‘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 wall were palisades, split-trunks loopholed 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 harbours 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 roundshot 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 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.’
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.’
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 5: Sharpe's Company, Sharpe's Sword, Sharpe's Enemy Page 16