into the wound in Sharpe’s thigh. ‘You’ve been wounded a fair bit, Mr Sharpe.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Sharpe hissed the words. His leg felt as if a serpent with red hot fangs was tearing at him.
The doctor grunted, pushed down. ‘Ah! Splendid! Splendid!’ Blood welled from the bullet wound. ‘I have it.’ He pushed, feeling the bullet grate beneath the probe’s tip.
‘Jesus!’
‘A very present help in trouble.’ The doctor said the words automatically. He straightened up, leaving the probe in the wound. ‘You’re a lucky man, Mr Sharpe.’
‘Lucky, sir?’ His leg was on fire, streaking pain from ankle to groin.
‘Lucky.’ The doctor picked up a glass of claret that his orderly kept always full. He stared at the probe. ‘To leave or not to leave, that is the question.’ He glanced at Sharpe. ‘You’re a healthy bastard, yes?’
‘Yes, sir.’ It came out as a groan.
The doctor sniffed. His cold had not improved since Harper’s flogging. ‘It could stay in there, Mr Sharpe, but I think not. You’re lucky. It’s not deep. The ball must have lost most of its force.’ He looked behind him and selected a long, thin pair of pincers. He inspected the ridged tips, spotted a piece of dirt, and spat on the instrument, wiping it dry on his sleeve. ‘Right! Hold still, think of England!’ He pushed the forceps into the wound, following the track of the probe, and Sharpe hissed imprecations at him which the doctor ignored. He felt for the bullet, brought out the probe, pushed down again with the forceps, and then tightened his grip. ‘Splendid! A moment more!’ He twisted, Sharpe’s leg exploded with agony, and the doctor pulled out the forceps and dropped them, the bullet in their jaws, on the table behind him. ‘Splendid! Nelson should have known me. Right. Tie him up, Harvey.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The orderly let go of Sharpe’s ankles and rooted around under the table looking for a clean bandage.
The doctor took the bullet, still in the forceps, and shook the blood from it in a pail of discoloured water. ‘Ah!’ He held the bullet up. ‘A pistol bullet! No wonder it didn’t penetrate. The range must have been too great. Do you want it?’
Sharpe nodded and held out his hand. It was no musket bullet. The grey ball was just half an inch across and Sharpe remembered the fore-shortened yellow flame. The seven-barrelled gun used half-inch bullets. ‘Doctor?’
‘Sharpe?’
‘The other wound. Is the bullet still in?’
‘No.’ The doctor was wiping his hands on his apron, already stiff with blood. It was the mark of seniority in his profession. ‘Straight through, Sharpe, all it did was break the skin. Here.’ He held out a tumbler of brandy.
Sharpe drank it and leaned back on the table while the orderly washed and bandaged his leg. He felt no particular anger that Hakeswill had tried to kill him, merely a curiosity and a thankfulness that he had survived. He was certainly not shocked. Had he been holding the volley gun, and had he seen Hakeswill, he would have pulled the trigger and sent the Sergeant spinning to the devil, and all without a second thought. He looked at the doctor. ‘What’s the time, sir?’
‘Dawn, Sharpe, dawn. An Easter dawn, when all men should rejoice.’ He sneezed violently. ‘You should take things gently.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He swung his legs off the table and pulled on the cavalry overalls. There was a neat hole in the leather reinforcements of the right inner thigh where the bullet had entered. The doctor looked at the hole and laughed.
‘Three inches higher and you’d have been the last of your line.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Very droll. He tested his weight and found his leg could take it. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘For nothing, Sharpe, except my small skill and humble duty. Half a bottle of rum and you’ll be skipping like a lamb. A credit to the Medical Board and the Apothecary General whose obedient servant I am.’ He pulled open the flap of his tent. ‘Come and see me if you ever need a limb removed.’
‘I shall see no one else, sir.’
The troops had stood down from the morning alert, had piled arms, and were finishing meagre breakfasts. The guns were hard at work, firing now at the Santa Maria bastion as well as the Trinidad, and Sharpe imagined the smoke lying over the lake. Damn the powder! The amount of powder needed had been grossly underestimated otherwise Sharpe, Harper and the Riflemen would be heroes this morning. As it was they were pariahs. Trouble was brewing, Sharpe could smell it. The night’s failure needed scapegoats.
Bells clamoured from the city. Easter. Sharpe limped towards his shelter and, to his right, saw a group of Portuguese or Spanish women, followers of the army, picking small, white flowers from a ditch bank. Spring was softening the landscape. Soon it would open the roads and the rivers to the French armies and Sharpe wondered if it was his imagination or were the guns today firing at a faster tempo? Pounding at a city that the British must take if they were to carry the war into the heart of Spain. The guns of Badajoz could be heard by the troops far to the north, at Alcantara and Caceres, and east at Merida, where British outposts stared down the empty roads waiting for a French relief army and listened to the growl of the distant thunder. The guns. They dominated the Easter service, wrenching the thoughts of the people in the cathedral away from the celebrations. The High Altar was resplendent in a white and gold facing, the Virgin draped in gorgeous, bejewelled robes, but the sound of the guns started dust from the high, gold-painted cornice that circled the Cathedral’s interior, sifted it down past the Stations of the Cross, and the women prayed, told their beads, and the guns foretold a bloody assault. Badajoz knew what was to come; the city had a long memory of other sieges when Moors and Christians had taken turns to massacre the inhabitants. Be with us now and in the hour of our need.
‘Sharpe!’ Major Collett, tired and irascible, gestured from Windham’s tent.
‘Sir?’
‘How’s the leg?’ The question was grudging.
‘It hurts.’
Collett offered no sympathy. ‘The Colonel wants you.’
The light was yellowed inside the tent, the canvas giving Windham’s face a tint of jaundice. He nodded at Sharpe, not unfriendlily, and gestured at a wooden crate. ‘You’d better sit.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The leg was shooting pain into his groin. He was hungry.
Collett came in behind Sharpe and pulled the flap shut. The Major was short enough to stand upright beneath the ridgepole. For a few seconds there was silence and it struck Sharpe, suddenly, that Windham was embarrassed. He felt a sympathy for the Colonel. It was not Windham’s fault that Rymer had purchased the commission, it was not his choice to follow Lawford, and Windham, in the little Sharpe knew of him, seemed a decent enough man. He looked up at the Colonel. ‘Sir?’
The word broke the silence. Windham gestured irritably. ‘Last night, Sharpe. A pity.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Whatever the Colonel meant by a pity. The dam not being broken? Matthews’ death?
‘The General’s disappointed. Not with us. We did our job. We got the powder to the dam, we blew it up, and there wasn’t enough damn powder. It’s the Engineers to blame, not us.’
