‘He did, and most of what he enjoyed was plump and giggled. ‘
Hogan laughed. ‘A man of sense. You will give him my best wishes?’
‘I will. ‘ The two men stared at the town. The British siege guns, long, iron twenty-four-pounders, were still firing, their reports muffled by the snow, and their shots erupting flurries of snow and stone from the walls either side of the main breach. Sharpe glanced at Hogan. ‘Is it a secret we’re attacking tonight?’
‘It is a secret. Everyone knows, of course, they always do. Even before the General. Rumor has it for seven o’clock. ‘
‘And does rumor extend to the South Essex?’
Hogan shook his head; he was attached to Wellington’s staff and knew what was being planned. ‘No, but I was hoping I could persuade your Colonel to lend me your Company. ‘
‘Mine?’ Sharpe was pleased. ‘Why?’
‘Not for much. I don’t want you lads in the breach, but the Engineers are short-handed, as ever, and there’s a heap of stuff to be carried up the glacis. Would you be happy?’
‘Of course. ‘ Sharpe wondered whether to tell Hogan of his wish that he had gone with the Forlorn Hope, but he knew that the Irish Engineer would think he was mad, so he said nothing. Instead he lent Hogan his telescope and waited silently as the Engineer stared at the breach. Hogan grunted. ‘It’s practical. ‘
‘You’re sure?” Sharpe took the glass back, his fingers instinctively feeling for the inlet brass plate; ‘In Gratitude. AW. 23 September 1803’.
‘We’re never sure. But I can’t see it getting any better. ‘ The Engineers had the job of pronouncing when a breach was ‘practical’, when, in their judgment, the rubble slope could be climbed by the attacking infantry. Sharpe looked at the small, middle-aged Major.
‘You don’t sound very happy. ‘
‘Of course not. No one likes a siege. ‘ Hogan was trying, like Sharpe earlier, to imagine what horrors the French had prepared in the breach. A siege, in theory, was the most scientific of all fighting. The attackers battered holes in the defence and both sides knew when the breaches were practical, but the advantage was all with the defenders. They knew where the main attack was coming, when, and roughly how many men could be fed into the breach. There the science stopped. There was great skill needed to site the batteries, in sapping forward, but once the science of the Engineers had opened up the breach, it was left to the infantry to climb the defences and die on the rubble. The siege guns did what they could. They would fire till the last moment, as they were firing now, but soon the bayonets would take over and only raw anger would take the attackers through the prepared horror. Sharpe felt again the fear of going into a breach.
The Irishman seemed to sense his thoughts. He clapped Sharpe on the shoulder. ‘I’ve a feeling about this one, Richard. It’s going to be all right. ‘ He changed the subject. ‘Have you heard from your woman?’
‘Which one?’
Hogan snorted. ‘Which one! Teresa, of course. ‘
Sharpe shook his head. ‘Not for sixteen months. I don’t know where she’s been. ‘Or even, he thought, if she was still alive. She fought the French in the ‘Guerilla’, the ‘little war’, and the hills and rocks of her battles were not far from Ciudad Rodrigo. He had not seen her since they parted below Almeida and, thinking of her, he felt a sudden longing inside him. She had the face of a hawk, slim and cruel, with dark hair and eyes. Teresa was beautiful as a fine sword was beautiful; slim and hard.
Then, in England, he had met Jane Gibbons whose brother, Lieutenant Christian Gibbons, had tried to kill him at Talavera. Gibbons had died. Jane Gibbons was beautiful as men dream of beauty; blonde and feminine, slim as Teresa was slim, but there the resemblance ended. The Spanish girl could strip a Baker rifle lock in thirty seconds, could kill a man at two hundred paces, could lay an ambush and knew how to give a captured Frenchman a lingering death as payment for her own mother’s rape and murder. Jane Gibbons could play the pianoforte, write a pretty letter, knew how to use a fan at a county dance, and took her delight in spending money at Chelmsford’s milliners. They were as different from each other as steel is from silk, yet Sharpe wanted both, though he knew such dreams were futile.