Lossow pounded his fist on the ramparts. ‘Fire! You bastards!’
A Portuguese gun team on the town defences seemed to hear him, for there was the flat crack of a cannon, and through the glass, Sharpe saw an eruption of earth where the roundshot struck the ground just in front of the French battery. The ball must have bounced right over the top and he knew the Portuguese gunners would be satisfied. After another two firings their gun barrel would be hot and the shot would carry farther and he listened for the next shot, saw it fall a little beyond the first, and watched as the French soldiers hurried to take cover.
‘Next one.’
He let the telescope lie where it was and straightened up. Over the roofs of the town he could see the smoke of the cannon drifting in the breeze, saw another smudge as the Portuguese fired again, and then, a second later, heard the crash and watched the fascines blow apart.
‘Bravo!’ Lossow clapped his hands. ‘That’s held them up for five minutes!’
Sharpe picked up the telescope and panned it to the south. There were few Frenchmen visible – the new battery, an encampment half a mile beyond that, and a few figures on horseback riding the circuit well beyond the range of the defenders’ guns. The close siege had not started yet, the careful digging of the zigzag trenches that would bring the infantry to striking distance of the breach that the French would hope to blast through the walls with battery after battery of huge, iron siege guns. And all the time the howitzers, untouchable in their deep pits, would lob their bombs into the town day after day. He looked westward, to the road that led to the Coa, and beyond one earthen barricade there was no real attempt by the French to seal it off. That would come in a day or two, when the siege proper began, and he handed the glass to Lossow.
‘We can do it.’
The German looked at the road, smiled. ‘It will be a pleasure.’
There were footsteps on the circular stone stairway and the young midshipman, holding a thick sandwich, emerged on to the ramparts and looked startled to see the waiting men. He put his sandwich in his mouth, saluted, rescued his sandwich.
‘Morning, sir.’
He put down the pile of books he was carrying in his other hand.
‘Morning.’ Sharpe guessed the boy was no older than fifteen. ‘When do you start sending?’
‘When the messages get here, sir.’
Sharpe pointed to the books. ‘What’s that?’
‘Lessons, sir. Principles of navigation. I’ve got to pass the exam soon, sir, even though I’m not at sea.’
‘You should join the Rifles, lad.’ Harper picked up the book. ‘We don’t stuff your head with mathematics.’
Sharpe looked westwards. ‘Where’s the relay station?’
The boy pointed north-west. ‘Between the two hills, sir. It’s over the river, on a church.’
Sharpe pointed the glass, held it steady by jamming it next to the telegraph’s mast and, far away, like a speck of dust, he could see the tiny telegraph station. ‘How the hell do you read it?’
‘With this, sir.’ The boy unlocked a trunk that was part of the mast’s foundation and dragged out an iron tripod that carried a telescope twice the size of Sharpe’s. Lossow laughed.
‘Thank you, Captain,’ Sharpe said dryly. He liked Lossow, but was not sure about the man’s sense of humour. Harper seemed to enjoy it.
In the Plaza, in front of the cathedral, Sharpe watched the foreshortened shapes of two officers walking towards the castle.
‘Are those your messages?’
The midshipman leaned over. ‘Yes, sir. Captain Charles usually brings them.’
As Sharpe watched he saw three men rolling a keg of powder from the cathedral, across the Plaza, and towards the warren of streets. He guessed that the guns on the wall kept very little ready powder, fearing a spark and an explosion that would save the French weeks of work, and the soldiers would be busy taking the black powder from the cathedral and delivering it to the gunners who sweated on the defences. He was glad he would not be here for the siege, for the helpless feeling of watching the earthworks creep closer, the siege guns firing slowly, but with massive, hammering force.