He felt his leg. It seemed whole. He drew it up, pushed, and staggered to his feet. Someone shouted, but Sharpe could barely help himself. He felt sick again, choking on dust, limping from the bruise on his leg.
He went on. He was going away from the gate where the enemy were gathered, going ever closer to the fire. He could feel the heat, a scorching, terrible, searing heat that made him swerve back to his right and there, in a tunnel of the wall, he saw daylight.
He went down the tunnel, cannoning off the walls, his scabbard scraping the stone. At the far end there was a shattered door, and beneath it steps that led down to a ruined church that clung high on the rock hill of the castle.
He sat on the steps. He had not quite gathered that he was free, that he was outside the fortress, that the wide world was spread before him and that he was breathing warm, clean air. He wiped his eyes that were stinging with dust and stared at the view.
The city was spread beneath him along the banks of the River Arlanzon. The spires of the great cathedral dominated the houses, and Sharpe, blinking from the dust and smoke, saw that there were holes torn in the roof of the huge building, holes from which smoke came, and that there was more smoke in the town, buildings burning, and he guessed that the shells had been blasted up and outwards to fall randomly on the city. He knew he must move.
The castle hill fell two hundred steep feet to the houses. He stumbled down, falling twice, sliding one section in a scrabble of soil, loose stone, and pain.When he got up he saw that the bandage on his right hand was soaked through with fresh, bright blood. Blood was sticky on his face too, the wounds reopened. His leg felt as if it had been struck by a musket ball. He limped the last few yards to the shelter of an alleyway. A woman watched him from a window.
There were shouts and screams in the city. He could hear the fires burning. `Jesus.’ He spoke aloud. He was feeling dazed, his ears ringing. He could hardly remember leaving the castle. He leaned on the wall.
The woman spat through the window. She would think he was a Frenchman.
He walked down the alley that stank of the nightsoil that was indiscriminately thrown from the bedrooms. He knew he was free now, but he knew little else.
He came to the plaza before the magnificent cathedral. He saw civilians running with buckets through the great doors and he glimpsed, as he went forward, the glow of fires deep in the gloom inside. Then he looked right.
A division of French troops had been forming in the plaza before beginning their march north eastwards. They looked now as if they had been in a battle. Shells had fallen into their ranks and the dead and wounded were scattered on the cobbles. Some screamed, some wandered dazed, others tried to help. Above him the sky was dark with the smoke. Ashes fluttered in the air and fell soft as snow onto the shattered ranks.
He suddenly felt alarm. He had escaped the castle, only to walk like a fool into a city of the enemy. He went back into an alley, leaned on the wall, and tried to make plans. tried to force the ringing from his ears and sense into his head. A horse. For God’s sake, a horse. What was it Hogan had once said to him? For some reason the strangeness of the words had stuck. `A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.’ The Irish Major was always saying odd things like that. Sharpe supposed they were lines of poetry, but had not liked to ask.
He felt sick again. He bent down, his back against the wall, and groaned. He should hide, he decided. He was in no state to steal a horse.
There were footsteps to his right. He looked and saw men in the darkness of the alley. They wore no uniforms. They stared at him suspiciously.