But the new day, even if it did not bring the Regimienta who were presumably still at the inn, brought a brilliant blue sky with only a scattering of high, passing clouds that followed the night’s belt of light rain. Harsh ringing blows came from the bridge where Hogan’s artificers hammered down the parapet at the spot chosen for the explosion and the apprehensions of the night seemed, for the moment, to be like a bad dream. The Riflemen were relieved by Lennox’s Light Company and, with nothing else to do, Harper stripped naked and waded into the river.
“That’s better. I haven’t washed in a month.” He looked up at Sharpe. “Is anything happening, sir?”
“No sign of them.” Sharpe must have stared at the horizon, a mile to the south, fifty times since dawn but there had been no sign of the French. He watched as Harper came dripping wet out of the river and shook himself like a wolfhound. “Perhaps they’re not here, sir.”
Sharpe shook his head. “I don’t know, Sergeant. I’ve a feeling they’re not far away.” He turned and looked across the river, at the road they had marched the day before. “Still no sight of the Spanish.”
Harper was drying himself with his shirt. “Perhaps they’ll not turn up, sir.”
It had occurred to Sharpe that possibly the whole job would be done before the Regimienta reached Valdelacasa, and he wondered why he still felt the stirrings of concern about the mission. Simmerson had behaved with restraint, the artificers were hard at work, and there were no French in sight. What could go wrong? He walked to the entrance of the bridge and nodded to Lennox. “Anything?”
The Scotsman shook his head. “All’s quiet. I reckon Sir Henry won’t get his battle today. ”
“He wanted one?”
Lennox laughed. “Keen as mustard. I suspect he thinks Napoleon himself is coming.”
Sharpe turned and stared down the road. Nothing moved. “They’re not far away. I can feel it.”
Lennox looked at him seriously. “You think so? I thought it was us Scots who had the second sight.” He turned and looked with Sharpe at the empty horizon. “Maybe you’re right, Sharpe. But they’re too late.”
Sharpe agreed and walked onto the bridge. He chatted with Knowles and Denny and, as he left them to join Hogan, he reflected gloomily on the atmosphere in the officers’ mess of the South Essex. Most of the officers were supporters of Simmerson, men who had first earned their commissions with the Militia, and there was bad feeling between them and the men from the regular army. Sharpe liked Lennox, enjoyed his company, but most of the other officers thought the Scotsman was too easy with his company, too much like the Riflemen. Leroy was a decent man, a loyalist American, but he kept his thoughts to himself as did the few others who had little trust in their Colonel’s ability. He pitied the younger officers, learning their trade in such a school, and was glad that as soon as this bridge was destroyed his Riflemen would get away from the South Essex into more congenial company.
Hogan was up to his neck in a hole in the bridge. Sharpe peered down and saw, in the rubble, the curving stone-work of two arches.
“How much powder will you use?”
“All there is!” Hogan was happy, a man enjoying his work. “This isn’t easy. Those Romans built well. You see those blocks?” He pointed to the exposed stones of the arches. “They’re all shaped and hammered into place. If I put a charge on top of one of those arches I’ll probably make the damn bridge stronger! I can’t put the powder underneath, more’s the pity.”
“Why not?”
“No time, Sharpe, no time. You have to contain an explosion. If I sling those kegs under the arch all I’ll do is frighten the fishes. No, I’m going to do this one upside down and inside out.” He was half talking to himself, his mind full of weights of powder and lengths of fuse.
“Upside down and inside out?”
Hogan scratched his dirty face. “So to speak. I’m going down into the pier, and then I’ll blow the damn thing out sideways. If it works, Sharpe, it’ll bring down two arches and not just one.”