Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe's Revenge, Sharpe's Waterloo, Sharpe's Devil (106 page)

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Authors: Bernard Cornwell

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BOOK: Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe's Revenge, Sharpe's Waterloo, Sharpe's Devil
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CHAPTER 10 
Screams sounded from the gundeck. The Spanish shots had hit with a wicked exactness, slicing through the
Kitty
’s disguised gunports and into the crowded deck where Cochrane’s assault force had been snatching its hasty meal.
Two more guns fired. One cannonball smacked into the sea, then bounced up into the frigate. The other slammed into the hull, lodging in a main timber.
“The boats! Into the boats!” Cochrane was shouting. “Assault force! Into the boats!” The sun was a flattened bar of melting light on the horizon, the moon a pale semicircle in the cloud-ridden sky above. Powder smoke drifted from the fort with the land wind. A signal rocket suddenly flared up from the fort’s ramparts, its feather of flame shivering up into the darkling sky before a white light burst to drown the first pale stars.
“Into the boats! We’re going to attack! Into the boats!”
More shots, more screams. Sharpe leapt off the quarterdeck just as a cannonball screeched across the poopdeck, gouging a splintered trench in the scrubbed wood. He twisted aside from the roundshot’s impact, scrambled for the officers’ companionway where, disdaining to use the ladder with its rope handles, he slithered down to the gundeck. “Patrick! Patrick!”
It was dark below. The lanterns had been extinguished as soon as the first shots struck the
Kitty
and the only illumina
tion was the day’s dying light that seeped into the carnage through the ragged holes ripped by the incoming roundshot. Those roundshot had ripped across the deck, flinging men aside like bloody rags. The wounded screamed, while the living trampled over the bodies in their desperate attempts to reach the open air.
“Patrick!”
Another roundshot banged into the deck. It cannoned off a ship’s timber to slash slantwise through the struggling men. Splinters felled three men close to where the shot struck, while the shot itself sliced down a half dozen more. A spray of blood drops fogged the light for a foul instance, then the screams sounded terribly. Another ball cracked into the tier below. The pumps had stopped, and Sharpe could hear the gurgle of water slopping into the bilges. “Patrick!”
“I’m here!” the voice shouted from the deck’s far end.
“I’ll see you ashore!” There was no chance of struggling through the demented pack of panicking men. Harper and Sharpe must get themselves ashore as best they could and hope that in the sudden chaos they would meet on land.
Sharpe turned and hauled himself up to the poopdeck. Men were scrambling down the starboard side into the longboats. The
O’Higgins
was returning the fort’s fire, but Sharpe could see the warship’s roundshot were falling short. Gouts of black earth were erupting from the slope in front of Fort Ingles, and though some of the balls were ricocheting up toward the defenders, Sharpe doubted that the naval gunnery was doing the slightest good. The
O’Higgins
herself was wreathed in cannon smoke so that, in the day’s death light, she looked like a set of black spidery masts protruding from a yellow-white, red-tinged bank of churning smoke. The fort had turned two guns on the
O’Higgins
. A great splash of water showed where a shot fell short inside the bank of smoke, then Sharpe was at the rail, a rope was in his hands
and he shimmied desperately down to a longboat already crammed with sailors. The sailors had cutlasses, muskets, swords, pikes and clubs. “Bastards,” one man said again and again, as if, somehow, the Spanish defenders had broken a rule of war by opening fire on the two anchored ships.
“Fast as you can! Fast as you can!” Cochrane was in another longboat and shouting at his oarsmen to make the journey to land as swiftly as possible. For the moment, shielded by the great bulk of the
Kitty
, the longboats were safe from the fort’s gunfire, but the moment they appeared on the open sea the cannon would surely change their aim.
“Let go!” yelled Lieutenant Cabral, who had taken charge of Sharpe’s boat. “Row!” The oarsmen strained at the long oars. Sharpe could see Harper in another boat. A cannonball whipped overhead, making a sizzling noise as it slanted down to slam into a green wave.
“Row!” Cabral shouted, and the longboat shot out from behind the
Kitty
’s protection. The coxswain turned the rudder so the boat was aimed for the shore. “Row!” Cabral screamed again, and the men bent the long oar shafts in their desperate urgency to close on the beach. A roundshot slapped the sea ten yards to the left, bounced once, then hammered into the
Kitty
’s stern where it sprang a six-foot splinter of bright wood. Sharpe glanced back at the frigate to see a bloody body, dripping intestines, heaved out of a half-opened gunport. Gulls screamed and slashed down to feed. Then Sharpe looked back to the beach because a new sound had caught his ear.
Muskets.
The Spaniards had sent a company of infantry down to the beach where the blue-coated soldiers were now drawn up at the high-tide line. Sharpe saw the ramrods flicker, then the muskets came up into the company’s shoulders, and he instinctively ducked. The splintering sound of the volley
came clear above the greater sounds of guns and booming surf. Sharpe saw a spatter of small splashes on the face of a wave and knew that the volley had gone wide.
“Row!” Cabral shouted, but the port-side oars had become entangled in a mat of floating weed and the boat broached. Behind Sharpe the
O’Higgins
fired a broadside and one of the balls whipped through the Spanish company, slinging two men aside and fountaining blood and sand up from the beach behind the soldiers. Sharpe stood, his balance precarious as he aimed his pistol. He fired. Muskets flamed bright from the beach. He heard the whistle of a ball near his head as he sat down hard.
“Row, row, row!” Cabral, standing beside Sharpe in the stern sheets, shouted at his oarsmen. “Row!” The oars were free of the weed again. There were a dozen men rowing and a score of men crouching between the thwarts. The oarsmen, their backs to the land and the muskets and the surf and the cannon, had wide, frightened eyes. One man was gabbling a prayer as he tugged at his oar.
“Bayonets!” Sharpe shouted at the men crouched on the bottom boards. “Fix bayonets!” He said it again in Spanish and watched as a dozen men, those who had bayonets, twisted their blades onto their muskets. “When we land,” he called to the crouching men, “we don’t wait to give the bastards a volley, we just charge!”
Off to the left were a dozen other longboats. Some had come from the
O’Higgins
and were carrying marines. The attacking boats were scattered across the sea. Sharpe flinched as he saw a great gout of exploding water betray where a cannonball had slapped home beside one of the laboring longboats, and he was certain that the roundshot’s strike had been close enough to swamp the fragile-looking boat, but when the spray fell away he saw the boat was still afloat and its oarsmen still rowing.
The Spanish infantrymen fired again, but just like the fort’s gunners, their own powder smoke was now obscuring their aim. Nor were they being intelligently led, for their officer was just telling the men to fire at the boats. If they had concentrated their fire on one boat at a time they could have reduced each longboat into a screaming horror of blood and splinters, but instead their musketry was flying wild and wide. Yet the Spaniards held the advantage, for the longboats still had to negotiate the murderous tumbling of the breaking surf. If a boat broached in the breaking waves and spilled its cargo, the waiting infantrymen would be presented with a bout of twilight bayonet practice.
The sun was gone, but there was still light in the sky. Sharpe crouched in the stern sheets and made sure his borrowed sword was loose in its scabbard. A broadside from the
O’Higgins
crashed overhead, twitching a skein of powder smoke as it slammed above the Spanish infantry to shatter the further slope into gouts of soil and grass. A gull screeched in protest. Another signal rocket whooshed into the sky to splinter into a fountain of light. It was too dark to use the semaphore arms, so Fort Ingles’s defenders were rousing Valdivia Harbor’s garrisons with the bright rockets.
“Row!” Cabral shouted, and the oarsmen grunted as they laid their full weight into the oars, but another great mat of floating weed impeded the boat, slewing it round. A man in the bows leaned overboard and hacked at the weed with a cutlass. “Back your oars!” Cabral screamed, “Back!” A bullet smacked into the gunwale, while another shattered an oar blade. Cochrane was shouting off to Sharpe’s left, screaming at his men to be the first ashore. Cabral beat at the side of the boat in his frustration. One of the oarsmen shouted that it was too dangerous, that they would all drown in the surf, and Cabral drew his sword and threatened to skewer the man’s guts if he did not row, and row hard! Then the long
boat was free of the clinging weed and the oars could pull again. One or two of the rowers looked nervous, but any thoughts of mutiny were quelled by the sight of Cabral’s drawn sword. “Row!” he shouted and the crest of a wave lifted the boat, driving it fast, and one of the rowers jerked forward and collapsed, blood slopping out of his mouth.
“Overboard!” Cabral shouted. “Heave him over! Juan, take his place! Row!” They rowed. Another wave took them, hissing them forward, driving them up to its white crest, then the wave was past and they slid down into a scummy, weedy trough, and the oarsmen pulled again, and the sky echoed with the thunder of guns and the crackle of musketry and the beach was close now, close enough for Sharpe to hear the sucking roar as the waves slid back toward the foam, then another breaker plucked them, bubbled them about with surf and hurled them fast toward the beach, and suddenly Sharpe could see the whole expanse of sand and the dark, smoke-fogged shapes of the waiting Spaniards at the top of the beach, then those dark shapes blossomed with pink flames as the muskets flared, but the strike of the musket balls was drowned in the sound and fury of the shattering surf’s maelstrom that was now all around the shivering boat. Cabral was screaming orders, and somehow the coxswain was holding the bow straight on to the beach as the oarsmen gave a last desperate pull and then the bow dropped, bounced on the sand and drove on up. Cabral shouted at the men to jump out and kill the bastard sons of poxed whores, yet still the longboat was sliding up the beach, driven by the wave, while ten yards to the left another boat had turned sideways and rolled so that the welter of white water was littered with men, weapons and oars. Cabral’s boat jarred to a halt. Sharpe leaped off the gunwale and found himself up to his knees in freezing water and churning sand.
He drew the borrowed sword. “Charge!” He knew he
must not give these enemy infantrymen a chance. The Spaniards, if they did but know it, could have calmly shot each landing boat to hell, then advanced in good order with outstretched bayonets to finish off the poor wet devils at the sea’s edge, but Sharpe guessed the infantrymen were scared witless. The devil Cochrane was coming from the sea to kill them, and now was the time to add blood to their fears. “Charge!” he shouted. His boots were full of water and heavy with sand. He floundered up the beach, screaming at the men to follow him.
The rest of Cochrane’s assault force scrambled ashore. The boats landed within seconds of each other and the men shook themselves free of the sucking breakers to charge the enemy in the maddened rush of men who wanted to revenge themselves for the terrors of the recent moments. The last of the light gleamed dully on the steel of swords and cutlasses and bayonets and boarding pikes. One man carried a great axe that was designed to cut away the wreckage of fallen rigging, but which now, like some ancient Viking berserker, he whirled over his head as he ran toward the Spanish company.
The Spaniards, seeing Cochrane’s devils erupt from the sea like avenging fiends, turned and fled. God, Sharpe thought, but this was how pirates had assaulted the Spanish dominions for centuries; desperate men, armed with steel and stripped of scruples, erupting from small ships to shatter the perilous crust of civilized discipline that Madrid had imposed on the new world’s golden lands.
“Form here! Form here!” Cochrane, tall and huge in the dusk, stood at the edge of the sand dunes behind the beach. “Let them go! Let them go!” Sharpe would have kept pursuing the fleeing Spaniards, but Cochrane wanted to make order out of the chaos. “Form here! Major Miller! You’ll make the left of the line if you please!” As if in answer, one
of Miller’s drummers gave a rattle, then a flute sounded feebly in the twilight.
Harper, safely ashore and carrying a cutlass, ran behind the attackers to join Sharpe. “This is a rare business, so it is!” But the big Irishman seemed pleased, as though all the uncertainties of the last few weeks had dropped away.
Cannons roared from the fortress above them. Sharpe saw the flames stab pale across the sandy slope, then writhe and shrivel away inside the smoke. The roundshot crashed past Cochrane’s men to spew sand up from the beach. The abandoned longboats and their clumsy oars rolled and jerked at the surf’s edge, while out to sea the skeleton crews left aboard the two warships had abandoned the boats’ anchors and, with just their foresails set, were taking the two boats out of range of the fort’s guns.
“Down!” Cochrane would shelter his men behind the dunes while he organized his assault. “Get down!” He paced along the front of his ragged attackers. “Did anyone bring ladders? Did anyone bring ladders?”
No one had brought ladders. Three hundred wet and frightened men clung to a beach beneath a fort and all they had to fight with were their hand weapons: muskets, pistols, swords, pikes and cutlasses.
“Did you bring a ladder?” Cochrane asked Sharpe.
“No.”
Cochrane slashed his sword at the dune grass. “We’re rather buggered. Damn!”
The gunfire from the fort changed sound. Instead of the short percussive crack that denoted roundshot, there was suddenly the more muffled sound betraying that the defenders were loaded with canister or grape. Now each of the fort’s cannons was like a giant shotgun, spraying a lethal and expanding fan of musket balls toward the attackers. Cochrane, as the rain of shot whistled overhead, ducked down.
“Shit!” He peered over the sand dune. Even through the smoke, and in the last of the daylight, it was plain that the earthen and wooden facade of Fort Ingles could not be assaulted without ladders, and even with ladders it would be suicidal for men to rise and walk into that gale of grapeshot. “Shit!” Cochrane said again, even more angrily.
“They’ll only have guns on this face of the fort!” Sharpe shouted.
Cochrane nodded confirmation. “Facing the sea, yes!”
“We’ll flank them! Give me some men!”
“Take the starboard Kittys,” Cochrane ordered. The ‘Kittys’ were the men from the
Kitty
who were divided into two companies, port and starboard.
“Keep them busy here!” Sharpe told Cochrane. “Fire at them, make a noise, let them see you here. And when I shout for you, charge like hell!”
Sharpe called for the starboard Kittys, then ran right, along the beach, under cover of the dunes. Fifty men followed him. Harper was there, Lieutenant Cabral was there. The rest of Cochrane’s attackers fired a volley up toward the fort as Sharpe, safely out of the cannons’ line of fire, turned uphill. The moon was bright on the sand, bleaching it to look like heaped snow. The sea was crashing loud behind.
“Jesus, we’re mad,” Harper said.
Sharpe saved his breath. The hillside was steep and the tough grass stems slippery. He was working his way to his right, trying to stay well out of sight of the fort’s defenders. With any luck the Spaniards would be mesmerized by the shrieking crowd of men crammed with Cochrane on the beach. Why had the Spaniards not charged down with more infantry? That question made Sharpe wonder whether the signal rockets were intended to summon infantry from the other forts. Behind him the defenders’ cannons crashed their loads of canister and the attackers’ muskets crackled a feeble
reply. More muskets fired from the fort and Sharpe tried to gauge how many infantrymen were defending its ramparts from the noise of those muskets. He reckoned two hundred men, say three thin companies? That was more than enough to finish Cochrane’s two hundred fifty invaders, many of whom had damp powder and whose muskets were therefore useless for anything except clubbing men to death. One good bayonet charge by three companies of Spanish infantry would finish Cochrane. The whole affair could be over in fifteen minutes, and the Chilean rebels would be bereft of their Admiral, and probably of their navy. Valdivia would be safe, Cochrane could be carried back to Madrid for a humiliating trial and a public execution, the Royalist provinces in Chile could be reinforced, the Spanish Navy would blockade the northern ports to starve out O’Higgins, and in two years, maybe less, the whole of Chile, and probably Peru as well, would be Spanish again. For Captain-General Bautista it would be total triumph, a vindication of all his theories of defensive warfare, and for Blas Vivar, if indeed he still lived and was a prisoner in the Angel Tower, it would mean death, for no one in Madrid would dare punish Bautista for a mere murder if, in exchange, he won them back their God-given empire. And all it would take for all those things to happen—for Vivar to die, for Bautista to triumph, for Cochrane to be humiliated, for Spain to win this war and for the whole history of the world to be nudged into a new course—was three companies of infantry. Just three! And surely, Sharpe thought, those three companies, and more, were being assembled for the charge at this very minute.
“Jesus, look at that!” Harper, panting beside Sharpe, was staring at a wooden fence that had been built across the headland and which now lay between Sharpe’s small force and Fort Ingles. The fence was as tall as a man and made of split palings that formed a solid barrier, but what purpose
such a fence served Sharpe could not understand. It hardly seemed defensive, for he could see no loopholes and no embrasures.
“Come on!” Sharpe said. There was nothing to be gained by gaping at the fence. It had to be approached, and a reconnaissance made of the ground beyond.
The strange fence lay on the far side of a crude ditch. It seemed to have been built to stop a flanking attack like the one Sharpe was making, but as no defenders manned the fence it had been a waste of effort constructing it. Sharpe’s men rested at the bottom of the ditch while he peered through a chink between two palings. The fort lay two hundred yards away across open ground. There were no cannon embrasures on this western wall of the fort, though there was a deep ditch and the wall itself was steep enough to require ladders. A sentry was visible in the moonlight, standing on the wall’s flat top.
Sharpe slid down to the ditch’s bottom and stared up at the fence. It seemed to have been prefabricated in sections twenty feet long which had been fastened to thick posts sunk into the turf. Each section of fence would make, if not a ladder, at least a ramp. “Patrick? When I give the word I want you to knock out two sections of fence. They’ll be our assault ladders.” Sharpe was speaking in Spanish, loud enough for all the fifty men to hear him. “There’s just one sentry on this side, everyone else is looking at the beach. The Spanish are scared. They’re terrified of Cochrane and terrified of you because you’re Cochrane’s men. They think you’re demons from hell! If we attack them hard and fast, they’re going to crumple! They’re going to run! We can take this fort! Your war cry is Cochrane! Cochrane! Now get your breath, make sure your guns are loaded, and be ready.”
The men whose powder had been soaked when their boats overturned at the sea’s edge were denoted to carry the fence
sections. Those men would lead the charge. The rest would follow behind and, once the twin makeshift bridges were in place, stream across to bring terror to a fort. It would be a desperate throw, but better than being trapped on the beach by three companies of infantry. And, despite Cochrane’s avowed intention to carry every fort tonight, Sharpe knew that just this single strong point would save the expedition. If Cochrane possessed just one fort then he would have guns and walls with which to defeat a Spanish counterattack, and so make a stand till the men left on the ships could arrange a rescue. Lord Cochrane might yet live, if this one fort would fall.

 

T
he fence sections had been nailed to their posts, and each nail needed nothing more than a strong wrench with a bayonet to be wrested free. Sharpe experimented on a couple of nails, then, satisfied, he slid down into the ditch’s bottom where he reloaded the pistol he had fired from the boat. He checked that his other pistol was primed, then nodded at the men standing by the posts. “Go!” he said.

The men ripped the fence nails free. There was a splintering sound, the wavering of two great sections of wood, then the fence was falling. “Take hold of it!” Harper shouted. “Together now! Lift it, turn! Now go!”
“Charge!” Sharpe shouted, and he stumbled up the ditch side into the moonlight. Behind him the sea was a flicker of silver and black, while ahead of him the fortress walls were shadowed dark. The two pistols were in his belt, the sword in his hand. “Cochrane!” he shouted, “Cochrane!”
The men carrying the fence sections were lumbering across the tangle of ferns and grasses. The charge was slow, much slower than Sharpe had anticipated, made so by the weight of the cumbersome timber ramps. The carrying parties were advancing at scarcely more than a walking pace,
but without the ramps the attack must fail, and so Sharpe knew he must hold his patience.
The single sentry on the fort’s western wall gaped for a second, unslung his musket, decided that there were too many attackers for his single cartridge to destroy, and so turned to shout for help. His cry was drowned as the cannons cracked the night apart, slitting the moonlit darkness with their sharp stabs of flame. The wind carried the smoke toward Cochrane, away from Sharpe. The sentry shouted again, and this time he was heard.
“Cochrane!” Sharpe shouted, “Cochrane!” And suddenly men began to appear at the wall ahead. “Spread out!” Sharpe called. The first stabs of flame showed dark red on the ramparts. A ball fluttered near Sharpe, another flicked through the grass, a third cracked off one of the fence sections. The men carrying the makeshift ramps were running faster now, but the other men, unencumbered with the heavy burdens, were outstripping them, sprinting across the headland as though there would be security in the deep black shadows of the fort’s ditch.
Sharpe ran with them. There were just fifty yards to go. The muskets crashed from the wall ahead. A man fell cursing to Sharpe’s left, his hands clutching at his thigh. Sharpe could smell blood in the night—blood and powder smoke, the old and too familiar smells. Thirty yards, twenty, and another volley whipped overhead. The Spanish were firing high—the error of all inexperienced troops. The first of Sharpe’s men were at the ditch. “Take aim!” Sharpe shouted at them, “Aim for their bellies!”
He put his sword into his left hand as he dragged one of his two pistols free. He cocked it, dropped to one knee beside the ditch, and took aim. The defenders were silhouetted against the moonlit sky while the attackers were dark shapes against the darker ground. Sharpe found a target,
lowered the muzzle to the man’s belly, fired. Sparks jetted bright and the recoil jarred up Sharpe’s arm. The smoke blossomed, but when it was snatched away by the wind the man was gone, plucked off the fort’s ramparts. Those ramparts were ten feet above Sharpe and twelve feet away. Then the first of the fence sections arrived and Harper was yelling at the men to plant its leading edge at the side of the ditch, then to lever the whole thing up and over, like a giant trapdoor that swung in the night to crash sickeningly against the sloping earth wall. The makeshift ramp lodged some three feet below the parapet, but that was close enough. “Come on!” Sharpe shouted. “Follow me!”
He ran across the makeshift bridge. The wooden palings bounced under Sharpe’s boots. A musket flamed ahead, then with men on either side of him, he leaped for the rampart’s top and the Spaniards were backing away, terrified of this sudden assault. Sharpe was screaming like a wild thing, his sword chopping down hard, and a defender was at his feet, squirming and screaming. Harper swung his cutlass like a bullock-killer, almost decapitating a man. The second bridge thumped into place and yet more men swarmed up its palings. Sharpe was leading the assault toward the cannon. An infantryman lunged with his bayonet, and Sharpe knocked it aside and rammed the hilt of his sword into the man’s face. The rest of the defenders, terrified by this horror that had sprung from their flank, were running away, leaving the ramparts open for Sharpe and his assault party to reach the fort’s northern bastions where the guns faced out to sea.
“Cochrane! Cochrane!” the attackers shouted, and to Sharpe their ragged chorus of voices sounded desperately thin, but it was enough to terrify the gunners who turned and bolted from their embrasures. The defending infantry, swept off the wall’s top, were milling uncertainly in the courtyard beneath, and now the gunners added to the panic.
Sharpe dragged his second pistol free, aimed it down into the melee, and pulled the trigger.
“Cochrane!” He turned and bellowed the name into the darkness, down toward the white-fretted beach where the abandoned longboats still rolled and crashed in the tumbling surf. “Cochrane!”
“Sharpe?” Cochrane’s voice sounded from the dark dunes.
“It’s ours! Come on!” Christ, Sharpe thought, but they had done it! They had done it! His men were flooding into the first embrasure, hitting the captured gun with their cutlasses so that its barrel rang like a bell. “Come on, Cochrane! We’ve won!”
“Reload!” Harper was bellowing. “Reload!” He jumped down into the gunpit beside Sharpe. “Those bastards will counterattack.” He nodded toward the fort’s courtyard.
“Let’s go for them!” Sharpe said.
Behind him the slope was suddenly swarming with Cochrane’s men. Sharpe did not wait for them to reach the fort, but instead shouted at his men to attack the panicked Spaniards in the fort’s courtyard. An officer was trying to rally the fugitives, and if he succeeded, and if the gunners recaptured their weapons, then Cochrane’s men would be cut down in swaths. Sharpe had less than fifty men, and there were at least two hundred in the courtyard, but they were demoralized and they must not be allowed to recover their wits. “Come on!” Sharpe screamed. “Finish them off!” He charged.
Harper and a flood of maddened men came with him. Cutlasses chopped down, swords stabbed, pikes ripped at frightened men, but suddenly the enemy was melting away, running, because the panicked Spaniards had thrown open the fort’s gate and were fleeing across the moonlit heath of the headland. They had left the Spanish flag flying on its staff beside the semaphore gallows, had abandoned their guns
and were now running toward another fort that was visible from the ramparts of the captured Fort Ingles.
“After them!” Sharpe screamed, “After them!”
This was an added madness. One fort had fallen, and one captured fort was enough to guarantee Cochrane’s survival. A hundred determined men could hold this fort by manhandling the guns to the land-facing ramparts and blasting away the Spanish counterattacks while Cochrane ferried his men off the beach to the waiting frigates, but suddenly Sharpe saw a chance to take a second fortress and so he took it.
He took the mad chance because he remembered a horror from long ago, a horror he had witnessed in Spain when, riding with German horsemen, he had seen a French square broken.
The survivors of that broken square had fled toward a second square which, opening its ranks to let in their fellow Frenchmen, had also opened themselves to the crazed horses and blood-spattered swords of the King’s German Legion. The big horsemen had been riding among the fugitives and had broken that second square. The survivors of the second square, together with the few men who still lived from the first, had run for a third square which, rather than let itself be turned into a slaughterhouse, had opened fire on their own men. They had still gone down, ridden into hell by big horses and screaming cavalrymen.
Now Sharpe reckoned he could work a similar effect. The demoralized fugitives from Fort Ingles were running toward Fort San Carlos which, not more than four hundred yards away, was opening its gates to receive them. In the moonlight, and in the confusion, he reckoned his men would be indistinguishable from the fugitives. “On!” he shouted at his fifty men, “On!”
They ran with him. A broad beaten track led from Fort Ingles to Fort San Carlos which, unlike the north-facing Fort
Ingles, looked east across the neck of the harbor. Sharpe pushed a running Spaniard in the back, driving the man down into a ditch beside the road. He was among the Spaniards now, but they took no notice of him, nor of any of the other panting seamen who had infiltrated their ranks. The Spanish infantrymen cared only about reaching the safety of Fort San Carlos. The defenders of that second fort were standing on their ramparts, staring into the moonlight and trying to make sense of the confusion that had erupted on the headland’s tip.
Some of the fleeing Spaniards at last understood their danger. An officer shouted and lashed his sword at a seaman who calmly rammed his pike into the man’s ribs. Some of the running infantrymen broke off the road, running south toward the headland’s farther fortresses. Cochrane had reached the first fort and, understanding what was happening, had already launched his men along the path behind Sharpe. The defenders of Fort San Carlos, seeing that second wave of attackers, assumed them to be their only threat. Muskets stabbed flame into the gathering darkness and the balls whipped over the heads of Sharpe’s men.
Sharpe reached the bridge over the ditch of Fort San Carlos. The gateway was crammed with desperate men. Some, trying to escape their pursuers, clambered up the sides of the ramparts and Sharpe joined them, pulling himself up the steep earth slope. The defenses facing inland were negligible, designed to deter rather than hold off any real assault, perhaps because the fort’s builders had never really expected an enemy to attack from the land. These forts were designed to pour a destructive cannonade down onto attacking ships, not to repel a madcap assault from the land. Corral Castle, the southernmost fort on the headland, had been built to resist such an assault, and Chorocomayo Castle, high on the headland’s spine, was equipped with field artillery designed
to keep a land attack from reaching the headland’s neck, but no one had expected a landing on the Aguada del Ingles and then a crazy shrieking assault in the blood-sodden darkness.
Sharpe’s boots flailed for a grip on the earth slope, and a Spanish defender, assuming him to be a refugee from Fort Ingles, reached down to help. Sharpe let the man pull him to the summit, thanked him, then tipped him down into the ditch. He swung his sword back, slicing at another man who wriggled desperately away. Two sailors from the
Kitty
ran past Sharpe, driving forward with fixed bayonets. The Spanish defenders did not wait for the challenge, but just fled. “Cochrane!” Sharpe shouted, “Cochrane!” He drove his attackers toward the men firing at Fort Ingles who, nervous of being trapped, were already abandoning the ramparts and edging backward. Harper was in the gateway, slashing and screaming at the men who blocked the entrance.
Then, with a suddenness that bespoke their desperate and fragile morale, the defenders of Fort San Carlos shattered just as the garrison of Fort Ingles had broken. The gunners, who were in their embrasures overlooking the moon-washed waters of the harbor, turned to see a churning mass of fighting men silhouetted on their western ramparts. They saw more men scramble onto the walls and they feared that the flood of men would wash down to swamp the courtyard and bring bayonets to the gunpits, and so the gunners fled. They leaped from their embrasures, scrambled up the ditch’s far side and ran south toward the third fort, Amargos, that lay a half mile away and, like San Carlos, faced east onto the harbor.
The Spanish infantry, seeing the gunners go and realizing that there was nothing left to defend, broke as well. Sharpe, still on the western ramparts, cupped his hands and screamed toward Cochrane’s men. “They’re running! Go
south! South!” he shouted in English. “Do you hear me, Cochrane?”
“I hear you!” the voice came back.
“They’re running for the next fort!”
“Tally-ho! Tally-ho!” And Cochrane, throwing all caution to the wind, turned his men off the track to charge south toward Fort Amargos. The headland echoed with the yelps and cheers of the hunting rebels. Miller’s drummers were trying to beat a quick tattoo, but the pace of the advance was too swift for such formal encouragement. The defenders of Fort San Carlos, denied the use of their gate, spilled over their earthen walls to flee toward safety. Now two sets of men were running for Fort Amargos whose defenders, thinking they were all loyal Spanish forces, opened its wooden gates to receive them.
Sharpe, his men disorganized and exhausted by their attacks on the first two forts, did not join the assault on Fort Amargos. Instead he jumped down to the courtyard and crossed to the flagpole that was nothing but a thin tree trunk skinned of its bark. He sawed with his sword till the flag fluttered free. Lieutenant Cabral, foraging through the fort’s buildings, found a thin horse shivering in a stable. He offered to ride after Cochrane and bring back news of the night, an offer Sharpe gratefully accepted. Then, when picquets had been set on the captured ramparts and search parties sent to find the wounded, Sharpe sheathed his sword and walked to the gun embrasures.
Harper joined him. Most of the
Kitty
’s sailors were ransacking the fort, hurling bedding out of the log huts and hunting for coins in abandoned valises and rucksacks. A Midshipman, deputed by Sharpe to bring a butcher’s bill, reported that he had found just three dead Spaniards and one dead rebel.
“God save Ireland,” Harper said in amazement, “but that wasn’t a battle, it was more like herding cattle!”
“They think we’re devils,” the Midshipman said. “I spoke to a wounded man and he said their bullets can’t kill us. We’re charmed, you see. We’re protected by magic.”
“No wonder the poor sods ran,” Harper made the sign of the cross, then gave a huge yawn.
Sharpe sent the Midshipman to find Cochrane’s surgeon, MacAuley. There were six men badly wounded, all Spaniards. Some of the
Kitty
’s men had sword cuts, and one had a bullet in his thigh, but otherwise the injuries were paltry. Sharpe had never known a victory to come so cheap. “Cochrane was right,” he said to Harper. Or perhaps it had been the Spaniards who had defeated themselves, for men who believe in demons can be defeated easily.
Sharpe leaned on a gun embrasure and stared at the moon-glossed water of Valdivia Harbor. A score of ships, their cabin lights like cottage windows bright in the night, lay in the great bay, while across the water, perhaps a thousand yards away, a blaze of torches shone in Fort Niebla. Beside the fort was the entrance to the River Valdivia, leading to the town where supposedly Blas Vivar was a prisoner.
“We could give those bastards a shot or two?” Harper nodded toward the lights of Fort Niebla.
“They’re out of musket range,” Sharpe said idly.
“Not with muskets. With these buggers!” Harper slapped the nearest cannon. It was a massive thirty-six pounder, a ship-killing lump of artillery that had a depressed barrel in expectation of enemy ships coming through the harbor’s entrance channel. The gun’s roundshot would be held in place by a rope ring rammed against the ball to stop it rolling down the inclined barrel. A quill filled with a finely mealed powder stuck from the cannon’s touchhole, and a portfire smoked and fizzed inside a protective barrel at the back of
the gunpit. All the gun needed was to be re-aimed, then fired.
“Why not?” Sharpe said, then turned the cannon’s elevating screw until it pointed to a spot just above the far Fort Niebla. Harper had already levered the trail around. Sharpe plucked the portfire from its barrel and blew on its burning tip till the fuse glowed a brilliant red. “Would you like to do the honors?”
“You do this one,” Harper said, “and I’ll do the next.”
Sharpe stood to one side, reached over, and touched the glowing match to the quill in the touchhole. The fire flashed down to the charge, the gun crashed back on its carriage and a cloud of smoke billowed to hide the harbor. Men cheered as the ball screamed away across the water. Burning scraps of wad floated down the hillside and started small fires in the grass.
Harper fired the next gun, and so they went down the embrasures, sending the heavy shots toward the distant fort. Sharpe doubted that the cannonfire would do any damage, for he had no training in aiming such big guns, yet the shots were an expression of relief, even of joy. The defenders at Fort Niebla, doubtless confused by the noises and alarms of the night, did not fire back.
As the sound of the last shot echoed around the confining hills of the harbor, Sharpe looked south and saw that Cochrane’s men were swarming across the ramparts of Fort Amargos. The fort’s Spanish defenders were a fleeing rabble, the gate gaped open, and its flag was captured. Others of Cochrane’s men, diverted from the newly captured Fort Amargos, were scrambling up the headland’s central ridge to attack the gun emplacements of Fort Chorocomayo. Musket fire splintered the night as the attackers climbed. Cheers sounded from the ridge, a bugle called, and out in the harbor the nervous crews of neutral ships displayed bright lanterns
in their rigging, advertizing to any attackers that they had no part in this night’s fighting.
The fighting was ending. High on the ridge, under the bright sparks of the stars, musket flashes and cannon flames showed where Fort Chorocomayo briefly resisted Cochrane’s assault. Chorocomayo had been constructed to stop an attack from the south, not the north, and the firing flared for only a few minutes before there was a sudden silence and, through the moonlit mist of powder smoke, Sharpe saw the silhouetted flag drop. Chorocomayo, like Amargos and San Carlos and Fort Ingles, had fallen. Three hundred wet and frightened men, coming from the sea, had ripped Valdivia’s outer defenses into tatters. “Bloody amazing, is what it is!” Harper said.
“It surely is,” Sharpe agreed, though he knew the worst was yet to come, for the most formidable of the Spanish defense works, Corral Castle, Fort Niebla, Manzanera Island and Valdivia’s Citadel, were still in enemy hands, and all those strongholds, save only the gun batteries on Manzanera Island, were stone-walled and properly supplied with glacis, ditches and revetments. Yet those more taxing defenses would have to wait for daylight. Lieutenant Cabral, coming back on his horse, confirmed that Cochrane had called a halt for the night. The attack would continue in the morning, and till then the rebel forces were to stay where they were—to eat, sleep and rejoice.
Sharpe washed his sword blade clean in a trough of water, then joined Harper by a brazier where they ate Spanish sausages and a great loaf of bread, all washed down by a skin of harsh red wine. Harper had also found a basket of apples, and their smell reminded Sharpe of Normandy, for an instant, the homesickness was acute as a bullet’s strike. He shook it away. The smell of the battle, of powder smoke and
blood, was already gone, blown southward by the salty sea wind.
Major Miller, excited and proud, brought a further message from Cochrane. In the morning, Cochrane said, they would bombard the stone forts while the
Kitty
and the
O’Higgins
came into the harbor. Once Fort Niebla had surrendered the rebels would make the fourteen-mile journey upriver to attack Valdivia itself. Cochrane clearly had no doubts that the forts would surrender. “They’re rotten!” Miller spoke of the defenders. “They’ve no heart, Sharpe, no belly for a fight!”
“They’re badly led.” Sharpe felt sorry for the Spaniards. In the French wars he had seen Spaniards fight with fantastic bravery and enviable skill, yet here, with only a corrupted regime to defend, they had collapsed. “They think we’re devils,” Sharpe said, “and that we can’t be touched by bullets or blades. It isn’t fair to a man to have to fight demons.”
Miller laughed and touched the spiky tips of his moustache. “I always wanted a forked tail. Sleep well, Sharpe. Tomorrow will bring victory!”
“So it will,” Sharpe said, “so it will,” and he hoped the morrow would bring so much more besides. For tomorrow he would reach Valdivia where his sword and his money and his friend all lay captive. But all that must wait for the morning and the new day’s battle. Until then, Sharpe slept.

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