Peninsula. Twice the British had failed to take the city and there seemed no reason, a year later, to suppose that a third attempt would meet with success.
The fortress had just one weakness. To the south-east, opposite the Trinidad bastion and across the flood waters, rose the shallow San Miguel hill. From its low, flat top a besieger could fire down on to the south-east corner of the city, and that was the single weakness. The French knew it, and had guarded against it. Two forts had been built to the south and east. One, the Picurina, had been built across the new lake on the lower slopes of the San Miguel hill. The second fort, the huge Pardaleras, was to the south and guarded the approach to any breach that might be carved by the guns on the hill. It was not much of a weakness, but all the British had to work on and so, on St Patrick’s Day, they marched to the rear of the San Miguel hill. They knew, and the French knew, that the effort would be against the south-east corner of the city, against the Santa Maria and Trinidad bastions, and the fact that the selfsame plan had failed twice before did not matter. From the top of the hill, where curious men gathered to look at the city, the breach made in the last siege could be clearly seen between the two bastions. It had been repaired, in lighter coloured stone, and the new masonry seemed to mock the coming British efforts.
Sharpe stood next to Patrick Harper and stared at the walls. ‘Jesus, they’re big!’ The Sergeant said nothing. Sharpe pulled the bottle from inside his greatcoat and held it out. ‘Here. A present for St Patrick’s Day.’
Harper’s broad face beamed with pleasure. ‘You’re a grand man, sir, for an Englishman. Would you be ordering me to save you half for St George’s Day?’
Sharpe stamped his feet against the cold. ‘I think I’ll take that half now.’
‘I thought you might.’ Harper was glad to see Sharpe, of whom he had seen little in the past month, but there was also an embarrassment in the meeting. The Irishman knew Sharpe needed reassurance that the Light Company missed him, and Harper thought him a fool for needing the words to be said. Of course they missed him. The Light Company were no different to the rest of the army. They were failures, almost to a man, whose failings had led them to courtrooms and jails. They were thieves, drunks, debtors, and murderers, the men Britain wanted out of sight and mind. It was easier to empty a town jail to a recruiting party than go through the tedious business of trial, sentence and punishment.
Not all were criminals. Some had been gulled by the Recruiting Sergeants, offered an escape from village tedium and narrow horizons. Some had failed in love and joined the army in despair, swearing they would rather die in battle than see their sweetheart married to another man. Many were drunkards who were terrified of a lonely shivering death in a winter ditch and joined an army that offered them clothes, boots, and a third of a pint of rum each day. Some, a few, a very few, joined for patriotism. Some, like Harper, joined because there was nothing but hunger at home and the army offered food and an escape. They were, almost to a man, the failings and leavings of society and to them all the army was one big Forlorn Hope.
Yet they were the best infantry in the world. They had not always been and, without the right leaders, would not be so again. Harper instinctively knew that this army that faced Badajoz was a superb instrument, better than anything the great Napoleon could muster, and Harper knew why. Because there were just enough officers like Sharpe who trusted the failures. It started at the top, of course, with Wellington himself, and went right through the ranks to the junior officers and Sergeants, and the trick of it was very simple. Take a man who has failed at everything, give him a final chance, show him trust, lead him to one success, and there is a sudden confidence that will lead to the next success. Soon they will believe they are unbeatable, and become unbeatable, but the trick was still to have officers like Sharpe who kept on offering trust. Of course the Light Company missed him! He had expected great things of them and trusted them to win. Perhaps the new man would one day learn the trick, but until he did, if ever, the men would miss Sharpe. Hell, thought Harper, they even like him. And the fool did not realize it. Harper shook his head to himself and offered the bottle to Sharpe. ‘Here’s to Ireland, sir, and death to Hakeswill.’
‘I’ll drink to that. How is the bastard?’
‘I’ll kill him one day.’
Sharpe gave a humourless laugh. ‘You won’t. I will.’
‘How the hell is he still alive?’
Sharpe shrugged. ‘He says he can’t be killed.’ It was cold on the hill and Sharpe hunched his shoulders beneath the greatcoat. ‘And he never turns his back. Watch yours.’
‘I’m growing eyes in my bum with that bastard around.’
‘What does Captain Rymer think of him?’
Harper paused, took the bottle from Sharpe, drank, and passed it back. ‘God knows. I think he’s scared of him, but so are most.’ He shrugged. ‘The Captain’s not a bad fellow, but he’s not exactly confident.’ The Sergeant was feeling awkward. He did not like to sound critical of one officer in front of another. ‘He’s young.’
‘None of us are old. How’s that new Ensign?’
‘Matthews? He’s fine, sir. Sticks to Lieutenant Price like a kid brother.’
‘And Mr Price?’
Harper laughed. ‘He keeps us cheerful, sir. Drunk as a cross-eyed stoat, but he’ll survive.’
It began raining, small, spitting drops that stung their faces. Behind them, on the Seville road, the bugles called the battalions to the evening lines. Sharpe turned up his collar. ‘We’d better be getting back.’ He stared at the small, blue-uniformed figures on the city parapets, three-quarters of a mile away. ‘Those sods will be warm tonight.’ He suddenly thought of Teresa and Antonia inside the walls and looked at the big, square, battlemented Cathedral tower. It was odd to think they were so close to her. The rain became heavier and he turned away, back towards the sprawling, makeshift British camp.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes?’
The Sergeant seemed embarrassed. ‘Major Hogan stopped by the other day.’
‘So?’
‘He was telling us about Miss Teresa, sir.’
Sharpe frowned. ‘What about her?’
‘Only, sir, that she’d asked you to look out for her. In the city. In case the lads go a bit wild.’
‘So?’
‘Well, the men are keen to help, so they are.’
‘You mean they don’t think I can manage?’
Harper was tempted to tell Sharpe not to be so foolish, but decided it might be one step too many over the subtle boundaries of rank and friendship. He sighed. ‘No, sir. Just that they’re keen to help. They’re fond of her, sir, so they are.’ And of you, he might have added.
Sharpe shook his head ungratefully. Teresa and Antonia were his problem, not the Company’s, and he did not want a horde of grinning men to witness his emotion at first seeing his child. ‘Tell them no.’
Harper shrugged. ‘They may try and help anyway.’
‘They’ll have a problem finding her in the city.’
The Sergeant grinned. ‘It won’t be difficult.
