The lights of the carcasses died, the battlefield went dark, and only the sounds told the story of the fight to the hilltop. Screams came clearly, but few shots, which told those who understood that the bayonets were at work. Then there were cheers, that spread back among the attackers, and Sharpe knew that the British had won. The Connaught Rangers would be hunting the French survivors in the round shot-shattered fort, the long, thin blades searching the broken timber and he grinned in the night at the thought of a fight well fought. Patrick Harper would be jealous. The men from Connaught would have a few tales to tell, of how they had walked the precarious bridge, and won. Windham’s voice disturbed his thoughts.
‘That’s it, gentlemen. Our turn next.’
There was a brief silence, then Leroy’s voice. ‘Our turn?’
‘We’re going to blow up the dam!’ Windham’s voice was full of enthusiasm.
There were a dozen questions, all asked at once, and Windham chose one to answer. ‘When? I don’t know when. Three days’ time, probably. Keep it to yourselves, gentlemen, I don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry to know. There-should be some surprise in our attack.’ Windham laughed, his good mood had lasted.
‘Sir?’ Sharpe’s voice was low.
‘Sharpe? That you?’ It was difficult to distinguish shapes in the darkness.
‘Yes, sir. Permission to rejoin the Company for the attack.’
‘You’re a bloodthirsty bastard, Sharpe.’ Windham’s voice was cheerful. ‘You ought to be my gamekeeper. I’ll think about it!’ He moved off down the trench, leaving Sharpe uncertain whether he was being considered as gamekeeper or soldier.
There was a sudden glow in the trench beside him and the smell of pungent tobacco. Leroy’s voice, deep and amused, came with the smoke. ‘With any luck, Sharpe, one of us will die. You’ll get your Captaincy back.’
‘It had occurred to me.’
The American laughed. ‘Do you think any of us think of anything else? You’re a bloody ghost, Sharpe!’ He put on a morbid tone. ‘You remind us of our mortality. Which one of us will you replace?’
‘Any offers?’
Leroy laughed. ‘Not me, Mr. Sharpe, not me. If you think I left Boston just so you could get my shoes, you’re wrong.’ ‘Why did you leave Boston?’
I’m an American, with a French name, from a Royalist family, fighting for the English, for a German king, who’s mad. There, what does that tell you?’
Sharpe shrugged in the darkness. He could think of nothing to say. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Nor do I, Sharpe, nor do I.’ The cigar glowed bright, then faded. Leroy’s voice was low and private. ‘I sometimes wonder if I chose the wrong side.’
‘Did you?’
Leroy was silent for a moment. Sharpe could see his profile staring down at the dark city. ‘I suppose so, Sharpe. My Father took an oath to defend the King’s Majesty and I kind of inherited the burden.’ He laughed. ‘Here I am, defending away. Sharpe had rarely heard Leroy talk so much. The American was a silent man who watched the world with ironic amusement. ‘You know America is spoiling for war?’
‘I heard.’
‘They want to invade Canada. They probably will. I could be a General in that army, Sharpe. I’d have streets named after me. Hell! Even whole towns!’ He fell silent again and Sharpe knew that Leroy was thinking about his probable fate; an unmarked Spanish grave. Sharpe knew a score of men like Leroy; men whose families had stayed loyal after the American Revolution and who now fought, as exiles, for King George. Leroy laughed again, a bitter laugh. ‘I envy you, Sharpe.’
‘Envy me? Why?’
‘I’m just a drunk American with a French name fighting for a German lunatic and I don’t know why. You know where you’re going.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, Mr. Sharpe, you do. To the top, wherever that is. And that’s why our happy band of Captains are so frightened of you. Which one of us has to die for your next step?’ He paused to light another cigar from the butt of the first. ‘And I can tell you, Sharpe, in my friendliest possible way, that they would much rather see you dead.’