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
