Sharpe's Company

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘God knows, sir.’ Price still thought of Sharpe as a Captain. ‘He’s always doing it now. Takes his hat off, stares inside, smiles, then puts it on again. He’s mad, sir.’

  ‘He takes his hat on? And stares into it?’

  ‘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-barreled 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-barreled 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.

  ‘Fire? !’ 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 the fort, and the deadly grapeshot pattered down from the high walls.

  ‘Captain Sterritt?’ Windham bellowed.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Present yourself to Major Collett! Your company will reinforce him!’

  ‘Yes, sir!” Another company went forward and Sharp, guiltily, thought that another Captain had been sent into the range of the grapeshot. He wondered what had happened to Rymer. There was no firing from the rear of the fort, but no explosion either. He looked constantly, waiting for the eruption of flame and smoke, but there was. only silence from the dam.

  ‘Where are they?’ Windham pounded a fist against his thigh, cut at the air with his sword. ‘Damn them! Where are they?’

  Men were stumbling back from the fight, wounded by the grapeshot, and Collett was pulling the companies further back. There was no point, he reasoned, in losing men in an attack that was only a fake assault. The fire f
rom the fort slackened. Still no explosion.

  ‘Damn! We need to know what’s happening!’

  ‘I’ll go, sir. ‘ Sharpe could see Windham’s careful scheme collapsing. The French must know by now that the attack was not real, and it would not take any great intelligence to reason that the dam was the real target. He tried to imagine the sappers again, laden with their barrels. “They could have been captured, sir. Maybe they’ve not even reached the dam.’

  Windham hesitated and, as he paused, Major Collett shouted nearby. ‘Colonel? Sir?’

  ‘Jack! Here!’

  Collett came up, saluted. ‘Can’t go on much longer, sir. We’re losing too many men to that damned grapeshot.’

  Windham turned back to Sharpe. ‘How long will it take you to get there?’

  Sharpe thought fast. He did not need to go softly, or take the long way round. There was enough noise and chaos in the field to cover his movements and he would go as close as he dared to the fort. ‘Five minutes, sir.’

  ‘Then go. Listen!’ Windham checked Sharpe’s movement. ‘I want a report, that’s all, d’you understand? See where they are. Have they been discovered? How long till they succeed? Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I want you back here in ten minutes. Ten minutes, Sharpe. ‘ He turned to Major Collett. ‘Can you give me ten minutes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Off you go, Sharpe! Hurry!’

  He began running, his dark uniform invisible against the night, towards the fort and the hidden dam. He went right, skirting the light of the carcasses, heading towards the ravine of the Rivillas downstream of the dam. He stumbled on tussocks, slipped on damp earth, but he was free, alone and free. Grapeshot whistled overhead, fired from the castle, but he was well beneath it, hidden in the darkness, and the stabbing musket flames from the fort were to his left. He slowed down, knowing that the stream could not be far, wary in case French patrols were lurking in the ravine. He unslung the rifle from his shoulder and pulled the flint back to full cock. The spring was heavy, satisfying, and he felt the sear fall into place. He was armed, what was it Hogan said? Cap a pie, whatever that meant, but it felt good and he grinned at the night as he went forward, slowly now, his eyes searching for the ravine’s edge. He had pulled his shako low over his eyes so that the peak hid the white-centered cannon flames from his sight, preserving his night vision, and then he saw a streak of deeper shadow, fringed with bushes, and he knew he had reached the stream bank. He lay flat, pulled himself forward, and peered over the edge.

  The ravine was deeper than he had imagined. The bank fell steeply away from him down to a dull sheen of water some eighteen or twenty feet below. There was no sound from the ravine, except the stream’s murmur, and no sign of the Light Company or sappers. He looked left. The dam was a black shape next to the fort, just forty yards from him, and it seemed empty, silent, holding back the huge weight of water.

  He slithered over the edge, still on his stomach, and let his weight slide him down between long-spined thorn bushes, the rifle held ahead of him, and suddenly there was a challenge. ‘Who goes there?’ It was a hoarse, frightened whisper.

  ‘Sharpe! Who’s that?’

  ‘Peters, sir. Thank God you’re here. ‘

  He saw the man’s shape, crouched beneath a bush beside the water. He went close. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. Captain went forward, sir. ‘ Peters pointed towards the dam. ‘That was ten minutes ago, sir. Left me here. Do you think they’ve gone, sir?’

  ‘No. Stay here. ‘ He patted the man’s shoulder. ‘They’ll come back this way. You’ll be all right.’

  Rymer and the sappers could not be far away, being remarkably silent, and Sharpe waded up the stream, the water up to his knees, and waited for a challenge. It came twenty yards from the dam, just beneath the fort, where small trees arched up over the Rivillas. ‘Who goes there?’

  ‘Sharpe!’ He whispered. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Hakeswill.’ There was a hint of a chuckle. ‘Come to help?’

  Sharpe ignored it. ‘Where’s Captain Rymer?’

  ‘Here!’ The voice came from beyond Hakeswill and Sharpe pushed past the Sergeant, smelling the man’s breath, and saw a glint of gold from Rymer’s uniform. ‘The Colonel sent me. He’s nervous.’

  ‘So am I.’ Rymer offered no further information.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The powder’s laid, the sappers have gone back, and Fitchett’s up there. He should be putting in the fuse!’ Rymer sounded nervous and Sharpe could understand it. If the dam blew now, by mistake, then the Company would be caught by a wall of water.

  There were footsteps from the rampart of the fort, just thirty feet above them, and Sharpe heard Rymer draw in breath. The footsteps sounded casual. Rymer began to breath out. ‘Oh, God! No!’

  A flicker of flame, the size of a candle, that seemed to waver, go out, then spring up fierce and bright. In its light Sharpe could see two men, blue uniformed, who held the carcass and then tossed it out over the ravine so that it fell, sparks flying up from it, down to the streambed. Pieces of burning straw exploded from the carcass, it rolled on the ravine side, tumbling flame, and plunged into the stream. It hissed. The flames flickered, trying to hold the top edge, and then died. Rymer’s breath came out in a long, long sigh. Sharpe put his mouth close to Rymer’s ear. ‘Where are your men?’

  ‘Some here. Most have gone.’

  The answer was not much help. Another flame appeared on the ramparts, grew like die first, and this time the French held it longer so that the fire caught fiercely on the oil-soaked straw so that it blazed like a signal beacon. They rolled it over the edge, it bounced once, spraying sparks, and then caught on a thorn bush. The thorns crackled and flared and in the sudden light Sharpe could see the Engineer Lieutenant, Fitchett, crouching motionless by a stack of barrels. The French must see him!

  But the French were not sure what they were looking for. Orders had come to look in the ravine, and so they peered over the edge and saw strange dark shadows, which was what a man expected to see at night, and they saw no movement so they relaxed. Sharpe could see the two men clearly. They seemed glad to be away from the front of the fort, were talking and laughing, and then they jerked upright, disappearing from sight, and there came the bark of an order and he supposed an officer had come to the rampart.

  Fitchett moved. He began scrambling towards Rymer and Sharpe, trying to move silently, but he was panicked by the burning carcass and he slipped, falling into the stream. A shout from the rampart, an officer’s head leaning over the stone, and Fitchett had the sense to freeze and Sharpe saw the officer turn and shout a command. Flames came again on the rampart, a third carcass, and Sharpe knew they would have to fight. Rymer stared up at the fort, his mouth open.

  Sharpe nudged him. ‘Shoot the officer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shoot the bastard! You’ve got Riflemen, haven’t you?’

  Rymer still did not move so Sharpe took his own Baker rifle, lifted the frizzen to check with a finger that the powder was still in the pan, and then aimed it up, through the stark thorn branches, towards the rampart. Rymer seemed to wake up. ‘Don’t fire!’

  The third carcass was hurled over the rampart, far across so that it bounced on the far side of the ravine and wedged itself on a rock. Fitchett saw it, apparently falling towards him, and yelped and sprang towards the hidden Company. The French officer shouted.

  ‘Don’t fire!’ Rymer hit Sharpe’s shoulder, ruining his aim so he kept his finger off the trigger. Fitchett fell into the thorn trees, rubbing his ribs where he had fallen. He had remembered the fuse and was trailing it, but Sharpe wondered if any had fallen with the Lieutenant into the water. Fitchett looked wildly round. ‘The lantern!’

  There was a dark lantern hidden in the trees. Rymer and Fitchett both started looking, bumping into each other, and the first French musket hammered from the ramparts a
nd the ball struck the trunk of one of the trees and Fitchett swore again. ‘Jesus! Hurry!’

  The French officer leaned over the ravine, searching the shadows, and Sharpe saw the shot, pulled the trigger, and the man went up and backwards, his face smashed red by the bullet and Rymer stared at Sharpe. ‘Why did you do that?’

  Sharpe did not bother to answer. Fitchett had found the lantern, undipped the door, and a beam of light slanted in the thorns. ‘Quick! Quick!’ Fitchett was talking to himself. He found the fuse, thrust the end into the flame, and waited till it was spluttering. ‘Back! Back!’

  Rymer did not wait to see the fuse burning. ‘Back!’ He was shouting. ‘Back!’

  Sharpe grabbed Fitchett. ‘How long?’

  ‘Thirty seconds! Let’s go!’ A second musket exploded on the ramparts, the ball thudding into the earth, and the group of men stampeded down the streambed, led by Rymer, all imagining the sudden leap of powder flame, the shock wave, and the crashing, killing water.

  The French, suddenly bereft of their officer, shouted for help. They could see nothing in the light of the carcasses, hear nothing in the lingering echo of their musket shots. Sharpe waited, watching the flickering light of the fuse, listening to the sudden rush of feet on the ramparts. The fuse was burning well, creeping towards the dam, and he turned and climbed the ravine wall, hard by the stonework of the fort, and a voice stopped him. ‘It was a nice shot. ‘

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘Aye.’ The Donegal voice was very low. ‘I thought I’d see if you needed any help.’ A huge hand clasped Sharpe’s wrist and he was hauled unceremoniously to the brink of the ravine. ‘That lot ran fast enough.’

  ‘Be drowned otherwise.’ Sharpe wedged himself against the base of a thorn bush. He tried to guess the number of seconds since Fitchett had lit the fuse; twenty? twenty-five? At least he and Harper should be safe. They were high on the bank, just across from the shallow ditch that left the ravine at a right angle to protect the small fort. The French were shouting excitedly; Sharpe heard the rattle of ramrods in musket barrels and then a crisp voice cutting through the chaos. He looked at Harper’s vast bulk crouched in deep shadow. ‘How’s your back?”