between thick blood, open to the sky and flies. He heaved, he screamed, he shouted for help, and even the men who were used to suffering and sudden death found the agony unbearable and gave the horrid wound a wide berth. Between screams the man panted, moaned, and cried. Two French infantrymen, unwounded, squatted fearfully beside the officer. One held his hand. The other tried to contain the terrible blue-red wound that had smeared the uniform with blood where it had not been scorched with fire. Sharpe looked at the artillery officer. “Be quicker to shoot him.”
“And a dozen others, sir.” Harper nodded at other men, some almost as badly wounded, some burned beyond a human face any more, and Sharpe climbed back to the breach top and shouted at McGovern. “The wounded will come out! Let them up!”
Carts were already waiting at the trench head, beside the main battery, to take the French to the hospital. Sharpe checked them out, one by one, and then looked at the prisoners in the courtyard. Leroux was not there. Somehow Sharpe was not surprised. He expected Leroux to be in the main fort, the San Vincente, and he hurried as he began to search the San Cayetano for he knew that the assault on the other forts must begin soon. He raced up stairs inside the convent, throwing doors open onto empty rooms, coughing when he had to dash down a smoke filled corridor to explore rooms threatened by flame, but the fort was deserted. The French were prisoners, downstairs, and the only men in the upper rooms were British soldiers rifling the possessions of their erstwhile enemies. Even those men Sharpe looked at carefully for it was not beyond a possibility that Leroux would have disguised himself in British uniform, but Leroux was not there.
A shout came from below and Sharpe ran to the last room he had not searched. It was empty as the others, except for a telescope, mounted like La Marquesa’s on a tripod, that a small Welsh soldier was struggling to lift. “Leave it!”
The man looked offended. “Sorry, sir.”
Sharpe could see the tripod marks on the wooden floor and he carefully aligned the telescope again on the old marks. He guessed that perhaps it had been used for receiving telegraph messages, when the French army had been close to the city, but he could not be sure. He peered through the glass, saw open sky, and tilted the tube downwards. The glass pointed through a tiny window. Anyone using it from the tripod marks could see scarce a thing through that tiny space. A patch of sky and then, the glass steadied, and Sharpe saw the dark square, and saw the circle of light that he knew was the brass-bound lens of La Marquesa’s glass. He grinned. Someone had tried to watch La Marquesa on her mirador and he could not blame them, for it must have been hell to be pinned in this tiny fort and an officer had set up the glass, far enough back so that it would not reflect any betraying light, and he must have prayed and hoped for a glimpse of that perfect beauty to relieve the perfect hell that sliced apart a man’s intestines. He stayed for a moment, hoping he would see her, but there was no sign of her. He remembered the shout from below and gestured at the glass. “You can have it, soldier.”
He ran down the stairs, joining Harper who had searched the rooms again, and the shout proved to be the discovery of the French magazine. The building smouldered and, beneath their feet, the powder barrels waited that could blow them into fine scraps. A British officer had organised a chain of men and the barrels were heaved up, passed through the courtyard, to be piled in the ditch. Sharpe pushed past the chain, ignoring their protests, but Leroux was not in the cellar.
The other two forts had still not surrendered, yet the British walked quite openly and unconcerned in the space outside the San Cayetano. No French guns fired, no canister riddled the air. Sergeant Huckfield had brought his squad to join McGovern’s, and the two Sergeants saluted as Sharpe came out of the breach. McGovern shook his head dourly. “No sign of him, sir?”
“No.” Sharpe sheathed his sword. Lieutenant Price was waiting in the trench, ready to go to the San Vincente, and Sharpe thought of the long afternoon ahead. He wanted to get back to La Marquesa, he wanted this chore done, and he began to resent the long search in the heat. He looked at Huckfield. “Take your men to La Merced. Wait for me there.” He did not expect Leroux to be in the smallest fort, but it had to be covered. He switched to McGovern. “Let four of your men stay here, just in case he’s hiding. The rest to the big one.”
“Sir. I’d be happier with six.”
“Six it is.” He thought what might happen if Leroux had found a hiding place in the smoking ruins. “And you stay, too, Mac.”
“Sir.” McGovern nodded gravely.
God, but it was hot. Sharpe took off his shako and wiped his face. His jacket was undone, swinging free. He clambered down the ravine side, staring up at the San Vincente, and as he watched he saw the Portuguese troops begin their climb towards the big, blazing fortress. Let the bastards surrender quickly, he thought, and he hurried, the sweat soaking the new, fine linen shirt that La Marquesa had given him. He would have to bathe in the Palacio, he thought, and he remembered the unbelievable luxury of the huge tub, filled by a relay of servants, and the strange sensation of being immersed in hot water. He smiled at the memory and Patrick Harper wondered what his Captain was thinking.
The Portuguese were not resisted. The small figures j jumped into the ditch, clambered through the cannon emplacements, and no muskets fired. The French had had enough. Sharpe looked at his squads. “Come on!”
The air was stifling. Close to the big fort, it was even hotter, fuelled by the fires that blazed unchecked in the building. Some Frenchmen, ignored by the Portuguese, were already leaping from the defences and Price led his squad to cut off their flight. Sharpe hurried up the crude glacis, the heat burning at him, and then he led Harper’s squad into the big defences to find the same picture they had seen before. The wounded needed attention, the living surrendered, the dead stank in the collapsed stones and timber. The Portuguese were already pulling the powder barrels from the cellars, rolling the kegs to safety, while others herded prisoners and looted French packs. There was no sign of Leroux. Three huge Frenchmen were pulled out of the ranks and Sharpe stared at them, trying to fit their faces to his mental image, but none was Leroux. One had a hare lip, and he could not imagine the Imperial Guard Colonel faking that disfigurement, one was too old, and the third seemed some kind of simpleton who grinned with feeble good-will at the Rifle Officer. It was not Leroux. Sharpe looked at the burning buildings, then at Harper. “We’ll have to search.”
They searched. They looked in every room that could be entered and tried to look even in those where no human could stay alive. Once Sharpe teetered on the brink of a broken floor, staring hopelessly into a roaring fire that swept upwards, white hot, and he heard the fall of great timbers and knew that no man could live in that. He put a hand on his ammunition pouch and the leather was almost too hot to touch and he went back, suddenly fearing that the rifle ammunition would explode, and he felt the first stirrings of doubt, of frustration. He was soaked with sweat, begrimed, and still the sun burned down on the furnace building, the prisoners milled outside and Sharpe cursed Leroux.
Price panted in the heat. “I haven’t seen him, sir.”
Sharpe pointed at a separate group. “Who are they?”
“Wounded, sir.”
He looked at the wounded. He even made one man take off a dirty bandage from his head, and wished he had not. The man was terribly burned and he was not Leroux. Sharpe looked at the scene on the glacis. “How many prisoners?”
“Four hundred here, sir. At least.”
“Search them again!” They marched up the ranks, stopping at each man, and the French prisoners looked at them dully. Some were tall, and those were pushed out of the ranks into a separate group, but it was hopeless. Some had no teeth, others were the wrong age, some were similar but not Leroux.
“Patrick!”
“Sir?”
“Find that officer who spoke French. Ask him to see me.”
The officer came and gladly helped. He asked prisoners if they knew of the tall Colonel Leroux or else of Captain Delmas, and most shrugged, but one or two volunteered help and said they remembered a Captain Delmas who had fought so well at Austerlitz, and one remembered a Leroux who had been in the town guard at Pau, and the sun smashed down, bounced off the broken stones, and the sweat trickled into Sharpe’s eyes, stinging them, and it was as if Leroux had vanished from the face of the earth.
“Sir?” Harper pointed across the ravine. “The little one’s surrendered.”
They crossed the ravine again and, now that the third fort had surrendered, the wounded who had been taken from the San Cayetano and the San Vincente were allowed up the trench. Sharpe wondered how many had
