Sharpe stared at the new battery, and as he looked he saw a cloud of smoke grow at an incredible speed just in front of the earthwork. The smoke was lanced with red flame and, hardly visible, more of an impression than something he really saw, there was a pencil trace in the sky. He knew what it was, the sight of the shot arcing directly towards them.
‘Down!’
‘What is it?’ Charles looked at him, but as he did the castle literally shook, the stones of the huge keep seemed to waver and crack, and mixed with the reverberating crash of falling masonry came the thunder of the siege gun.
‘Good Lord!’ Charles was still standing. ‘Good Lord above! A ranging shot!’
Sharpe leaned over the ramparts. Some stones had fallen into the moat, dust hung in the air, and frightened birds, nesting in the crevices, flew out into the startled air.
‘Bloody good shooting,’ Harper growled.
The sound of the replying batteries was thinner than that of the giant gun, but more frequent. It took a long time to reload a siege gun. Sharpe, through the telescope, watched as the smoke of the discharge cleared and the Portuguese balls crashed into the redoubt, but to no apparent damage. The hard-packed earth soaked up the cannonade, and the aperture, just wide enough for its purpose, was plugged with fascines as the artillerymen sponged out and rammed home the huge missile. He kept watching, saw the fascines pulled back.
‘Here it comes.’
This time he kept his eyes in the air above the gun and saw the pencil-line clearly as the huge iron ball rose and fell in its flat trajectory.
‘For what we are about to receive,’ Charles said, and the tower shook again, less violently, and the crash and the rumble mixed with the dust and the squawking birds. Charles brushed at his immaculate uniform. ‘Distinctly unfriendly.’
‘Has it occurred to you that they’re after the telegraph?’ Sharpe said.
‘Good Lord. You could be right.’ He turned to the midshipman. ‘Hurry along, sailor!’
A shout from the stairway and Lossow appeared, covered in dust, grinning and holding a piece of paper. ‘The message.’
Sharpe grabbed the boy. ‘Stop everything. Send that!’
‘But, sir!’ The midshipman saw Sharpe’s face, decided not to argue.
‘Hurry!’
Captain Charles looked annoyed but reluctant to interfere, and watched as the boy clattered the ropes up and down.
‘I’m just cancelling the last message, sir. Then I’ll send yours.’
Another shot boomed overhead, sounding like a giant barrel being rolled fast across floorboards. It left a wind behind it, hot and violent, and Harper glanced at Sharpe and raised his eyebrows. Lossow looked at the battery, at the rolling cloud of dirty smoke, and pursed his lips.
‘They’ve got the range.’
‘The boy’s doing his best,’ Sharpe said irritably. ‘What was the delay?’
‘Damned politics.’ Lossow spread his hands. ‘The Spanish insisted on the message saying that the gold was Spanish. They insisted on protesting that they did not want British help. Cox is angry, Kearsey’s saying his prayers, and your Spanish friends are sharpening their swords. Ah! At last.’
The black, tarred sheep bladders leaped up on the ropes, quivered for a second, and fell. The boy danced between the halliards, hauling away number by number, the obscene black bags vibrating in the breeze as they jerked up and down.
‘Sir?’ Harper was watching the battery. ‘Sir!’
‘Down!’
The ball, twenty-four pounds of iron, struck only a glancing blow on one of the crosstrees. The telegraph was well made, jointed and bolted, and as the French ball spun off into the unknown it ripped itself completely from its base like a tree torn bodily by a hurricane. The boy, holding on to a rope, was spun into the air, screaming until another halliard whiplashed round his neck and tore his head horribly from his shoulders. His blood sprayed the four men falling backwards, and then the mast, still unbroken, pounded back on to the ramparts, killing Charles instantly, broke itself in a great fracture, bounced like a falling cane, and stopped still.
‘Sweet Jesus.’ Harper stood up, ‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Yes.’ Sharpe’s shoulder hurt like the devil. ‘Where’s the boy?’