style="font-size:15px;"> ‘That’s right, sir. He should be in bloody Bedlam, sir, not here.’ Price grinned. ‘Perhaps the army is a madhouse sir, I don’t know.’
Sharpe was about to demand the seven-barrelled gun from Hakeswill when Windham, now mounted on his horse, called the Light Company to attention. Hakeswill put his shako on, snapped his heels together, and stared at the Colonel. Windham wished them luck, told them their job was to protect the sappers in case they were discovered and, if they were not detected, to do nothing. ‘Off you go! And good hunting!’
The Light Company filed into the trench, Hakeswill still carrying the seven-barrelled gun, and Sharpe wished he was going with them. He knew how dearly Hogan wanted the dam blown, how much easier the assault on the breach would be if the lake was gone, and it irked him to be absent from the attempt. Instead, as the cathedral clock sounded half-past ten, he was at Windham’s side as the nine remaining companies of the Battalion climbed out of the parallel on to the dark grass. Windham was nervous. ‘They should be nearly there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Colonel half drew his sword, thought better of it, and slid the blade back into the scabbard. He looked round for Collett. ‘Jack?’
‘Sir?’
‘Ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Off you go! Wait for the clock!’
Collett walked forward into the darkness. He was taking four companies towards the city, towards the fort that protected the dam, and, when the clock struck eleven, he was to open fire on the face of the fort to make the French believe that an attack was coming. The other companies, under Windham, were in reserve. The Colonel, Sharpe knew, was hoping that the false attack might reveal a weakness in the fort and turn itself into a real attack. He had hopes of leading the South Essex across the ditch, up the stone wall, and into the defences. Sharpe wondered how the Light Company were doing. At least there had been no shots from the castle, no shouted challenge from the dam’s fort, so presumably they were still undetected. The Rifleman felt uneasy. If all went well, according to Windham’s timetable, the dam should be blown a few minutes after eleven, but Sharpe’s instincts were gloomy. He thought of Teresa inside the city, of the child, and wondered whether the explosion, if it ever came, would wake up the baby. His baby! It still seemed miraculous that he had a child.
‘The powder should be in place, Sharpe!’
‘Yes, sir.’ He only half heard the Colonel’s words but he knew that Windham was merely talking to cover his nervousness. They had no way of knowing where the powder was. Sharpe tried to imagine the sappers, laden down like south coast brandy smugglers, creeping up the ravine towards the dam, but Windham interrupted his thoughts.
‘Count the musket flashes, Sharpe!’
‘Yes, sir.’ He knew that the Colonel was hoping that the fort, by some miracle, would be thinly defended and that the South Essex could overwhelm it by sheer numbers. It was, Sharpe knew, a vain hope.
Off to their left, a half mile up the hill, the flames stabbed from the siege guns and each flash lit the rolling smoke that filled the air over the floodwaters. The French guns replied, firing at the muzzle flashes, but the enemy fire had slackened in the last two days. They were hoarding their ammunition, saving it for the new batteries of the second parallel.
‘Not long now.’ The Colonel spoke to himself; then, louder. ‘Major Forrest?’
‘Sir?’ Forrest appeared from the darkness.
‘All well, Forrest?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Forrest, like Sharpe, had nothing to do.
There was a sudden crackle of musketry, muffled by distance, from the north and Windham spun round. ‘Not us, I think.’ It was much too far away to be concerned with the Light Company’s attack; far off to the north, across the river, men of the Fifth Division were keeping the French forts occupied. Windham relaxed. ‘Must be soon, gentlemen.’
A shout came from the darkness in front. The three officers froze, listened, and it came again. ‘Qui vive?’ A French sentry had challenged. Sharpe heard Windham suck in breath.
‘Qui vive?’ Louder. ‘Gardez-vous!’ A musket stabbed from the fort towards the dark field.
‘Damn.’ Windham spat the word out. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’
There were more shouts from the fort, followed by a glow of light that grew, showed leaping flames, and a carcass was hurled into the darkness, across the ditch, and Sharpe could see Collett’s companies outlined by the fire.
‘Tirez!’ The shout carried easily. The loopholes of the small fort sprang musket fire, and the British companies replied.
‘Damn!’ Windham shouted. ‘We’re early!’
Collett’s companies were firing in platoon fire, the volleys rolling down the faces of the companies, the balls hammering audibly on the fort’s stonework. The officers were shouting, trying to sound like a larger force, the muskets firing like clockwork. Sharpe watched the defences. The French musket fire was constant and he guessed that each man at a loophole or embrasure had at least two other men loading spare muskets. ‘I don’t think they’re short of defenders, sir.’
‘Damn!’ Windham ignored Sharpe.
The Cathedral clock sent its flat notes out to mingle with the sound of the firefight. More carcasses were lit in the fort, thrown out, and Sharpe heard Collett ordering his men to go back, into the darkness. Windham was pacing up and down, his frustration obvious. ‘Where’s the Light Company? Where’s the Light Company?’
The gunners on the city wall heaved on the traces, turned their cannon, and loaded with grapeshot. They fired, the flames pointing down into the dark field, and Sharpe heard the whistle of shot.
‘Open order!’ Collett’s voice carried back to Sharpe. ‘Open order!’ It was a sensible precaution against grapeshot that would keep casualties low, but it would not help to convince the French that a real attack was in progress. Windham drew his sword.
‘Captain Leroy!’
‘Sir?’ The voice came from the darkness.
‘Forward with your company! On Major Collett’s right!’
‘Yes, sir.’ The Grenadier Company was ordered forward, adding to the confusion.
Windham turned to Sharpe. ‘Time, Sharpe?’
Sharpe remembered hearing the cathedral bell. ‘Two minutes after eleven, sir.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Give them time, sir.’
Windham ignored him. He stared forward at the fort, at the burning carcasses that lit the whole ditch and the front of the field. Small groups of men were running forward, kneeling, firing and sprinting back into the darkness, and Sharpe saw one man fall in a shower of grape, his body motionless in the light of the flames. Two other men ran forward, grabbed his legs, and tugged the body back to their company. ‘Aim! Present! Fire!’ The familiar orders rang round the field, the muskets fired towards
