and Sharpe wished he was going with them. He knew how dearly Hogan wanted the dam blown, how much easier the assault on the breach would be if the lake was gone, and it irked him to be absent from the attempt. Instead, as the cathedral clock sounded half-past ten, he was at Windham’s side as the nine remaining companies of the Battalion climbed out of the parallel on to the dark grass. Windham was nervous. ‘They should be nearly there.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Colonel half drew his sword, thought better of it, and slid the blade back into the scabbard. He looked round for Collett. ‘Jack?’

‘Sir?’

‘Ready?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Off you go! Wait for the clock!’

Collett walked forward into the darkness. He was taking four companies towards the city, towards the fort that protected the dam, and, when the clock struck eleven, he was to open fire on the face of the fort to make the French believe that an attack was coming. The other companies, under Windham, were in reserve. The Colonel, Sharpe knew, was hoping that the false attack might reveal a weakness in the fort and turn itself into a real attack. He had hopes of leading the South Essex across the ditch, up the stone wall, and into the defences. Sharpe wondered how the Light Company were doing. At least there had been no shots from the castle, no shouted challenge from the dam’s fort, so presumably they were still undetected. The Rifleman felt uneasy. If all went well, according to Windham’s timetable, the dam should be blown a few minutes after eleven, but Sharpe’s instincts were gloomy. He thought of Teresa inside the city, of the child, and wondered whether the explosion, if it ever came, would wake up the baby. His baby! It still seemed miraculous that he had a child.

‘The powder should be in place, Sharpe!’

‘Yes, sir.’ He only half heard the Colonel’s words but he knew that Windham was merely talking to cover his nervousness. They had no way of knowing where the powder was. Sharpe tried to imagine the sappers, laden down like south coast brandy smugglers, creeping up the ravine towards the dam, but Windham interrupted his thoughts.

‘Count the musket flashes, Sharpe!’

‘Yes, sir.’ He knew that the Colonel was hoping that the fort, by some miracle, would be thinly defended and that the South Essex could overwhelm it by sheer numbers. It was, Sharpe knew, a vain hope.

Off to their left, a half mile up the hill, the flames stabbed from the siege guns and each flash lit the rolling smoke that filled the air over the floodwaters. The French guns replied, firing at the muzzle flashes, but the enemy fire had slackened in the last two days. They were hoarding their ammunition, saving it for the new batteries of the second parallel.

‘Not long now.’ The Colonel spoke to himself; then, louder. ‘Major Forrest?’

‘Sir?’ Forrest appeared from the darkness.

‘All well, Forrest?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Forrest, like Sharpe, had nothing to do.

There was a sudden crackle of musketry, muffled by distance, from the north and Windham spun round. ‘Not us, I think.’ It was much too far away to be concerned with the Light Company’s attack; far off to the north, across the river, men of the Fifth Division were keeping the French forts occupied. Windham relaxed. ‘Must be soon, gentlemen.’

A shout came from the darkness in front. The three officers froze, listened, and it came again. ‘Qui vive?’ A French sentry had challenged. Sharpe heard Windham suck in breath.

‘Qui vive?’ Louder. ‘Gardez-vous!’ A musket stabbed from the fort towards the dark field.

‘Damn.’ Windham spat the word out. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’

There were more shouts from the fort, followed by a glow of light that grew, showed leaping flames, and a carcass was hurled into the darkness, across the ditch, and Sharpe could see Collett’s companies outlined by the fire.

‘Tirez!’ The shout carried easily. The loopholes of the small fort sprang musket fire, and the British companies replied.

‘Damn!’ Windham shouted. ‘We’re early!’

Collett’s companies were firing in platoon fire, the volleys rolling down the faces of the companies, the balls hammering audibly on the fort’s stonework. The officers were shouting, trying to sound like a larger force, the muskets firing like clockwork. Sharpe watched the defences. The French musket fire was constant and he guessed that each man at a loophole or embrasure had at least two other men loading spare muskets. ‘I don’t think they’re short of defenders, sir.’

‘Damn!’ Windham ignored Sharpe.

The Cathedral clock sent its flat notes out to mingle with the sound of the firefight. More carcasses were lit in the fort, thrown out, and Sharpe heard Collett ordering his men to go back, into the darkness. Windham was pacing up and down, his frustration obvious. ‘Where’s the Light Company? Where’s the Light Company?’

The gunners on the city wall heaved on the traces, turned their cannon, and loaded with grapeshot. They fired, the flames pointing down into the dark field, and Sharpe heard the whistle of shot.

‘Open order!’ Collett’s voice carried back to Sharpe. ‘Open order!’ It was a sensible precaution against grapeshot that would keep casualties low, but it would not help to convince the French that a real attack was in progress. Windham drew his sword.

‘Captain Leroy!’

‘Sir?’ The voice came from the darkness.

‘Forward with your company! On Major Collett’s right!’

‘Yes, sir.’ The Grenadier Company was ordered forward, adding to the confusion.

Windham turned to Sharpe. ‘Time, Sharpe?’

Sharpe remembered hearing the cathedral bell. ‘Two minutes after eleven, sir.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Give them time, sir.’

Windham ignored him. He stared forward at the fort, at the burning carcasses that lit the whole ditch and the front of the field. Small groups of men were running forward, kneeling, firing and sprinting back into the darkness, and Sharpe saw one man fall in a shower of grape, his body motionless in the light of the flames. Two other men ran forward, grabbed his legs, and tugged the body back to their company. ‘Aim! Present! Fire!’ The familiar orders rang round the field, the muskets fired towards the fort, and the deadly grapeshot pattered down from the high walls.

‘Captain Sterritt?’ Windham bellowed.

‘Sir?’

‘Present yourself to Major Collett! Your company will reinforce him!’

‘Yes, sir!’ Another company went forward and Sharpe, guiltily, thought that another Captain had been sent into the range of the grapeshot. He wondered what had happened to Rymer. There was no firing from the rear of the fort, but no explosion either. He looked constantly, waiting for the eruption of flame and smoke, but there was only silence from the dam.

‘Where are they?’ Windham pounded a fist against his thigh, cut at the air with his sword. ‘Damn them! Where are they?’

Men were stumbling back from the fight, wounded by the grapeshot, and Collett was pulling the companies further back. There was no point, he reasoned, in losing men in an attack that was only a fake assault. The fire from the fort slackened. Still no explosion.

‘Damn! We need to know what’s happening!’

‘I’ll go, sir.’ Sharpe could see Windham’s careful scheme collapsing. The French must know by now that the attack was not real, and it would not take any great intelligence to reason that the dam was the real target. He tried to imagine the sappers again, laden with their barrels. ‘They could have been captured, sir. Maybe they’ve not even reached the dam.’

Windham hesitated and, as he paused, Major Collett shouted nearby. ‘Colonel? Sir?’

‘Jack! Here!’

Collett came up, saluted. ‘Can’t go on much longer, sir. We’re losing too many men to that damned grapeshot.’

Windham turned back to Sharpe. ‘How long will it take you to get there?’

Sharpe thought fast. He did not need to go softly, or take the long way round. There was enough noise and chaos in the field to cover his movements and he would go as close as he dared to the fort. ‘Five minutes, sir.’

‘Then go. Listen!’ Windham checked Sharpe’s movement. ‘I want a report, that’s all, d’you understand? See where they are. Have they been discovered? How long till they succeed? Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want you back here in ten minutes. Ten minutes, Sharpe.’ He turned to Major Collett. ‘Can you give me ten minutes?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Off you go, Sharpe! Hurry!’

He began running, his dark uniform invisible against the night, towards the fort and the hidden dam. He went right, skirting the light of the carcasses, heading towards the ravine of the Rivillas downstream of the dam. He stumbled on tussocks, slipped on damp earth, but he was free, alone and free. Grapeshot whistled overhead, fired from the castle, but he was well beneath it, hidden in the darkness, and the stabbing musket flames from the fort were to his left. He slowed down, knowing that the stream could not be far, wary in case French patrols were lurking in the ravine. He unslung the rifle from his shoulder and pulled the flint back to full cock. The spring was heavy, satisfying, and he felt the sear fall into place. He was armed, what was it Hogan said? Cap a pie, whatever that meant, but it felt good and he grinned at the night as he went forward, slowly now, his eyes searching for the ravine’s edge. He had pulled his shako low over his eyes so that the peak hid the white-centred cannon flames from his sight, preserving his night vision, and then he saw a streak of deeper shadow, fringed with bushes, and he knew he had reached the stream bank. He lay flat, pulled himself forward, and peered over the edge.

The ravine was deeper than he had imagined. The bank fell steeply away from him down to a dull sheen of water some eighteen or twenty feet below. There was no sound from the ravine, except the stream’s murmur, and no sign of the Light Company or sappers. He looked left. The dam was a black shape next to the fort, just forty yards from him, and it seemed empty, silent, holding back the huge weight of water.

He slithered over the edge, still on his stomach, and let his weight slide him down between long-spined thorn bushes, the rifle held ahead of him, and suddenly there was a challenge. ‘Who goes there?’ It was a hoarse, frightened whisper.

‘Sharpe! Who’s that?’

‘Peters, sir. Thank God you’re here.’

He saw the man’s shape, crouched beneath a bush beside the water. He went close. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Don’t know, sir. Captain went forward, sir.’ Peters pointed towards the dam. ‘That was ten minutes ago, sir. Left me here. Do you think they’ve gone, sir?’

‘No. Stay here.’ He patted the man’s shoulder. ‘They’ll come back this way. You’ll be all right.’

Rymer and the sappers could not be far away, being remarkably silent, and Sharpe waded up the stream, the water up to his knees, and waited for a challenge. It came twenty yards from the dam, just beneath the fort, where small trees arched up over the Rivillas. ‘Who goes there?’

‘Sharpe!’ He whispered. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Hakeswill.’ There was a hint of a chuckle. ‘Come to help?’

Sharpe ignored it. ‘Where’s Captain Rymer?’

‘Here!’ The voice came from beyond Hakeswill and Sharpe pushed past the Sergeant, smelling the man’s breath, and saw a glint of gold from Rymer’s uniform. ‘The Colonel sent me. He’s nervous.’

‘So am I.’ Rymer offered no further information.

‘What’s happening?’

‘The powder’s laid, the sappers have gone back, and Fitchett’s up there. He should be putting in the fuse!’ Rymer sounded nervous and Sharpe could understand it. If the dam blew now, by mistake, then the Company would be caught by a wall of water.

There were footsteps from the rampart of the fort, just thirty feet above them, and Sharpe heard Rymer draw in breath. The footsteps sounded casual. Rymer began to breathe out. ‘Oh, God! No!’

A flicker of flame, the size of a candle, that seemed to waver, go out, then spring up fierce and bright. In its light Sharpe could see two men, blue uniformed, who held the carcass and then tossed it out over the ravine so that it fell, sparks flying up from it, down to the streambed. Pieces of burning straw exploded from the carcass, it rolled on the ravine side, tumbling flame, and plunged into the stream. It hissed. The flames flickered, trying to hold the top edge, and then died. Rymer’s breath came out in a long, long sigh. Sharpe put his mouth close to Rymer’s ear. ‘Where are your men?’

‘Some here. Most have gone.’

The answer was not much help. Another flame appeared on the ramparts, grew like the first, and this time the French held it longer so that the fire caught fiercely on the oil-soaked straw so that it blazed like a signal beacon. They rolled it over the edge, it bounced once, spraying sparks, and then caught on a thorn bush. The thorns crackled and flared and in the sudden light Sharpe could see the Engineer Lieutenant, Fitchett, crouching motionless by a stack of barrels. The French must see him!

But the French were not sure what they were looking for. Orders had come to look in the ravine, and so they peered over the edge and saw strange dark shadows, which was what a man expected to see at night, and they saw no movement so they relaxed. Sharpe could see the two men clearly. They seemed glad to be away from the front of the fort, were talking and laughing, and then they jerked upright, disappearing from sight, and there came the bark of an order and he supposed an officer had come to the rampart.

Fitchett moved. He began scrambling towards Rymer and Sharpe, trying to move silently, but he was panicked by the burning carcass and he slipped, falling into the stream. A shout from the rampart, an officer’s head leaning over the stone, and Fitchett had the sense to freeze and Sharpe saw the officer turn and shout a command. Flames came again on the rampart, a third carcasss, and Sharpe knew they would have to fight. Rymer stared up at the fort, his mouth open.

Sharpe nudged him. ‘Shoot the officer.’

‘What?’

‘Shoot the bastard! You’ve got Riflemen, haven’t you?’

Rymer still did not move so Sharpe took his own Baker rifle, lifted the frizzen to check with a finger that the powder was still in the pan, and then aimed it up, through the stark thorn branches, towards the rampart. Rymer seemed to wake up. ‘Don’t fire!’

The third carcass was hurled over the rampart, far across so that it bounced on the far side of the ravine and wedged itself on a rock. Fitchett saw it, apparantly falling towards him, and yelped and sprang towards the hidden Company. The French officer shouted.

‘Don’t fire!’ Rymer hit Sharpe’s shoulder, ruining his aim so he kept his finger off the trigger. Fitchett fell into the thorn trees, rubbing his ribs where he had fallen. He had remembered the fuse and was trailing it, but Sharpe wondered if any had fallen with the Lieutenant into the water. Fitchett looked wildly round. ‘The lantern!’

There was a dark lantern hidden in the trees. Rymer and Fitchett both started looking, bumping into each other, and the first French musket hammered from the ramparts and the ball struck the trunk of one of the trees and Fitchett swore again. ‘Jesus! Hurry!’

The French officer leaned over the ravine, searching the shadows, and Sharpe saw the shot, pulled the trigger, and the man went up and backwards, his face smashed red by the bullet and Rymer stared at Sharpe. ‘Why did you do that?’

Sharpe did not bother to answer. Fitchett had found the lantern, unclipped the door, and a beam of light slanted in the thorns. ‘Quick! Quick!’ Fitchett was talking to himself. He found the fuse, thrust the end into the flame, and waited till it was spluttering. ‘Back! Back!’

Rymer did not wait to see the fuse burning. ‘Back!’ He was shouting. ‘Back!’

Sharpe grabbed Fitchett. ‘How long?’

‘Thirty seconds! Let’s go!’ A second musket exploded on the ramparts, the ball thudding into the earth, and the group of men stampeded down the streambed, led by Rymer, all imagining the sudden leap of powder flame, the shock wave, and the crashing, killing water.

The French, suddenly bereft of their officer, shouted for help. They could see nothing in the light of the carcasses, hear nothing in the lingering echo of their musket shots. Sharpe waited, watching the flickering light of the fuse, listening to the sudden rush of feet on the ramparts. The fuse was burning well, creeping towards the dam, and he turned and climbed the ravine wall, hard by the stonework of the fort, and a voice stopped him. ‘It was a nice shot.’

‘Patrick?’

‘Aye.’ The Donegal voice was very low. ‘I thought I’d see if you needed any help.’ A huge hand clasped Sharpe’s wrist and he was hauled unceremoniously to the brink of the ravine. ‘That lot ran fast enough.’

‘Be drowned otherwise.’ Sharpe wedged himself against the base of a thorn bush. He tried to guess the number of seconds since Fitchett had lit the fuse; twenty? twenty-five? At least he and Harper should be safe. They were high on the bank, just across from the shallow ditch that left the ravine at a right angle to protect the small fort. The French were shouting excitedly; Sharpe heard the rattle of ramrods in musket barrels and then a crisp voice cutting through the chaos. He looked at Harper’s vast bulk crouched in deep shadow. ‘How’s your back?’

‘Bloody hurts, sir.’

Sharpe waited for the explosion, pushing himself down to the earth, imagining the kegs splintering and the wooden shards driven outwards. It must be soon! Perhaps Fitchett had used more fuse than he thought?

The volley from the ramparts startled him. The French fired down the ravine and Sharpe heard the balls crash through the thorn spikes like the ripping of calico. A bird screeched indignantly, flapped up into the darkness, and he could hear the trampling of panicked feet downstream. Harper sneered. ‘Like wet bloody hens.’

‘What was it like?’

Any reluctance Harper had felt about criticizing Rymer to Sharpe had disappeared with the flogging. He spat down the ravine. ‘Can’t make his mind up, sir.’ It was one of the worst crimes in a soldier’s book; indecision kills.

There was no explosion. Sharpe knew that the fuse had been soaked, or had broken, but whatever the cause, the powder was intact. A minute must have passed. Sharpe heard a French officer shouting for silence. The man must be listening for noises downstream, but there was silence, and Sharpe heard more orders given. Light flared on the rampart and he knew more carcasses had been lit. He raised his head and saw three fiery bundles arc into the ravine and he wondered if the carcasses might inadvertently light the fuse, but seconds passed and there was no explosion, and then there were shouts from the fort. The powder had at last been seen.

Sharpe began sliding back down the slope. ‘Come on.’

The French were shouting, making enough noise to cover their movements. There was little time. Sharpe thought what he would do if he was the French officer and imagined fetching water that could be thrown down on to the kegs and whatever fuse remained. He needed to see what was left. He slammed to a stop and looked upstream. The new carcasses brilliantly lit the foot of the dam; the kegs were clearly visible and so was the fuse. One end had fallen from a bung-hole in the lowest row of powder barrels, the other had dropped into the stream which had extinguished the fire. Even without the water, the fuse would have been useless. Harper crouched beside him. ‘What do we do?’

‘I need ten men.’

‘Leave it to me, what then?’

Sharpe jerked his head towards the rampart. ‘Six to take care of them and three to push those carcasses into the water.’

‘And you?’

‘Leave me one carcass.’ He began to load the rifle, hurrying in the darkness, not bothering with the leather patch that surrounded the bullet and gripped the seven grooves of the Baker’s barrel. He spat on the bullet and rammed it down. ‘Are we ready?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Harper was grinning. ‘I think this is a job for the Rifles.’

‘Why not, Sergeant?’ Sharpe grinned back. Damn Rymer, damn Hakeswill, Windham, Collett, all the new people who had disturbed the Battalion. Sharpe and his Riflemen had fought from the northern coast of Spain down through Portugal, then out again, to the Douro, to Talavera, to Almeida and Fuentes de Oñoro. They understood each other, trusted each other, and Sharpe nodded to Harper.

The Sergeant, as Sharpe thought of him, cupped his hands. ‘Rifles! To me! Rifles!’

There were shouts from the ramparts, faces leaned over.

Sharpe cupped his own hands. ‘Company! Skirmish order!’ That should spread them out, but would they obey the old voices? Muskets fired from the fort, the bullets tearing the thorns, and Harper shouted again.

‘Rifles!’

Feet trampled up the ravine. An officer shouted from the rampart and Sharpe heard the sound of steel ramrods in French barrels.

‘They’re coming, sir.’

Of course they were coming! They were his men. The first shapes came into sight, dark uniformed without the crossbelt of the red coats. ‘Tell them what to do, Sergeant.’ He thrust his loaded rifle at Harper, grinned at him. It was like the old times, the good times. ‘I’m going.’

He could trust Harper to do the rest. He broke from the cover of the trees and ran upstream, into the light. The French saw him and he heard the shouted orders. The ground was wet and slippery, dotted with smooth rocks, and once he skidded wildly, flailed his arms for balance, and sensed the musket balls banging down at him. It was a difficult shot for the French, almost straight downwards, and they were hurrying too much. He heard Harper behind him, shouting the orders, and then the distinctive sound of Baker rifles. He followed the white fuse, and the great, sloping earth dam was above him, holding the tons of water, and bullets flecked the slope as Sharpe threw himself at the base of the barrels. The fuse had fallen free and he pushed it into the bung hole, feeling the gritty resistance of the powder. The bung had gone! He looked round, trying not to hurry. The damn thing had disappeared. He tried to pull one loose from another keg, but it had been hammered tight. Then he thought of a stone and scrabbling with his hand, found one, and rammed it into the hole. A musket ball tore at his sleeve, burning the skin, but behind him the light was disappearing as his Riflemen kicked carcasses into the water. They were still firing, and he was aware of voices shouting, and then he was finished, the fuse tight, and he backed away, pushing the white line up the bank, away from the water. He needed fire! He turned and saw one carcass burning, on the far bank. He leaped over to it and the bullets hammered down from above, one hitting the carcass so that it seemed to jump like a live thing. His Riflemen must be reloading.

‘Give him fire!’ Harper’s voice rang clear. There were redcoats in the ravine, running and kneeling, aiming upwards, and Sharpe saw the new Ensign dancing in excitement, his sword drawn. Then the muskets fired and the balls scoured the ramparts and Sharpe had a glimpse of his Riflemen coming forward again, their guns reloaded.

He would burn himself; there was no choice. The carcass flamed and he bent down, picked it up by its base, feeling the heat. A rock, thrown from the fort, smashed into the straw and it flared on his face, burning, burning, and he turned with it, scorched by the terrible heat and in the corner of his eye, as he turned, he saw a yellow flame, huge and foreshortened, stab from the ravine towards him. Bullets plucked at him, hit him, and he knew he had been shot, but did not believe it, and hurled the carcass at the white fuse.

He tried to run. Pain lanced his leg, his side, and he stumbled. He had thrown the carcass too far. He was falling. He remembered the flaming mass landing too close to the powder, and he remembered the yellow flame that seemed to come from the ravine side. Nothing made sense and then night turned to day.

Flame and light, noise and heat, the deafening, rolling blast thundered up and out so that the men in the British trenches, digging the new batteries, saw the face of the San Pedro bastion lit with flame. The whole face of Badajoz, from castle to the Trinidad, was seared with the light and the dam’s fort was outlined black against the sheet of red that slammed up and belched smoke and fragments into the night. The blast was just a fragment of the explosion that had destroyed Almeida, but few men had seen that and lived, while this one was witnessed by thousands who watched the dark night split by fire, and felt the hot wind buffet the sky.

Sharpe was thrown forward, snatched and hurled into the stream, bruised and deafened by the blast, blinded by the flame-sheet. The stream saved his life and he regretted it, knowing that in a second he would be crushed by the water, flattened by the falling tons of earth, rock and lake. He had not meant to throw the carcass as far as he did, but he had been scorched by flame, hit by bullets, and it hurt, it hurt. He would not see his child. He thought death came slowly and he tried to move as if he could outcrawl the weight of falling water.

Heat slammed back and forth in the ravine. Burning fragments hissed in the water. No muskets fired from the rampart. The blast had pushed the French away from the parapet, dazed by the noise that echoed off the vast city walls, thundered over the plain, and died in the night.

Harper pulled Sharpe upright. ‘Come on, sir.’

Sharpe could not hear. ‘What?’ He was dazed, senseless.

‘Come on!’ Harper pulled him downstream, away from the fort, away from the dam that still stood. ‘Are you hit?’

Sharpe moved automatically, stumbling on rocks, going away. He tried to turn, to look at the dam. ‘It’s still there.’

‘Yes. It held. Come on!’

Sharpe shook himself free. ‘It held.’

‘I know! Come on!’

The dam still stood! Burning fragments lit the huge wall, scorched and gouged by the explosion, but intact. ‘It held!’

Harper pulled at Sharpe. ‘Come on! For God’s sake, move!’

A body was at Sharpe’s feet and he looked down. The new Ensign. What was his name? He could not remember, and the boy was dead, and for nothing!

Harper pulled him downstream into the cover of the trees, dragging Matthews’ body in his other hand. Sharpe staggered, the pain shooting up his leg, and he felt tears in his eyes. It was failure, miserable and complete, and the boy was dead who should not have died, and all because Sharpe had tried to prove he was more than a messenger boy or baggage minder. Sharpe felt as if there was some malevolent fate that had decided to destroy him, his pride, his life, all his hopes; and, in mockery, to make the failure more complete, the fates had shown him something worth living for. Teresa would have heard the explosion, would even now be rocking his child into a restless sleep, but Sharpe, stumbling through the night, felt that he would never see the child. Never. Badajoz would kill him, as it had killed the boy, as it was killing all he had worked and fought for in nineteen years of soldiering.

‘You stupid bastards!’ Hakeswill appeared in the darkness, his voice like the croaking of the thousands of frogs that lived upstream. He sneered at them, punched at Harper. ‘You pig-brained Irish bastard! Move!’ He thrust at them with the squat barrels of the huge gun and Harper, still helping Sharpe, smelt the burnt powder from the seven barrels. The gun had been fired and Harper had a vague memory, no more than an impression, of bullets coming from the ravine that had struck Sharpe down. Harper turned to look for Hakeswill, but the Sergeant had gone into the night and Sharpe, his leg bleeding and hurt, slipped and the Irishman had to hold him and pull him up the slope.

His words were drowned by a sudden clamour of bells. Each bell in Badajoz, from every church, hammered into the darkness and for a second Harper thought they were celebrating the failure of the night’s fight. Then he remembered. Midnight had turned and now it was Sunday, Easter Sunday, and the bells rejoiced for the greatest of all miracles. Harper listened to the cacophony and promised himself a most unChristian promise. He would perform his own miracle. He would kill the man who had tried to kill Sharpe. If it was the last thing he would do on this earth, he would kill the man who could not die. Dead.