Sharpe walked along the hilltop and searched for the South Essex. He found them at the northern end of the parallel where the hill had dropped away to the soaking plain beside the grey, swollen river. Any batteries dug here would be firing up at the castle that seemed vast and inviolable on its rock hill. Sharpe could see, as well, the San Roque Fort, the small fortress that Hogan had mentioned, which defended the dam across the Rivillas stream. If the British could blow up the dam, the lake would drain north into the river and the approach to the breach would be far easier. But to blow up the dam would be difficult. It looked to be no more than fifty yards from the city wall and built just beneath the San Pedro, the single bastion on the eastern side.
A figure jumped out of the trench in front of Sharpe. It was Sergeant Hakeswill. He stalked along the trench edge and cursed down at the men. ‘Dig, you bastards! You syphilitic pigs! Dig!’ He whirled round after a few paces to see if anyone was reacting to him and saw Sharpe. He snapped into a salute, his face twitching crazily. ‘Sir! Lieutenant, sir! Come to help, sir?’ He cackled, and turned back to the Light Company. ‘Get on with it, you pregnant sows! Dig!’ He was leaning over the trench, screaming at them, spittle flailing from his mouth.
It was an irresistible moment. Sharpe knew he should not do it, knew that it was inconsistent with the so-called dignity of an officer, but Hakeswill was bending by the trench, screaming obscenities, and Sharpe was close behind. The second that the temptation came, Sharpe acted, and pushed the Sergeant. Hakeswill’s arms beat at the air, he twisted, bellowed, and collapsed into the sopping mud at the bottom of the trench. The Light Company cheered. The Sergeant turned a furious face at Sharpe as he scrambled to his feet.
Sharpe held up a hand. ‘My apologies, Sergeant. I slipped. ” He knew it had been a childish thing to do, and unwise, but it was a small gesture that told the men he was still on their side. He walked on, leaving Hakeswill twitching, and saw Captain Rymer climbing from the trench to meet him.
If Rymer had seen the incident he said nothing, instead he nodded civilly. ‘Nasty day.’
Sharpe felt his usual paralysis in the face of small talk. He gestured at the men in the trench. ‘Digging keeps you warm. ‘ He suddenly realized that it sounded as if he were telling Rymer to pick up a spade and he scrabbled in his head for a sentence to correct the impression, ‘One of the advantages of being in the ranks, eh?’ He could hardly bring himself to call Rymer ‘sir’. Rymer did not seem to notice.
‘They hate digging.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
Captain Rymer had never thought about it. Birth into the Rimes of Waltham Cross did not encourage a man to think about manual labor. He was a good-looking man, fair-haired, about twenty-five years old, and desperately nervous with Sharpe. The situation was not of Rymer’s making, not to his taste, and he was terrified of the time, that Colonel Windham had said was coming, when Sharpe would be returned to the Company as Lieutenant. The Colonel had told Rymer not to worry. ‘Won’t happen yet. Give you time to settle in, take charge. But you may want him in a fight, eh, Rymer?’ Rymer did not look forward to the event.
He looked up at the tall, scarred Rifleman, took a deep breath. ‘Sharpe?’
‘Sir?’ The word had to be said sooner or later, however much it hurt.
‘I wanted to say that… ‘ Whatever it was, would have to wait. A French round shot ploughed into the earth nearby, spumed up soaking mud, and then came a second and a third. Rymer’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, he froze, and Sharpe grabbed his elbow and pushed him towards the trench. He followed, jumping down the five feet and skidding on the trench floor.
The air was filled with the rumble of cannon balls, and the men stopped digging and looked at each other as if one of them might have the answer to this sudden cannonade. Sharpe looked over the parapet and saw the armed piquets running back for shelter. Every gun on Badajoz’s eastern wall, from the high castle, past the San Pedro, down to the Trinidad bastion at the south-east corner, seemed to be firing at the northern hundred yards of the parallel. Rymer stood beside him. ‘What’s happening?’ A piquet jumped over them, cursing the enemy. Sharpe looked at Rymer. ‘Do you have weapons?’ ‘No! Ordered to leave them behind. ‘ ‘There must be a company here. ‘