At dusk, Sharpe watched the Light Company move out. Harper was with them, in the ranks, insisting that his back was mended well enough. Hakeswill paraded them. He was making himself indispensable to Captain Rymer, anticipating his wishes, flattering him, taking the burden of discipline from his shoulders. It was a classic performance; the reliable Sergeant, tireless and efficient, and it disguised Hakeswill’s victory over the Company. He had divided them, made them suspicious, and there was nothing Sharpe could do. Colonel Windham inspected the Company before they set off. He stopped in front of Harper and pointed to the massive seven-barreled gun slung on the Irishman’s shoulder.
‘What’s that?’
‘Seven-barreled gun, sir.’
‘Is it regulation issue?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then take it off.’
Hakeswill stepped forward, his mouth twisted into a grin. ‘Give it to me, Private!’
The gun had been a present from Sharpe to Harper, but there was nothing Harper could do. He took the gun from his shoulder, slowly, and Hakeswill snatched it from him. The Sergeant put it on his own shoulder and looked at the Colonel. ‘Punishment, sir?’
Windham looked puzzled. ‘Punishment?’
‘For carrying a non-issue weapon, sir?’
Windham shook his head. He had punished Harper already. ‘No, Sergeant. No. ‘
‘Very good, sir!’ Hakeswill scratched at his scar and followed Windham and Rymer down the rank. After the inspection, when the Colonel told the Company to stand easy, Hakeswill took off his shako and stared into its greasy interior. There was a curious smile on his face, and Sharpe was puzzled. He found Lieutenant Price, pale beneath the burnt cork on his skin, and jerked his head towards the Sergeant. ‘What’s he doing?’
‘God knows, sir.’ Price still thought of Sharpe as a Captain. ‘He’s always doing it now. Takes his hat off, stares inside, smiles, then puts it on again. He’s mad, sir.’
‘He takes his hat on? And stares into it?’
‘That’s right, sir. He should be in bloody Bedlam, sir, not here. ‘ Price grinned.
‘Perhaps the army is a madhouse sir, I don’t know.’
Sharpe was about to demand the seven-barreled gun from Hakeswill when Windham, now mounted on his horse, called the Light Company to attention. Hakeswill put his shako on, snapped his heels together, and stared at the Colonel. Windham wished them luck, told them their job was to protect the sappers in case they were discovered and, if they were not detected, to do nothing. ‘Off you go! And good hunting!’
The Light Company filed into the trench, Hakeswill still carrying the seven-barreled gun, and Sharpe wished he was going with them. He knew how dearly Hogan wanted the dam blown, how much easier the assault on the breach would be if the lake was gone, and it irked him to be absent from the attempt. Instead, as the cathedral clock sounded half-past ten, he was at Windham’s side as the nine remaining companies of the Battalion climbed out of the parallel on to the dark grass. Windham was nervous. ‘They should be nearly there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Colonel half drew his sword, thought better of it, and slid the blade back into the scabbard. He looked round for Collett. ‘Jack?’
‘Sir?’
‘Ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Off you go! Wait for the clock!’
Collett walked forward into the darkness. He was taking four companies towards the city, towards the fort that protected the dam, and, when the clock struck eleven, he was to open fire on the face of the fort to make the French believe that an attack was coming. The other companies, under Windham, were in reserve. The Colonel, Sharpe knew, was hoping that the false attack might reveal a weakness in the fort and turn itself into a real attack. He had hopes of leading the South Essex across the ditch, up the stone wall, and into the defences. Sharpe wondered how the Light Company were doing. At least there had been no shots from the castle, no shouted challenge from the dam’s fort, so presumably they were still undetected. The Rifleman felt uneasy. If all went well, according to Windham’s timetable, the dam should be blown a few minutes after eleven, but Sharpe’s instincts were gloomy. He thought of Teresa inside the city, of the child, and wondered whether the explosion, if it ever came, would wake up the baby. His baby! It still seemed miraculous that he had a child.