Captain Morris, his mouth swollen and bleeding, and with a bruise blackening one eye and another disfiguring his forehead, staggered up the hillside. “Major Stokes!” he called petulantly. “Major Stokes.”
Stokes turned to him. His first reaction was that Morris must have been wounded trying to cross the wall, and he decided he must have misjudged the man who was not, after all, such a coward. “You need a surgeon, Captain?”
“That bloody man, Sharpe! He hit me! Hit me! Stole my company. I want charges leveled.”
“Hit you?” Stokes asked, bemused.
“Stole my company!” Morris said in outrage. “I ordered him to go away, and he hit me! I’m telling you, sir, because you’re a senior officer. You can talk to some of my men, sir, and hear their story. Some of them witnessed the assault, and I shall look for your support, sir, in the proceedings.”
Stokes wanted to laugh. So that was how Sharpe had found the men! “I think you’d better forget bringing charges against Mr. Sharpe,” the engineer said.
“Forget bringing charges?” Morris exclaimed. “I will not! I’ll break the bastard!”
“I doubt it,” Stokes said.
“He hit me!” Morris protested. “He assaulted me!”
“Nonsense,” Stokes said brusquely. “You fell over. I saw you do it. Tripped and tumbled. And that’s precisely what I’ll allege at any court-martial. Not that there’ll be a court-martial. You simply fell over, man, and now you’re suffering from delusions! Maybe it’s a touch of the sun, Captain? You should be careful, otherwise you’ll end up like poor Harness. We shall ship you home and you’ll end your days in Bedlam with chains round your ankles.”
“Sir! I protest!” Morris said.
“You protest too much, Captain,” Stokes said. “You tripped, and that’s what I shall testify if you’re foolish enough to bring charges. Even my boy saw you trip. Ain’t that so, Ahmed?” Stokes turned to get Ahmed’s agreement, but he had vanished. “Oh, God,” Stokes said, and started down the hill to find the boy.
But sensed he was already too late.
The first hundred paces of Sharpe’s advance were easy enough, for the sun-baked ground was open and his men were still out of sight of the gatehouse. The few defenders who had manned the wall above the ravine had fled, but as soon as the redcoats breasted the slope of the hill to see the gatehouse ahead, the enemy musketry began. “Keep running!” Sharpe shouted, though it was hardly a run. They staggered and stumbled, their scabbards and haversacks banging and flapping, and the sun burned down relentlessly and the dry ground spurted puffs of dust as enemy musket balls flicked home. Sharpe was dimly aware of a cacophony of musketry from his left, the fire of the thousands of redcoats on the other side of the ravine, but the gatehouse defenders were sheltered by the outer parapet. A group of those defenders was manhandling a cannon round to face the new attack. “Just keep going!” Sharpe called, the breath rasping in his throat. Christ, but he was thirsty. Thirsty, hungry and excited. The gatehouse was fogged by smoke as its defenders fired their muskets at the unexpected attack that was coming out of the west.
Off to his right Sharpe could see more defenders, but they were not firing, indeed they were not even formed in ranks. Instead they bunched beside a low wall that seemed to edge some gardens and supinely watched the confrontation. A building reared up beyond that, half obscured by trees. The place was huge! Hilltop after hilltop lay within the vast ring of Gawilghur’s Inner Fort, and there had to be a thousand places for the enemy to assemble a force to attack Sharpe’s open right flank, but he dared not worry about that possibility. All that mattered now was to reach the gatehouse and kill its defenders and so let a torrent of redcoats through the entrance.
The cannon fired from the gatehouse. The ball struck the dry ground fifty yards ahead of Sharpe and bounced clean over his head. The smoke of the gun spread in front of the parapet, spoiling the aim of the defenders, and Sharpe blessed the gunners and prayed that the smoke would linger. He had a stitch in his side, and his ribs still hurt like hell from the kicking that Hakeswill had given him, but he knew they had surprised this enemy, and an enemy surprised was already half beaten.
The smoke thinned and the muskets flamed from the wall again, making more smoke. Sharpe turned to shout at his men. “Come on! Hurry!” He was crossing a stretch of ground where some of the garrison had made pathetic little lodges of thin branches propped against half-dead trees and covered with sacking. Ash showed where fires had burned. It was a dumping ground. There was a rusting iron cannon carriage, a stone trough that had split in two and the remains of an ancient windlass made of wood that had been sun-whitened to the color of bone. A small brown snake twisted away from him. A woman, thin as the snake and clutching a baby, fled from one of the shelters. A cat hissed at him from another. Sharpe dodged between the small trees, kicking up dust, breathing dust. A musket ball flicked up a puff of fire ash, another clanged off the rusting gun carriage.
He blinked through the sweat that stung his eyes to see that the gate passage’s inner wall was lined with-white-coated soldiers. The wall was a good hundred paces long, and its fire step was reached by climbing the flight of stone steps that led up beside the innermost gate. Campbell and his men were running toward that gate and Sharpe was now alongside them. He would have to fight his way up the stairs, and he knew that it would be impossible, that there were too many defenders, and he flinched as the cannon fired again, only this time it belched a barrelful of canister that threw up a storm of dust devils all about Sharpe’s leading men.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop! Form line!” He was close to the wall, damned close, not more than forty paces. “Present!” he shouted, and his men raised their muskets to aim at the top of the wall. Smoke still hid half the rampart, though the other half was clear and the defenders were firing fast. A Scotsman staggered backward and a sepoy folded over silently and clutched his bleeding belly. A small dog yapped at the soldiers. The smoke was clearing from the mouth of the cannon. “You’ve got one volley,” Sharpe called, “then we charge. Sergeant Green? I don’t want your men to fire now. Wait till we reach the top of the steps, then give us covering fire.” Sharpe wanted to lash out with his boot at the damned dog, but he forced himself to show calm as he paced down the front of the line. “Aim well, boys, aim well! I want that wall cleared.” He stepped into a space between two files. “Fire!”
The single volley flamed toward the top of the wall and Sharpe immediately ran at the steps without waiting to see the effect of the fire. Campbell was already at the innermost gate, lifting its heavy bar. He had a dozen men ready to enter the passageway, while the rest of his company faced back into the fort’s interior to fight off any of the garrison who might come down from the buildings on the hill.
Sharpe took the steps two at a time. This is bloody madness, he thought. Suicide in a hot place. Should have stayed in the ravine. The sun beat off the stones so that it was like being in an oven. There were men with him, though he could not see who they were, for he was only aware of the top of the stairs, and of the men in white who were turning to face him with bayonets, and then Green’s first volley slammed into them, and one of the men spun sideways, spurting a spray of blood from his scalp, and the others instinctively twitched away from the volley and Sharpe was there, the claymore slashing in a haymaker’s sweep that bounced off the wounded man’s skull to drive a second man over the wall’s unprotected edge and into the passageway.
Where the innermost gate was opening, scraping on the stone and squealing on its huge hinges as Campbell’s men heaved on the vast doors.
A bayonet lunged at Sharpe, catching his coat, and he hammered the hilt of the claymore down onto the man’s head, then brought up his knee. Lockhart was beside him, fighting with a cold-blooded ferocity, his sabre spattering drops of blood with every cut or lunge. “Over there!” Lockhart shouted to his men, and a half-dozen of the cavalrymen ran across the top of the archway to challenge the defenders on the outer
walkway. Tom Garrard came up on Sharpe’s right and plunged his bayonet forward in short, disciplined strokes. More men ran up the stairs and pushed at those in front so that Sharpe, Lockhart and Garrard were shoved forward against the enemy who had no space to use their bayonets. The press of men also protected Sharpe from the enemy’s muskets. He beat down with the heavy sword, using his height to dominate the Indians who were keening a high-pitched war cry. A bayonet hit Sharpe plumb on his hip bone and he felt the steel grind on bone and he slammed the claymore’s hilt down onto the man’s head to crumple his shako, then down again to beat the man to the ground. The bayonet fell away and Sharpe climbed over the stunned man to slash at another defender. A musket banged close by him and he felt the scorch of the barrel flame on his burned cheek. The press of men was thick, too thick to make progress, even though he beat at them with the sword which he cut downward with both hands. “Throw them over the bloody side!” Lockhart shouted, and the tall cavalryman slashed his sabre, just missing Sharpe, but the hissing blade drove the enemy frantically back and two of them, caught on the edge of the fire step, screamed and fell to where they were beaten to death by the musket butts of Campbell’s Highlanders. Campbell himself was running to the next gate. Two more gates to unbar and the way would be open, but the Cobras were thick on the walls and Dodd was screaming at them to shoot into the press of men, attackers and defenders alike, and so throw back the impudent handful of redcoats who had turned his rear.
Then the attackers outside the fort, who had despaired of making another charge into the smoke- and blood-stinking alley where so many had died, heard the fight on the ramparts and so they came back, flooding into the shadow of the arch and there aiming up at the fire steps. The muskets hammered, more men came, and the Cobras were assailed from in front and from below. “Rockets!” Dodd shouted, and some of his men lit the missiles and tossed them down into the passageway, but they were nervous of the attackers coming along the top of the rampart. Those attackers were big men, crazed with battle, slashing with swords and bayonets as they snarled their way along the wall. Sergeant Green’s men fired from below, picking off defenders and forcing others to duck.
“Fire across! Fire across!” Captain Campbell, down in the passageway, had seen the defenders thickening in front of the men attacking along the tops of the walls and now he cupped his hands and shouted at the men behind the front ranks of the attackers. “Fire across!” He pointed, showing them that they should angle their fire over the passageway to strike the defenders on the opposite wall and the men, understanding him, loaded their muskets. It took a few seconds, but at last the crossfire began and the pressure in front of Sharpe gave way. He swung the huge sword backhanded, half severing a man’s head, twisted the blade, thrust it into a belly, twisted it again, and suddenly the Cobras were backing away, terrified of the bloody blades.
The second gate was opened. Campbell was the first man through and now there was only one gate left. His sergeant had brought a score of men into the passageway and those Scotsmen began to fire up at the walls, and the Cobras were crumbling now because there were redcoats below them on both sides, and more were hacking their way along the rampart, and the defenders were pinned in a small place with nowhere to go. The only steps to the gateway’s fire step were in redcoat hands, and Dodd’s men could either jump or surrender. A piper had started playing, and the mad skirl of the music drove the attackers to a new fury as they closed on the remnants of Dodd’s Cobras. The redcoats were screaming a terrible war cry that was a compound of rage, madness and sheer terror. Sharpe’s tattered white facings were now so soaked in blood that it looked as if he wore the red-trimmed coat of the 33rd again. His arm was tired, his hip was a great aching sore, and the wall was still not clear. A musket ball snatched at his sleeve, another fanned his bare head, and then he snarled at an enemy, cut again, and Campbell had the last bar out of its brackets and his men were heaving on the gate, and the attackers who had come from outside the fort were pulling on it, while beyond the outermost arch, on the slope above the ravine, an officer beckoned to all the troops waiting to the north.
A cheer sounded, and a flood of redcoats ran down into the ravine and up the track towards the Inner Fort. They smelled loot and women. The gates were open. The fortress in the sky had fallen.
Dodd was the last man on Sharpe’s wall. He knew he was beaten, but he was no coward, and he came forward, sword in hand, then recognized the bloody man opposing him. “Sergeant Sharpe,” he said, and raised his gold-hilted sword in an ironic salute. He had once tried to persuade Sharpe to join him in the Cobras, and Sharpe had been tempted, but fate had kept him in his red coat and brought him to this last meeting on Gawilghur’s ramparts.
“I’m Mr. Sharpe now, you bastard,” Sharpe said, and he waved Lockhart and Garrard back, then jumped forward, cutting with the claymore, but Dodd parried it easily and lunged at Sharpe, piercing his coat and glancing the sword point off a rib. Dodd stepped back, flicked the claymore aside, and lunged again, and this time the blade cut into Sharpe’s right cheek, opening it clean up to the bone beside his eye.
“Marked for life,” Dodd said, “though I fear it won’t be a long life, Mr. Sharpe.” Dodd thrust again and Sharpe parried desperately, deflecting the blade more by luck than skill, and he knew he was a dead man because Dodd was too good a swordsman. McCandless had warned him of this. Dodd might be a traitor, but he was a soldier, and a good one.
Dodd saw Sharpe’s sudden caution, and smiled. “They made an officer out of you, did they? I never knew the British army had that much sense.” He advanced again, sword low, inviting an attack from Sharpe, but then a redcoat ran past Sharpe, sabre swinging, and Dodd stepped fast back, surprised by the sudden charge, although he parried it with an instinctive skill. The force of the parry knocked the redcoat off balance and Dodd, still with a smile, lunged effortlessly to skewer the redcoat’s throat. It was Ahmed, and Sharpe, recognizing the boy, roared with rage and ran at Dodd who flicked the sword back, blood streaming from its tip, and deflected the claymore’s savage cut, turned his blade beneath it and was about to thrust the slim blade into Sharpe’s belly when a pistol banged and Dodd was thrown hard back, blood showing on his right shoulder. His sword arm, numbed by the pistol bullet, hung low.
Sharpe walked up to him and saw the fear in Dodd’s eyes. “This is for McCandless,” he said, and kicked the renegade in the crotch. Dodd gasped and bent double. “And this is for Ahmed,” Sharpe said, and swept the claymore up so that its heavy blade ripped into Dodd’s throat, and Sharpe, still holding the sword double-handed, pulled it hard back and the steel sawed through sinew and muscle and gullet so that the fire step was suddenly awash with blood as the tall Dodd collapsed. Eli Lockhart, the long horse pistol still smoking in his hand, edged Sharpe aside to make certain Dodd was dead. Sharpe was stooped by Ahmed, but the boy was dying. Blood bubbled at his throat as he tried to breathe. His eyes looked up into Sharpe’s face, but there was no recognition there. His small body heaved frantically, then was still. He had gone to his paradise. “You stupid bastard,” Sharpe said, tears trickling to dilute the blood pouring from his cheek. “You stupid little bastard.”
Lockhart used his sabre to cut the ropes holding the flag above the gatehouse and a roar of triumph sounded from the ravine as the flag came down. Then Lockhart helped Sharpe strip Ahmed of his red jacket and, lacking a British flag to hoist, they pulled the faded, blood-reddened coat up to the top of the pole. Gawilghur had yielded.
Sharpe cuffed tears and blood from his face. Lockhart was grinning at him, and Sharpe forced a smile in return. “We did it, Eli.”
“We bloody did.” Lockhart held out a hand and Sharpe gripped it.
“Thank you,” Sharpe said fervently, then he let go of the cavalryman’s hand and kicked Dodd’s corpse. “Look after that body, Eli. It’s worth a fortune.”
“That’s Dodd?”
“That’s the bastard. That corpse is worth seven hundred guineas to you and Cl
are.”
“You and me, sir,” Lockhart said. The Sergeant looked as ragged and bloody as Sharpe. His blue jacket was torn and bloodstained. “We’ll share the reward,” he said, “you and me, sir.”
“No,” Sharpe said, “he’s all yours. I just wanted to see the bastard dead. That’s reward enough for me.” Blood was pouring from his cheek to add to the gore on his coat. He turned to Garrard who was leaning against the parapet, gasping for air. “Look after the boy for me, Tom.”
Garrard, seeing that Ahmed was dead, frowned in puzzlement.
“I’m going to give him a proper burial,” Sharpe explained, then he turned and walked down the wall where exhausted redcoats rested among the dead and dying Cobras, while beneath them, in the passage that Campbell had opened, a stream of soldiers poured unopposed into the fort.
“Where are you going?” Garrard shouted after Sharpe.
Sharpe did not answer. He just walked on. He had another enemy to hunt, and an even richer reward to win.
The defenders were hunted down and killed. Even when they tried to surrender, they were killed, for their fortress had resisted and that was the fate of garrisons that showed defiance. Blood-maddened redcoats, fed on arrack and rum, roamed the vast stronghold with bayonets and greed both sharpened. There was little enough loot, but plenty of women, and so the screaming began.
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