“The weather’s hot for us, sir.”
Sharpe grimaced. “It will clear in an hour or so.” The mist hid everything beyond a hundred paces and took away the advantage of the long range rifles. Sharpe saw the stream ahead.
“Far enough. See if Mr Denny is all right.”
Harper went off to the right to where Denny should be joining up with the German skirmishers. Sharpe walked upstream where he suspected the attack would be and found Knowles at the end of the line. Beyond in the mist he could see the redcoats of the 66th and some Riflemen from the Royal Americans.
“Lieutenant?”
“Sir?” Knowles was nervously alert, half dreading, half enjoying his first day of real battle. Sharpe grinned cheerfully at him.
“Any problems?”
“No, sir. Will it be long?” Knowles glanced constantly at the empty far bank of the Portina as though he expected to see the whole French army suddenly materialise.
“You’ll hear the guns first.” Sharpe stamped his feet against the cold. “What’s the time?”
Knowles took out his watch, inscribed from his father, and opened the case. “Nearly five, sir.” He went on looking at the ornate watch face with its filigree hand. “Sir?” He sounded embarrassed.
“Yes?”
“If I die, sir, would you have this?” He held the watch out.
Sharpe pushed the watch back. He wanted to laugh but he shook his head gravely. “You’re not going to die. Who’d take over if I went?”
Knowles looked at him fearfully and Sharpe nodded. “Think about it, Lieutenant. Promotion can be rapid in battle.” He grinned, attempting to dispel Knowles’ gloom. “Who knows? If it’s a good enough day we may all end up Generals.”
A gun banged on the Cascajal. Knowles’ eyes widened as he heard, for the first time, the rumbling thunder of iron shot in the air. Unseen by the skirmishers the eight-pound ball struck the crest of the Medellin, bounced over the troops in a spray of dirt and stones, and rolled harmlessly to rest four hundred yards down the plateau. The sound of the shot echoed flady from the hills, was muffled by the mist, and died into silence. A hundred thousand men heard it, some crossed themselves, some prayed, and some just thought fitfully of the storm that was about to break across the Portina. Knowles waited for another gun but there was silence.
“What was that, sir?”
“A signal to the other French batteries. They’ll be reloading the gun.” Sharpe imagined the sponge hissing as it was thrust into the gun, the steam rising from the vent, and then the new charge and shot being rammed home. “About now, I’d think.”
The silence was over. From now Sharpe would tell the story of the battle by the sounds and he listened as the iron shot from seventy or eighty French guns screamed and thundered in the air. He could hear the crash of the guns, imagined them throwing their massive weights back onto the trails, bucking in the air and slamming back onto the wheels as the rammer was dipped in water and the men prepared the next shot. Behind was a different noise, the muted sound of the roundshot gouging the Medellin, the thud of iron on earth. He turned back to Knowles. “This is my unlucky day.”
Knowles turned a worried face on him. The Captain was supposed to be `lucky’. Sharpe and the company depended on the superstition. “Why, sir?”
Sharpe grinned. “They’re firing to our left.” He was shouting over the sound of the massed cannons. “They’ll attack there. I thought I might be the proud owner of a watch otherwise!” He slapped a relieved Knowles on the shoulder and pointed across the stream. “Expect them in about twenty minutes, over to the left a bit. I’ll be back!”
He walked down the line of men, checking flints, making the old jokes and looking for Harper. He felt desperately tired, not just the tiredness of disturbed and little sleep, but the weariness of problems that seemed to have no end. Berry’s death was like a half forgotten dream and solved nothing except half a promise, and he had little idea how to solve the other half or the promise about the Eagle. The promises were like barriers he had erected in his own life, and honour demanded that they be overcome but his sense told him the task was impossible. He waved at Harper, and as the Sergeant walked towards him the noise of the battle changed. There was a whining quality to the roar of the shot overhead, and Harper looked up into the mist.