the flood, the deluge, the end of the whole sodden world.’
Sharpe leaned back on a wicker gabion, abandoned by a working party, and stared up. ‘I haven’t seen the stars in a week. Longer.’
‘That’s true.’
‘I like stars.’
‘That’s nice for them.’ Harper was amused; he did not often hear Sharpe’s tongue loosened by drink.
‘No, really. You like birds, I like stars.’
‘Birds do things. They fly, make nests. You can watch them.’
Sharpe said nothing. He remembered the nights lying in fields, head on haversack, body inside the sewn blanket, and legs thrust into the arms of the jacket which was buttoned upside down on his stomach. It was the soldier’s way of sleeping, but on some nights he would simply lie there and watch the great smear in the sky that was like the camp fires of an unimaginably huge army. Legion upon incomprehensible legion, up there in the sky, and he knew that they were coming nearer, night by night, and the picture was confused in his head by the strange, drunken preachers who had come to the foundling home when he was a child. The stars were mixed up with the four horsemen of the apocalypse, the last trump, the second coming, the raising of the dead, and the lights in the night were the army of the world’s end. ‘The world won’t end in a flood. It’ll be bayonets and battalions. A bloody great battle.’
‘As long as we’re in the skirmish line, sir, I don’t mind.’ Harper drank more rum. ‘I must save some for the morning.’
Sharpe sat up. ‘Hagman’s bribing the drummer boys.’
‘Never works.’ Harper was right. The drummer boys did the flogging and were usually bribed by the victim’s friends, but under the gaze of the officers they were forced to lay on with their full strength.
Sharpe stared at the dark bulk of Badajoz, relieved by a few hazed lights. There was a fire burning in one of the castle’s many courtyards. The dull, brief bell of the Cathedral rang the half-hour. ‘If only she wasn’t there …’ He stopped.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If she wasn’t there.’ Harper’s Ulster accent was slow, as if he was treading very carefully. ‘You’d be tempted to bugger off. Is that right? Up to the hills? To fight with the Partisans?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You do. Do you think no one else has thought of it?’ Harper meant himself. ‘You’re not a fair weather soldier only.’
‘We’ll get desertions soon.’
‘Aye, if Hakeswill isn’t buried soon.’ No one had deserted from the Battalion for months. Other battalions were losing men, a handful each day who slipped across to Badajoz. There was traffic the other way, too, including, so Hogan had told Sharpe, a French Engineer Sergeant who brought with him the plans of the defences. The plans held few surprises, except confirmation that the western glacis was thickly mined.
Sharpe changed the subject. ‘Know how many died today?’
‘Was it today?’ Harper sounded surprised. ‘It seems like last week.’
‘A hundred of us. They counted nearly three hundred French. And some of them drowned, too. Poor bastards.’
‘They always see double counting the French.’ Harper was scornful. ‘And the French are probably boasting they killed a thousand of us.’
‘They didn’t do much damage.’
‘No.’ The French had hoped to set the siege back by at least a week, by forcing the British to re-dig the whole parallel. A week gained would be an extra week during which a French field army might march to the garrison’s relief. Harper opened another canteen. ‘The assault will be rough.’
‘Yes.’
The rain hissed down, seething on the soaked ground, thudding monotonously on the canvas. It was bitterly cold. Harper offered Sharpe the new canteen. ‘I have an idea.’
‘Tell me.’ Sharpe yawned.
‘Am I keeping you up?’
‘What’s your idea?’
‘I’m volunteering for the Forlorn Hope.’
Sharpe snorted. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool. You want to live, don’t you?’
‘I’m not being a fool, and I want to be a Sergeant again. Will you ask for me?’
Sharpe shrugged. ‘They don’t listen to me any more.’
‘I said, will you ask?’ Harper’s voice was stubborn.
Sharpe could not imagine Harper dead. He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘You keeping it for yourself?’ The words were spoken harshly. Sharpe turned and looked at the huge man. There was no point in denial.
‘How did you know?’
Harper laughed. ‘How long have I been with you? Mary, Mother of God, do you think I’m a fool? You lose your Captaincy and what will you do? You’ll go screaming up some bloody breach with your sword waving because you’d rather be dead than lose your bloody pride.’
Sharpe knew it was true. ‘What about you?’
‘I’d like the stripes back.’
‘Pride?’
‘Why not? They keep saying the Irish are fools, but I notice precious few laughing at me.’
‘That could be your size, not your stripes.’
‘Aye, maybe, but I’ll not have them saying I failed. So you’ve volunteered?’
Sharpe nodded. ‘Yes. But they won’t choose anyone yet, not till the assault.’
‘And if they choose you, will you take me?’
‘Yes.’ He said the word with reluctance.
The Irishman nodded. ‘Let’s hope they choose you, then.’
‘Pray for a miracle.’
Harper laughed. ‘You don’t want a miracle. They always turn out bad.’ He drank rum. ‘St Patrick turns out all the snakes from Ireland and what happens? We get so bored that we let the English in to take their place. The poor man must be turning in his grave. Snakes were better.’
Sharpe shook his head. ‘If Ireland were five times bigger, and England five times smaller, then you’d be doing the same to us.’
Harper laughed again. ‘Now that would be a miracle worth praying for.’
Guns boomed to their right, across the river, as the cannon
