A Frenchman, a mathematician conscripted as an artillery officer, who had counted forty separate attacks on the Trinidad and had repulsed them all, stood quiet in the shadows. He was still, quite still, waiting for this madness to pass, this blood lust, and he thought of his fiancée, far away, and prayed she would never see anything as horrid. He watched the Rifle officer and prayed for himself that he would not be seen, but the face turned, the eyes hard-bright with tears, and the mathematician called out. ‘No! Monsieur, no!’ The sword took him, disemboweled him as Cresacre had been disemboweled, and Sharpe sobbed in rage as he ripped again and again, thrusting down at the gunner, ripping him, mutilating the bastard, and then the giant hands gripped Mm. ‘Sir!’ Harper shook him. ‘Sir!’
‘Christ!’
‘Sir!’ The hands pulled on Sharpe’s shoulders, turning him.
‘Christ.’
‘Sir!’ Harper slapped him. ‘Sir.’
Sharpe leaned back against the wall, his head back, touching the stone. ‘Oh Jesus. Oh God.’ He was panting, the sword arm limp, and the pavement ahead was shredded with blood. He looked down at the artillery officer, torn into a grotesque death. ‘Oh God. He was surrendering.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Harper had recovered first, the axe shattered in a killing strike, and he had watched in awe as Sharpe had killed. Now he quieted Sharpe, soothed him, and watched the sense come back even as the madness climbed up the city streets.
Sharpe looked up, calm now, his voice bereft of all feeling. ‘We did it.’
‘Yes.’
Sharpe leaned his head back again, on to the wall, and his eyes closed. It was done, the breach. And to do it he had discovered that a man must banish fear as never before, and with that fear must go all other emotion except rage and anger; humanity must go, feeling, all must go except rage. Only that would conquer the unconquerable.
‘Sir?’ Harper plucked at Sharpe’s elbow. No one else could have done this, Harper thought, no one but Sharpe could have led men past death’s peak.
‘Sir?’
The eyes opened, the face came down, and Sharpe stared at the bodies. He had slaked his pride, carried it through a breach, and it was done. He looked at Patrick Harper. ‘I wish I could play the flute.’
‘Sir?’
‘Patrick?’
‘Teresa, sir. Teresa.’
God in heaven. Teresa.
CHAPTER 28
Hakeswill had not meant to go into the ditch, but, as soon as the South Essex made their attack and had left the Light Company to give covering fire from the glacis lip, he had seen that there was greater safety for him in the shadow of the ravelin. No chance, there, of an axe-blow in the dark from Harper, and so he had swung himself down a ladder, snarling at the frightened men, and then, in the chaos, had burrowed deep into the bodies in the shadowed ditch. He saw the attack go in, saw it fail, and he watched as Windham and Forrest tried to rouse other attacks, but Sergeant Hakeswill was snug and safe. Three bodies covered him, still warm in death, and he felt them shudder from time to time as the grape fragments struck home, but he was safe. At some time in the night a Lieutenant, a stranger to Hakeswill, tried to provoke him from his lair, screaming at the Sergeant to move and attack, but it was simple to grip the Lieutenant’s ankle, trip him, and the bayonet slid so easily between the ribs and Hakeswill had a fourth body, surprise on its face, and he cackled as he slid expert hands over the pockets and pouches and counted his loot. Four gold coins, a silver locket and, best of all, an inlaid pistol that Hakeswill tugged from the Lieutenant’s belt. The weapon was loaded, balanced to perfection, and he grinned as he thrust it into his jacket. Every little helped.
He had tied his shako with strings beneath his chin. He fumbled at the knot, tore it apart, and held the hat close before his face. ‘We’re safe now, safe. ‘ His voice was ingratiating, plaintive. ‘I promise you. Obadiah won’t let you down.’ Near to him, just beyond his parapet of corpses, a man sobbed and screamed and called for his mother. He was a long time dying. Hakeswill listened, his head cocked like an animal, and then he looked again into the hat. ‘He wants his mother, he does.’ Tears came to his eyes. ‘His mother.’ He looked up into the darkness, over the flames, and he howled at the sky.