‘No, sir.’ Which was true, Sharpe thought, but only half the battle. The Picurina Fort was almost makeshift; a wedge-shaped obstacle facing the British tide and only intended to slow them down. It had a ditch that protected a low stone wall, and on the wail were palisades, split-trunks loop holed for muskets, and the fort was far enough from the city so that the French guns could not douse the attack with grapeshot. The fort should fall, but that still left the lake formed by the dammed Rivillas. The floodwater blocked the direct approach to the city. Unless the lake could be drained, any attack would have to come from the south, squeezed between the water and the south wall, passing by the huge Pardaleras Fort, and the attacking columns would be under fire from scores of French guns and shredded by grapeshot. Sharpe borrowed Forrest’s glass again and trained it on the dam. It was remarkably well-built, for a temporary structure, and Sharpe could see a balustraded stone walkway along the dam top that led to the fort, much stronger than the Picurina, that defended the dam. The fort and dam were hard by the city walls. A man with a musket on the San Pedro bastion could easily fire down on to the stone walkway. Forrest saw where he was looking.
‘What are you thinking, Sharpe?’
‘I was thinking it wouldn’t be easy to attack the dam, sir.’
‘You think anyone intends to attack the dam?’
Sharpe knew an attack was intended, Hogan had told him so, but he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’
Forrest looked round conspiratorially. ‘Don’t tell anyone, Sharpe, but we’re going to!’
‘We, sir?’ Sharpe had a flicker of excitement in his voice. ‘The Battalion, sir?’
‘I’m speaking out of turn, Sharpe, out of turn.’ Forrest was pleased at the quickening in Sharpe’s voice. ‘The Colonel’s offered our services. The General of Division was talking to him. We may be the lucky ones!’
‘When, sir?’
‘I don’t know, Sharpe! They don’t tell me these things. Look! The curtain’s going up!’
Forrest pointed to the huge number one battery. A gunner had snatched the last gabion from the embrasure and one of the guns, silent for half an hour, bellowed flame and smoke down the hillside. The ball, under-aimed, struck the ground in front of the Picurina, scarred the earth as it bounced, and then fell with a tall splash into the lake. The jeer of the French inside the small fort was audible four hundred yards away.
The gunners raised the barrel half an inch by turning the huge screw beneath the breech. The barrel hissed as it was sponged out. The embrasure had been plugged again as defence against the inevitable fire from the city walls. The powder bags were thrust deep into the gun’s throat, rammed home and the ball trundled into the muzzle. A Sergeant leaned over the touch-hole, thrust down with the spike that punctured the powder bags, and then inserted the tube filled with fine powder that fired the charge. His hand went up, an officer shouted orders and the gabions were pulled from the front of the battery. The men crouched with their hands over their ears as the Sergeant touched the priming tube with a match burning at the end of a long pole, and the gun slammed back on the inclined wooden platform. The ball struck the timber palisade of the Picurina, splintering the tree-trunks, driving the shards of unseasoned wood in vicious showers on the defenders, and it was the turn of the British to cheer.
Forrest was looking at the fort through his telescope. He tut-tutted. ‘Poor lads.’ He turned to Sharpe. ‘That can’t be very nice for them.’
Sharpe wanted to laugh. ‘No, sir.’
‘I know what you’re thinking, Sharpe. That I’m too charitable to the enemy. You’re probably right, but I can’t help imagining that my son is in there.’
‘I thought your son was an engraver, sir.’
‘Yes, he is, Sharpe, yes he is, but if he was a French soldier he might be in there and that would be most upsetting.’
Sharpe gave up trying to follow Forrest’s charitable imaginings and turned back to the Picurina. The other British guns had got the range and the heavy balls were systematically destroying the flimsy defences. The French inside were trapped. They could not retreat, for the lake was to their rear, and they must have known that the cannonade would end in an infantry attack as soon as dusk gave way to night. Forrest frowned at the sight. ‘Why don’t they surrender?’