Sharpe's Company

CHAPTER 12

If a man could have found a new-fangled hot air balloon and flown it over Badajoz, he would have looked down at a city shaped like the quarter segment of a cogged wheel. The castle, ancient stone on rock, was the giant axle boss. The north and east walls were spokes, leaving the axle at right angles to each other, while the south and west walls joined in a long, rough curve that was studded with seven huge cogs.

It was impossible to attack from the north. The city was built on the bank of the River Guadiana, wider at Badajoz than the Thames at Westminster, and the only approach lay across the long, ancient stone bridge. Every yard of the bridge was covered by the guns mounted on the city's north wall while, across the river, the bridge entrance was guarded by three outlying forts. The largest, San Cristobel, could house more than two regiments. The French were sure that there could be no attack from the north.

The east wall, the other spoke, was more vulnerable. At its northern end was the castle, high and huge, a fortress that had dominated the landscape for centuries, but south of the castle, the city wall was on lower ground and faced towards a hill. The French knew the danger and, just where the castle hill dropped steeply to the lower city, they had dammed the Rivillas stream. Now the vulnerable east wall was protected by a sheet of flood water, as wide as the river to the north, and running far to the south of the city. As Hogan had said to Sharpe; only the navy could attack across the new lake, unless the dam could be blown up and the lake drained.

Which left the huge curve of the south and west walls, a curve nearly a mile long that had no convenient river or stream to offer protection. Instead there were the cogs on the wheel's rim, the seven vast bastions that jutted out from the city wall, each bastion the size of a small castle. San Vincente was the most northerly, built beside the river at the angle of the north and west walls, and from the San Vincente the bastions ran south and west till they met the flooded Rivillas. San Jose, Santiago, San Juan, San Roque, Santa Maria, and so to the Trinidad. The saints, the mother of Christ, and the Holy Trinity, each with more than a score of guns, to protect a city.

The bastions were not the only protection to the great curve of walls. First came the glacis, the earth slope that deflected the round shot and bounced it high over the defences, and then the huge ditch. The drop from the glacis to the ditch bottom was nowhere less than twenty feet and, once in the ditch, the real problems began. The bastions would flank any attack, pouring in their plunging fire, and there were ravelins in the great dry moat. The ravelins were like great, triangular, fake walls that split an attack and, in darkness, could deceive men into thinking they had reached the real wall. Any man who climbed a ravelin would be swept off by carefully aimed cannon. From the ditch the walls rose fifty feet and on their wide parapets they mounted guns every five yards.

Badajoz was no mediaeval fortress hastily converted for modern warfare. It had once been the pride of Spain, a brilliantly engineered, massively built death trap, that was now garrisoned by the finest French troops in the Peninsula. Twice the British had failed to take the city and there seemed no reason, a year later, to suppose that a third attempt would meet with success.

The fortress had just one weakness. To the south-east, opposite the Trinidad bastion and across the flood waters, rose the shallow San Miguel hill. From its low, flat top a besieger could fire down on to the south-east corner of the city, and that was the single weakness. The French knew it, and had guarded against it. Two forts had been built to the south and east. One, the Picurina, had been built across the new lake on the lower slopes of the San Miguel hill. The second fort, the huge Pardaleras, was to the south and guarded the approach to any breach that might be carved by the guns on the hill. It was not much of a weakness, but all the British had to work on and so, on St Patrick's Day, they marched to the rear of the San Miguel hill. They knew, and the French knew, that the effort would be against the south-east corner of the city, against the Santa Maria and Trinidad bastions, and the fact that the selfsame plan had failed twice before did not matter. From the top of the hill, where curious men gathered to look at the city, the breach made in the last siege could be clearly seen between the two bastions. It had been repaired, in lighter coloured stone, and the new masonry seemed to mock the coming British efforts.

Sharpe stood next to Patrick Harper and stared at the walls. 'Jesus, they're big!" The Sergeant said nothing. Sharpe pulled the bottle from inside his greatcoat and held it out. 'Here. A present for St Patrick's Day.

Harper's broad face beamed with pleasure. 'You're a grand man, sir, for an Englishman. Would you be ordering me to save you half for St George's Day?

Sharpe stamped his feet against the cold. 'I think I'll take that half now.

'I thought you might. Harper was glad to see Sharpe, of whom he had seen little in the past month, but there was also an embarrassment in the meeting. The Irishman knew Sharpe needed reassurance that the Light Company missed him, and Harper thought him a fool for needing the words to be said. Of course they missed him. The Light Company were no different to the rest of the army. They were failures, almost to a man, whose failings had led them to courtrooms and jails. They were thieves, drunks, debtors, and murderers, the men Britain wanted out of sight and mind. It was easier to empty a town jail to a recruiting party than go through the tedious business of trial, sentence and punishment.

Not all were criminals. Some had been gulled by the Recruiting Sergeants, offered an escape from village tedium and narrow horizons. Some had failed in love and joined the army in despair, swearing they would rather die in battle than see their sweetheart married to another man. Many were drunkards who were terrified of a lonely shivering death in a winter ditch and joined an army that offered them clothes, boots, and a third of a pint of rum each day. Some, a few, a very few, joined for patriotism. Some, like Harper, joined because there was nothing but hunger at home and the army offered food and an escape. They were, almost to a man, the failings and leavings of society and to them all the army was one big Forlorn Hope.

Yet they were the best infantry in the world. They had not always been and, without the right leaders, would not be so again. Harper instinctively knew that this army that faced Badajoz was a superb instrument, better than anything the great Napoleon could muster, and Harper knew why. Because there were just enough officers like Sharpe who trusted the failures. It started at the top, of course, with Wellington himself, and went right through the ranks to the junior officers and Sergeants, and the trick of it was very simple. Take a man who has failed at everything, give him a final chance, show him trust, lead him to one success, and there is a sudden confidence that will lead to the next success. Soon they will believe they are unbeatable, and become unbeatable, but the trick was still to have officers like Sharpe who kept on offering trust. Of course the Light Company missed him! He had expected great things of them and trusted them to win. Perhaps the new man would one day learn the trick, but until he did, if ever, the men would miss Sharpe. Hell, thought Harper, they even like him. And the fool did not realize it. Harper shook his head to himself and offered the bottle to Sharpe. 'Here's to Ireland, sir, and death to Hakeswill.

‘I’ll drink to that. How is the bastard?

‘I’ll kill him one day.

Sharpe gave a humorless laugh. 'You won't. I will.

'How the hell is he still alive?

Sharpe shrugged. 'He says he can't be killed. It was cold on the hill and Sharpe hunched his shoulders beneath the greatcoat. 'And he never turns his back. Watch yours.

I'm growing eyes in my bum with that bastard around.

'What does Captain Rymer think of him?

Harper paused, took the bottle from Sharpe, drank, and passed it back. 'God knows. I think he's scared of him, but so are most. He shrugged. 'The Captain's not a bad fellow, but he's not exactly confident. The Sergeant was feeling awkward. He did not like to sound critical of one officer in front of another. 'He's young.

'None of us are old. How's that new Ensign?"

'Matthews? He's fine, sir. Sticks to Lieutenant Price like a kid brother.

'And Mr. Price?

Harper laughed. 'He keeps us cheerful, sir. Drunk as a cross-eyed stoat, but he'll survive.

It began raining, small, spitting drops that stung their faces. Behind them, on the Seville road, the bugles called the battalions to the evening lines. Sharpe turned up his collar. 'We'd better be getting back. He stared at the small, blue-uniformed figures on the city parapets, three-quarters of a mile away. 'Those sods will be warm tonight. He suddenly thought of Teresa and Antonia inside the walls and looked at the big, square, battlemented Cathedral tower. It was odd to think they were so close to her. The rain became heavier and he turned away, back towards the sprawling, makeshift British camp.

'Sir?

'Yes?

The Sergeant seemed embarrassed. 'Major Hogan stopped by the other day.

'So?

'He was telling us about Miss Teresa, sir.

Sharpe frowned. 'What about her?

'Only, sir, that she'd asked you to look out for her. In the city. In case the lads go a bit wild.

'So?

'Well, the men are keen to help, so they are.

'You mean they don't think I can manage?

Harper was tempted to tell Sharpe not to be so foolish, but decided it might be one step too many over the subtle boundaries of rank and friendship. He sighed. 'No, sir. Just that they're keen to help. They're fond of her, sir, so they are. And of you, he might have added.

Sharpe shook his head ungratefully. Teresa and Antonia were his problem, not the Company's, and he did not want a horde of grinning men to witness his emotion at first seeing his child. 'Tell them no.

Harper shrugged. 'They may try and help anyway.

'They'll have a problem finding her in the city.

The Sergeant grinned. 'It won't be difficult. We'll be trying the house with two orange trees, just behind the Cathedral.

'Go to hell, Sergeant.

'Follow you anywhere, sir.

A few hours later the army seemed in hell, or a watery version of hell. The skies opened. Thunder cracked like the rumbling of field guns over wooden boards in the storm clouds. Lightning slashed, piercing and blue, to an earth soaked by great, slanting volleys of rain. Human noise was drowned by the seething water, a constant, crashing downpour in a darkness splintered by jagged, thundering light. Eighteen hundred men were on the hilltop, digging the first parallel; a trench six hundred yards long that would protect the besiegers and from which they would excavate the first gun batteries. The workers were soaked to the skin, shivering, made weary by the sheer weight of water, and sometimes peering through the deluge at the dark citadel starkly revealed in the lightning strikes.

The wind billowed the rain in huge, scything loops; suspended it, and then smashed it down even harder. It plucked greatcoats into fantastic, bat like shapes and drove the water in unstoppable rivulets that filled up the trench, seeped over the men's boots, and sank their spirits down into the cold, sodden earth that yielded each spadeful with such reluctance.

All night they dug, and all night it rained, and in the cold morning it still rained and the French gunners came out of their warm shelters to see the scar of fresh earth curving over the shallow hill. The gunners opened fire, smashing solid shot across the wide ditch, over the glacis, over the floodwaters, and into the wet earth of the trench parapet. The work stopped. The first parallel was too shallow to give shelter and all day the rain weakened the trench and the guns hammered it. The excavation filled with sopping mud that would all have to be scooped out in the night.

They dug all night. It still rained, a rain like the rain before Noah's flood. Uniforms doubled their weight with water, boots were sucked off in the glutinous slime, and shoulders were chafed raw and bleeding with the effort of sinking the trench. On this night the French gunners kept up a harassing and sporadic fire that turned some parts of the mud scarlet until the unending rain diluted the blood, but slowly, infinitely slowly, the spades hacked deeper and the parapet went higher.

The creeping dawn showed a trench deep enough to be worked by daylight. The exhausted battalions filed back through the zigzag trench that led to safety at the rear of the hill, and new battalions took their place. The South Essex, their packs and weapons discarded, went down the crooked way to the mud, the gunfire, and the spades.

Sharpe was left behind. Two dozen men were with him, the baggage guard, and they made crude shelters out of the piled packs and crouched, muskets between their knees, and stared at a wet, grey, dripping landscape. Sharpe could hear the French guns, muffled by rain and distance, and he hated the thought of not seeing what he could hear. He left an old Sergeant in charge of the guard and walked the trench to the hillside.

Badajoz was a dark rock in a sea of water and mud. The walls were fringed with cannon smoke that was lanced through by the leaping flames of each shot. The French gunners were concentrating their fire to Sharpe's left where the first two British batteries were being dug. A whole battalion was working on the gun-pits. The round shot smacked into the parapets, destroyed the earth-filled wicker gabions, and sometimes smashed a bloody path through the men. The French even tried their howitzers whose short, squat barrels spat shells high into the air, so that the tiny smoke trail of the burning fuse disappeared into the low clouds before dropping on to the wet hillside. Most of the shells simply fell and lay silent, their fuses extinguished by mud or rain, but a few exploded in black smoke and jagged iron fragments. They did no damage; the range was too great, and after a time the French stopped the shell-fire and saved the howitzers for the digging of the second parallel, lower down the hill and much closer to the walls.

Sharpe walked along the hilltop and searched for the South Essex. He found them at the northern end of the parallel where the hill had dropped away to the soaking plain beside the grey, swollen river. Any batteries dug here would be firing up at the castle that seemed vast and inviolable on its rock hill. Sharpe could see, as well, the San Roque Fort, the small fortress that Hogan had mentioned, which defended the dam across the Rivillas stream. If the British could blow up the dam, the lake would drain north into the river and the approach to the breach would be far easier. But to blow up the dam would be difficult. It looked to be no more than fifty yards from the city wall and built just beneath the San Pedro, the single bastion on the eastern side.

A figure jumped out of the trench in front of Sharpe. It was Sergeant Hakeswill. He stalked along the trench edge and cursed down at the men. 'Dig, you bastards! You syphilitic pigs! Dig! He whirled round after a few paces to see if anyone was reacting to him and saw Sharpe. He snapped into a salute, his face twitching crazily. 'Sir! Lieutenant, sir! Come to help, sir? He cackled, and turned back to the Light Company. 'Get on with it, you pregnant sows! Dig! He was leaning over the trench, screaming at them, spittle flailing from his mouth.

It was an irresistible moment. Sharpe knew he should not do it, knew that it was inconsistent with the so-called dignity of an officer, but Hakeswill was bending by the trench, screaming obscenities, and Sharpe was close behind. The second that the temptation came, Sharpe acted, and pushed the Sergeant. Hakeswill's arms beat at the air, he twisted, bellowed, and collapsed into the sopping mud at the bottom of the trench. The Light Company cheered. The Sergeant turned a furious face at Sharpe as he scrambled to his feet.

Sharpe held up a hand. 'My apologies, Sergeant. I slipped. " He knew it had been a childish thing to do, and unwise, but it was a small gesture that told the men he was still on their side. He walked on, leaving Hakeswill twitching, and saw Captain Rymer climbing from the trench to meet him.

If Rymer had seen the incident he said nothing, instead he nodded civilly. 'Nasty day.

Sharpe felt his usual paralysis in the face of small talk. He gestured at the men in the trench. 'Digging keeps you warm. He suddenly realized that it sounded as if he were telling Rymer to pick up a spade and he scrabbled in his head for a sentence to correct the impression, 'One of the advantages of being in the ranks, eh? He could hardly bring himself to call Rymer 'sir'. Rymer did not seem to notice.

'They hate digging.

'Wouldn't you?

Captain Rymer had never thought about it. Birth into the Rimes of Waltham Cross did not encourage a man to think about manual labor. He was a good-looking man, fair-haired, about twenty-five years old, and desperately nervous with Sharpe. The situation was not of Rymer's making, not to his taste, and he was terrified of the time, that Colonel Windham had said was coming, when Sharpe would be returned to the Company as Lieutenant. The Colonel had told Rymer not to worry. 'Won't happen yet. Give you time to settle in, take charge. But you may want him in a fight, eh, Rymer? Rymer did not look forward to the event.

He looked up at the tall, scarred Rifleman, took a deep breath. 'Sharpe?

'Sir? The word had to be said sooner or later, however much it hurt.

'I wanted to say that… Whatever it was, would have to wait. A French round shot ploughed into the earth nearby, spumed up soaking mud, and then came a second and a third. Rymer's mouth dropped open in astonishment, he froze, and Sharpe grabbed his elbow and pushed him towards the trench. He followed, jumping down the five feet and skidding on the trench floor.

The air was filled with the rumble of cannon balls, and the men stopped digging and looked at each other as if one of them might have the answer to this sudden cannonade. Sharpe looked over the parapet and saw the armed piquets running back for shelter. Every gun on Badajoz's eastern wall, from the high castle, past the San Pedro, down to the Trinidad bastion at the south-east corner, seemed to be firing at the northern hundred yards of the parallel. Rymer stood beside him. 'What's happening? A piquet jumped over them, cursing the enemy. Sharpe looked at Rymer. 'Do you have weapons? 'No! Ordered to leave them behind. 'There must be a company here.

Rymer nodded, pointed to the right. 'The Grenadier Company. They're armed. Why?

Sharpe pointed through the murk and the rain to the dark shadows at the foot of the fortress. Coming from the fort that guarded the Rivillas dam were lines of men, formed into marching blue ranks that melded into the shadows so they were difficult to see. Rymer shook his head. 'What is it?

'The bloody French! They were coming in force, marching to attack and destroy the parallel, and suddenly they were visible because they drew their bayonets and the rows of steel glistened through the slanting rain.

The French gunners, fearful of hitting their own men, stopped firing. A bugle sounded and, on its note, the hundreds of steel bayonets dropped into the attack position and the French cheered and charged.

CHAPTER 13

It was unfortunate for Captain Rymer. He had been anticipating, with resolve and trepidation, the first time he would lead his own Company into action. He had not imagined it to be like this. Instead he had seen himself on a wide hillside, under a brilliant sky, with the standards snapping in the wind and himself, sabre drawn, taking a skirmish line against the very centre of the enemy's battle. He sometimes considered a wound, nothing too ghastly, but enough to make him a hero back home and his imagination, leaping vast distances, saw him modestly telling the story to a group of admiring ladies, while other men, untested in battle, could only look on in jealousy.

Instead of which he was at the bottom of a muddy trench, soaked to the skin, in charge of men armed only with spades and facing one thousand fully-armed Frenchmen. Rymer froze. The Company looked to him and past him to Sharpe. The Rifleman hesitated for a second, saw Rymer's indecision, and waved his arm. 'Back!

There was no point in trying to fight; not yet, not till the armed companies could come together and make a proper counter-attack. The working parties scrambled out of the trench, ran back over the wet grass, then turned to watch the enemy jump into the deserted workings. The French ignored them; they were interested in just two things. They wanted to capture and destroy as much of the parallel as they could and, more important, take back to the city every spade and pickaxe they could find. For each such mundane trophy, they had been promised a reward of one dollar.

Sharpe began walking to the top of the hill, parallel to the trench, keeping pace with the French who hurled spades and picks to their comrades beyond the parapet. In front of the enemy, like startled rabbits, other working parties leaped from the earth and scampered for safety. No one had been hurt in the attack. Sharpe doubted if any man had tried to fire a musket or lunge with a bayonet. It was almost farcical.

Above the enemy was chaos. The British, mostly unarmed, moved like a herd while the enemy, just yards away, systematically stripped the parallel. Some of the French tried to push the parapet down, but the earth was so sodden that it was impossible. The British, glad of a diversion from the unending digging, jeered at them. One or two Frenchmen leveled their muskets, but the British were fifty yards away, doubtful musket range, and the rain was still pouring down. The French were unwilling to unwrap their locks if there was not to be a real fight.

'Bloody chaos, sir. Sergeant Harper had caught up with Sharpe, strode easily alongside with a spade gripped in his hand. He grinned cheerfully.

Sergeant Hakeswill, the front of his uniform still smeared with thick mud, ran past them. He gave them one malevolent glance and hurried on towards the rear of the hill. Sharpe wondered what the man was doing and then forgot about it as Captain Rymer caught him. 'Shouldn't we be doing something?

Sharpe shrugged. 'See if anyone's missing? There was not much else to be done, not till the guard companies that had been ordered to carry weapons could organize an attack on the busy French.

An Engineer in blue coat and wearing an ornate cocked hat ran towards the French. He was shouting at the working parties that were still scrambling for safety. 'Keep your spades! Keep your spades! It had taken dozens of ox-carts to bring the precious tools from Lisbon and now they were beingcasually abandoned to the French. Sharpe recognized the blue-coated man as Colonel Fletcher, the Chief Engineer.

A few men turned back to pick up their discarded spades and the leading French troops tugged the rags off their muskets, aimed, and shot. It was a miracle that any fired, but three were dry enough, the smoke coughed and Colonel Fletcher fell backwards, hands clutching at his groin. There was a French cheer as the Colonel was carried away to safety.

The South Essex Grenadier Company came running past Sharpe, muskets at the trail, with Captain Leroy at their head. He had his inevitable cigar in his mouth, sodden and unlit, and as he ran past he raised an eyebrow to Sharpe in ironic acknowledgement of the chaos. There was another armed Company just ahead and Leroy lined his men up next to them. The American looked back to Sharpe. 'Want to join in?

The French had captured half the first parallel, three hundred yards of trench, and were still pushing up the hill. The two companies of British infantry, outnumbered ten to one, pulled out their bayonets and twisted the blades on to the muskets. Leroy looked at his men. 'Don't bother pulling your triggers. Just cut the bastards. He drew his sword and swished the thin blade through the rain. A third company, panting and hurried, attached themselves to the small line. The Captains nodded to each other and ordered the advance.

Other companies were scrambling into position, but the first danger to the French was from the three companies advancing from the flank. They lined the trench, unwrapped the rags from the musket locks, and waited. Sharpe doubted if one musket in ten would work. He drew his own sword, suddenly happy to feel the weight in his hand after the weeks of boredom, and then the British line began a stumbling run as if they wanted to reach the trench before the French could fire their muskets.

A French officer's sword flashed down. Tirez! Sharpe saw the men's faces flinch as they pulled the triggers, but the rain had done the work for the British. A few shots banged out, but most of the flints sparked on to wet powder that was like thick putty, and the French cursed and waited with their bayonets.

The British cheered. The frustration of days and nights of rain, of the interminable digging, was suddenly to be vented on the enemy; and men who had nothing but spades, or even bare hands, came in behind the armed companies and screamed defiance at the French. Sharpe swung the sword, slipped, and half fell, half jumped into the trench. A bayonet stabbed at him and he hammered it to one side and kicked the man down. Other Frenchmen were trying to scramble out the far side of the parallel, helped by comrades on the parapet. The British bayonets reached for them and blue-uniformed bodies slumped down.

'Watch right! Someone shouted. A group of French were working their way up the trench, rescuing the men overwhelmed at the point of the British attack, and then they themselves were suddenly fighting for survival. A motley band of soldiers, mostly armed with spades, waded into the French and Sharpe could see Harper swinging murderously with his makeshift weapon. The Sergeant leaped into the trench, swept a bayonet to one side, and rammed the blade of his spade into the man's solar plexus. He was shouting his Gaelic challenge, clearing the trench with massive, scything blows, and no Frenchman would stand and fight.

The enemy still possessed the parapet. They clubbed down at the British in the trench, jabbed with long bayonets, and, every once in a while, succeeded in making a musket fire down into the parallel. Sharpe knew they had to be forced away. He hacked at the feet of the men nearest him, clawed at the side, and a boot kicked him back to the trench floor.

The French were recovering, drawing their forces together, and the parallel was an unhealthy place. There was a ragged volley of shots as a rank of the enemy uncovered their flintlocks, men fell into the water that poured like a small stream down the trench. Sharpe swung again at the enemy's legs, dodged a bayonet, and knew that the sensible thing was to retreat. He ran down the trench, the mud fouled and slippery beneath his boots, and then a massive hand checked him and Sergeant Harper grinned at him. ‘This is better than digging, sir. He was holding a captured musket, the bayonet bloodied and bent.

Sharpe turned. TheFrench still held a portion of the trench in the centre of the parallel, but the British were attacking from the hill. Only to the north, where Sharpe and Harper caught their breath in the bloodied trench, were the French undisturbed. They were not planning to stay long. Already their officers were sending back half companies, loaded with captured tools, and the sight made Sharpe climb up on the parapet of the French side of the trench. About half of his old Company were with Harper, some with captured muskets, most with spades. He grinned at them, glad to be back. 'Come on, lads. Up here.

One Company of Frenchmen formed a guard facing north and the officer watched nervously as Sharpe's ragged band, their uniforms plastered with wet mud, came towards them. They would not attack. The British were not properly armed, under-strength, but suddenly a sword was raised and the small group burst on him, and it was bayonets against spades, and two tall devils were hacking at his men. No one likes hand-to-hand combat, but Sharpe and Harper hurled themselves at the Company and the South Essex came with them. They snarled at the French, clubbed them with spades, and Harper used his captured musket like a mace. The French went backwards, stumbling on the slick mud, blinded by rain, and still the madmen came at them. Sharpe pushed with the sword, going for faces and throats, once having to parry a Sergeant's efficient bayonet. He knocked the blade aside, the Frenchman slipped, the sword was up and falling like an axe into the man's head. Sharpe tried to stop the blow, the Sergeant was defenseless, and the sword swerved and thudded into the wet earth of the parapet. The French were running, back to their main body, and the half-company of the South Essex were left with a dozen prisoners who had fallen on the slippery ground. The French Sergeant, his single arm-stripe bloodied in the fight, looked round his own dead and then at the sword which had so nearly killed him. He had seen the tall officer change the death-stroke, swerve the blow, and he nodded to him. 'Merci, Monsieur’.

Harper looked at the dozen men. 'What do we do withthem, sir?

'Let them go. It was no place to take prisoners. They took their weapons and hurled them across the parallel, out of reach, and searched each Frenchman for wine or brandy. Ahead of Sharpe the battle still raged. The main body of the French had fought their way to within fifty yards of the first battery, but had been held. Scattered parties of men, some armed, some with nothing more than lengths of timber, were charging the French and starting vicious fights in the mud. Officers on horseback galloped at the fringe of the fight, trying to restore order to chaos, but the British soldiers did not want order. They wanted a break from the tedium of digging and the drowning rain, and they wanted a fight. It was like a street brawl. There was no smoke because the muskets would not fire; the noise of the fight was metal clashing on metal, wood on metal, the screams of the wounded and sobs of the dying. From the side, where Sharpe and his half-company shared brandy with their prisoners, it looked like hundreds of swamp monsters grappling in grotesque slow motions. Sharpe pointed the French Sergeant towards the city. 'Go! The Frenchman grinned, gave Sharpe a friendly salute, and led his small band away. Twenty yards from the trench they stopped, picked up six spades. Harper shouted. 'Bring Them back! The French Sergeant made a rude gesture and began running towards Badajoz.

'Let them go. Sharpe turned back to the fight. 'Come on.’ They trudged up beside the parapet, the rain sweeping across them and down on to the dead in the trench. Broken spades and shattered muskets littered the slope. The sound of the fight, the sound of men clawing each other to death in the mud, was muffled by the rain. A French officer had organized a small group with spades and was trying to fill in the parallel. Sharpe began to hurry, the ground treacherous, and he turned to see his men strung out as they followed him, but Harper was beside him and the French turned and saw them coming. It was the turn of the French to use spades. A huge man swung at them, forced them back, parried Harper's thrust and Sharpe flailed his sword at the brute, cutting through the spade-handle, and still the Frenchman came at them. Harper bayoneted him, and still he came on, and Sharpe cut at the back of the man's neck until he finally collapsed. 'Come on!

There was a stinging pain in his back, he whipped round and the French officer, white-faced, was going back from the sword lunge. 'You bastard! Sharpe went forward, blade level, and the Frenchman came at him. The blades rattled, Sharpe twisted his wrist so that the heavy sword went from the Frenchman's left to his right, under his guard, and Sharpe stamped his right foot forward, ignored his opponent's blade and caught him in the ribs. The French officer tried to back away, slipped on blood and mud but Sharpe kept on going forward, feeling the steel scrape on ribs. His men swept past him with their bayonets held out, their captured bayonets, and Sharpe watched them drive the enemy back.

Bugles called the French back to the city and, within seconds, the hillside was a mass of retreating enemy carrying their wounded and bundles of captured shovels and picks. They were heading straight for the city as if frightened of cavalry pursuit and Sharpe watched as men waded into the floodwater rather than go the long way round by the dam. For ten, twenty yards it was fine, the water came up to their thighs and then, with horrid suddenness, the bottom dropped away. French officers shouted at their men, ordered them away from the water, shepherded them to the Rivillas dam. The sortie was over.

The French cannon opened fire, the round shot ploughing into mud-soaked red, and the British leaped for the damaged trench. Harper looked at Sharpe's drawn and gory sword. 'Like old times, sir.

Sharpe looked round his small group. All his Riflemen were there, grinning at him, and a good number of the rest of the Light Company. He grinned at them, then picked up a piece of wet sacking and wiped the sword blade. 'You'd better get back to the Company.

'Rather stay here, sir. Sharpe could not see who had spoken. He looked at Harper.

'Take them back, Sergeant.

'Sir. Harper grinned at him. 'And thank you, sir.

'For nothing. He was left alone. Small groups wandered the area of fighting and picked up the wounded and stacked the dead. There were a lot of bodies, more, he guessed, than had been in the breach at Ciudad Rodrigo. A spade brought down on a man's head is a vicious instrument and the British troops had been frustrated and ready for a fight, for a savage brawl in the mud. A dead Frenchman was curled at Sharpe's feet and the Rifleman crouched and ran his hands through the corpse's pockets and pouches. There was nothing worth taking. A letter folded into quarters which smeared as soon as Sharpe pulled it into the rain, a copper coin, and a loose musket ball that may have been the dead man's talisman. Round the neck, thick with blood, was a cheap metal crucifix. He had tried to grow a moustache, to look like a veteran, but the hairs were wispy and thin. He was hardly more than a boy. One of his boot soles had come loose, was hanging free and vibrating fitfully as the rain struck it. Had that killed him? Had the sole come loose in the fight and, as his comrades ran, had he limped, or stumbled, and had a British bayonet sliced into his neck? The ink washed off the letter, ran into the mud, but Sharpe could see the last word on the page that was written larger than the rest. 'Maman.

He looked at the city, now fringed again with the long flames as the guns hammered the threnody that would not cease till the siege was over. Teresa was there. He looked at the Cathedral tower, squat and arched with bell windows, and thought how close the bell must sound to her. The Cathedral only seemed to have the one bell, a harsh bell whose note died almost as soon as it was struck on the hour and its quarters. He wondered, quite suddenly, if she ever sang to the child? And what was mother in Spanish? Maman? Like the French?

'Sir! Sir! It was Ensign Matthews, blinking through the rain. 'Sir? Is that you, sir? Captain Sharpe?

'It's me. Sharpe did not correct the Captain to Lieutenant.

'You'd better come, sir.

'What is it?

'The officers' baggage, sir. It's been rifled.

'Rifled? He was scrambling out of the trench.

'The Colonel's lost some silver, sir. Everyone's lost something, sir.

Sharpe swore. He had been in charge of the baggage and, instead of guarding it, he had been brawling in the mud. He swore again and began to run.

CHAPTER 14

'God damn it! Colonel Windham paced up and down in the tiny sheepfold. He was carrying a riding crop and he cut with it in his fury, slashing at the pile of baggage. When he bent his head to look at the rifled baggage, water cascaded from his bicorne hat. 'God damn it!

'When did it happen? Sharpe asked Major Forrest.

'We don't know. Forrest smiled nervously at the Rifleman.

Windham swiveled. 'Happen? When? This God-damned afternoon, Sharpe, when you were supposed to be in Goddamned command! There were another dozen officers crowded back against the walls of the sheepfold and they looked to Sharpe with accusing faces. They were all wary of the Colonel's anger.

'Do we know it was this afternoon? Sharpe insisted.

Windham looked as if he would like to whip Sharpe with his riding crop. Instead he swore again, and turned away. It was not the officers' day-to-day baggage that had been burgled, but their valuables which had been stored in leather mule-bags. None of the baggage, as far as Sharpe knew, had been touched for three days. It contained the kind of things that a man would only unpack if he were in comfortable quarters for a long period; silverware, crystal, the luxuries that reminded them of home comforts. Windham growled at Major Collett. 'What's missing?

It was not a long list. Forrest had lost a money draft, but it had been found screwed up and thrown away in the mud. Whoever had slit the bags had not known what to do with the paper. There was a pair of snuffboxes gone, a gold chain that

Sharpe suspected had been looted from Ciudad Rodrigo; certainly the officer who reported that loss had been voluble about his poverty before the siege and remarkably silent afterwards. There was a set of gold scabbard furniture, too valuable to wear in battle, a pair of silver spurs and a pair of jeweled ear-rings that an embarrassed Lieutenant claimed was a present for his mother. Major Collett had lost a shaving mirror with a silver lid and a watch that he said was worth a small fortune. Most important of all was the Colonel's loss; the silver-filigree-framed portrait of his wife, the chinless, stern Jessica. The Colonel, rumor had it, was particularly fond of his wife; she had brought him a small fortune and the hunting rights for half of Leicestershire, and Colonel Windham was furious at the loss. Sharpe remembered the portrait sitting on the low table in Elvas.

Windham pointed the whip at Sharpe. 'Did you lose anything?

Sharpe shook his head. 'I've nothing here, sir. Everything he owned he carried on his back, except for the Patriotic Fund sword and the gold stolen at Almeida which were with his London agents.

'Where's your pack?

'With the others, sir.

'Is it marked?

Sharpe shook his head. 'No, sir.

'Fetch it, Sharpe.

It did not make sense. Was the Colonel accusing Sharpe of being the thief? If so, why ask Sharpe to fetch his own pack and, in so doing, have an opportunity of hiding the stolen goods? He found the pack, brought it back to the sheepfold. 'Do you want to search it, sir?

'Don't be a fool, Sharpe. You're an officer. And thereby, went the unspoken words, and despite all evidence to the contrary, a gentleman. 'I want to see how far our thief's net was cast. See if anything's missing, man!

Sharpe unbuckled the straps. The French pack was crammed with spare, dirty clothes; two spare locks for his rifle, and a half bottle of rum. He kept only one valuable in the pack and he did not need to look for it; it was gone. He looked up at Windham. I'm missing a telescope.

'Telescope? Anything special about it?

Something very special; the inlet brass plate that was inscribed In Gratitude. AW. 23 September 1803. It had gone. Sharpe pushed his hand desperately down through the clothes, but it was gone. Damn the thief! The telescope had been a gift from Wellington, a valued gift, and Sharpe cursed himself for leaving the pack with all the others. Yet they had been guarded. As the sheepfold with the officers' valuables had been guarded. Windham listened to Sharpe's description and nodded with satisfaction. 'That proves one thing.

'Proves? What, sir?

Windham smiled. 'I think we know where our thief comes from. Only one Company would know that pack! He pointed at Sharpe's gradually soaking clothes in their French pig-skin pack. He turned to Major Collett. 'Parade the Light Company, Jack. Search every man.

Sharpe tried to protest. 'Sir?

Windham whipped round on him, held out the crop accusingly. 'If you had stayed on guard, Sharpe, instead of gallivanting on the hill, this would not have happened. Stay out of it!

Hakeswill! It had to be Hakeswill! Sharpe knew it, and knew with an utter certainty that the accusation would never be proved. The theft of the telescope, at least, had to have been done in the afternoon because Sharpe had seen the glass in his pack at midday. The Light Company, or most of them, had been with Sharpe fighting the French, but he suddenly remembered the awkward, lumbering figure of the yellow-faced Sergeant hurrying back towards the baggage. The loot would all be hidden by now. And the guards whom Sharpe had left to watch the baggage would all have wandered to the hilltop to see the fight. He strapped up the buckles of his pack. Major Forrest waited till the other officers had filed out the gate. 'I'm sorry, Sharpe.

'I don't think it's the Light Company, sir.

'I meant about the telescope.

Sharpe grunted. Forrest was a decent man, always wanting others to be content. The Rifleman shrugged. 'It's gone, sir. It won't come back. Hakeswill was too clever a thief to be discovered.

Forrest shook his head unhappily. 'I don't believe it. And we used to be such a happy battalion! His face suddenly changed, became curious. 'Sharpe?

'Sir?

'Colonel Windham said you were married. I didn't like to contradict him.

'Did you, sir?

'Good Lord, no! Are you?

Sharpe shook his head. 'No, sir.

'But he said you told him you were.

Sharpe squatted back on his heels and smiled up at the Major. 'I did.

'For God's sake, why?

'Don't know, sir. It just came out.’

'But, Good Lord, Sharpe. It goes on your papers, it… " Forrest gave up. 'Why don't you tell him the truth?

'I quite like the idea, sir.

Forrest laughed. 'Well I never. I thought it was odd when he mentioned it, but I thought it could be true. You're such a private fellow, Sharpe.

'The way I'm going, sir, I probably will be soon.

'Don't be ridiculous. Forrest frowned. ‘There'll be a Captaincy soon. There nearly was this afternoon. Poor Sterritt tripped over and had a bayonet through his jacket.

Sharpe said nothing. He had shamelessly searched the survivors to see if any Captain was missing, but they all seemed to bear charmed lives and a remarkable freedom from disease in the foul weather. He stood up and slung his pack on one shoulder. Over the hill came the thumps of the French guns, a sound so common that men hardly noticed it any more. As common as the endless hissing of the rain.

Forrest looked over his shoulder, at the parading Light Company. This is sad, Sharpe. Very sad.

Windham paraded them and the Sergeant Major called each man forward in turn to have pouches, haversack and pack emptied on to a groundsheet. Another Sergeant went through the packets. Sharpe turned away. He found it sad, too, and unnecessary. He would have paraded them and given them ten minutes to come up with the thief or face the consequences; if, that is, he really believed that one of the Company was the thief. Forrest shook his head. 'He's very thorough, Sharpe.

'Not really, sir.’

'What do you mean?

Sharpe gave a tired smile. 'When I was in the ranks, sir, we had packs with false bottoms. He's not looking inside the shakoes. Anyway, a real thief won't have the stuff anymore.

'He's hardly had time to get rid of it.

'Sir. One of the women could have it by now, he could have sold it all to the Sutler for a few shillings and a bottle or two. It could be hidden. It won't be found. We're just wasting our time.

A horseman pulled up outside the sheepfold and saluted Forrest. 'Sir?

Major Forrest peered through the rain. 'Good Lord! Young Knowles! You've got a new horse!

'Yes, sir. Robert Knowles slid from the saddle and grinned at Sharpe. 'Now I'm not in your Company, I'm allowed to ride a horse. Do you like it?

Sharpe looked morosely at the beast. 'Very nice, sir.

Knowles stiffened on the 'sir'. He looked from Sharpe to Forrest. His smile went. 'Your gazette? He stammered at Sharpe.

'It was refused, sir.

'Stop it. Knowles was embarrassed. He had learned his trade from Sharpe, modeled himself on his old Captain, and now he had a Light Company of his own he tried to think, every hour, of how Sharpe would lead them. 'It's ridiculous!

Forrest nodded. 'The world's gone mad.

Knowles frowned, shook his head. 'I don't believe it!

Sharpe shrugged. 'It's true. He felt sorry for having embarrassed Knowles. 'How's the Company?

'Wet. They want to get on with the fighting. He shook his head again. 'So who's got your Company?

Forrest sighed. 'A man called Rymer.

Knowles shrugged. 'They're mad. He looked at Sharpe. 'It seems crazy! You underneath some Captain?

Forrest tut-tutted. 'Oh, no. Mr. Sharpe has special duties.

Sharpe grinned. 'I'm the Lieutenant in charge of women, pick-axes, mules, and baggage guard.

Knowles laughed. 'I don't bloody believe it! He suddenly noticed the strange parade beyond the circular, small sheepfold. 'What's happening?

'A thief. Forrest sounded sad. 'The Colonel thinks it might be someone in the Light Company.

'He's mad! Knowles kept a fierce loyalty to his old Company. 'They're much too fly to be caught!

'I know. Sharpe watched the search. The men had all been processed, and nothing found, and now the Sergeants came forward. Hakeswill stood ramrod straight, his face twitching, as his pack was turned upside down. Nothing would be found, of course. The Sergeant gave Windham a snapping salute.

Harper came forward, grinning with amusement that anyone should think him capable of such an act. Hakeswill first, then Harper, and Sharpe began running up the hillside because, of course, Hakeswill wanted Harper out of the way. Patrick Harper saw Sharpe coming and raised his eyebrows, taking the insult of the search with the same calm tolerance with which he met most of life's indignities, and then the face registered shock.

'Sir? The Sergeant Major was straightening up.

Sharpe had realized what was happening, but too late. He should have got to Harper sooner. Before the parade.

'Officer of the Day! Windham's voice was harsh. Put the Sergeant under arrest.

They only found one thing, but it was enough. On top of the pack, not even hidden, was the silver frame that had enclosed the picture of Windham's wife. The glass had been Smashed and the portrait was missing, razored from the filigree that had itself been bent. Windham held the frame, seemed to quiver with rage, and looked up at the huge Sergeant. 'Where's the picture?"

'I know nothing about it, sir. Nothing. So help me, sir, I did not take it.

‘I’ll flog you! By God! I will flog you!1 He turned on his heel.

The Light Company stood frozen, the rain dripping from shako peaks, their uniforms soaked. They seemed shocked. The rest of the Battalion, crouched in their inadequate shelters, watched as the Officer of the Day assembled a guard and Harper was taken away. Sharpe did not move.

The Company was dismissed. Fires were lit under the shelters in a vain attempt to drive out the dampness. Bullocks were slaughtered for the evening meal, the musket smoke lingering over the panicked survivors of the herd, and Sharpe let the rain chill his skin as he felt a terrible impotence. Knowles tried to move him. 'Come and eat with us. Be my guest. Please.

Sharpe shook his head. 'No. I must be here for the Court-Martial.

Knowles looked worried. 'What's happening to the Battalion, sir?

'Happening, Robert? Nothing.

He would kill Hakeswill one day, but now he needed proof or otherwise Harper could never be cleared. Sharpe did not know how to get the truth. Hakeswill was cunning and Sharpe knew that the truth could not be beaten out of him. He would laugh at a beating. But one day Sharpe would bury the sword in that belly and let the rottenness burst out like putrescent ooze. He would kill the bastard.

The bugles sounded sunset, the end of the regulation day, the fourth day of Badajoz.

CHAPTER 15

It rained all night; Sharpe knew, for he was awake most of it, listening to the ceaseless water, the wind, and the sporadic shot from the French cannon that tried to disturb the digging of the batteries. There was no counter-fire from the British; the siege guns, still wrapped in straw and sacking, were waiting for a break in the weather so that the carts could be dragged over the hill and the massive guns put into their emplacements.

Sharpe sat with Harper at the top of the hill and stared down at the dull lights inside the city. They looked far away, blurred by the weather, and Sharpe tried to distinguish the Cathedral and thought of the sick child nearby.

Harper should not have been with him. He was under guard, sentenced to be flogged and reduced to the ranks, but Sharpe had simply told the sentries to look the other way while he and Harper climbed to the hilltop. Sharpe glanced at the Irishman. 'I'm sorry.

'Nothing to be sorry for, sir. You did all you could.

Which had amounted to very little. Sharpe had pleaded, begged almost, but the filigree frame was proof enough for the Regimental Court Martial. Sharpe had testified that Harper had been with him all afternoon, fighting the French attack, and that his own telescope had disappeared in that time so the Sergeant could not have been responsible. Windham had been implacable. The telescope, he said, must have been stolen by another thief. Harper was guilty, broken down to a Private, and sentenced to a flogging.

Harper was thinking of the morning. The Donegal voice was soft. 'A hundred strokes, eh? Could be worse. Twelve hundred lashes was the maximum sentence.

Sharpe handed a bottle to him. Both men were swathed in lengths of tarred canvas on which the rain drummed. 'I got two hundred.

The army's going soft, so it is. Harper laughed. 'And back to a bloody Private, too! They don't even call me a Rifleman in this bloody Regiment. Private bloody Harper. He drank. 'And when do they think I stole the bloody things?"

'Tuesday.

'God save Ireland! St Patrick's Day?

'You were missing from the lines.

'Jesus! I was with you. Drinking.

'I know. I told them.

There was silence between them, a companionable misery. From the slope below came the chink of pick-axes as the batteries were sunk below the topsoil. At least, Sharpe reflected, the two of them had plenty of drink. The Light Company had pooled their resources, scrounged and stolen more, and beneath the canvas shelters there were at least a dozen canteens of rum or wine. 'I'm sorry, Patrick.

'Save your breath, sir. It'll not hurt. He knew he was lying. ‘I’ll kill that bastard!

'After me. They sat and thought about the comforting idea of killing Hakeswill. The Sergeant was taking precautions. He had pitched his shelter just yards from the officers' crude, canvas tents, and Sharpe knew that there was no hope, this night, of their successfully spiriting Hakeswill away to some silent, lonely place.

The Irishman chuckled softly and Sharpe looked at him. 'What?

'I was thinking of the Colonel. What was on the bloody portrait?

'His wife.

'She must be a rare beauty.

'No. Sharpe uncorked another canteen. 'She looked a sour bitch, but you can never tell with paintings. Anyway, our Colonel approves of marriage. He thinks it keeps a man out of trouble.

'It's probably true. Harper sounded unconvinced. 'I hear a rumor that you and Miss Teresa are married. How the hell did that get started?

'I told the Colonel.

'You did! Harper laughed. 'Mind you, you should marry her. Make an honest woman of her.

'And what about Jane Gibbons?

Harper grinned. He had met the blonde girl, the sister of the man he had killed, and he shook his head. 'She'll not have you. You have to be born in a big house to marry that kind; lots of money and all that. You're just a foot soldier, like the rest of us. A fancy red sash won't get you into her bed. At least, not for keeps.

Sharpe chuckled. 'You think I should marry Teresa?

'Why not? She's a skinny thing, so she is, but you could put some meat on her bones. Harper profoundly disapproved of Sharpe's taste for slim women.

They sat silent again, listening to the rain pelt on the canvas, and sharing a friendship that rarely had a chance to be expressed or defined. Sharpe had a reputation, with those who did not know him well, of being a man short on words and it was true, he thought, except with a handful of friends. Harper and Hogan; Lossow, the German cavalryman, and that was about all. Exiles to a man, cut off from their own countries and fighting with a strange army. Sharpe was an exile, too, a stranger in the Officers' Mess. 'You know what the General says?

Harper shook his head. 'Tell me what the General says.

'He says that no one ever promoted from the ranks turns out well.

'Does he now?

'He says they turn to drink.’

'In this army, who wouldn't? Harper pushed a canteen at Sharpe. 'Here, get yourself drunk.

Some fool opened the door of a lantern in the parallel and the French gunners, ever alert, saw the light and suddenly the ramparts of Badajoz blossomed flame and shot. There were shouts from the workings, the light disappeared, but then there was the sick thud of the shots striking home and the screams from the trench. Harper spat. 'We'll never take this bloody town.

'We can't stay here for ever.

'That's what you said when you first went to Ireland.

Sharpe grinned. 'It's the welcome you give us. We don't want to leave. Anyway, we like the weather.

'You can keep it. Harper squinted up into the darkness. 'Christ! I wish the rain would stop!

'I thought the Irish liked rain.

'We love rain, so we do, but this isn't rain.

'What is it?

'It's the flood, the deluge, the end of the whole sodden world.

Sharpe leaned back on a wicker gabion, abandoned by a working party, and stared up. 'I haven't seen the stars in a week. Longer.

'That's true.

'I like stars.

'That's nice for them. Harper was amused; he did not often hear Sharpe's tongue loosened by drink.

'No, really. You like birds, I like stars.

'Birds do things. They fly, make nests. You can watch them.

Sharpe said nothing. He remembered the nights lying in fields, head on haversack, body inside the sewn blanket, and legs thrust into the arms of the jacket which was buttoned upside down on his stomach. It was the soldier's way of sleeping, but on some nights he would simply lie there and watch the great smear in the sky that was like the camp fires of an unimaginably huge army. Legion upon incomprehensible legion, up there in the sky, and he knew that they were coming nearer, night by night, and the picture was confused in his head by the strange, drunken preachers who had come to the foundling home when he was a child. The stars were mixed up with the four horsemen of the apocalypse, the last trump, the second coming, the raising of the dead, and the lights in the night were the army of the world's end. "The world won't end in a flood. It'll be bayonets and battalions. A bloody great battle.

'As long as we're in the skirmish line, sir, I don't mind. Harper drank more rum. 'I must save some for the morning.

Sharpe sat up. 'Hagman's bribing the drummer boys.

'Never works. Harper was right. The drummer boys did the flogging and were usually bribed by the victim's friends, but under the gaze of the officers they were forced to lay on with their full strength.

Sharpe stared at the dark bulk of Badajoz, relieved by a few hazed lights. There was a fire burning in one of the castle's many courtyards. The dull, brief bell of the Cathedral rang the half-hour. 'If only she wasn't there… He stopped.

'What?

‘I don't know.

'If she wasn't there. Harper's Ulster accent was slow, as if he was treading very carefully. 'You'd be tempted to bugger off. Is that right? Up to the hills? To fight with the Partisans?

'I don't know.

'You do. Do you think no one else has thought of it? Harper meant himself. 'You're not a fair weather soldier only.

'We'll get desertions soon.

‘Aye, if Hakeswill isn't buried soon. No one had deserted from the Battalion for months. Other battalions were losing men, a handful each day who slipped across to Badajoz. There was traffic the other way, too, including, so Hogan had told Sharpe, a French Engineer Sergeant who brought with him the plans of the defences. The plans held few surprises, except confirmation that the western glacis was thickly mined.

Sharpe changed the subject. 'Know how many died today?

'Was it today? Harper sounded surprised. 'It seems like last week.

'A hundred of us. They counted nearly three hundred French. And some of them drowned, too. Poor bastards.

'They always see double counting the French. Harper was scornful. 'And the French are probably boasting they killed a thousand of us.

'They didn't do much damage.

'No. The French had hoped to set the siege back by at least a week, by forcing the British to re-dig the whole parallel. A week gained would be an extra week during which a French field army might march to the garrison's relief. Harper opened another canteen. The assault will be rough.

'Yes.

The rain hissed down, seething on the soaked ground, thudding monotonously on the canvas. It was bitterly cold. Harper offered Sharpe the new canteen. 'I have an idea.

'Tell me. Sharpe yawned.

'Am I keeping you up?

'What's your idea?

'I'm volunteering for the Forlorn Hope.

Sharpe snorted. 'Don't be a bloody fool. You want to live, don't you?

'I'm not being a fool, and I want to be a Sergeant again. Will you ask for me?

Sharpe shrugged. ‘They don't listen to me any more.

'I said, will you ask? Harper's voice was stubborn.

Sharpe could not imagine Harper dead. He shook his head. 'No.

'You keeping it for yourself? The words were spoken harshly. Sharpe turned and looked at the huge man. There was no point in denial.

'How did you know?

Harper laughed. 'How long have I been with you? Mary, Mother of God, do you think I'm a fool? You lose your Captaincy and what will you do? You'll go screaming up some bloody breach with your sword waving because you'd rather be dead than lose your bloody pride.

Sharpe knew it was true. 'What about you?

I'd like the stripes back.

'Pride?

'Why not? They keep saying the Irish are fools, but I notice precious few laughing at me.

"That could be your size, not your stripes.

'Aye, maybe, but I'll not have them saying I failed. So you've volunteered?

Sharpe nodded. 'Yes. But they won't choose anyone yet, not till the assault.

'And if they choose you, will you take me?

'Yes. He said the word with reluctance.

The Irishman nodded. 'Let's hope they choose you, then.

'Pray for a miracle.

Harper laughed. You don't want a miracle. They always turn out bad. He drank rum. 'St Patrick turns out all the snakes from Ireland and what happens? We get so bored that we let the English in to take their place. The poor man must be turning in his grave. Snakes were better.

Sharpe shook his head. 'If Ireland were five times bigger, and England five times smaller, then you'd be doing the same to us.

Harper laughed again. 'Now that would be a miracle worth praying for.

Guns boomed to their right, across the river, as the cannon in the San Cristobel Fort fired over the Guadiana towards the parallel. The long, spitting fire was reflected in the dark water. The gunners on the city wall, not to be outdone, fired their pieces and the night was filled with the noise.

Harper shivered with the cold. ‘I’ll pray for another miracle.

'What?

'A chance to get Hakeswill. He nodded towards the city. 'In one of those little alleyways. I'll tear his bloody head off.

'What makes you think we'll get through the wall?

Harper gave a humorless laugh. 'You don't really think we can fail, do you?

'No. But then he had not really thought he could lose his Captaincy, had not thought he could lose the Company, and not in his worst dreams had he ever thought he would have to stand and watch Patrick Harper being flogged. The cold, wet night drummed on, bringing the bad dreams true.

CHAPTER 16

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, infectious 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 rumor, 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.

CHAPTER 17

On Tuesday afternoon it stopped raining.

There were suddenly scraps of blue sky between the tattered clouds and, like some beast saved from imminent drowning, the army heaved itself out of the mud and attacked the trenches with renewed energy.

They hauled the guns over the hill that night. The ground was still an almost impenetrable sludge, but they hauled on ropes, thrust wicker beneath reluctant wheels, and with an enthusiasm endowed by the break in the weather, the troops took the vast twenty-four-pounders to the newly-dug batteries.

In the morning, in a miraculously clear dawn, there was a cheer from the British camp. The first shot had been fired and they were hitting back! Twenty-eight siege guns were in place, protected by gabions, and the Engineers directed the artillery officers so that the iron balls hammered at the base of the Trinidad bastion. The French guns tried to destroy the siege guns and the valley above the grey, placid floodwaters of the Rivillas was shrouded with smoke that swirled as the cannon balls pierced through the mist.

At the end of the first day, when an evening breeze drifted the smoke southwards, a hole was visible in the masonry of the bastion. It was not much of a hole, more of a chipped dent, surrounded by smaller shot scars. Sharpe stared at the damage through Major Forrest's telescope and gave a humorless laugh. 'Another three months, sir, and they might notice us.

Forrest said nothing. He was afraid of Sharpe's mood, of the depression that had come with idleness. The Rifleman had hardly any duties. Windham seemed to have abandoned the wives' parade, the mules were in pasture, and Sharpe's time hung heavily. Forrest had spoken to Windham, but the Colonel had shaken his head. 'We're all bored, Forrest. The assault will cure all. Then the Colonel had taken his fox hounds south for a day's hunting, and with him half the Battalion's officers. Forrest had tried, unsuccessfully, to cheer Sharpe up. He looked now at Sharpe's morose profile. 'How's Sergeant Harper?"

'Private Harper's getting better, sir. Another three or four days and he'll be on duty.

Forrest sighed. 'I can't get used to calling him «Private». It doesn't seem right. Then he blushed. 'Oh dear. I suppose I've put my foot in it.

Sharpe laughed. 'No, sir. I'm getting used to being a Lieutenant. It was not true, but Forrest needed reassurance. 'Are you comfortable, sir?

'Very. It's a splendid view. They were watching the valley and the city, waiting for the attack that would be made just after dark. Half the army were on the hilltop, in the trench or the new, half finished batteries, and the French must have known that something was about to happen. It was not difficult to guess what was intended. The British guns were more than half a mile from the Trinidad bastion, too far to be truly effective, and the Engineers needed to cut that range in half. That meant building a second parallel, with new batteries, right on the edge of the floodwaters, just where the French had built the Picurina Fort. Tonight the fort would be attacked. Sharpe had desperately hoped that the Fourth Division, his own, would be chosen, but instead the Third and Light would go forward in the darkness and Sharpe was merely a spectator. Forrest looked down the slope. 'It shouldn't be difficult.

'No, sir. Which was true, Sharpe thought, but only half the battle. The Picurina Fort was almost makeshift; a wedge-shaped obstacle facing the British tide and only intended to slow them down. It had a ditch that protected a low stone wall, and on the wail were palisades, split-trunks loop holed for muskets, and the fort was far enough from the city so that the French guns could not douse the attack with grapeshot. The fort should fall, but that still left the lake formed by the dammed Rivillas. The floodwater blocked the direct approach to the city. Unless the lake could be drained, any attack would have to come from the south, squeezed between the water and the south wall, passing by the huge Pardaleras Fort, and the attacking columns would be under fire from scores of French guns and shredded by grapeshot. Sharpe borrowed Forrest's glass again and trained it on the dam. It was remarkably well-built, for a temporary structure, and Sharpe could see a balustraded stone walkway along the dam top that led to the fort, much stronger than the Picurina, that defended the dam. The fort and dam were hard by the city walls. A man with a musket on the San Pedro bastion could easily fire down on to the stone walkway. Forrest saw where he was looking.

'What are you thinking, Sharpe?

'I was thinking it wouldn't be easy to attack the dam, sir.

'You think anyone intends to attack the dam?

Sharpe knew an attack was intended, Hogan had told him so, but he shrugged his shoulders. 'I wouldn't know, sir.

Forrest looked round conspiratorially. 'Don't tell anyone, Sharpe, but we're going to!

'We, sir? Sharpe had a flicker of excitement in his voice. 'The Battalion, sir?’

'I'm speaking out of turn, Sharpe, out of turn. Forrest was pleased at the quickening in Sharpe's voice. 'The Colonel's offered our services. The General of Division was talking to him. We may be the lucky ones!

'When, sir?

'I don't know, Sharpe! They don't tell me these things. Look! The curtain's going up!

Forrest pointed to the huge number one battery. A gunner had snatched the last gabion from the embrasure and one of the guns, silent for half an hour, bellowed flame and smoke down the hillside. The ball, under-aimed, struck the ground in front of the Picurina, scarred the earth as it bounced, and then fell with a tall splash into the lake. The jeer of the French inside the small fort was audible four hundred yards away.

The gunners raised the barrel half an inch by turning the huge screw beneath the breech. The barrel hissed as it was sponged out. The embrasure had been plugged again as defence against the inevitable fire from the city walls. The powder bags were thrust deep into the gun's throat, rammed home and the ball trundled into the muzzle. A Sergeant leaned over the touch-hole, thrust down with the spike that punctured the powder bags, and then inserted the tube filled with fine powder that fired the charge. His hand went up, an officer shouted orders and the gabions were pulled from the front of the battery. The men crouched with their hands over their ears as the Sergeant touched the priming tube with a match burning at the end of a long pole, and the gun slammed back on the inclined wooden platform. The ball struck the timber palisade of the Picurina, splintering the tree-trunks, driving the shards of unseasoned wood in vicious showers on the defenders, and it was the turn of the British to cheer.

Forrest was looking at the fort through his telescope. He tut-tutted. 'Poor lads. He turned to Sharpe. 'That can't be very nice for them.

Sharpe wanted to laugh. 'No, sir.’

'I know what you're thinking, Sharpe. That I'm too charitable to the enemy. You're probably right, but I can't help imagining that my son is in there.

'I thought your son was an engraver, sir.

'Yes, he is, Sharpe, yes he is, but if he was a French soldier he might be in there and that would be most upsetting.

Sharpe gave up trying to follow Forrest's charitable imaginings and turned back to the Picurina. The other British guns had got the range and the heavy balls were systematically destroying the flimsy defences. The French inside were trapped. They could not retreat, for the lake was to their rear, and they must have known that the cannonade would end in an infantry attack as soon as dusk gave way to night. Forrest frowned at the sight. 'Why don't they surrender?

'Would you, sir?

Forrest was offended. 'Of course not, Sharpe. I'm English!

'They're French, sir. They don't like surrendering either.

'I suppose you're right. Forrest did not really understand why the French, a nation he thought to be basically civilized, should fight so hard in such an evil cause. He could understand the Americans fighting for Republicanism; a young nation could hardly be expected to have enough sense to recognize the dangers of such a foul political code, but the French? Forrest could not understand that. It was made worse that the French were the most powerful military nation on earth, and thus had harnessed their muskets and horsemen to the spreading Republican evil, and it was Britain's obvious duty to contain the disease. Forrest saw the war as a moral crusade, a fight for decency and order, and victory to the British would mean that the Almighty, who could not possibly be suspected of Republican sentiments, had blessed the British effort.

He had explained his beliefs once to Major Hogan and had been deeply shocked when the Engineer had dismissed his ideas. 'My dear Forrest. You are fighting purely for trade! If Boney hadn't closed Portugal's harbors you'd be snug in your Chelmsford bed.

Forrest remembered the conversation and looked at Sharpe. 'Sharpe? Why are we fighting?

'Sir? For a moment Sharpe wondered if Forrest was proposing a surrender to the Picurina Fort. 'Why are we fighting?

'Yes, Sharpe. Why do you fight? Are you against Republicanism?

'Me, sir? I couldn't even spell it. He grinned at Forrest, saw that the Major was serious. 'Good Lord, sir. We always fight the French. Every twenty years or so. If we didn't they'd invade us. Then we'd all be forced to eat snails and speak French. He laughed at Forrest. 'I don't know, sir. We fight them because they're meddlesome bastards and someone has to stamp all over them.

Forrest sighed. He was saved trying to explain the political forces of the world to Sharpe because Colonel Windham and a group of the Battalion's officers spotted them and joined them at the parapet. Windham was in a good mood. He looked at the British shot flailing at the remains of the French parapet and slapped a palm with a clenched fist. 'Well done, lads! Give the bastards hell! He nodded civilly to Sharpe and grinned at Forrest. 'Excellent day, Forrest, excellent. Two foxes!

Hogan had once mentioned to Sharpe that nothing cheered up a British officer as much as a dead fox. In addition to this double cause for satisfaction Windham had more good news. He pulled a letter from his pocket and brandished it towards Forrest. 'Letter from Mrs. Windham, Forrest. Splendid news!

'Good, sir. Forrest, like Sharpe, was wondering whether the chinless Jessica had given birth to another young Windham, but it was not to be. The Colonel opened the letter, hummed and hawed as he glanced down the first few lines, and Sharpe could tell from the expressions of Leroy and the other newcomers that Windham had already been spreading whatever the good news turned out to be.

'Here it is! We've had poacher trouble, Forrest, damned bad trouble. Some rascal's been in among the pheasants. My good lady caught him!

'Splendid, sir. Forrest tried to sound enthusiastic.

'More than caught him! She bought a new kind of mantrap. Damned thing did so much damage that he died of the gangrene. Here we are. Mrs. Windham writes: "It so inspired the Rector that he incorporated Same into last Sunday's sermon to the undoubted Edification of those in the Parish Unmindful of their Station!" Windham beamed at the assembled officers. Sharpe doubted if anyone in the Colonel's parish was unmindful of their station while Mrs. Windham was so mindful of her own, but he judged it not the right moment to say so. Windham looked again at the letter. 'Splendid man, our Rector. Rides like a trooper. Know what his text was?

Sharpe waited for a gun to fire. 'Numbers. Chapter thirty-two, verse twenty-three, sir? He spoke mildly.

The Colonel looked at him. 'How the devil did you know? He seemed to suspect that the Rifleman might have been reading his post. Leroy was grinning.

Sharpe decided not to say that he had slept in a dormitory in a foundling home that had the text painted in letters three feet high down the wall. 'It seemed appropriate, sir.

'Quite right, Sharpe, damned appropriate. "Be sure your sin will find you out.’ It found him out, eh? Died of the gangrene! Windham laughed and turned to greet Major Collett who was bringing the Colonel's servant laden with bottles of wine. The Colonel smiled at his officers. 'Thought we'd celebrate. We'll drink to tonight's attack.

The guns fired through dusk, and on till, in the darkness, the bugles brought an overwhelming force of British infantry forward against the small redoubt. The gunners on the city wall, hearing the British cannonade stop, lowered their own muzzle and fired over the Picurina at the hill-slope. The round shot smashed into file after file of the attackers, but they closed up and walked on, and then there were deeper explosions from the city and the watchers on the hill saw the dark red streaks of the shell-fuses arc over the lake as the howitzers started firing. The shells exploded in scarlet blossoms. Riflemen of the 95th formed a skirmish line, curving round the fort, and Sharpe could see the needle flames flickering round the line, seeking the loopholes. The French in the fort held their fire, hearing the commands in the darkness, listening to the rifle bullets overhead, waiting for the actual assault.

On the hill the watching officers could see little except the flames of guns and explosions. Sharpe was fascinated by the guns on the city's parapets. Each shot spewed flame that, for a few seconds, was bright and stabbing as the shot sped away, but then, for a brief moment, the flame contracted into a strange, writhing shape that existed independently of the cannon; a fading, twisting beauty, like a fire ghost, like intricate folds of flame-made drapery that swirled and disappeared. The sight had a mesmerizing beauty, nothing to do with war, and he stood and watched, drinking the Colonel's wine, until a cheer from the dark field told him that the attacking battalions had lowered their bayonets for the charge. And stopped.

Something had gone wrong. The cheer died. The ditch, that ran clear round the small fort, was deeper than anyone expected and, unseen from the low hilltop, flooded with rainwater. The attackers had expected to jump into the ditch and, using the short ladders they carried, climb easily on to the fort and carry their bayonets to an outnumbered enemy. Instead they were checked. The French defenders crawled to their splintered ramparts and opened fire. Muskets crackled over the ditch. The British fire hammered uselessly at the fort's stonework and shattered palisades while the French toppled men into the water or drove them back into the ranks behind. The French, sensing victory, rammed and fired, rammed and fired, and then, to light their helpless targets, lit the oil-soaked carcasses they had been keeping for the final assault, and rolled the lights down the face of the fort.

It was a fatal mistake. Sharpe, on the hilltop, saw the attackers milling helplessly at the lip of the ditch. In the sudden flame-light, the British were easy targets for the French gunners on the city walls who fired at the sides of the fort, slicing whole ranks of men into eternity with single shots and forcing the attackers to the shelter of the fort's front edge. But the light also revealed a strange weakness in the fort. Sharpe borrowed Forrest's glass and, through the dim lens, could see that the defenders had driven wooden spikes into the face of the ditch to stop an attempt to climb its inner face. The spikes effectively reduced the width of the ditch to less than thirty feet and, as the glass was impatiently snatched from him by Major Collett, he saw the first ladders laid like a bridge on to the convenient spikes. It was the 88th, the same Regiment that he had fought beside at Ciudad Rodrigo, the men from Connaught. Three ladders held, despite their green, wet, sagging timbers, and the Irishmen made their precarious crossing, into the eye of a musket storm, and some dropped into the drowning ditch, but others scrambled across and the dark uniforms, lit by fire, climbed the fort's escarpment as others crossed behind them.

The lights of the carcasses died, the battlefield went dark, and only the sounds told the story of the fight to the hilltop. Screams came clearly, but few shots, which told those who understood that the bayonets were at work. Then there were cheers, that spread back among the attackers, and Sharpe knew that the British had won. The Connaught Rangers would be hunting the French survivors in the round shot-shattered fort, the long, thin blades searching the broken timber and he grinned in the night at the thought of a fight well fought. Patrick Harper would be jealous. The men from Connaught would have a few tales to tell, of how they had walked the precarious bridge, and won. Windham's voice disturbed his thoughts.

'That's it, gentlemen. Our turn next.

There was a brief silence, then Leroy's voice. 'Our turn?

'We're going to blow up the dam! Windham's voice was full of enthusiasm.

There were a dozen questions, all asked at once, and Windham chose one to answer. 'When? I don't know when. Three days' time, probably. Keep it to yourselves, gentlemen, I don't want every Tom, Dick and Harry to know. There-should be some surprise in our attack. Windham laughed, his good mood had lasted.

'Sir? Sharpe's voice was low.

'Sharpe? That you? It was difficult to distinguish shapes in the darkness.

'Yes, sir. Permission to rejoin the Company for the attack.

'You're a bloodthirsty bastard, Sharpe. Windham's voice was cheerful. 'You ought to be my gamekeeper. I'll think about it! He moved off down the trench, leaving Sharpe uncertain whether he was being considered as gamekeeper or soldier.

There was a sudden glow in the trench beside him and the smell of pungent tobacco. Leroy's voice, deep and amused, came with the smoke. 'With any luck, Sharpe, one of us will die. You'll get your Captaincy back.

'It had occurred to me.

The American laughed. 'Do you think any of us think of anything else? You're a bloody ghost, Sharpe! He put on a morbid tone. 'You remind us of our mortality. Which one of us will you replace?

'Any offers?

Leroy laughed. 'Not me, Mr. Sharpe, not me. If you think I left Boston just so you could get my shoes, you're wrong. 'Why did you leave Boston?

I'm an American, with a French name, from a Royalist family, fighting for the English, for a German king, who's mad. There, what does that tell you?

Sharpe shrugged in the darkness. He could think of nothing to say. 'I don't know.

'Nor do I, Sharpe, nor do I. The cigar glowed bright, then faded. Leroy's voice was low and private. 'I sometimes wonder if I chose the wrong side.

'Did you?

Leroy was silent for a moment. Sharpe could see his profile staring down at the dark city. 'I suppose so, Sharpe. My Father took an oath to defend the King's Majesty and I kind of inherited the burden. He laughed. 'Here I am, defending away. Sharpe had rarely heard Leroy talk so much. The American was a silent man who watched the world with ironic amusement. 'You know America is spoiling for war?

'I heard.

'They want to invade Canada. They probably will. I could be a General in that army, Sharpe. I'd have streets named after me. Hell! Even whole towns! He fell silent again and Sharpe knew that Leroy was thinking about his probable fate; an unmarked Spanish grave. Sharpe knew a score of men like Leroy; men whose families had stayed loyal after the American Revolution and who now fought, as exiles, for King George. Leroy laughed again, a bitter laugh. 'I envy you, Sharpe.

'Envy me? Why?

'I'm just a drunk American with a French name fighting for a German lunatic and I don't know why. You know where you're going.

'Do I?

'Yes, Mr. Sharpe, you do. To the top, wherever that is. And that's why our happy band of Captains are so frightened of you. Which one of us has to die for your next step? He paused to light another cigar from the butt of the first. 'And I can tell you, Sharpe, in my friendliest possible way, that they would much rather see you dead.

Sharpe stared at the dark profile. 'Is that a warning?

'Hell, no! I'm just spreading a little gloom in the night. There was a trampling of feet in the trench and the two officers had to squeeze in to the side to let stretcher bearers pass, carrying the wounded from the Picurina. The men moaned on the stretchers; one sobbed. Leroy watched them pass and then clapped Sharpe on the shoulder. 'Our turn next, Sharpe, our turn next.

CHAPTER 18

'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-barreled gun slung on the Irishman's shoulder.

'What's that?

'Seven-barreled 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 on? 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-barreled 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-barreled 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.

'Fire?! 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 Sharp, 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-centered 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 breath 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 die 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 carcass, 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, apparently 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, undipped 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 Onoro. 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 cross belt 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 out crawl 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 walk, 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 sail 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 clamor 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.

CHAPTER 19

'Hold still! the doctor muttered, not so much to Sharpe who was rigid, but because he always said the words when operating. He twiddled the probe in his fingers, looking at it, then wiped it on his apron before pushing it delicately into the wound in Sharpe's thigh. 'You've been wounded a fair bit, Mr. Sharpe.

'Yes, sir. Sharpe hissed the words. His leg felt as if a serpent with red hot fangs was tearing at him.

The doctor grunted, pushed down. 'Ah! Splendid! Splendid! Blood welled from the bullet wound. 'I have it. He pushed, feeling the bullet grate beneath the probe's tip.

'Jesus!

'A very present help in trouble. The doctor said the words automatically. He straightened up, leaving the probe in the wound. 'You're a lucky man, Mr. Sharpe.’

'Lucky, sir? His leg was on fire, streaking pain from ankle to groin.

'Lucky. The doctor picked up a glass of claret that his orderly kept always full. He stared at the probe. 'To leave or not to leave, that is the question. He glanced at Sharpe. 'You're a healthy bastard, yes?

'Yes, sir. It came out as a groan.

The doctor sniffed. His cold had not improved since Harper's flogging. 'It could stay in there, Mr. Sharpe, but I think not. You're lucky. It's not deep. The ball must have lost most of its force. He looked behind him and selected a long, thin pair of pincers. He inspected the ridged tips, spotted a piece of dirt, and spat on the instrument, wiping it dry on his sleeve. 'Right! Hold still, think of England! He pushed the forceps into the wound, following the track of the probe, and Sharpe hissed imprecations at him which the doctor ignored. He felt (or the bullet, brought out the probe, pushed down again with the forceps, and then tightened his grip. 'Splendid! A moment more! He twisted, Sharpe's leg exploded with agony, and the doctor pulled out the forceps and dropped them, the bullet in their jaws, on the table behind him. 'Splendid! Nelson should have known me. Right. Tie him up, Harvey.

'Yes, sir. The orderly let go of Sharpe's ankles and rooted around under the table looking for a clean bandage.

The doctor took the bullet, still in the forceps, and shook the blood from it in a pail of discolored water. 'Ah! He held the bullet up. A pistol bullet! No wonder it didn't penetrate. The range must have been too great. Do you want it?

Sharpe nodded and held out his hand. It was no musket bullet. The grey ball was just half an inch across and Sharpe remembered the fore-shortened yellow flame. The seven-barreled gun used half-inch bullets. 'Doctor?

'Sharpe?

'The other wound. Is the bullet still in?

'No. The doctor was wiping his hands on his apron, already stiff with blood. It was the mark of seniority in his profession. 'Straight through, Sharpe, all it did was break the skin. Here. He held out a tumbler of brandy.

Sharpe drank it and leaned back on the table while the orderly washed and bandaged his leg. He felt no particular anger that Hakeswill had tried to kill him, merely a curiosity and a thankfulness that he had survived. He was certainly not shocked. Had he been holding the volley gun, and had he seen Hakeswill, he would have pulled the trigger and sent the Sergeant spinning to the devil, and all without a second thought. He looked at the doctor. 'What's the time, sir?

'Dawn, Sharpe, dawn. An Easter dawn, when all men should rejoice. He sneezed violently. 'You should take things gently.

'Yes, sir. He swung his legs off the table and pulled on the cavalry overalls. There was a neat hole in the leather reinforcements of the right inner thigh where the bullet had entered. The doctor looked at the hole and laughed.

'Three inches higher and you'd have been the last of your line.

'Yes, sir. Very droll. He tested his weight and found his leg could take it.

'Thank you, sir.

'For nothing, Sharpe, except my small skill and humble duty. Half a bottle of rum and you'll be skipping like a lamb. A credit to the Medical Board and the Apothecary General whose obedient servant I am. He pulled open the flap of his tent. 'Come and see me if you ever need a limb removed.

'I shall see no one else, sir.

The troops had stood down from the morning alert, had piled arms, and were finishing meager breakfasts. The guns were hard at work, firing now at the Santa Maria bastion as well as the Trinidad, and Sharpe imagined the smoke lying over the lake. Damn the powder! The amount of powder needed had been grossly under-estimated otherwise Sharpe, Harper and the Riflemen would be heroes this morning. As it was they were pariahs. Trouble was brewing, Sharpe could smell it. The night's failure needed scapegoats.

Bells clamored from the city. Easter. Sharpe limped towards his shelter and, to his right, saw a group of Portuguese or Spanish women, followers of the army, picking small, white flowers from a ditch bank. Spring was softening the landscape. Soon it would open the roads and the rivers to the French armies and Sharpe wondered if it was his imagination or were the guns today firing at a faster tempo? Pounding at a city that the British must take if they were to carry the war into the heart of Spain. The guns of Badajoz could be heard by the troops far to the north, at Alcantara and Caceres, and east at Merida, where British outposts stared down the empty roads waiting for a French relief army and listened to the growl of the distant thunder. The guns. They dominated the Easter service, wrenching the thoughts of the people in the cathedral away from the celebrations. The High Altar was resplendent in a white and gold facing, the Virgin draped in gorgeous, bejeweled robes, but the sound of the guns started dust from the high, gold-painted cornice that circled the Cathedral's interior, sifted it down past the Stations of the Gross, and the women prayed, told their beads, and the guns foretold a bloody assault. Badajoz knew what was to come; the city had a long memory of other sieges when Moors and Christians had taken turns to massacre the inhabitants. Be with us now and in the hour of our need.

'Sharpe! Major Collett, tired and irascible, gestured from Windham's tent.

'Sir?

'How's the leg? The question was grudging.

'It hurts.

Collett offered no sympathy. "The Colonel wants you.

The light was yellowed inside the tent, the canvas giving Windham's face a tint of jaundice. He nodded at Sharpe, not unfriendly, and gestured at a wooden crate. 'You'd better sit.

'Thank you, sir. The leg was shooting pain into his groin. He was hungry.

Collett came in behind Sharpe and pulled the flap shut. The Major was short enough to stand upright beneath the ridgepole. For a few seconds there was silence and it struck Sharpe, suddenly, that Windham was embarrassed. He felt a sympathy for the Colonel. It was not Windham's fault that Rymer had purchased the commission, it was not his choice to follow Lawford, and Windham, in the little Sharpe knew of him, seemed a decent enough man. He looked up at the Colonel. 'Sir?

The word broke the silence. Windham gestured irritably. 'Last night, Sharpe. A pity.

'Yes, sir. Whatever the Colonel meant by a pity. The dam not being broken?

Matthews' death?

'The General's disappointed. Not with us. We did our job. We got the powder to the dam, we blew it up, and there wasn't enough damn powder. It's the Engineers to blame, not us.

'Yes, sir. Sharpe knew that Windham was beating round a very thorny bush. He had not brought Sharpe into the tent to tell him this. Collett gave a pointed cough and the Colonel cleared his throat.

'It seems there was chaos at the dam, Sharpe, is that right?

The word must have come from Captain Rymer, Sharpe thought, so he shrugged. 'Night attacks are prone to confusion, sir.

'I know that, Sharpe, I know that. God damn it, man, I wasn't breeched yesterday! The Rifleman made Windham nervous, the Colonel remembered his first meeting, back in Elvas, when he had felt the same reluctance to ride straight at the fence. He glared at Sharpe. 'I sent you to bring me back news, nothing else, is that right?

'Yes, sir.

'Instead of which you usurped Rymer's authority, organized an attack, stirred up the French, and had one of my officers killed.

Sharpe could sense his own anger flaring and he fought it. He ignored the reference to Matthews. 'Stirred up the French, sir?

'Damn it, man, you fired at them!

'Captain Rymer told you that, sir?

'I'm not here to argue with you! Did you or didn't you?

'I returned their fire, sir.

Silence. Rymer had obviously told a different story. Windham glanced at Collett, who shrugged. Both men believed Sharpe, but Rymer's authority had to be backed up. Windham changed tack. 'But nevertheless you disobeyed my orders?

'Yes, sir.

Silence again. Windham had not expected the answer, or perhaps he had expected excuses, and Sharpe had made a simple admission of disobedience. But to ask the reason why, was to invite a criticism of Rymer that the Colonel did not want to hear. He looked at Sharpe. The Rifleman seemed so damned confident. He sat there, seemingly unworried, the strong, scarred face spoke of a competence and trustworthiness that disarmed the Colonel. Windham shook his head. 'Damn it, Sharpe, Rymer's in an impossible position. He's trying to establish his authority over a company and he's finding it difficult while you're on his heels.

Collett stirred, perhaps disapprovingly, but Sharpe nodded slowly. 'Yes, sir.

'The rifles, for instance.

Sharpe felt a flicker of alarm. 'The rifles, sir?

Collett broke in, his voice harsh, 'Rymer's opinion is that they led to our casualties last night. They're too slow to load and last night they let us down. Muskets would have been faster, more effective.

Sharpe nodded. 'True, but that was only last night.

'And that's only your opinion. Rymer disagrees. Collett paused. 'And Rymer has the Company.

'Which he must run as he sees fit. Windham took up from Collett. 'Which means the rifles must go.

Sharpe's voice, for the first time, rose. 'We need more rifles, sir, not less.

'Which is what I am talking about!" Windham's voice rose as well. 'You cannot run the Light Company. One man must do it!

Which was Rymer. Sharpe's anger subsided. He was being punished not for his own failure, but for Rymer's and all three men knew it. He forced a rueful smile. 'Yes, sir.

Silence again. Sharpe could feel that there was one more thing to be said, one thing the Colonel was shying from, and he had had enough. He would make it easy, get the damned interview over. 'So what happens now, sir?

'Happens? We go on, Sharpe, we go on! Windham was avoiding the answer, but then he plunged in. 'Major Hogan talked to us. He was upset. The Colonel paused. He had plunged in at the wrong place, but Sharpe could guess at what had happened. Windham wanted rid of Sharpe, at least for the moment, and Hogan had engineered an answer that Windham was hesitant about mentioning.

'Yes, sir?

'He'd like your assistance, Sharpe. For a few days, anyway. The Engineers are short-handed, always are, damn them, and he asked for your help. I said yes.

'So I'm to leave the Battalion, sir?

'For a few days, Sharpe, for a few days.

Collett stirred by the tent pole. 'Damn it, Sharpe, they'll be handing out Captaincies like pound notes on election day soon.

Sharpe nodded. 'Yes, sir. Collett had made the point. Sharpe was an embarrassment, not just to Rymer, but to all the Captains who saw him sniffing at their heels. If he could leave the Battalion now, go to Hogan, then there would be no difficulty in bringing him back, after the assault, into a Captaincy. And the assault would be soon. Wellington was not patient in a siege, the fine weather was bringing the possibility of a French counter-move, and Sharpe sensed that the infantry would be hurled against the city very soon. Too soon, probably. Collett was right; there would be vacancies, too many vacancies, made by the French guns in Badajoz.

Windham seemed relieved by Sharpe's evident acceptance. 'That's it, then, Sharpe. Good luck; good hunting! He barked an embarrassed laugh. 'We'll see you back!

'Yes, sir. But not, Sharpe thought, in the way Windham planned. The Rifleman, as he limped from the tent, did not object to the Colonel's solution, or rather Hogan's solution, but he was damned if he would be nothing more than a pawn to be pushed round a board and sacrificed. He had lost his Company, and now he was pushed out of the Battalion, and he felt an anger inside him. He was superfluous. Then damn them all. He would make the Forlorn Hope. He would live and they would take him back, not as a convenient replacement for a dead Captain, but as a soldier they could not ignore. He would fight back! God damn them, he would fight back, and he knew where he was going to start. He heard a cackle come from the Battalion's supply dump. Hakeswill! Bloody Hakeswill who had emptied the seven-barreled gun at him in the darkness. Sharpe turned towards the sound, winced as the pain seared his leg, and marched towards the enemy.

CHAPTER 20

Hakeswill cackled. 'You bloody fairies! You're not bloody soldiers. Stand still!

The twelve Riflemen stood still. Each would have gladlykilled the Sergeant, but not here, not in the supply dump that was open to the gaze of the whole camp. The murder would have to be done at night, in secret, but somehow Hakeswill seemed always to be awake, or alert to the smallest sound. Perhaps he was right, he could not be killed.

Hakeswill walked slowly down the rank. Each man was stripped to his shirt, the green jackets lying on the ground in front of them. He stopped by Hagman, the old poacher, and pushed at the jacket with his foot. 'What's this, then? His toe was pointing at the black stripe sewn on the sleeve.

'Senior Rifleman's badge, Sergeant.

'Senior Rifleman's badge, Sergeant. Hakeswill imitated Hagman. The yellow face twitched. 'Bloody decrepit, you are!" He pushed the sleeve into the mud. 'Senior bloody Rifleman! From now on you're a bloody soldier. He cackled, letting his fetid breath wash over Hagman's face. The Rifleman did not move or react; to do so was to invite punishment. Hakeswill twitched and moved on. He was feeling pleased with himself. The Riflemen had annoyed him because they seemed to him to form an elite group, a close-knit group, and he had wanted to smash them. He had suggested to Rymer as they straggled back from the dam that the rifles were a hindrance; he had hinted that Rymer could begin to establish his ascendancy over Sharpe's old Company by disbanding the Riflemen, and it had worked. 'You! About turn! You poxed Irish pig! Turn! His spittle sprayed Harper.

Harper paused for a fraction of a second, and saw an officer watching. He had no wish to end his days in front of a firing squad. He turned round.

Hakeswill drew his bayonet. 'How's your back, Private?

'Fine, Sergeant.

'Fine, fine. Hakeswill mimicked the Donegal accent. 'That's good, Private. He put the flat of the bayonet high on Harper's back and drew the blade downwards, over the unhealed cuts, over the scabs, and blood welled out to stain the shirt. 'You've got a dirty shirt, Private, a dirty, Irish shirt.

'Yes, Sergeant. Harper kept the pain out of his voice. He had promised he would kill this man, and he would.

'Wash it! Hakeswill sheathed his bayonet. 'About turn!

The twelve Riflemen watched the Sergeant. He was mad, there was no doubt about that. In the past few days he had taken to a new habit, of sitting by himself, taking off" his hat, and talking into it. He talked to his shako as if it was a friend. He told it his plans and his hopes, how he would find Teresa, and his eyes would flick up to the Company to catch them looking at him as they listened. Then he would cackle. 'I'm going to have her. His eyes would go back to the shako's greasy interior. 'I'm going to have the pretty lady, oh yes, Obadiah's going to have her!

Hakeswill stalked in front of the twelve. 'You're going to wear red coats, now, not bloody green. You're going to carry muskets, not those toys! He gestured at the twelve rifles that were stacked by the unlocked arms chest. He laughed. 'You're going to be real soldiers, like Sergeant Hakeswill, your friend, me. He cackled. 'You hate me, don't you? The face twitched involuntarily. 'I like that. Because I hate you! He took his hat off, looked inside, and his voice became whining, obsequious. 'I hate them, I really do. He looked up, his voice going back to normal. 'You think I'm mad? He laughed. 'Not so I don't know. He saw their eyes flicker to the left and turned. The bastard Sharpe was approaching. Limping. Hakeswill put his hat on and saluted. 'Lieutenant, sir.

Sharpe returned the salute. 'Sergeant. His voice was civil 'Stand the men at ease.

'But, sir, Lieutenant, sir…

'At ease, Sergeant.

Hakeswill twitched. He could not fight Sharpe through the formal hierarchy, only in the dark lanes of his hatred. 'Sir! He turned to the Riflemen. 'Detail! Stand at ease!

Sharpe looked at the Riflemen, his Riflemen, the men he had led from Corunna, and he saw the misery in their faces, They were being stripped of their pride along with their green jackets. Now they must take one more shock. He hated making speeches, he felt tongue-tied, inadequate. 'I've just come from the Colonel's tent and, well, I shall be leaving the Battalion. Today. He saw the expressions change into something approaching despair. 'I wanted to be the one to tell you. Sergeant!

Hakeswill, elated at the news, stepped forward, but saw that Sharpe was talking to Harper. Hakeswill stopped. He could sense a danger in the air, but he could not pin it down.

'Sir? Harper's voice was tense.

'Pick up the green jackets. Bring them here.’ Sharpe was talking calmly, almost casually, the only man who seemed unaware of the tension.

'Lieutenant, sir!

Sharpe turned. 'Sergeant Hakeswill?

'My orders are to take the jackets, sir.

'Where, Sergeant?

Hakeswill cackled. 'To the gunners, Lieutenant, sir. To be used as swabs.

‘I’ll save you the trouble, Sergeant. Sharpe's voice was almost friendly. He turned away and waited till Harper brought the jackets. 'Put them there. He pointed at the ground next to him.

Harper bent down. He remembered Hakeswill's crazy words, spoken into his shako, and Harper was sure what they meant, and now he tried to warn Sharpe. 'He's after Teresa, sir. He knows where she is. He muttered it, sure that Sharpe had heard the news, but the officer's face stayed calm and relaxed. Harper wondered if he had spoken too softly. 'Sir?

'I heard you, Sergeant, and thank you. Rejoin the rank. Sharpe still did not react, instead he smiled at the twelve men. 'We've been together for seven years, some of us, and I don't think this will be the finish of that. Hope flickered into their faces. 'But if it is, then I want to thank you. You're good soldiers, good Riflemen, the best. Now their faces showed some pleasure, but he did not look at them, nor at Hakeswill, but crossed to the arms chest and picked a rifle at random. He held it up. 'I'm sorry you're losing these. I make you one promise. You'll get them back, as you'll get back your jackets.

They smiled openly, Hakeswill cackled and then saw Sharpe's face. Sharpe was staring, in horror, at the lock of the rifle. He looked up at Hakeswill. 'Sergeant?

'Lieutenant, sir?

'Whose rifle is this?

'Rifle, sir? Don't know, sir. He twitched. He could feel a threat somewhere.

'It's loaded, Sergeant.

'Loaded, sir? Can't be, sir.

'You checked?

Hakeswill hesitated. His power was preserved through meticulous attention to military detail, but in his eagerness to strip off the green jackets, he had not inspected the rifles. His mind sorted through the problem and he smiled. 'Not yet, Lieutenant, sir. But they're not in the chest yet, sir, Lieutenant, are they? I'll inspect them in a minute. He twitched furiously, the blue eyes blinking as he tried, vainly, to control his face.

Sharpe smiled, still courteous. ‘I’ll save you the trouble, Sergeant. He laid the first rifle down, carefully, and then picked up the others, one by one, and pointed each at Hakeswill's vast belly. He cocked each flint, pulled each trigger, and Hakeswill's face twitched each time. Sharpe's eyes did not leave the Sergeant's face, not even when he stooped to pick up another rifle, and he watched the spasm and saw the relief each time as the spark died in an empty pan. The Riflemen, humiliated by the Sergeant, grinned at the fear they saw in Hakeswill, but they were still nervous of him. He was the man who could not be killed and Sharpe knew that their nervousness had to be dispelled. He put the last rifle in the chest and, as carefully as he had put it down, picked up the first. Hakeswill stared as Sharpe pulled back the flint, past the half cock, back till the sear clicked into place. The Sergeant licked his lips, twitched, and flicked his eyes up to Sharpe's face then back to the muzzle that was pointing at his belly.

Sharpe walked slowly towards Hakeswill. 'You can't be killed, is that right? Hakeswill nodded, tried to smile, but the huge muzzle was coming towards him. Sharpe walked slowly. 'They tried to hang you, and you lived, is that right? Hakeswill nodded again, his mouth a rictus. Sharpe was limping from the bullet wound in his thigh. 'Are you going to live for ever, Sergeant? One of the Riflemen sniggered and Hakeswill darted a look to see which one, but Sharpe jerked the barrel up and the movement brought the eyes back. 'Are you going to live for ever?

'Don't know, sir.

'Not "Lieutenant, sir"? Lost your tongue, Hakeswill?

'No, sir.

Sharpe smiled. He was very close to the Sergeant and the rifle was pointed up beneath Hakeswill's chin. 'I think you're going to die, Sergeant. Shall I tell you why?

The blue, child-like eyes flicked left and right as if searching for help. Hakeswill expected to be attacked by night, in the shadows, but never in bright daylight among hundreds of potential witnesses. Yet no one was taking any notice! The rifle jerked, touching his sweated skin. 'Sir!

'Look at me, Sergeant. I'm telling you a secret.

Hakeswill looked at Sharpe, their eyes level. 'Sir?

The Riflemen watched and Sharpe spoke clearly for them. 'I think, Sergeant, that no one can kill you. Except. He spoke slowly, as if to a child. 'Except, Sergeant, someone whom you had tried to kill, and whom you failed to kill. The fear was obvious on the sweating face, the yellow paling. 'Can you think of anyone like that, Sergeant?

The face twitched, shook, and the rifle jerked up again into the chin. 'No, sir!

'Good! The stubby foresight of the Baker was cold on Hakeswill's skin. Sharpe dropped his voice so that only the Sergeant could hear him. 'You're a dead man, Obadiah. The magic's gone. He suddenly shouted. 'Bang!

Hakeswill leaped back, startled, let out a pathetic yelp like a whipped child, and stumbled on to the grass. Sharpe laughed at him, pointed the gun and pulled the trigger on to an empty, unloaded pan. Hakeswill sprawled on the grass, his face murderous, but Sharpe turned away from him to his grinning Riflemen. 'Shun!

They snapped to attention. Sharpe spoke to them again, but this time his voice was crisp. 'Remember, I've made you a promise. You'll get your rifles back, your jackets back, and you'll get me back! He did not know how he could do it, but he would. He turned back to the Sergeant and pointed at the seven-barreled gun on Hakeswill's shoulder. 'Give me that!

Hakeswill handed it over meekly, with its ammunition pouch, and Sharpe slung the gun on his own shoulder next to his rifle. He looked down at the Sergeant. 'I'm coming back, Sergeant. Remember that. He scooped the jackets into an awkward bundle, put them under his arm, and limped away. He knew that Hakeswill would exact a revenge on the Riflemen, but he knew, too, that the Sergeant had been humiliated, shown to be vulnerable, and the Company, Sharpe's Company, needed to know that much.

It was a small victory, a petty victory even, but it was a start on the long fight back, a fight that he knew must end in the breach at Badajoz.