Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy (16 page)

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 roundshot-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.’

‘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 his shoulders. It was a classic performance; the reliable Sergeant, tireless and efficient, and it disguised Hakeswill’s victory over the Company. He had divided them, made them suspicious, and there was nothing Sharpe could do. Colonel Windham inspected the Company before they set off. He stopped in front of Harper and pointed to the massive seven-barrelled gun slung on the Irishman’s shoulder.

‘What’s that?’

‘Seven-barrelled gun, sir.’

‘Is it regulation issue?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then take it off.’

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

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

Windham looked puzzled. ‘Punishment?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, sir.’

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

‘Sir?’

‘Ready?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Off you go! Wait for the clock!’

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

‘The powder should be in place, Sharpe!’

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

‘Count the musket flashes, Sharpe!’

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

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

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

‘Sir?’ Forrest appeared from the darkness.

‘All well, Forrest?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Damn!’ Windham ignored Sharpe.

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

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

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

‘Captain Leroy!’

‘Sir?’ The voice came from the darkness.

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

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

Windham turned to Sharpe. ‘Time, Sharpe?’

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

‘Where are they?’

‘Give them time, sir.’

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

‘Captain Sterritt?’ Windham bellowed.

‘Sir?’

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

‘Yes, sir!’ Another company went forward and 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.